Ghost Recon gr-1 Page 3

  "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 to cover after being hit by that mortar, his legs chewed down to the bone. He'd bled out quickly, his face gone gray in the half-light.

  Mitchell wanted to close his eyes and remember their last moments together, but without a second to spare, he fought off the urge to gag and raced through the trees toward Billy and Carlos. In his haste, he'd forgotten to warn Billy he was coming, and as he rounded the last bush, a gunshot cracked on the tree to his left.

  "Billy!" he cried.

  "Geez, Scott!"

  He reached the man and dropped to one knee. "Sorry, my fault. Thanks for having bad aim."

  "Forget me. Go check on Carlos. I've been calling, and he's not answering now. He's right behind those palms."

  Carlos Alejandro, the assistant communications sergeant, was arguably the most eloquent and scholarly member of the team. He spoke expertly on world politics, religion, and philosophy and could schmooze with majors, colonels, and even generals better than most officers Mitchell knew. And because of that, he wasn't one to ever go silent.

  Mitchell found the man lying supine, his head turned to the right, as though he were listening to the ground. His eyes were wide open. "Carlos?"

  The sergeant turned his head, looked up, his gaze slightly unfocused. "They're moving."

  "You can tell?"

  "Yeah, I just heard them scream."

  "And you didn't hear Billy calling?"

  "I figured if I didn't answer, he'd finally shut up."

  Mitchell shook his head and smirked. "Ready? I'm carrying you back."

  "Not in my lifetime."

  Carlos had been hit at least twice in one leg and had taken a serious round in the shoulder. There wasn't a single white spot on any of his bandages.

  "Don't give me any BS. You're coming."

  Feeling guilty about having to lift the man but without another choice, Mitchell helped Carlos up to his feet, the man balancing on one leg and moaning softly.

  Behind them, Rutang opened up on the men across the valley, muzzles winking from both sides of the jungle now.

  And just as Mitchell pulled Carlos around and got him onto his back, a rocket-propelled grenade flashed and went streaking overhead like a falling star, casting harsh white light over the jungle as it headed toward Rutang's position.

  Mitchell screamed into the radio, trying to warn the man, but his words were cut short by the explosion.

  Smoke billowed, and rocks plummeted, as Carlos said through a shudder, "They got him."

  "No," snapped Mitchell.

  He started off with Carlos, heading directly toward that blast.

  "They got Rutang," Carlos repeated.

  "Don't believe it."

  Yet Mitchell was back to losing hope himself. Was it all for nothing: the mission, his military career, his whole damned life? Would he get his men up to the high ground, where they would be slaughtered?

  Where was the Scott Mitchell he knew? The guy who envisioned himself a Special Forces operator because he wasn't meant to live an ordinary life?

  Where was the Scott Mitchell who pressed on, despite the odds, who never said quit?

  Captain Fang Zhi had seen the RPG light up the sky and had zoomed in with his night-vision goggles to spy one of the Americans carrying another on his back, running straight for the smoke and burning fronds.

  It was an act of heroism, no doubt, and for once Fang appreciated that team. Again, it was not the soldiers who should be blamed; it was their leaders. They couldn't help what their commanders had done to them. They were only victims, and it was a pity — a real pity — that they would lose their lives for their superiors' mistakes.

  That was a very courageous man down there. Fang could not see his face clearly, but he thought the soldier might be the ODA team sergeant, a man named Mitchell, whom Fang had deemed one of the most serious and accomplished combatants am
ong the Americans.

  A few shouts from the hillside toward the east sent Fang's gaze to that position, where he spotted the terrorist who had fired the first RPG balancing the tube on his shoulder, ready to launch another grenade directly at the American.

  Unsure of what had come over him, perhaps the respect he had for the American's courage, Fang set down his NVGs and lifted a brand-new assault rifle he was fielding, the T91 carbine with attached Leupold scope. The rifle wouldn't be available to the regular military until next year, but the ROC Army had issued several prototypes to its best marksmen, men like Fang who had scored in the top 5 percent of the entire ROC Army, which of course meant that if Fang wanted that terrorist with the RPG dead, he would make it happen with a single round.

