In the compound known as the Los Angeles Veterans' Hospital, the patient known as Captain H.M. Murdock sat by himself under a tree, reading a worn paperback book, his right hand moving gently back and forth about six inches above the ground. If there had been a small dog there, his hand would have been petting it. There was no dog.
Unfortunately, Murdock saw one anyway.
A sudden harsh whisper from the cover of a nearby rhododendron startled him. "Murdock!"
He looked up. But, seeing nothing, he returned to his book and his vaporous dog.
The voice came again, a little louder this time. "Murdock!"
He looked around again. He still saw no one, but before he could return to his book, the rhododendron shuddered slightly.
Murdock reached out a curious hand and touched a branch. His hand was slapped, and he pulled back sharply.
"Will you watch your hands?" The voice belonged to Face, then, no question about it – especially when he appeared out of the bush, plucking burrs from his sportcoat. "Oscar de la Renta meets Euell Gibbons..."
Murdock burst out laughing, and Face shushed him immediately. "You want to keep it down? In case you've forgotten, they're not supposed to know I'm here!"
"Man, you better be careful. Some crazy vegetarian's gonna stick you in the Cuisinart and make a high-protein drink outta you."
"Very funny. Now, if you're finished, would you care to accompany me to the van?"
Murdock scrunched his face up in a disinterested frown. "The van...?"
"It's gonna take us to the airport... but don't tell B.A."
That did it, that was the magic word... Murdock lit up like a game show. "Well, all right, why didn't you say so in the first place? I'll get Billy's leash."
"Uh... Murdock, you can't bring Billy this time."
"Well, I can't just go off and leave him all on his own, Face... he's been havin' problems with rejection and abandonment issues lately, it's all comin' out in group therapy, and if I went and left him now he'd lose all that ground he's gained."
"We're going to South America, Murdock... it's, um..." Face thought fast; fortunately it was one of his specialty areas. "They won't let Billy into the country without six months of quarantine. Now, you wouldn't want to do that to the poor little fella, would you? All alone, in a cage at the airport... all by himself..."
Murdock's liquid brown eyes became remarkably like those of a sad, lonely dog when he heard Face put it that way. His lower lip quivered. "Well..."
Face gave him a supportive clap on the back. "Attaboy, Murdock, I knew you'd put Billy's welfare first. One of the nurses or the other patients will feed him and walk him for you while you're gone. Let's move out."
"He's feeling rejected already, Face, I can tell. Look." Murdock thrust his wrist towards Peck to display the Mickey Mouse watch on his arm. "See what time it is?"
"Murdock, it's broken, remember?The hands just spin around."
Murdock tipped his wrist forward so both of Mickey's seriously loose hands pointed upwards at the twelve. "It's time for Billy's lunch. I can't leave now."
"Billy, sit. Stay." Face felt ridiculous talking to an empty spot on the ground next to Murdock's feet, but he'd learned long ago that it was the only way to get these hospital "vacations" accomplished quickly and quietly. "Good dog. Murdock'll bring you back a squeaky toy from Argentina."
"Two squeaky toys," Murdock promised as Face took hold of his jacket and started to pull. "Don't you go diggin' in the garden again... and don't forget to wear your collar when you go outside... and don't talk to strangers... and... "
"B.A..." Face murmured under his breath. "You owe me a big one this time..."
Murdock tipped his left palm downward; both of Mickey's hands obeyed gravity and swiveled to the three on the watch dial. "Quarter past three, we're runnin' late… gotta go!"
oo 0 oo
Colonel Robert Hogan didn't have to look very hard to find his party after he exited the boarding lounge. A lot of years had gone by, but some things would never change. He heard Newkirk's boisterous voice first, followed quickly by Carter's slightly over-loud laughter, and then he knew exactly in which direction to turn his head. At the same small marble-topped cafe table sat Louis LeBeau, and also James Kinchloe, who had never been thought of by any of them as anything other than "Kinch".
