"Roger that. Clear that zone and get here, over."

"We'll try, but they're hitting us hard! I've already got one killed, two wounded, over."

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Captain. Ricochet, out." Mitchell cursed under his breath and switched frequencies. "Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over?"

He waited. Repeated the call. Cursed again. "Move!" he ordered Rutang.

They burst from cover and sprinted off, rounds tearing into limbs and leaves behind them.

"Ricochet, this is Red Cross. Too late, man. We just lost another two. And I've been hit. I'm bleeding out pretty bad, Sergeant. I can't stop it. You need . . ."

The transmission broke off as Mitchell and Rutang found themselves running near a volley of machine gun fire hammering the trees a few meters ahead.

He and Rutang thudded hard into the mud as the Degtyarev Pechotnyi (DP) light machine gun rattled and brass casings jingled and plopped into puddles.

For the first time in his life, Scott Mitchell doubted if his courage, skill, and audacity were enough to carry him through. His eyes burned as the senior medic's voice broke once more over the radio. "Sergeant, I'm dying, man. Please . . ."

Chapter Two.

BASILAN ISLAND

SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

AUGUST 2002

Captain Fang Zhi, leader of the Taiwanese team, was propped on his elbows and observing the valley below through a pair of night-vision goggles. He had taken his men away from the creek and into the mountains when the first shots had been fired.

Though frowning over his orders, his team had obeyed without question, and only now did Sergeant Sze Ma, thirty-three, the oldest and most experienced soldier among them, voice his concerns.

"Sir, I am not doubting you. But I am confused. Why haven't we answered their calls for help? Why have we moved up here, if not to prepare sniper positions?"

Fang lowered his goggles and regarded the man whose deep-set eyes widened. "You attended the briefing."

"Yes, Captain--"

"Then you heard what I said to Major Liang and the Americans and Filipinos."

"I did. And they said they cannot provide the air reconnaissance you requested."

"Because it is cheaper for them to use us as bait."

"But, sir--"

"Our morale is already far too low, our recruitment numbers dropping. I won't waste good men on an ill-conceived mission. We need a victory here, but the Americans have not planned one for us. They planned to sacrifice us to save a dollar."

"Sir, they will call us cowards."

Fang raised his voice. "We are not cowards! And we are not sheep! Do you think they care how many of us die?"

"But, sir . . ."

With his temples beginning to throb, his teeth gnashing, Fang rolled over and burst to his feet, reaching over his shoulder and into his pack. His gloved hand locked onto his sword cane, a one-of-a-kind weapon and family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his father, who had died last year.

The cane's wooden shaft was slightly longer than an Eskrima stick and had been hand-carved with a tiger-stripe pattern. The blade inside was much more than just a flat sword, its cross section forged to resemble the Chinese character representing a square, side, part, or scheme, but, more importantly, the Fang family name:

Although the sword's design prevented it from cutting in the traditional sense, whipping strikes produced distinctive welts. Repeated strikes resembled the tiger-stripe pattern of the cane itself. The ultimate signature was the puncture wound from multiple sharpened tips. Fang Zhi's great-grandfather, who had designed the weapon, had wanted his enemies to never forget the Fang name, whose bloodline could be traced to one of the premiers of the Tang Dynasty.

As he had risen through the ranks, Fang had employed the sword cane to keep his men in line, beating them with the wooden sheath for minor offenses, drawing the sword and whipping them to produce welts for larger transgressions. He reserved the thrusting signature mark for those he wanted to teach the ultimate lesson. Thus far in his career, he'd never had to do that.

Yet at the moment, his anger had bested him, and the sword slipped fluidly out of the cane. He clutched the round handle, the ornate steel pommel etched with the same character representing the Fang family name. Yes, he could easily bludgeon someone to death with that hardened globe, but it was the sword he raised above Sergeant Sze Ma's head.

The sergeant scrambled up, raised his hands in defense. "Captain, please!"

"How dare you question me!" Fang reared back and struck the sergeant in the side of the neck, even as Sze Ma ducked from Fang's advance. Fang followed up with two more heavy blows to Sze Ma's head, dropping him.

Then Fang stood there, panting, seething, listening to his sergeant whimper in pain.

Finally, he could take no more. "Get up!" he screamed at Sze Ma. "Get up!"

Rubbing his wounds, the bleary-eyed sergeant glanced at Fang and nodded. "Yes, sir." Sze Ma got to his feet, stood a moment, then collapsed.

Fang's breath vanished. He dropped to his knees beside the sergeant, checked his neck for a pulse. Nothing.

Sze ma. I didn't mean to kill you!

Then . . . there it was, a weak but steady pulse. Fang closed his eyes and sighed as Sergeant Gao called, "Captain? Has Sergeant Sze Ma been hurt?"

Fang opened his eyes, slowly craned his head toward Gao, who was staring in awe at the sword in Fang's hand. "Yes, Sergeant, he has. Get Sergeant Dong here right away."

Captain Scott Mitchell backhanded mud from his eyes and lifted his chin at Rutang. "I need you to get back to those wounded guys. I'll take out that machine gun. Wait for my signal."

"And if you don't signal?"

Mitchell just looked at him. "I will."

"Sergeant, if they close on us, we won't make it. What the hell happened to the Taiwanese guys? They were right there, just on the other side of the creek."

"I don't know. Maybe they got hit first. Booby-trapped, just like the captain. I don't know. Just wait for me."

And with that, Mitchell eased back on his hands and knees, then suddenly bounded off to the left flank, bringing himself around toward that machine gunner's position.

The jungle had grown considerably darker, every frond, trunk, and limb drawn in silhouette, with only the brief muzzle flashes from the machine gun to determine his path.

"Hey, is that all you got?" screamed Rutang. "I'm right over here!" He added a few curses in a rather lame attempt to piss off the machine gunner, who might not understand English.

"Rutang, this is Ricochet," Mitchell cried over the radio. "What're you doing?"

"Drawing his fire! Get in there and take him out."

Crazy bastard, thought Mitchell as he ran like a demon through the mud, slipped up behind the machine gunner's position, and drew an M67 fragmentation grenade from his web gear.

He pulled the pin, stole another glance to judge the distance, then hurled the frag.

For a moment, he watched the grenade arc through the air, tumbling with almost underwater slowness, as beyond it, the stars began shimmering beyond the broken framework of trees.

Perhaps it was the heat or his exhaustion getting the better of him, he didn't know, but for a few seconds that piece of metal passing through the sky looked . . . almost beautiful, excerpted from some hallucination.