Ghost Recon(3)
"Of course he's sure," said Rutang. "Shut up!"
"I'm just saying--"
"Rock, I'm sure," said Mitchell, putting some real steel in his voice. "Go now!"
Mitchell took point, and they began scissoring their way through the jungle. He clutched his rifle a little too tightly, and the chin strap of his boonie hat began digging into his skin. He took a sharp turn around two trees, and the sounds of gunfire grew louder, along with the trickle of running water out there, beyond the jagged tree line.
At the next cluster of palms he called for a halt and slid back his boonie hat. Then he dug out his binoculars and scanned the area.
Despite the growing darkness, Mitchell still picked out several men dressed in nondescript fatigues with bandannas tied around their heads. They darted south, back toward Bravo Team.
He issued hand signals to Rutang and Rockstar: Got three, there, let's go!
They charged off, with Mitchell once again taking point, Rutang and Rockstar on his rear flanks, Rockstar checking their six o'clock as they advanced.
The ground was muddy, sucking too loudly at their boots as they cut through the brush, came around several more trees and clusters of dark shrubs, and right into a swarm of malaria-carrying mosquitoes that had all of them swatting at their faces. He prayed the layers of bug spray and the vaccinations would do their job.
As Mitchell's vision cleared, he spotted the three guys, ten, fifteen meters ahead, still weaving forward, seemingly unaware they had been followed.
Mitchell bolted to the base of the next tree, whose reddish brown bark was alive with ants. He signaled the others to drop and prepare to fire.
"Got one in my sight," said Rutang.
"Me, too," Rockstar added.
"Fire!" Mitchell cried, breaking the silence, but it didn't matter, because their M4A1 carbines echoed like rolling timpani drums, hungry rounds chewing through the air until they caught flesh.
"Bang, bang, bang, they're dead." Rutang grunted.
He wasn't lying. They'd dropped the trio cleanly, efficiently.
"Move!" cried Mitchell, knowing that before they could blink twice, they'd draw incoming fire.
He was wrong. It took three blinks before the trees and ground exploded as they sprinted past the men they had killed. They moved onto a steep mound, then Mitchell descended and turned back. Rutang came up hard on Mitchell's heels.
A triplet of gunfire cracked too close for comfort as Rockstar reached the crest. The stoic-faced black man gasped and shook as more rounds tore through his chest a second before he collapsed right on top of Mitchell.
"Bennet!" cried Rutang as he pulled the man off of Mitchell, who was now lying flat on his back, the tiny speaker in his ear rattling with yet another voice: "Ricochet, this is Red Cross. I cannot fall back. Say again, I cannot fall back. We're pinned down. I count at least eight Tangos and two DP positions. Sounds like they got plenty of rounds for those machine guns, too. We won't last long here. I need support, now!"
"Aw, Bennet, man, come on." Rutang gasped.
Mitchell rolled over, took one look at Rockstar, and knew. That warm feeling on Mitchell's neck was Rockstar's blood.
Rutang wrenched his rifle around, his face twisted with the desire for payback.
"No, hold fire a second," said Mitchell as he got on his radio. "Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over."
No response. He called again.
Finally, Captain Yano answered, though his voice was nearly drowned out by a firefight, that same gunfire thundering in the distance. "Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06. We've been engaged by the enemy--at least twenty Tangos. We're cut off from your position. Cannot get to you at this time, over."
"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.