And because he only knew how to win a fight.
He glanced to his left, spotted the first guy coming from the trees, and cut him down with a vicious burst before the fool knew what hit him.
But the other three terrorists shouted to each other, and in the next heartbeat, Mitchell found himself in a hailstorm of incoming fire.
'Scott,' Rutang hollered on the radio. 'Get out of there!
THREE
With Rutang's cry still ringing in his earpiece, Mitchell launched himself into the air and crashed into a long puddle at the base of the hillside, the water rushing over his head and blinding him for a moment until he came up, rolled onto his right side, and returned fire on the three men now emerging from the trees.
He dropped one, panned toward the second, but was surprised to watch that guy stagger back, his chest bursting apart.
Off to Mitchell's right, Rutang was on his gut and directing steady fire toward that guy, emptying his magazine.
Mitchell clambered to his feet, just as the third and final thug charged toward Rutang's position, knowing that Rutang was reloading. Mitchell rushed to the next tree, froze, tracked the man, and fired, the first burst catching him in the leg. The terrorist began limping, turned back to face Mitchell, opened his mouth to scream, and swallowed Mitchell's next volley.
'Rutang? Looks clear for now. Hold it there, over.'
'Roger that.'
Taking in a deep breath, Mitchell charged from the tree, racing hard and fast toward Rutang's position on the other side of the narrow valley. He wove a serpentine path, feeling the heat of imaginary fire — until he didn't need his imagination anymore. Another squad of terrorists targeted him from above, AK-47s popping, the trees and mud suddenly alive with fire.
'Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over!'
'Go ahead, Ricochet,' answered Captain Yano, his voice faint as gunfire boomed in the background.
'Stand by to receive my new GPS, over.'
'Give me a minute, Ricochet! We're still taking heavy, heavy fire!'
'Roger that. I'll signal in a few minutes, out.'
Nearly out of breath, Mitchell slashed through a path heavily draped in vines, then came up behind Rutang's position and cried, 'Rutang, coming up!'
'Okay, Scott.'
Rutang lay on his side just behind a pair of small palm trees. He was using the secondary blade of his Blackhawk Mark 1 knife to slice open his pants leg. In his other hand was a big trauma bandage that he summarily slapped on the wound with a gasp and groan. Then he cursed and said, 'That hurts.'
'I know, buddy.' Mitchell turned his gaze just ahead. 'Billy, how you doing?'
Billy Bermudez, the team's assistant weapons sergeant, lay bare-chested on his back, his young face creased in pain, his M9 Beretta clutched tightly in his hand. A small incision had been made between his ribs and a tube inserted to relieve the pressure. That tube now dangled from the bloody hole.
'Scott,' Billy began after a labored breath, 'I'm not so good.'
'He's got a hemopneumothorax, but the tube will help for now,' said Rutang.
Billy shifted his shoulders. 'Don't move me again. It hurts too much, man.'
'I know,' answered Mitchell. 'But you'll take the pain.' Mitchell locked gazes with the man.
Billy hesitated, then nodded. 'Give me more pain.'
Mitchell grinned weakly, then regarded Rutang. 'You're first. Before they get any closer.'
Rutang nodded, and Mitchell slid Rutang's arm over his shoulder and hoisted the man to his feet. Rutang began to pant, as though being burned. He held his breath, tried to put weight on his wounded leg, then exhaled a string of epithets.
'Just let it out, man.' Mitchell was dealing with his own wound, but he wouldn't allow these men to detect any sign of weakness.
'Scott, I can't use the leg.' Rutang's eyes were blood-shot, his face screwed up in a tight knot. 'I'm not kidding, bro. I'm not kidding.'
'That's okay. Here we go.' Mitchell hoisted the man across his shoulders and took off, his arm throbbing, his knees beginning to give out as he started up the hill, working at a forty-five-degree angle to alleviate some of the pressure on his legs. He concentrated on his rhythm, just marching, breathing, nothing in the way.
Automatic weapons fire raked the hillside as he turned up toward a large outcropping of rock shaped like an arrowhead and painted a deep brown in the darkness.
Mitchell eyed the puffs and splashes on the hill as the rounds struck. At the same time, he pricked up his ears, listening for the locations of those shooters.
In fact, every sense was dialed to ten, the stench of the jungle and his own salty sweat making him grimace as the earth sank under his heavy boots.
'Almost there,' he told Rutang.
Just on the other side of the outcropping lay a wide crevice with a flat floor and backed by another wall of rock. The area made for an excellent defensive position. They would have the high ground.
But getting them all there… Mitchell didn't want to think about it.
Once in the crevice, he slowly lowered himself to his knees and began to let Rutang slide off his shoulders.
'I'm down,' cried Rutang.
'All right. Crawl back up near the top here and give me a little suppressing fire.'
'I'm on it, Scott.'
As Rutang got into position, Mitchell took in a long breath, rubbed the corners of his eyes, then gripped his carbine. He made a quick call back to Black Tiger 06, relaying their new GPS coordinates.
Then, for just a second, he glanced up at the stars. Not much of a religious man, he figured it couldn't hurt to ask that big commanding officer in the sky to cut him a little slack.
And in that second, a surprising peace came over him. He would get Billy and Carlos. He would bring them back. He would make it.
'Scott, I'm set.'
'All right. Here goes nothing.'
Mitchell took off, came around the outcropping, and swept across the hill in a full sprint, assuring himself that every step was good, that no bullet could touch him.
Blood dripped from his wounded arm, but he ignored it, swept a little wider, as the mud-covered hill boiled with even more incoming fire.
The drumming of all those rounds, the clinking of brass, and the screams in Arabic and Tagalog all funneled into a steady hum that no longer bothered him. In fact, the hum drove him harder, faster, back toward his fellow operators.
Mitchell stumbled down on his heels through a little washout, fell backward onto his rump, and began sliding along with the streaming mud, landing with a sharp thud on a bed of broken rocks. He crawled forward, looked up, and found himself a few meters from a little ditch.
He blinked, saw three silhouettes in the distance, then his vision focused. He had just found three more of his men who had taken up a position some twenty meters west from Rutang's original spot.
The senior medic, Red Cross, lay in a pool of blood surrounded by soaked bandages. Rumblefish had taken multiple rounds in the chest and was propped up on a tree, his eyes vacant. Rapper, it seemed, had been dragged
