There was nothing particularly romantic about being stuck in the middle of a desert town, surrounded by enemy soldiers. Who, if not being particularly threatening, were still a constant danger. Tully hoped she was doing her mentor proud, assessing the situation, keeping her head down (even if her hat created a convenient target), and doing her best to not derail history as she knew it.

"Fraulein Tulip." The curtain slid back, revealing the doctor and Captain Dietrich. Tulip, lounging back on her cot and contriving various means of escape, only raising her eyebrows when the captain clipped his heels together. "Are you well enough to come with me?"

"Well enough," she ventured, standing. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," the captain was polite as ever, but something lurked behind his eyes. "I merely thought you might be more comfortable somewhere else. The hospital will need more room for soldiers."

"Right," slinging her hat onto her head, she followed him around the hospitals and up the stairs until they had reached a private room with a cot, wash-basin, a few hooks, the smallest desk, and chair, and a lamp. Nothing too exciting, but clean enough. There was even a window that overlooked a nearby building.

Her own little prison cell, carefully concealed behind a veneer of gentlemanly politeness.

"It's awfully nice," she gave him a smile, and he nodded. "Sure you don't need the space for your men?"

"You will still need access to the doctor for your hands," Captain Dietrich stepped into the room. He was tall, not overly broad , and if he was attempting intimidation it wasn't working. "This is also a matter of safety, so a guard will be posted at the door."

"I understand," she twirled her hat between her hands. "Say, is that Doctor Yusuf busy?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Huh." Her breath slowed as he shut the door with his heel. They were alone, and Tully decided that blissful ignorance was the best course of action. Sitting at the desk, she eyed the notepad and pen laying there. Flipping it open, she quickly wrote Tulip in a looping, wretched scrawl that reminded her of kindergarten. Dietrich was looking at her a little strangely.

"Fraulein," he began, pulling out a cigarette and putting it between his lips he held off lighting it. "You must realize that you have put me in an awkward position."

She had, but no good deed goes unpunished.

"You are an American, you do not carry identification, and if you were not in uniform I would have to treat you as if you were a spy." He produced a lighter, and Tully glanced around the room. A bag was hanging from one of the hooks, a bottle was set beside the basin, a novel on the bed, and she didn't know what was in the bag but it had to be something.

A trap. Not just a prison cell. She'd blundered right into a trap. Staring down at her notebook, she brushed a hand over the spine to feel the grains of sands as best she could beneath her bandages.

Yusuf had replaced her backpack. He had to have. "I'm a park ranger," she turned to face the captain. His dark eyes continued to bore into her head.

"Yes," he agreed. "A park ranger."

"Yes," Tully needed a lie. A believable lie, and she needed to not get shot. Fighting her way out of the town wouldn't be possible, but it was within her skillset to neutralize the man even with her injured hands. "I was hoping to meet with the prince today. He wanted to discuss erosion."

"Erosion?"

"The desert consumes in North Africa as it does everywhere else." Tully vividly remembered Death Valley and Saguaro National Park. "The conservation work I've done as a Park Ranger does intersect with Dr. Yusuf's interests."

"Really?" Dietrich wondered, tilting his head to the side, squinting faintly.

"The construction of a qanat would suit this area pretty well. Or at least finding one might be possible. It really depends if his research and my expertise can merge properly."

"An underground aqueduct?"

"Water doesn't stop flowing," she replied blankly, "not really. If the constructed part is damaged, it will still come up. It's just a matter of finding where the water was redirected." Water was more valuable than gold and gas. A year of curating Death Valley had taught her pretty well, not to mention various horror stories from her mentor. She really didn't know if there was a qanat nearby, but he didn't know that. "With a town like this, and not to mention nomadic tribes needing access to clean drinking water, it's a point of interest for someone with his position."

"I will send a message," Dietrich mused, still staring at her. "To the good doctor."

"Thank you, kindly." The captain excused himself, and Tully watched two guards take up a post outside at the end of the hall.

Two guards, a building full of wounded, and an entire unit of men with dangerous skills. 80 some years in the past, most of them speaking German at a level she hadn't gotten around to learning, and a doctor from the 21st century.

Great. Standing from the desk, she inspected the bag, and finding nothing of interest, she set it back. Re-collecting her hat, she strode from the room and down the hall past the guards. They exchanged looks but made no move to stop her. It took a moment to retrace her steps across the hospital, and she found Sergeant Wolfgang sitting with a crowd of wounded men. All of whom stood, some to the best of their abilities, when she entered the room. Raised eyebrows all around, and she wondered if it was a matter of respect for the fact that she was a lady or because she'd rescued him.

"Afternoon," she waved them down, they retook their seats, and Tully claimed the empty seat at the table with a sigh. Turning it to face the courtyard, she smiled at the crowd of wounded men and settled in to wait.

"Fraulein?"

"Yes?" Sergeant Wolfgang was staring over her shoulder, and the reflection in the coffee dispenser showed one of the guards now at the doorway. "Quartet?" He offered, raising his cards.

