Chapter Five
Stockwell's announcement created an eddy of silence which remained until the door closed behind him. There was a pause, as though someone were counting ten. Then, with the energy of a bursting dam, three of the team stood and turned to Hannibal.
"Hannibal-."
"Man, we ain't-."
"He's kidding-"
Hannibal held up a warning hand. The voices stilled. Hannibal pulled a cigar from his pocket, and lit it. He took a long draw from the cigar. Voice level and serious, he said, "Stockwell's right. There's nothing we can do for Face at the hospital." He looked to each of his men, meeting their eyes. "It's probably best that we turn in for the night."
Three jaws dropped in unison. Three pairs of eyes stared at him as if he'd gone crazy. Hannibal took another puff on the cigar and looked to the door. With arms folded, BA scowled back at him. Frankie dropped back onto the couch in disgust. Hands thrust in his pockets, Murdock met Hannibal's eyes, then grinned.
One more puff, and Hannibal grinned back.
BA's face cleared. "Right," he said, drawing the word out, "Man, I ain't slept since-"
"Since you had your beauty sleep on the flight back from Spain, you big ugly mudsucker," said Murdock, manic delight shining in his eyes. He danced around BA. "Come on, Billy," he called, "We're gonna raid the 'fridge for our bedtime snack." Continuing his dance, Murdock headed toward the kitchen.
Frankie looked at them in confusion. Hannibal raised his eyebrows at him, then moved toward Face's bedroom.
BA grinned at Frankie. "Might've left my van lights on," he drawled, "Better go check 'em." He walked to the front door, opened it, and walked out.
Hannibal emerged from Face's room. He looked at Frankie and mouthed, Check the perimeter. Watch for bugs. He entered his bedroom.
"Huh?" said Frankie. Then it dawned on him what the others were doing. "You're slow, Santana, " he muttered. He scrambled from the couch and headed toward his room.
When he returned to the great room, Hannibal's cigar was out, and being waved like a pointer. Murdock chewed loudly on something. BA was closing the front door, his scowl back on his face. They gathered by the fireplace.
"Murdock," said Hannibal, holding up one finger and pointing at BA's room, "you forgot to close the refrigerator door." He held up one finger again, then indicated Face's room. "You know how upset BA gets when the milk goes sour." A third time, and pointed toward his room.
"Sorry, Colonel," Murdock apologized. He held up two fingers, then pivoted toward the kitchen. "But you know how Billy loves to crawl in there." He pointed toward the back of the house, then to the front. "Besides," he continued, "someone left a ham bone in there, and it took both my hands and one foot to get Billy out of there."
"Shut up, fool," growled BA. He mimed starting the van, then held up one finger, then indicated the front door and one finger again.
Murdock howled for Billy. Then, mimicking Scooby-Doo, he said, "I love ham bones."
"I said, shut up, fool," BA repeated, "Dogs can't talk, and there ain't no dog here."
Hannibal looked to Frankie, who was struggling not to laugh at the conversation and gestures. "Um, yeah," Frankie managed, sounding as though he were choking, "ah, looks like, ah, ONE big mess in there." He waved his hand at his room.
Murdock pounded him on the back, causing Frankie to choke for real. Hannibal thoughtfully chewed on the cigar. Stockwell was serious about keeping them there. Normally, two agents watched the compound, although there had been a few times when they'd rated five. Eight agents would certainly be a challenge. Well, it could have been twelve or twenty.
Hannibal looked at the rest of the team, each man in turn. "This is one time," he said softly, "we're not going out as a team." He paused. BA nodded. Murdock stood silent. "We'll meet at the hospital."
"Stockwell said they'd shoot us," Frankie protested.
"Run fast," Hannibal said mildly.
Frankie gulped. The other three looked at each other. Hannibal raised his eyebrows. Murdock shook his head. BA shrugged and nodded again. "Okay," said Hannibal, "Go with BA for the van. We'll give you a thirty-second head start." His gaze returned to Murdock, and he gestured to the door. "Shall we, Captain?" he invited
Hannibal and Murdock moved toward the front door, while BA and Frankie headed toward the back. They paused, listening, as the others opened the back door. Then both men began silently counting.
