Disclaimer: This is entirely a work of fiction and based on fictional characters and events. The broader historical scope is true - the US supplied weapons to various countries and factions of South and Latin America of various choosing, through 3rd party avenues, and one of these shipments really was stolen by the Honduran military who in turn supplied them to the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front in El Salvador. But anything more specific than that I have completely made up. Additionally, I don't pretend to know how Force Recon units exactly operate, let alone how they functioned in practicality in the 1980s. Some things I know are blatantly wrong (such as Mac as a captain being out in the field - Recon team leaders are usually Staff Sgts). I do however, know the meaning and implications of all of Mac's ribbons and badges as displayed on the show and must be forced to guess and make up some of the things he was and might have been involved in. This is one such attempt.

All characters except for those created by CBS are my own.

Chapter 1

January, 2005

Mac almost slammed the door to his office closed, absolutely seething. He hadn't realized Sonny Sassone's words had gotten to him as much as they had until after the interrogation was over and he was headed back from the precinct. They'd incensed him at the time, but he'd been temporarily distracted by Sassone's mention of Danny, and now his blood was practically boiling.

"That's right, that's the way we do it – Mafia style. You look a man dead in the eye and watch the light go out. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would ya…copper."

He took off his suit jacket and threw it viciously onto the half-couch against the wall. His first impulse was to pick up the nearest heavy object and fling it against the wall, but he clamped down on the almost overwhelming urge and walked to the opposite side of his desk, running his fingers through his hair and trying to gain some control.

"I'm a Marine you little punk. I've put men in the ground on foreign soil so you can sleep at night. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you…kid."

If Sassone or Stella had stopped to think about the implication of his instantaneous retort, Sassone might not have continued beeing quite so belligerent, and Stella might have realized he had just inadvertently let on far more about his military past than he had ever intended. He glanced around the walls of his office which held old pictures of his military days, a display with his ribbons and badges safely encased, and various other little memorabilia from his time in service. It told a very paradoxical story if one simply took the time to notice.

At first glance and with a superficial overview, one might be forgiven if they thought he'd served multiple tours of duty during wartime. His awards and medals included two bronze stars with valor, a purple heart and a silver star for god's sake, not to mention multiple other meritorious action ribbons. But Vietnam was over long before he commissioned, and as much as part of him was dying to exchange his badge for fatigues and go back to Iraq, he certainly wasn't involved in the current war. No, minus Desert Storm, he had served the vast majority of his time during what was supposed to be peace time.

"…look a man dead in the eye and watch the light go out…" … "…I've put men in the ground on foreign soil so you can sleep at night…" … "…put men in the ground on foreign soil…"

The phrases repeated themselves over and over in his head.

"…put men in the ground on foreign soil…" … "…watch the light go out…"

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in an attempt to obliterate the accompanying memories and images. His unconscious choice of words wasn't an accident. They weren't the words of someone who'd killed others in the heat of combat (although he'd done that too). Foreign soil…places off limits, off the record…calculated killing…missions no one knew about except those who sweat, bled and sometimes died on them. It wasn't that Sassone had simply made a derogatory assumption against Mac having been a Marine and the intrinsic pride that accompanied the title, but he had unknowingly triggered and delegitimized the most closely guarded, raw and powerful memories Mac held of his time in uniform.

Because he wasn't just an infantry Marine as he had started out and that he was content to let people assume he had remained. He had been in Force Recon, the spec ops of the branch, going on both green and black operations doing things from deep reconnaissance to providing personal security detail in what were deemed high-threat locations for critical personal, and augmenting Seal teams. And until the lead-up to Desert Storm in 1990, he had come to know South and Latin America far more than he had ever cared to.

He could almost smell certain environments again, feel the unique combination of adrenaline and sense of imminent danger, hear the silence and feel the thread of near-telepathic communication as he and his team would go days without speaking while in deep recon, the silent kills when necessity called for it, and... a thunderclap of rapid fire images and remembered visceral fear escaped and plunged through him. He tried to stop that memory from surfacing, unconsciously clenching one fist, rubbing his wrist and squeezing his eyes closed as he tried to coral the escaped memory and relock it in its designated cell.

There was a knock on his office door. He practically jumped, and whipped his head around. It was Stella.

"Mac?" she asked quizzically, not missing the startled look which he rapidly made vanish in his eyes.

"Yeah? Oh, sorry," he gestured and fully turned to face her. He tried to not let it show how fast his heart was racing, "I was going over something in my head." Which was perfectly true, but Stella would have no clue what it actually was and simply assume it was related to a case.

"The thing Sassone mentioned about Danny?" Stella asked.

"Yes," Mac lied, the shift in subject yanking him back to the present and turning the residual images in his head to wisps that slowly floated back to where they belonged.

"Well that's actually what I came up here to talk to you about," Stella said, "Do you have any idea what he was talking about? Does Danny have anything to worry about something?"

The pounding in his chest eased as he gratefully turned his attention to anything but what had crashed back and turned his stomach into twisting knots...

May, 1988

"I've got to head out tomorrow," Mac told Claire in a heavy, quiet voice.

