Gray cumulonimbus clouds hung motionless in the sky, blocking the scorching sun, yet the weather remained unbearably hot and humid. The air felt stagnant, suffocating. The cicadas in the woods chirped tirelessly, their calls uninterrupted since morning. The tree leaves swayed slightly, creating a faint rustling sound.

A hot wind blew across Deng Shiyang's face, bringing with it the bitter scent of vegetation mixed with the stench of rotting earth. He felt the temperature rise further, his body beginning to falter as a wave of dizziness surged from within, spreading quickly throughout.

The wait before a battle felt especially long. After what seemed like an eternity, Keith's voice finally came through his earpiece: "Pitcher, report."

Deng Shiyang picked up his binoculars and looked toward the camp.

After the main force of the guerrillas had left, the camp's security had noticeably strengthened. Additional sentries were posted around the perimeter, and each of the sandbag fortifications was now manned. In the middle of the clearing stood a group of fully armed guerrillas, likely serving as the reserve.

Holding the binoculars in his right hand, Deng Shiyang pressed the transmit button on his radio with his left hand and began to report: "'Pitcher's mound' twenty, 'first base' and 'third base' each one, 'outfield' two, 'home plate' one. Moving patrols two, one each near 'first' and 'third base,' heading toward 'home plate.'"

"'Pitcher's mound' twenty, 'first base' and 'third base' each one, 'outfield' two, 'home plate' one. Moving patrols two, one each near 'first' and 'third base,' heading toward 'home plate,'" Keith repeated briefly, then replied, "Fourth batter received."

"Catcher, advance."

"Catcher received," Mark responded, then crawled out of his cover. He placed the Minimi light machine gun across his chest, hugging it with both arms as he crawled forward toward the forward machine gun position, using the vegetation on the hillside as cover.

The fallen log serving as the temporary machine gun position wasn't far, but Mark slowed his pace for concealment purposes, taking almost ten minutes to cover the short fifty yards. He slipped into the space between the log and the ground, hiding in the shadows of the dead tree. He then deployed the bipod and set up the machine gun.

Once ready, he reported over the radio, "Catcher in position."

"Fourth batter received," Keith replied, binoculars in hand, then ordered, "First and second batter, advance."

The designated point men, Du Preez and Rodin, began crawling toward the camp. Since they were closer to the camp than Mark, they were especially cautious while moving. Deng Shiyang and Keith monitored the sentries within the camp, directing Du Preez and Rodin to avoid being seen.

Things went smoothly at first, but when they reached a spot about twenty yards from the pigsty, the patrol moving between "third base" and "home plate" suddenly changed course and headed toward the pigsty.

"First batter, halt and hold position."

The two men immediately stopped, lying on their sides in the grass.

"First batter, moving sentry one, green uniform, ten o'clock direction, thirty yards away."

"Moving sentry one, green uniform, ten o'clock direction, thirty yards away. First batter received."

Keith glanced down at the map covered in markings, then spoke into the radio, "Target, Charlie sector, pigsty."

Deng Shiyang put down his binoculars and picked up the rifle beside him. He estimated the target distance using the range card, then adjusted for wind direction and speed based on the camp's visible smoke. After setting the elevation and windage knobs, he rested the rifle on a tree root and aimed toward the pigsty. In the scope, he saw a fat man wearing a tattered green uniform, with a camo beanie hat on his head, holding an FAL rifle.

"Charlie sector, pigsty. Target confirmed."

"Prepare," Keith replied.

Deng Shiyang used his right thumb to set the fire selector to "semi-auto," then estimated the target's walking speed, slowly rotating the rifle to align the crosshairs ahead of him.

Unaware of the danger he was in, the fat man sneaked around the pigsty and sat on a small, isolated mound nearby. He laid the rifle beside him, pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and began smoking.

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"Just a slacker on duty," Keith cursed silently, then gave the order over the radio: "First batter, take him down. Target at your eleven o'clock, fifteen yards away."

Du Preez didn't respond verbally; instead, he pressed the transmit button once and then again a second later—signaling that he received the order.

"Catcher, keep an eye on 'pitcher's mound.'"

"Catcher received," Mark replied, then aimed the machine gun at the central clearing of the camp.

Du Preez signaled to Rodin, then pulled out his knife, slowly crawling forward through the grass. Rodin raised himself on his elbows, aiming his rifle at the back of the fat man's head, ready to shoot at any moment.

To avoid flattening the grass, Du Preez moved sideways, pushing himself along with his left hand and legs. His movements were slow and cautious, making it difficult to determine his exact position from the slight rustling of the grass.