  Fang raised the rifle, drew in a long breath and held it, then sighted the terrorist with the RPG.

  He had a clean shot.

  And the terrorist was most certainly a moment away from firing.

  Yet Fang knew that if he took the shot, he would give up his team's position.

  He thought of the American trying to save his wounded colleague. He thought of his own men, of the hubris of the American and Filipino commanders.

  And he literally shuddered with indecision, the target shifting left and right of the crosshairs.

  Fang blinked hard, took another breath, and reached his decision.

  FOUR

  BASILAN ISLAND

  SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

  AUGUST 2002

  The withering gunfire closing around Mitchell like a set of sharpened teeth began to taper off, and soon he heard only his breathing, his footfalls, and the soft groans coming from Carlos draped across his back.

  He started up the hill toward the dust clouds still obscuring the rocks.

  A single shot echoed across the valley, followed by the telltale whoosh of another RPG.

  Mitchell whirled toward the sound. This was it. He took a last breath.

  But the RPG arced wildly across the sky, raced over the trees, and vanished.

  He frowned, spun back, and resumed his pace, reaching the shattered rock face where the outcropping had been. He came around the other side to find Rutang huddling deep in the crevice, illuminated by a penlight and inspecting an arm pinpricked by shrapnel.

  "Oh, man, Scott." Rutang groaned.

  "Hey, you're still alive. Don't complain. Turn that light off."

  "Roger that. Just wanted see how bad it was."

  "It's not bad."

  "Feels bad."

  Mitchell carefully set down Carlos. "Just hang on here, bro."

  Carlos winced and nodded. "Somebody needs to go back for Billy."

  Mitchell smirked. "Uh, yeah, that'd be me — and without covering fire this time. Aw, the hell with it…" He tugged out his M4A1's near-empty magazine and shoved in a fresh one as his earpiece buzzed:

  "Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06, over." Captain Yano's voice was freighted with tension.

  Mitchell swallowed. "Go ahead, Black Tiger."

  "We're still dug in pretty deep. You have at least ten Tangos moving toward your position, maybe more, and we can't cut them off from here. We've been calling for air support, but they're saying the zone is still too hot. You need to get out of there, over."

  "Thanks for the heads-up. Ricochet, out."

  Mitchell hadn't bothered calling for air support because he knew it would only come if the battalion commander was willing to risk those birds flying low over the jungle. The commander was no doubt monitoring all communications and knew very well what was happening.

  Nevertheless, Mitchell made one last attempt himself, and to his utter surprise, Major Vic Zacowsky, the company commander, said he'd convinced the battalion commander to commit their three evac choppers to the fight. The Black Hawks were en route: ETA ten minutes.

  Rutang and Carlos still had their headsets clipped on and had been listening to the channel. "They'll be late," said Rutang. "I just know it."

  Mitchell nodded, keyed his mike. "Billy? I'm coming to get you, over."

  "I hear that. Better run. I'm seeing movement out in the trees — those guys Black Tiger called about."

  "On my way." Mitchell eased himself across the rocks, came around the other side, then rushed down the hill, a wave of adrenaline coursing through his chest.

  Once again, he slid down the muddy stream, dropped onto the rocks, then stole his way past his dead teammates to reach Billy, who was right where they'd left him, M9 in hand, tube dangling from his chest. His breathing had become more labored, with blood now leaking from the tube.

  Between labored breaths, Mitchell managed, "Hey, Sergeant. Time to go."

  The man's face tightened in agony. "Okay."

  "Here comes the part you won't—"

  Mitchell cut himself off at the sound of a faint whoosh growing louder: an incoming mortar.

  He dropped down over Billy, shielding the man's head and face as the mortar round blew apart the hill above them, the boom stinging Mitchell's ears.

  As if cued by the burst, rounds scissored through the trees behind them, and Mitchell pushed himself in tighter against Billy. He knew if he returned fire they'd finish homing in on his position, despite his carbine's flash suppressor. If those Arabs had trained the kids right, they'd been taught to estimate enemy positions based on the telltale pops and cracks.