" Ja, Ja ! Fraulein Tulip!" Another soldier, his face lopsided with various burns, was doing his best to play. "Abspielen!"

"I don't know how," she shrugged, but turned her seat to the table, turning down an offered cigarette; she accepted a cup of coffee as the dealer reshuffled the cards. It took a truly stunning amount of miming, laughing, and correction before she caught the gist of the game. At one point spilling her entire hand to the table, only for the first game she really understood to come to a screeching halt when the damned familiar voice of Dietrich cut across the room.

"Fraulein Tulip?" She turned, shadowed in the now standing soldiers to see Dietrich.

"Captain," she was torn between standing and not, but as he dismissed his men, she figured it had been ignored. "Am I playing this right?"

"What is it?"

"Quartet," she mused, "interesting game, but nothing like crazy eights or euchre. I'm not sure that I'm playing this right."

Obligingly, he posed her questions to the men, and after a short conversation, he was smiling. "Sergeant Wolfgang relates that you have picked up the basics of this game with ease, despite the language barrier."

"Thanks," she raised her cards in salute. "I thought that they smoked, why aren't they smoking?"

"You are not smoking," Dietrich told her, "and given your distaste for it, they felt it would be more polite to refrain from it in your presence."

"I appreciate it," Tully admitted, "did you need something?"

"Dr. Yusuf is here to speak with you."

"Ah," laying her cards on the table, she stood. "Thank you, Captain." He turned as if to introduce the man, but given that he'd entered alone, his nod became a frown when the space behind him was empty. "He's slipped your lead."

"Hmmm," with a nod to his men, he retreated back down the stairs. Tully, with nothing better to do, followed. Caught in the mess that was a WW2-era hospital, functional but deplorable, was Dr. Yusuf. Like a fly ensnared on a delicate web, the man was imprisoned by his own oath and moral code and was in the process of scolding the doctor and several nurses as he worked on one of the patients.

"Huh," the oddity of the scene did not escape the notice of any of them crowding at her back, and certainly not the attention of Captain Dietrich. The man, tall and proud, snapped back at the doctor, his German crip and irritable as much as Dr. Yusuf's was smooth and thunderous. Another scene slipped over the one before her, a grainy screen, and the echo of canned laughter early shot put Tully back into the 21st century. Deciding that she wouldn't mess with a doctor and his patients, she herded the curious soldiers back up the stairs and reclaimed her seat at the card table.

All in due time.

#$#$#4

"I appreciate your efforts," reining in his temper was a herculean task that Dietrich was verging on failing. "Doktor, but you are not needed. This is."

"I disagree," the man argued, working steadily on the bemused patient in front of him. Switching to English he continued, "this is disgusting. I wouldn't operate on a horse in these conditions. Look at this! I can't. And stop smoking!" He barked at Dietrich, who had finally taken a lighter to his cigarette in the vain hope the nicotine would calm his nerves. One mysterious American and a pushy Beaudoin doctor, and he was up to his ears in mystery. "Call out the nurses, this place needs to be scrubbed."

"I did not call you here to clean anything or organize anything."

"You should have. If I had known you were in such straits I would have come earlier. There are only so many twisted ankles and bruises to deal with."

"Dr. Kohler is more than capable," his words died as the man attacked on corner of the room, muttering under his breath. "Doctor?"

"This should be cleared! You need space for triage, and there shoud be no tripping hazards! Nurse, come help me with this."

It was incredible how quickly he worked, and how easily he seemed to brush off any of the arguments that the captain tried to throw his way. He didn't care if they didn't want his help or needed it, he was imposing and he didn't care. German efficiency and Dr. Kohler's high standards were found lacking, the man having even higher expectations than Dietrich thought possible.

If he wanted to help, truly wanted to help, then he would allow it.

For now.

#$#$#$

"Helen," the archeologist twisted around to see Miles standing just beside the jeep with a frown on his face. "What do you know about Ba Sing Se?"

"Ba." Her words died in her throat, and she cast a weather eye on anyone that might be listening. "Ba Sing Se? '

"Our friend," he tilted his head toward Isshhki, "knows Ba Sing Se."

There is no war in Ba Sing Se . That episode had unnerved her, more than any of the gory violence she'd seen in other movies, more than the graphic sex scenes in others, the cartoon villain with a simple phrase and a twisting light had rattled the foundation of her being for weeks. Shivering, she looked around. Troy was arguing with Hitch over the third jeep that they'd acquired, and her grandfather was chatting with someone from the village.

"He," realization dawned. "He knows ?" Looking again at Isshiki, his face placid and unmoving as he stared into the open desert. "Oh my God!"

"He knows, he's from the US, don't tell the rats that he knows what they're saying."

"But!" She dug out her notebook, flipping to the page where Isshiki stared up at her. "He didn't fall forward?"

"Not at all, he's from our time, and he's just as confused."

"Damn!"

"He proposed an interesting theory," Miles continued, "we're all descendants from the patrol, which means we're looking for another one."

"We're...who?" Another hard look at Isshiki didn't reveal any damning details. "Who?"

"Troy."