When Murdock got to fifteen, he heard the shouts of Stockwell's agents as they sighted BA and Frankie. Hannibal pulled the door open at twenty. He and Murdock slipped through the doorway. Pausing briefly, they looked at each other, then disappeared in opposite directions.
Murdock headed for the trees, thanking every deity he could name that Stockwell had put the team in a place surrounded by them. He paused inside the tree line, willing his vision to adjust to the darkness, and orienting himself. No gunshots yet. He moved deeper into the area, away from the road that lead into the compound.
Part of his mind concentrated on getting through the stand, his movements automatic. Think back to that other jungle and the Cong. The other part began to free-associate in his usual manner. Cong. Kong, Danish word for king. Stockwell acts like one. Kong him next chance I get. If the big guy doesn't do it first.
The trees thinned. His breath came in short gasps. His pace slowed, not because he was tired (good thing I'd been running to work lately) but because this area was unfamiliar. The parkway was near, he could hear its traffic. That was probably the best bet. Hitch a ride. He headed toward it, pacing himself. It's fourteen miles to the hospital if I don't get a ride, he reminded himself. Wonder how the others are doing?
BA-along with Frankie-was keeping Stockwell's men busy enough for Hannibal and him to escape. Murdock knew that after BA finished with the agents, he would circle back for the van. The big guy would be watching for the others on his way to the hospital.
He made his way into a subdivision. The houses stood in the darkness, silent watchers. He had to watch himself-many of the roads were cul-de-sacs and dead-ends. One had to pick his way carefully, or you'd be looping inside the subdivision forever. Too bad some kid hadn't left his bike out. That'd help. But the driveways were empty.
His shoes slapped the pavement, echoing a rhythm of long ago. His mind began to count cadence. Left, left, left, right, oh left, right, oh left. The free part of his brain began singing along. C-130 headin' down the strip. Airborne daddy gonna take a little trip. Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door. Jump right out and count to four. If my chute don't open wide. I gotta 'nother one by my side. If that one don't open too. Look out below, I'm comin' through.
He headed south, following the pikeway, looking for an entrance ramp. Early as it was in the morning, there would be his best chance to catch a ride, maybe with someone on their way to work. He kicked up his speed a notch, hoping.
Retired First Sergeant Rueben Miller had answered to his rank for so long, he'd almost forgotten that he had a first name. He drove along the Dolley Madison, grousing about his predicament. His daughter had managed to smash her mother's car, two days after getting her driver's license. Funny, none of the boys ever did. You'd expect that out of a boy. But no. Just Jenny. With his wife working nights at the hospital, and him still going in at the Pentagon, one car in the family just didn't cut it. Jenny 'd been grounded, of course, but still.
Normally, this was one of his favorite times of the day. The drive allowed him to steel himself for those snot-nosed officers he had to deal with. Miller hadn't met many officers worth a tinker's damn during his career, and working at the Pentagon hadn't improved the ratio. What's this man's Army coming to?
Intent on his thoughts, he didn't see the figure--with its thumb out-- at the side of the road. He swore, swerved, and stopped the car. Whoever it was had good reactions. The person had jumped, rolled, and was now sprawled at the roadside. As Miller got out of the car, the figure rose slowly to its feet.
"Christ on a broomstick!" the sergeant swore, "You okay?"
"Yeah," a man's voice answered him shortly. The guy brushed himself off. Concerned, Miller looked him over.
He was older that Miller'd first thought. Tall, thin, but not skinny. The leather jacket caught his eye. A pilot's jacket, and an old one. Miller raised an eyebrow at the painting on its back. Khaki pants, the old Army issue. Basketball shoes. A baseball cap, which the guy removed briefly, brushing back thinning hair before replacing it. He tugged the jacket down, then looked at Miller, a ghost of a grin on his face.
"A 'no' would have been sufficient," he said.
"I didn't see you," Miller said, his heart still pounding in his chest, "What the hell you doing? I damn near ran you over."
"I know," said the other.