"Easy... take it easy..." Deng Shiyang murmured to himself as the shifting grass neared the target. He was already drenched in sweat from the midday heat, and the soaked shirt clinging to his back felt like countless tiny insects crawling over his skin. Salty sweat trickled down his forehead, sliding across his cheek and into his mouth. He licked his dry lips, maintaining his aim.

As the distance closed, Du Preez's movements slowed to a crawl until he stopped at the edge of the grass. Propping himself up with his left hand, he crouched slightly, then inched forward.

Suddenly, the fat man threw away his cigarette and sprang to his feet.

The team was startled, and Deng Shiyang instinctively placed his finger on the trigger.

The fat man, narrowly escaping death, yawned and stretched his arms over his head.

Unsure whether they had been discovered, Du Preez sprang up like a coiled spring, leaping behind the fat man. His left hand swiftly covered the man's mouth while his right hand plunged the knife into the man's lower back.

The sudden attack left the fat man stunned, and before he could react, the excruciating pain from the stab to his kidney rendered him powerless and voiceless, leaving him helpless as Du Preez pinned him down.

With the job done, Du Preez immediately dropped to the ground to reduce his chances of being detected. The others scanned the surroundings to check if anyone had noticed.

After confirming all was clear, Keith reported over the radio, "This is the fourth batter, all quiet."

Du Preez retrieved his knife, grabbed the discarded FAL, and dragged the body into a shallow pit nearby, covering it with grass and leaves.

Rodin reported via radio, "This is second batter, pigsty clear."

"Fourth batter received, first and second batter, proceed to 'home plate.'"

"First (second) batter received," the two responded quietly.

They crouched and moved around the pigsty, using a row of small wooden huts that served as toilets along the hillside for cover until they reached the edge of the camp near some shrubs. Here, they were about twenty yards from "home plate," separated by a stretch of open ground. A nearby sentry armed with an AKM fitted with an orange plastic magazine patrolled beside the huts.

"Target, Bravo sector, 'home plate,' holding AK."

"Bravo sector, 'home plate,' holding AK," Deng Shiyang confirmed the target and aligned the mil-dot reticle over the figure. "Target confirmed."

Keith scanned the area with binoculars, verifying that the target was in a blind spot relative to other guards, then said over the radio, "This is fourth batter, green light."

Deng Shiyang gripped his right arm with his left hand, using his cheekbone to brace the stock, then slid his finger into the trigger guard, gently squeezing the trigger. His sensitive finger felt a slight resistance as he engaged the first stage of the two-stage trigger.

As the sentry paused to turn, Deng Shiyang held his breath, timing his shot between heartbeats, and squeezed through the second stage.

"Pop-swish"—the sound suppressor produced a sharp noise, the recoil traveling through the stock into his shoulder as the view through the scope jumped slightly.

A 77-grain match-grade hollow-point .223 round exited the muzzle, tracing an invisible arc before plunging into the guerrilla's left chest.

"Hit," Keith's voice came through the earpiece.

Deng Shiyang reacquired the target in his scope, seeing the guerrilla lying flat on the ground.

Du Preez raised his rifle and fired two more shots at the downed man, then ran with Rodin to "home plate." Rodin hid the body under the hut, while Du Preez quickly pressed the transmit button twice, then again after a one-second pause, signaling "area clear."

The rescue operation had gone smoothly so far, but as the Battlefield Murphy's Law states, "No plan survives first contact." As Du Preez and Rodin were about to confirm the hostage's exact location, a disturbance erupted in the camp.

Several guerrillas gathered on the east side of the clearing, looking up at the sky. Others began to tense up, grabbing their weapons, while the rest relayed the alert, and more armed guerrillas emerged from the huts.

Deng Shiyang frowned and listened intently. From above, he heard a faint "thud-thud-thud," like the sound of helicopter engines.

"What the hell is that?" Keith almost cursed out loud at the chaotic scene in the camp. But before he could utter a swear word, an even bigger problem emerged.

A sentry patrolling the camp's perimeter had noticed that the sentry near "home plate" was missing, prompting him to approach, SKS rifle in hand.

Keith urgently alerted over the radio, "Enemy approaching from 'first base.' First batter, hide!"

But Du Preez and Rodin were in an awkward position; retreating across the open ground back to the hillside shrubs was no longer an option. With nowhere else to go, they squeezed under the hut where the body was hidden.

The sentry arrived near "home plate," scanning the area. He noticed a three-inch-wide depression in the dirt, with loose soil scattered around and a small finger-sized hole slanting into the ground as if something had penetrated the surface at high speed.

Sensing that something was amiss, he waved to his nearby comrades, who were emerging from the barracks. A group of guerrillas noticed the disturbance and began converging on the area.

"Damn it!" Keith cursed quietly, then gritted his teeth and ordered, "Prepare for combat!"