He smiled. The boys looked good. That didn't surprise him, really. Oh, a few things had changed... they were all in the late stages of losing their original hair color, particularly LeBeau who now had a full head of nearly-white hair, and wore small wire-rimmed spectacles. Kinch still had the build of the athlete he had once been, and what was popularly known as salt-and-pepper hair... the salt was winning, and there was a thin spot at the back that hadn't been there the last time they'd seen one another... and how long had that been? Newkirk's hair was still thick, now iron-gray, and he'd put on a few pounds... the level of domesticity he had consented to settle into apparently agreed with him. Amazingly, Carter's hair was nearly the same sandy shade Hogan remembered from all those years ago in Germany, and it looked like he hadn't added an ounce to his lanky Midwestern frame since 1945. Andrew Carter: Stalag 13's answer to Peter Pan.
Hogan knew he'd changed. His own hair was all-over silver-gray these days; it had started at his temples almost the very day he'd hit forty and spread from there. At least he'd been able to hang onto it. He had never thought the "Colonel Klink" look would be flattering on him... heck, it hadn't even been flattering on Klink. He wore glasses to read, stubbornly resisted the idea of bifocals, and although he would never admit it there were one or two teeth in his mouth that were synthetic enamel, a partial bridge that had allowed him to keep what had occasionally been described as a movie-star smile. At any rate, he didn't think he looked bad for almost sixty-eight... and there were a few attractive ladies out there who apparently agreed with that assessment. The fellows were a few years younger than he was, of course. They still looked like a lively bunch, up for just about anything. That was good.
Because this just might be the most knuckle-headed plan in the history of the world.
He approached the table while still trying to decide what to say, but Carter saw him first and rose quickly to his feet, caught somewhere between the old-fashioned "attention" that had grown out of long habit and a wide, welcoming grin. "At ease, Carter," Hogan smiled. "I think we're a little past that, don't you?"
The three other men also rose to greet him, not so much by rote as that they were genuinely glad to see him. "How was your flight, Colonel?" Kinch inquired as they shook hands warmly.
"I'm not your superior officer anymore, Kinch... you can drop the 'Colonel'."
"For what?" the tall black man grinned. "I don't think I could ever get used to calling you 'Rob' any more than you could just suddenly start calling me 'Jim' after all these years. Unless you're willing to settle for 'hey, you', I'd like to keep the 'Colonel' if it's all the same with you."
Hogan shrugged. "Suit yourself. But let's not stand on ceremony." LeBeau's turn. "Louis, you haven't changed a bit... have you got a portrait in your attic doing your aging for you?"
"I'm French," he smiled, giving Hogan a European-style kiss on each cheek. "It's one of the benefits. But just a few short miles on the other side of the Channel, the English, on the other hand..." He shook his head slowly. "Oh, là là... comment ça veut dire en anglais, 'moth-eaten'?"
"Stop right there, and arrettay-voo while you're about it," Newkirk warned. "I look as good as anyone in my condition can be expected to look... that bein' sixty-two and a bit over-fond of visits to the pub." There was just one cigarette smoldering in the ashtray on the table; Hogan would have bet any amount of money it was Newkirk's. Kinch and Carter had been occasional smokers back in Germany, but Newkirk was the one who had always seemed to be trying to make a full-time job out of it. Obviously the American Surgeon General's report hadn't cramped his style. He was just as ornery as ever. If he hadn't been, he wouldn't be Newkirk... and Hogan would have been severely disappointed.
Carter couldn't resist a stiff salute for old times' sake; Hogan returned it feeling a little awkward. "Really, Carter, at-ease is fine... I don't even think I remember how all of that stuff is supposed to work."
"Oh... okay... I'll try." He extended his hand and Hogan took it. "You look great, sir... if you don't mind me saying so."
"I'd mind if you didn't say so." He found there was a fifth chair already waiting for him; they all took their seats. "So... we all just got here today so nobody's been able to do any reconnaissance on their own."
"You told us to plan it that way," LeBeau reminded him. "Because of security concerns. For ourselves."