  But Mitchell did have a couple of frags left. He reached into his web gear, drew one out, pulled the pin, then turned and hurled it toward the string of muzzle flashes, four, maybe five in all, festooning the rows of trees like Christmas lights.

  "Okay, Billy, here we go," he said — a second before the grenade exploded.

  He hauled the weapons sergeant onto his back and started off, leaving behind the shouts of the remaining terrorists and several incoming volleys of AK-47 fire.

  "Ricochet, this is Rutang. I can see you. I know you can't talk, but they're moving in from your six. I can hear the choppers. I'll pop red smoke down there. Just keep running, Scott. Don't stop!"

  The first mortar round had dug a crater surrounded by dozens of muddy pools, while rocks and split tree limbs now littered Mitchell's path. He circled around, but it was getting harder to see through the swirling dust. His right leg ached, and a warm, trickling sensation drifted down his calf.

  Don't stop. That was right. No matter how he felt. No matter what he heard or saw.

  But his legs just weren't capable anymore, every muscle blazing, his hips straining against the load until his boot rested squarely on a rock, and his ankle began to twist. He screamed and shifted his weight, getting off in time before the searing pain ripped through the ankle. He staggered forward, nearly fell, regained his balance.

  "It's okay, Scott. Just put me down."

  Another mortar exploded off to their right, maybe forty meters, followed by a fresh wave of incoming rifle fire.

  "Hang tighter," he ordered Billy, then raging silently to himself, Mitchell poured everything left into his stride. He bounded up the hill, digging deeply into the mud, grunting through his teeth with every breath.

  The fire in his legs had worked into his spine and fanned across his shoulders. He stooped over even more, about to drop Billy.

  He had a dozen more steps.

  Rutang appeared up top, reared back, and hurled his M83 smoke grenade, which landed far behind them and began to hiss…

  Ten steps now. Six.

  Four.

  On the day he'd announced he was joining the army, Mitchell's father had told him, If you're going to be a soldier, Scott, then be the best.

  A mortar whooshed down, somewhere directly behind him, and with the hairs on the back of his neck tingling, Mitchell threw himself and Billy around the rocks and into the crevice as the mortar exploded behind them.

  They tumbled across the rocks and came to a bruising halt on the stone, arms and legs jutting into each other's faces.

  Mitchell held his breath a few seconds more, then chan
ced a gasp, the stench of the explosion sending him into a fit of coughing. He pulled himself out from beneath Billy, then turned his gaze skyward at the spirit-lifting whomp of incoming Black Hawks.

  Billy began screaming, the chest tube nearly wrenched from his body. Rutang was already attending to him while Carlos could barely keep his eyes open.

  Above the drumming helicopters came shouts in Arabic, shockingly close now — right near the base of the hill.

  Mitchell swung around his rifle to the ready position and hauled himself up, out of the crevice, wishing he hadn't looked back at his men. They were barely recognizable behind all the blood and mud.

  He moved forward and shifted along the rocks, keeping his shoulder tight to the stone until he could hazard a look around the corner.

  Two gunmen came charging up the hill.

  Mitchell burst from cover and unleashed fire on the lead man, cutting him down.

  The second guy dropped to his belly and rolled. Mitchell fired on him, but Rutang's red smoke began wafting back over the hill, blanketing the entire area.

  Even as Mitchell squinted hard, rounds suddenly chewed into the rocks at his shoulder, ricocheting and sparking, sending him down low behind the rock. He swore and caught his breath.

  One of the Black Hawks wheeled overhead, the door gunner leaning hard into his M134, rounds and tracers lashing out into the jungle like a phosphorescent tongue.

  Mitchell came back around the rock, blasted by rotor wash and smoke, but even through burning eyes he spotted the thug below, who was running straight up at him to avoid the minigun fire stitching into his path.

  All three of Mitchell's rounds punched into the guy's chest. He staggered back, fell onto his side, and rolled right into the door gunner's fire.

  Before Mitchell's lips could even curl in a smile, something flashed from within a tree cluster across the valley.

  And from that flash came a fiery streak of light, an RPG to be sure, arrowing straight for the Black Hawk.