"You're joking."

"Not even a little."

"So...we're missing someone," Helen opened the book and frowned. "My grandfather sketched out this." She flipped it around to face him. "What do you make of it?"

"It looks like a Stenson."

"A Stenson? What is that?"

"You know, something a mountie would wear, or a park ranger or a sheriff. What else does he say about it?"

"Well, just that the park ranger is pretty and looking for a quanat. What is a park ranger doing out here in the desert?"

"It sounds plausible...looking for water in the desert in the middle of a war where everyone is killing each other over sand and water."

"Then do you think the park ranger is number four?"

"No idea, but it's something we should investigate." He paused. "If we can shake our nannies."

"Good luck, Grandfather tells me that Sergeant Troy is a relentless soldier. We need to have them work with us."

"If we meet with the park ranger," MIles glanced over at Isshiki. "I told them that we were on an ecological survey. You're an archeologist, can't you find it?"

"What's this?" Jack Moffit, with the ease of a man with years of hardwon practice, appeared at Helen's elbow. His conversation having concluded a few minutes ago. "Find what?"

"Must you appear so suddenly?," Helen snapped, turning with a frown to her grandfather.

"I apolgize," he said without a hint apology in his face. "Miles,sergeant Troy mentioned that you are a student of ecology."

"Something like that," Miles squinted against the burning sun and the charming Englishman. "An ecological survey of this part of the desert was the idea."

"It was a bad idea," Helen muttered, "it turned out very poorly."

"None of us expected," he waved a hand. "You know. Anyway, Sergeant, where are we heading?"

"To a neutral town," Moffit said, "hoping to find a translator for our friend." He nodded to the distant figure of Isshiki.

"A translator who speaks Japanese in the middle of a neutral own in North Africa?"

"It's not as impossible as you think," Helen put in, "you could find someone who speaks Dutch."

"I guess," dubious, Miles wondered what he could do to salvage the situation. "What about Spanish?"

"Spanish?"

"Spanish," he hoped to God that Isshiki knew a little bit of Spanish. It would make more sense for his cover. "Yeah."

"Why Spanish?" Nothing overtly threatening overlaid Jack Moffit's demeanor, his smile was still light and friendly enough, and his hands weren't clenched or raised in a defense position; yet Miles Merry had the urge to duck and cover.

Commando, he reminded himself. Stabbing people in the dark of the night was in his job description and one of the reasons that he knew nothing about his great-grandfathers work was the fact that everything he'd done during the war was classified out of the wazoo. That...and the unfortunate family drama that had dogged the last three generations of Hitchcocks.

"Spain is in his sketchbook."

"Spain is what?" Politely baffled, he turned again to Isshiki who had eventually faced the collected Rats. "Sketchbook?"

"He was working in it last night," Miles prayed to God it didn't sound too suspicious. "I was about to fall asleep, but I saw the Seville cathedral. I remember seeing a picture of it ins a guidebook once...this was a pretty good drawing too."

"I...Spain you say?"

"Sure, I'd say he's a tourist or something like that. I think he started sketching the inside of the tent when I fell asleep."

"Ah?" Like a dog with a scent, Jack tracked Isshiki as he moved toward Sergeant Troy. "A Spanish translator. Yes, that should work." He moved toward Troy, leaving Helen and Miles alone for the time being.

"What the?"

"We came up with a plan," Miles reported softly, "Isshiki words for the Spanish government as a sort of cultural outreach. His 'job' is to relay the beauty of Spain to the University of Tokyo." He blanched at the disbelieving stare. "It was the best we could come up with, okay?"

"My god, you're mad. Does he even speak Spanish?"

"I hope to."

" Miles! "

"I panicked okay!"

"Stop panicking! We can't afford for you to panic! Now, if he's right and we're looking for a fourth member of this posse...then we'll need to interview." She paused. "This is madness, we're trying to out scheme men who already think that we're spies."

"And if we fail...they'll end their own bloodlines," Miles reported cheerfully. "Here comes, Hitch." Their scheming died away as his great-grandfather approached with a smile. "Time to load up, Miss Helen. Sarges wants to shake it."

"Thank you, Private," Helen said stiffly. "Who am I driving with?"

"Me, ma'am." He shot Miles a squinty-eyed look that the gardner decided to ignore to the fullest of his ability. "You'll be with Tully."

"Sweet," Miles shot the man a thumbs up. "Let's blow this popsicle stand then?" He turned away, barely catching the faint ' what' from his ancestor.

"It's an American thing," Helen said stiffly, forgetting entirely that she was talking to an American. When realization smacked over the back of the head, her smile was just as weak as one could have expected. "Shall we, private?"

"Sure thing, Miss." Hitch's suspicious look did nothing to calm her nerves. "Sarge wants us in town by mid-day."

"Of course," mounting the jeep, she waved a farewell to the children who chased the three jeeps out of the compound, shrieking their goodbyes. Sergeant Troy, driving Isshiki, Her grandfather with Tully and Miles, and herself with Hitch. Well, they'd certainly draw attention if number four was out and looking for them too.