A waitress set a tall, cold glass of beer in front of him without him having to ask... obviously the boys had made it a point to have him covered before he even arrived. Same as ever. "Always thinking," he nodded in approval. "Just like I taught you."
"As far as we know, Hochstetter is still living in the mansion on the Via Tranquilla, still going by the name Erich Stahl, and still a sitting duck waiting for us to grab him."
"We've come a long way to do it."
"And waited a bloody long time," Newkirk put in. "The quicker we get that rat in a sack and tie it shut, the better."
"Still a very dangerous rat," Hogan reminded him. "The worst thing we could do is underestimate Hochstetter. He's not alone in this, you can bank on that. He's got aides, weapons, money. He didn't get here in the first place by holding up a cardboard sign that said "South America or Bust". He's got a nice cushy life down here and he's not gonna go quietly. Don't forget that."
"You're not thinking of backing out on this, are you Colonel?" Kinch frowned.
"It's occurred to me a time or two. So if anybody wants out... well, now's the time to say so. And if that happens I don't want any judgment passed, no grousing, not so much as a sideways glance. You've all got families who don't want anything to happen to you. If this doesn't sound like such a good idea anymore now that we're actually sitting here in Argentina, speak up. We can spend some time on the beach, look at girls, play cards, drink too much, and go home with killer hangovers. Nothing wrong with that."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but there is somethin' wrong with that," Newkirk spoke up. "We owe Hochstetter for a lot. He's gotten away with all of it 'til now."
LeBeau nodded. "Oui. Remember Neptune and Firefly? And even that guard at the camp he had shot in cold blood? One of his own men, a Boche, but even he didn't deserve to die like that."
"We could be here all day just trying to list all the names," Kinch added. "And those would be just the ones we know about."
"And the ones who lived to speak of what happened to them, who survived Gestapo torture... there are two of us right here at this table."
Nobody remembered that better than Hogan, who had always silently counted in his mind, even more carefully than their former barracks guard Sergeant Schultz, how many men were under their rickety roof every night. How many he had sent out on missions, how many had returned on time. Go out with four, come back with four... but sometimes it was three. Or worse. Nothing the Gestapo had ever done to him had been worse than the feeling he got in his gut when a man that he had sent out on a mission failed to return to camp as expected. LeBeau had been strung up by his thumbs by the time they'd been able to get to Hammelburg to rescue him. Newkirk had been worked over in Berlin in the final days of the war... his escape had been even narrower. Either or both of them, members of his command but also his friends, could have easily ended up on the long list of "missing, presumed dead", their bodies never to be found, dispatched to mass graves somewhere in Germany, instead of sitting at this table alive and well. Hochstetter was owed something for that. And they were the logical ones to see that he got paid.
"You all feel that way?" He got four firm nods, along with a "cértainement", a "you bet", a "bloody got that right", and a "when do we start?". "Okay, I guess the ayes have it. And I'll make it unanimous." He lifted his glass and the other four men raised theirs simultaneously. "To our final operation, then... so let's make it a good one."
oo 0 oo
It was a busy day for international arrivals. Not all of them, however, were coming in the "front door". At what remained of a small, antiquated airfield north of the city of Buenos Aires, later that same evening and under cover of darkness, a C-47 cargo plane manufactured in approximately the same year the runway had last been paved bounced down the uneven asphalt strip, skidded over the grass growing out of the thousands of cracks in the pavement with a squeal of rusty brakes and the smell of hot rubber, and finally came to a stop. The only witnesses to the landing, a shabby-looking flock of scrawny goats grazing on the low scrub-brush, scattered in panic. There would be no airport bar waiting to serve these arriving passengers.
That was all right; one of them was unconscious anyway.
Hannibal took charge once the side door was open. "Okay, easy does it." With himself and Face on the uphill side of the ramp, and Murdock below, they eased the flat cargo dolly with the sprawled, supine form of B.A. Baracus on board down the loading ramp and onto the pavement. "Good. Hold it."
