"Don't waste your time. I can see it from here. Nobody survived that."

"I'm going anyway. Be right back, out."

Mitchell rushed down the hill, then worked his way through the trees toward the column of smoke.

The other two Black Hawks were off to the west, both door gunners hosing down the mountains, their laser beams of lead flickering in an eerie light show.

At the top of the next hill, Mitchell paused to survey the crash site with his NVGs, panning 180 degrees around the forest.

No sign of enemy activity yet. He started toward the downed bird, the stench of fuel hanging thick in the air.

Admittedly, no operator in his right mind would go in there. But there was always a chance that someone might still be alive, and Mitchell couldn't live with himself if he didn't have a look. Just a quick look, he assured himself.

So he held his breath and broke into a sprint.

The Black Hawk was listing to one side but still lay on its belly in a steaming trench. The tail and main rotors were gone, the landing skids ripped apart and jammed in mangled pieces behind the fuselage. Oddly, the cockpit panels were still illuminated.

As Mitchell neared the bird, waves of heat warmed his face, and he was forced to sneak a breath. The stench made his eyes tear as he stormed into the bay.

The charred crew chief lay in pieces on the floor, along with another of the door gunners. Mitchell nearly gagged as he made it to the pilot, who was barely conscious but alive. The copilot had caught several large pieces of shrapnel in the back of his neck, and Mitchell checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing.

"Captain, I'll get you out."

"I told them the damned zone was too hot."

"It's going to get hotter," Mitchell said as he unbuckled the man.

"Can't move my legs."

Mitchell tugged a penlight from his web gear, directed it into the pilot's lap, his legs showing no signs of injury.

But then he checked the back of the pilot's seat, which had been shredded by shrapnel. As he took the pilot by the shoulders and moved him forward, Mitchell noted bloodstains on the man's lower back. He had a spinal injury, no doubt.

Unable to get a good fireman's carry in the cramped quarters, Mitchell took hold of the pilot's shoulder straps and dragged him out of the cockpit, through the smoking bay, and outside, onto the ground, where he caught his breath.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement among the twisted and severed trees.

He brought his rifle around and hit the deck.

The perimeter had come alive with the silhouettes of gunmen, shifting in and out from behind the trunks to get a bead on him.

One ricocheting round off the chopper's fuselage could ignite all that fuel that had spilled into the mud.

"Scott, this is Rutang, over."

"Rutang, stand by." Mitchell breathed a curse and braced himself for yet another gunfight.

Chapter Five.

BASILAN ISLAND

SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

AUGUST 2002

"I won't lie here and die without a fight," said the pilot at Mitchell's side. He reached for his sidearm. "I'm taking one with me."

"Just hold up," Mitchell said, aiming at the nearest gunman leaning out from behind a tree, barely visible in grainy darkness. "Something's weird. They see us. They should've fired already."

"Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06, over?"

Mitchell lowered his voice. "Go ahead."

"I've got my Bravo Team at the chopper crash site. They see you but are holding to continue recon, over."

Mitchell sighed deeply. He got up onto his haunches. "Hold fire!" he cried to the men on the perimeter. "Fall back on me!"

The gunmen came dashing from the trees, and they were, in fact, Yano's men.

"Ricochet, the last of the Tangos is on the run," the captain continued. "Let's regroup on the pickup zone, over."

"Roger that. I need help with my wounded."

"My medics are on the way, out."

Mitchell shifted over to the pilot. "Captain, it's time to go. I'll try to take it easy on you."

"Well, it's not like we can fly. In fact, I'll never fly again. You know that."

Mitchell wasn't buying into the pity party, and maybe he could relight the man's hope. "Sir, we don't surrender--ever."

"That rocket just ended my career. My life. Leave me here."

"No, sir."

"What's your problem, soldier? I said get away. That's a direct order." He raised his pistol.

Mitchell took in a long breath. "I guess you'll have to shoot me." He slapped the man's gun away and lifted him over his shoulders as the Filipino guys arrived. "I got him," he said, waving off their offers to help.

"What's your name, soldier?" asked the captain, his tone as threatening as they came.

"Mitchell. Scott Mitchell."

"I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will." Mitchell shuffled away from the chopper, fighting to keep his balance.

Every operator they could locate was transferred back to the pickup zone, but Mitchell's team still had five unaccounted for and presumed dead. The search for their bodies would begin at daybreak. The row of bodies was too hard to look at.

As they rested on their packs, being attended to by Yano's medics and waiting for the choppers to land on a broad field bordering the jungle, Mitchell tried to call Captain Fang Zhi. He even went on to ask for any member of the Taiwanese team to respond, but none did.

Rutang shared the grim news passed on by one of the Filipino medics: Carlos had passed away. To the best of Billy's knowledge, only himself, Rutang, and Mitchell had survived the ambush.

Mitchell backhanded sweat from his brow, threw back his head, and closed his eyes.

Welcome to the Special Forces . . .

He was exhausted enough to sleep into the next century and so emotionally drained that he felt only a deep emptiness in his chest, accompanied by a low hum, like Gregorian monks chanting, their voices carried on the breeze. His thoughts began swirling, moments flashing from the distant to the more recent past.

He was a teenager in Youngstown, lying on his back beneath an old Ford Mustang and learning how to do his first oil change on a car . . .

He was wearing his neatly pressed uniform and saying good-bye to his father and siblings before he shipped out for the first time . . .

He was shaking Captain Foyte's hand and grinning broadly over being selected for ODA 574 . . .

A commotion began at the edge of the field, and Rutang tugged on Mitchell's shoulder. Mitchell stirred, looked up, and saw the entire Taiwanese team emerging from the trees: all twelve of them, looking exactly as they had upon entering the jungle, perhaps a little sweatier.

His first thought was, Why aren't they all dead? Dead men tell no tales--or answer radio calls.

Mitchell sprang off his pack and jogged toward them, his bandaged arm and leg stinging again. He spotted Captain Fang near the back of the group.

Fang's English was pretty good, though he'd asked on several occasions for people to speak more slowly around him.

Well, Mitchell was happy to oblige, and his question, voiced entirely out of breath, was simple: "Captain, where . . . were . . . you?"

Fang brought himself to full height, and although he was several inches shorter than Mitchell, his muscular form and penetrating eyes offered ample intimidation. "Sergeant, I am sorry for your losses."

"You were listening?"

"Yes."