"But you just got back last week!" Claire protested.

"I know," Mac sighed, wearily rubbing one eye with the back of his hand.

"Do you know how long you'll be gone?" Claire asked him.

"Not exactly," Mac replied, "Two or three weeks probably."

"They need to give you a fucking break," Claire muttered rebelliously, "Who do I need to talk to, hmm? Which stupid lieutenant colonel or general?"

Mac laughed, loving the idea of her marching into Colonel Greer's office and demanding his orders be rescinded. She'd do it too, he thought. He kissed her. "It's not that long," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, "And I'll be home in time for your birthday."

"Why? You got something special planned?" Claire asked.

"Maybe," Mac replied cryptically with a little half-smile.

"You better have," she retorted, returning his smile and poking him in his chest. Then she sighed, "I just hate it when you buzz-cut your hair for missions or training or whatever it is you go and do."

"It's a mission this time," Mac interjected.

"Either way," Claire said emphatically, "You look so much sexier when it's longer."

Mac snorted, "So I tell you I'm going off on some dangerous mission and the only reason you don't want me to go is so my hair can grow longer." Claire opened her mouth to protest but Mac cut her off, "No, no I get it, I'm not sexy enough as is for you," he sniffed, "My body and charming personality just don't cut it for you I guess. You want to be able to take me round to all your girlfriends and go 'Oooooh, look at my boyfriend, isn't his hair just gorgeous'?!" Mac said, doing a mocking imitation of Claire walking in heels with a droop of his hand, and speaking in a higher pitched voice with a lisp, "'Why just look at those luscious locks'!"

"You buttface!" Claire exclaimed, throwing a couch cushion at him and unable to stop collapsing in laughter, "That is so not true, and SO not how I sound!"

" 'Why he's so handsome'," Mac continued mercilessly with another flip of his hand and ducking the couch cushion which flew over his head.

"Would you shut up!" Claire exclaimed between fits of laughter.

But Mac ignored her and with a little toss of his chin, exaggeratedly ran his hand along the side of his head, " 'I convinced him to use this new conditioner and I could just run my fingers through his hair all day!'" He couldn't contain his own laughter anymore as he fled down the hallway to escape Claire's lunging tackle.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx

He was always taken by some surprise at how completely and quickly he made the mental transition from 'home' to 'mission'. He had kissed Claire goodbye and hadn't even made it out the driveway before his entire focus had shifted. Whereas only moments before, he really really hadn't wanted to leave again so soon, he now felt his mind and body come alive as a thrill of adrenaline of an imminent mission rushed through him. He was an addict and he knew it. The danger was real, the casualties and injuries were real, the fear was real, but he perversely loved it. And while he did and would miss Claire, entertaining any focus on anything but his job would spell disaster, and he filtered out 'home' without even thinking about it.

He pulled into the parking lot of his company's HQ and got out, quickly pulling his patrol cap on and straightening the jacket of his fatigues.

"Sir," he was greeted as he walked to the front entrance.

He returned the salute. "Sergeant," he replied.

Staff Sgt. Nate Ridley was also all business as he fell in step next to Mac. "Heard anything yet about this mission, sir?" he asked.

"Nope," Mac replied, "Got handed the orders yesterday, was told to pick my best marksman and scout and that the rest would be explained in our debrief."

"What are we doing then, augmenting another Seal team?" Ridley asked as the pair entered the building.

Mac shrugged and took off his cap, stuffing it in his cargo pocket. "I'm assuming so," he replied.

Taller than Mac, Ridley just stared at his own eye level at Mac's head.

"What?" Mac asked.

"You didn't re-cut your hair," Ridley observed.

Mac scowled. "The girlfriend didn't want me to," he replied.

Ridley, who was eight years older than Mac and was married and had a toddler, just sniggered. "It's begun already, sir," he said smugly, "I tried to warn you."

Mac shot him a withering look as the two entered the small conference room where Colonel Greer and Jeffries, their medic, were already waiting along with a couple guys who Mac recognized as members of Seal Team 1.

"Taylor," Greer welcomed Mac.

"Morning, sir," Mac replied, taking a seat at front of the room while Ridley and Jeffries exchanged greetings and proceeded to discuss their prior weekend.

"Taylor, you know Lt. Nuñez, right?" Greer asked extending his hand to one of the Seals on the other side of the table from Mac.

"Oh yes," Mac replied, while Nuñez nodded. He and the Seal lieutenant had done a number of joint training exercises together.

"Good," Greer said, "Lieutenant, are your other two men coming?"

"They should be here any minute," Nuñez said, as, as if on cue, the door opened and the last two members of the combined team entered.

"Excellent," Greer said as the two acknowledged their lieutenant with a nod and sat down. "First off," said, addressing the room, "It looks like some of you already know each other, but to make it official, I'm Lt. Col. Greer, this is Capt. Taylor, Staff Sgt. Ridley, Sgt. Jeffries, Sgt. Barton, and," he gestured to the opposite side of the table, "Lt. Nuñez, Petty Officer Paulson, Scopora and Willis. Alright then," he continued, switching on the slide projector, "Let's get this started."