Miller took a deep breath, ordering himself to settle down. The guy didn't seem hurt, and acted like the whole thing was a big joke.
To Murdock, it almost was. Just what Hannibal needs. Me in the room next to Face. The sergeant in front of him was beginning to calm down. Hope the guy doesn't have a heart attack. Murdock glanced around, listening, then turned his attention back to the sergeant.
"Sorry," he said, "I was hoping for a ride."
Miller looked at him, then smiled. "I should be the one apologizing," he said, "Sure, hop in." He got in himself, waiting for the other before he continued. "I was distracted," he said, "My daughter wrecked the wife's car the other day."
Murdock nodded in as if understanding. Miller continued, "It's hell, with both of us working. And then Jenny-well, you know kids. Don't think they can walk anywhere." He looked at Murdock and said, "Rueben Miller" He lifted an eyebrow in question.
"HM Murdock," Murdock responded.
"Where're you headed?" Miller asked.
"DC General," Murdock said. There was a silence, as though the other were waiting for further explanation. "My, ah, my wife," he improvised, squirming a bit in the seat, "She, she's, um, she's been in a accident, and, ah, she had, she has our car, our only one." He glanced out the window. No sign of Stockwell's men. Turning back to the sergeant, he continued, "They, ah, they said she wasn't hurt bad, but, um, she, she's pregnant, y'see." Damn! What'd you say that for?
Miller grinned at him. "Your first?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah." And last.
Miller shook his head in sympathy. "First-timers," he chuckled. "You could've taken the bus, you know. 'Stead of running all the way there."
Murdock managed to look sheepish. "I didn't think about that," he admitted. Not the sort of thing you think about when you're running from government agents. Miller continued to ruminate about kids, families, his job, and assorted other subjects. Murdock found that an occasional nod, or grunt was sufficient to keep the man talking. That in itself was a relief. His thoughts alternated between Face and the rest of the team. He worried on this, then realized that atmosphere in the vehicle had shifted.
"I. . . , I'm sorry," he said, "I . . . wasn't listening."
Miller chuckled again. "No problem," he said, "I still remember my first, an' he's twenty-five now, and a daddy himself." He shifted slightly, pulled a wallet from his back pocket, and handed it to Murdock. "Go on," he invited.
Murdock opened the wallet. The pictures fell automatically into place. A fifties wedding picture, the man in corporal's stripes and the woman looking like a bubble cut Barbie doll. A modern school picture of a girl, sixteenish. Three formal portraits of boys in coats and ties. A group of soldiers, out in the jungle somewhere. Another wedding picture, late seventies. And a newborn's picture, nondescript enough that one couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl.
He folded the wallet together, and handed it back. Miller returned it to his pocket, and turned the car to cross the Potomac. Startled, Murdock looked at him. "You don't have to . . . " he began.
"'S alright," Miller interrupted gruffly, "We both been there."
Murdock knew he wasn't referring to a maternity ward. He nodded in acknowledgment. They rode in silence until they approached the hospital.
Miller slowed the car and pulled it to the curb in front of the hospital. Murdock opened the door, exited, then leaned back in. "Thanks," he said, "I do appreciate this."
Miller waved a hand. "Just hope your wife and baby are okay," he said.
An imp awoke in Murdock's brain, and stretched its wings. He grinned at the man. "Babies," he enunciated clearly, "Four of them."
" Ah-ROO-hah!" exclaimed Miller, with a grin. "Boy, you're in for it!" Murdock closed the door, smiled, and waved as the man drove away. The smile stayed frozen until the car was out of sight. Then-with a soundless whistle-his hand dropped and his shoulders sagged.
He thrust his hands in his pockets and turned to the entrance. He reached for the door, searching for signs that Stockwell's agents had staked it out and were waiting for him. Fingers crossed, he pulled it open and entered the hospital.
TO BE CONTINUED
author's note: Yes, this chapter has taken longer than I thought. Work has not cooperated (having to deal with death in reality causes one to avoid dealing with it in fiction). Also, Murdock had some pretty wild ideas on how to get to the hospital (which were promptly quashed). Thank you, Drew, for the kick-start.
