Part Seven

"I remember when that was taken."

Hannibal is looking at me. I also realize that Frankie has discarded his ruined cup and is leaning over my shoulder to get a better look at the photo.

He points to Ray. "Who's that, Murdock?"

I swallow before answering. Tonight, everything takes an effort, even answering a simple question. "That's Ray. He was part of our unit, and this was taken right after he received orders he was going home."

I hand Hannibal the clipping so he can see it better.

Having heard us start talking, BA abandons his post by the window and takes a seat next to Hannibal.

Staring at the picture for a moment, Hannibal's eyes harden.

"How could anyone who saw this picture in the paper believe we were criminals?" He asks no one in particular. "We were just doing our duty for our country, and look how they repaid us. Ray's dead, we're still wanted, and Face…"

BA places a hand on the colonel's shoulder and he refrains from saying anything else.

I've been in this position once before – only then, I was pretty sure I knew what the outcome was going to be.

/ The waves lap gently against the boat. It's a beautiful day. Warm, with a slight breeze. The few clouds in the sky roll merrily along – heedless of what day it is. Cries from seagulls pierce the air.

My stomach is roiling, in stark contrast to the ocean. I think I'm going to be sick. No, scratch that. I know I'm going to be sick.

Leaning over the side of the boat, I retch. Nothing comes up except bile and it burns my throat. I can't remember the last time I ate.

The guards look at me with disgust.

'Screw you,' I think. 'What do you know? Have you ever had your friends get lined up to be shot by their own countrymen?'

Another boat pulls up to the dock. It's the boat to take their bodies back to the mainland, and Stockwell's on it. Why am I not surprised? He doesn't even acknowledge me as he walks by.

'You bastard. What have you gotten us into?'

The boat jostles in the water as someone steps aboard. Frankie sits down next to me, looking rather pale.

"Did you make the switch?" I mumble.

He mutters something that doesn't sound to reassuring.

It takes all my control not to grab him by the arms, shake him senseless, and yell, 'You've got to be sure! We can't afford any more screw-ups! Lives are at stake here!'

The guards are eyeing me, itching to put a rifle butt to my head.

I'd like to see them try.

They are readying the boat to cast off when we hear the shots. It's eerily quiet afterwards. Even the seagulls are silenced.

I think I've prepared myself for this moment, and yet I still jump. How foolish of me. You can't ever be prepared. No matter how much you plan, think it through, and believe you have all your bases covered. There will always be an unknown element.

Frankie's clutching the Bible in his hands, knuckles white.

This could be it. I may never see them again. And my last moment with them was attempting to clue Hannibal in on the plan, barely acknowledging BA and Face. There was no time. Their lives, my life could be over and we had no time.

Fear grips me and I feel claustrophobic. What an oxymoron that is. I'm sitting out in the open on a boat and I feel the walls closing in on me.

I'm gonna hyperventilate. Can't do that. Frankie's here. Can't show any weakness in front of him.

I need air. Air! Will somebody please help me?

Calm, gotta stay calm. Breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out.

Perspiration pours off my brow, into my eyes. Am I crying? I can't tell if it's sweat or tears rolling down my checks. Maybe it's both.

The boat engine rumbles and we begin moving away from the dock. A soft breeze blows over my face.

An overwhelming urge to jump over board comes over me. Gripping the side of the boat, I look down at the water churning around the hull.

I can't leave! They need me. I have to go back. Gotta go back and get them. Can't leave them behind enemy lines.

No!

I'm beginning to shake. How long before I know if my life is over or not?

I look back at the island.

"How long?" /