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Pilots Do It to Get High

"This isn't part of the plan," Murdock thought as he unlatched his harness and pulled off his flight helmet. He was supposed to be riding in from the east like Gandalf the White to pick up his boys from their reconnaissance mission in enemy territory… not assessing injuries after a fucking chopper crash.

B.A. would never let him live this down.

It wasn't even his fault, either. The Blackhawk just stalled. "This never would have happened to Shadowfax," he grumbled. The captain had no idea why it decided to no longer fly, but he did know that the bird passed her pre-flight check with flying colors, (no pun intended). Other pilots trusted the maintenance crews to do all the dirty work when it came to their helicopter's upkeep, but not Murdock.

There were two major rules his first flight instructor had drilled into his head - always get to know your vehicles inside and out before taking them to the sky, and never trust someone else with your aircraft unless you also trusted them with your life. Well, only three individuals made the list of people he trusted explicitly and none of them were qualified to make sure a helicopter was sky worthy.

Murdock winced as a broken rib shifted. He flipped the switch for the radio, but couldn't even hear static. The damned thing was broken. The pilot sighed as gently as he could to keep from aggravating his ribs further.

No help on that front.

He prayed the chopper's location equipment was still functioning, or had at least sent the base a reading as close to his current position as possible before conking out. James was unsure if a rescue party would even be dispatched due to the sensitive nature of this mission. If not, all he could hope for was to keep himself alive long enough for the rest of his unit to find him. They would always come for him, no matter what.

"Okay… busted ribs. What else we got goin' on?" It was too damned hard to think. Maybe a concussion? James knew his left knee felt like an iron poker had been jabbed in it, and that wasn't good. He had to painfully shift a bit in order to get a look at his leg.

Blood.

Lots of it, but thankfully not enough to suggest the femoral artery had been damaged. He'd probably already be dead if it had. His right ankle was either broken or had a really bad sprain. Both that and the state of his knee pissed him off. Hannibal was notoriously a hard-ass when it came to staying off injured limbs, and that meant he was going to die from boredom in the coming weeks. The man could be so unreasonable sometimes!

Feeling a little foggier than usual, the pilot leaned back and started humming "Baby Got Back" before remembering what he was supposed to be doing.

"Oh yeah… the knee." Murdock shook himself out of his daze when he remembered the bleeding. "I should probably do something about that." It didn't matter that the main artery wasn't nicked if he was too stupid to put a dressing on the wound. He could still bleed out, just not as quickly.

Looking around his immediate area for something he could use to bind the wound, James realized that his best option was to rip up his t-shirt. The desert got cold at night, and the Texan sure as shit wasn't going to get rid of his flight suit or BDU (Battle Dress Uniform) jacket. "Damn, this is gonna hurt…."

Biting the proverbial bullet, James brought up his right arm, "which has a very interesting scrape in the shape of a… no - focus, stupid!" Lowering the zipper, he carefully shrugged out of the top half of the suit and inched his t-shirt off. He sighed despondently upon noticing which shirt he'd put on that day.

"Damn it… why did it have to be my 'Pilots Do It to Get High' shirt?" He bit his lip from the stress on his ribs as he tore his favorite article of clothing into scraps.

Murdock was panting from the torment and exhaustion, but he finally had his knee wrapped as tightly as was possible from his position. He re-zipped his flight suit and leaned back to take a nap.

Staying alive was hard work.

Murdock woke to swaying, which normally would have been comforting, but now just made him want to throw up. He scrunched his eyes and moved his head as if he could make the world be still by shifting the right way.

It worked.

"Hannibal, he's waking up." The statement, which came from Face, if he wasn't mistaken, preceded the feeling of hard ground beneath his back. His BDU jacket lay over him like a blanket and he could feel that either aliens or his friends had properly bandaged all of his wounds. It was a little disconcerting to be wrapped up like a mummy, but at least the cavalry had come.

Temp and Hannibal knelt down on either side of him, and the lieutenant was supporting his head as he got the pilot to drink some water. "How do you feel, buddy?"

Murdock thought about it for a second as he sipped the water. Finally content that the nausea had passed, he smiled softly at his two comrades. "I'm feelin' confused Faceman. I mean rangers pride themselves on their speed and efficiency, so what the hell took you guys so long?" H.M. noticed something missing from the scene. "And where the hell is B.A.?"

Hannibal chuckled before opening a packet of painkillers. "We rangers are speedy and efficient, son, but only when working as a unit. When one of our own crashes his chopper it throws a wrench in my plans."

Templeton grabbed the pills and helped the injured man up again long enough to swallow them. "B.A. was sent ahead to secure transportation. We're supposed to meet him along the road up ahead so we can get your ass to your favorite place on base."

James ignored the sarcasm. "You're sending me to the women's barracks? Awesome! Maybe I won't get bored during my convalescence after all."

End

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