"Y'know, if we flipped him over, he'd make a groovy throw rug," Murdock suggested. "Somethin' for in front of the fireplace on those cold winter nights."
Face pressed the crook of his elbow to his forehead to blot off some of the sweat he was marinating in. "Cold winter nights? This is January, isn't it?"
"Welcome to the southern hemisphere," Hannibal said. "Down here you can roast your Christmas chestnuts on the pavement; you don't need an open fire like the song claims."
Murdock kicked at the edge of the trolley with one high-topped sneaker. "Colonel, how we gonna get this big hunk of real, real mad to the hotel?"
Hannibal turned to his lieutenant. "Face?"
"There should be a jeep waiting for us over by the terminal… or, over by what used to be the terminal, back when Wilbur and Orville were still running the place."
"There'd better be. I don't intend to push this cart all the way to the city."
B.A. gave a low groan, and there was a rattle of gold chains when he turned his head slightly. That always upped Face's blood pressure. He knew what came next… the waking-up part. After that usually came the grabbing-the-closest-throat-and-squeezing-it part. B.A. did not appreciate being drugged, shanghaied, spirited off to a foreign country and waking up with only a general idea what part of the globe the rest of the team had brought him to this time, but no matter how many times he'd made that clear, and how many knuckleprints he'd left on the crisp collars of Peck's carefully-pressed designer shirts, they kept doing it. In Face's opinion, that was the textbook definition of "death wish".
"I'll go check on the jeep." Face sprinted down the runway towards the low off-white cinderblock building barely visible in the distance. Let Hannibal and Murdock take the big man's wrath this time. Hannibal had it made anyway; B.A. had never yet and would never lay a hand on his C.O. Hannibal's collars never got torn off. Not even B.A. had ever been that angry.
"This'll do to stash the plane." Hannibal lit up a cigar. "Looks like nobody ever comes out here. We should have this guy Hochstetter in the bag in two, maybe three days tops. Where'd you get this crate anyway, Murdock?"
"Picked it up at an air show in Santa Monica. Come late in the afternoon all the pretty birds started flyin' away, and so did this one… 'cept the rest of 'em went east towards Phoenix, and this one peeled off and went south to Argentina, muchacho, muy bien."
"I've heard of economy class, but never an entire economy plane. The only two real seats in there are in the cockpit. Face spent the last twenty hours sitting on the equivalent of a park bench. B.A. was probably more comfortable on the floor."
Murdock patted the metal hull as if he thought its feelings might be hurt by the criticism. "Ain't nothin' wrong with this bird that a can of paint couldn't fix. I was thinkin' on the way down, maybe we oughta add a little nose art, y'know, like they had durin' the war. How 'bout this?" Murdock struck a pose somewhere between Marilyn Monroe and Daffy Duck, one arm behind his head and lips puckered, displaying his profile in front of the area normally used for such portraiture. "What do you think, Colonel?"
"I don't think Betty Boop has anything to worry about."
"I could add heels."
A low growl from the ground interrupted them. "I better not be in Argentina…" B.A.'s throaty rasp reached their ears. "I know nobody's gonna tell me I'm in Argentina…"
Murdock switched into game-show-host mode and whipped out an imaginary microphone. "That's two wrong answers in a row, I'm afraid, but we have some lovely parting gifts… Vanna, please tell this big ugly mudsucker what he's won today on I Bet His Life!" B.A. made a clumsy lunge for the pilot's knees, but Murdock dodged the enormous hands and ran in the direction Peck had gone minutes earlier. "I'm gonna go help Face, Hannibal!"
The sergeant's vision was starting to clear. Lucky for Murdock he wasn't up to a full-out run quite yet… but there would always be later. He squinted up at the battered plane. "You put me in that thing? You crazy, Hannibal?"
"It got us here, didn't it?"
"You said a cruise ship! I was there when you told us Murdock was the only one gonna fly!"
Hannibal grinned around the cigar clenched in his teeth. "I lied."
