Sear

by Haven126

MacGyver's EOD unit is unexpectedly assigned SERE training, and while Jack struggles to keep himself occupied, Mac discovers how lethal realistic training simulations can become.

1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

This story occurs within the Turkey Day universe and while it makes reference to several stories in the Turkey Day: All the Trimmings series, it can absolutely be read as a stand-alone. For those that have read the collection, this story occurs after the events of Lentil Stew With Ham, Elephant Ears, Ground Rules, and Decaf Coffee. It is chronologically the last 'Mac and Jack in Afghanistan' story of the collection. Like Ground Rules, it's simply too long to be posted as a Trimming.

General Content Warning: really just a violence and language warning, specifically for the N-word towards the end of the chapter.

Big Voice: the PA system on a military base. MOS: Military Occupational Specialty code. FTA: Failure To Adapt. Tango Uniform: Tits Up (or toes up). Commander Private Major: derogatory slang for the rank of Specialist E-4. IFAK: Individual First Aid Kit. DA Form 1: toilet paper.

-M-

1746 HOURS, TUESDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE

MacGyver carefully ran his fingertips beneath the edge, searching for any gaps or areas applying too much pressure, and the occupant of the body armor twitched.

"That tickles."

"Sorry," he apologized quickly, but he didn't stop his examination. "Just want to make sure we've got the padding in the right places." As soon as the words left his lips, Mac had a decision to make, and he decided on an innocent little smirk as he came around to the sergeant's front. It looked like playing it off was the right move, too, when she smirked back.

"If I had a dollar for every time I heard that . . ."

He chuckled. "You don't have that much padding, sergeant, and trust me, it's in all the right places."

Her laugh was almost musical, and Maria Ramirez shifted in the body armor as he took his hands away. She did a quick wiggle, then shimmied low, touched her toes, and generally tried to get a feel for how it was going to move. "Holy shit," she finally commented, with something like wonder in her voice. "You almost made this death suit comfortable."

He inclined his head and gave the bullet-resistant body armor another hard study before he started gathering up his tools. "Well, I mean the trick with any good tailoring job is the construction adhesive, of course," he joked, holding up actual name-brand Liquid Nails, and the canine trainer shook her head.

"Seriously, though, Smiley said you could work miracles, and she wasn't wrong."

"It shouldn't take a miracle to get properly fitted body armor, sergeant, it ought to be standard issue." The majority of the female soldiers he'd seen were wearing men's sized small armor, which was ill-fitted from the start, and the only way to actually get the armor to cover them at least partially usually required the women to cut or remove padding from the inside of the armor and strap it down too tight around the waist, which compromised its integrity and ability to protect them.

It was a rant for another day, but after he'd watched his EOD commander almost catch a bullet and realized exactly how jury-rigged her gear was, he'd felt the need to improve it. And it wasn't that difficult, if one had access to a few key tools –

One of which being, oddly enough, construction adhesive. Mac had yet to design a sewing machine that would consistently puncture Kevlar, and sewing really wasn't his thing.

"Well, until it is standard issue, I think you're going to have a very successful little side hustle here," Maria told him, evaluating the armor before starting to kit back up. "Can you build me in some air conditioning?"

MacGyver shook his head with a smile. "Sorry, but you don't want to know what happens when a chemical ice pack breaks against your bare skin."

"Probably not," she agreed, continuing to find new homes for all her tools. "So where'd you learn how to do this?"

"Ah." Mac paused, then, and fished his phone out of his BDUs. "I can only take credit for the engineering. The aesthetics are all courtesy of this guy right here." The canine trainer came back over to the counter and Mac turned the phone around so that she could see Bozer's face, beaming up at her from his contact page.

"Awww, what a cutie! Friend of yours?"

"Best friend, and your dogs would absolutely love him," Mac told her, then held up the phone questioningly. Maria correctly interpreted his unasked question and obliged, striking a very Vogue pose, and Mac snapped a quick pic. "I'll blur out your patches before I send it, obviously, but he's started grading me on my technique, so . . . "

"Listen, Hollywood, I hope I never have to test this stuff, but just knowing it'll be this much easier strapping a dog to my back . . ." All the levity left her face. "Seriously. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure," he assured her, slipping his phone back into a thigh pocket. "And I mean it, if any of the other trainers have as bad a fit as you did, I'm happy to make the mods. The dogs coming out of your unit are saving a lot of lives. It's the least I can do."

The tent flap crackled as a private knocked it aside, drawing both their attention, and Ramirez shot Mac another grin as she continued replacing her gear. "So, what do I owe you?"

"Hmm." Mac made a show of thinking about it. "Actually, I wouldn't say no to a bag of gummy bears . . ."

"Gummy bears," she repeated thoughtfully. "Let me guess, they contain glycerin and can be used as explosives?"

"Glucose, actually," he corrected, watching in his peripheral vision as the private who'd entered the supply tent started watching them. "And if you happen to have a little heated potassium chlorate handy, those little guys go up like Christmas trees."

"Oh, potassium chlorate, carry it everywhere," Maria assured him drily, coming to lean across the makeshift counter. As far as tents on base were concerned, the EOD supply tent was one of the least romantic of them, mainly because explosives generally didn't smell great to begin with, and it was one of the places that exploded ordinance came to be catalogued and then destroyed. Sergeant Maria Ramirez was no stranger to the supply tent, since her unit's bomb sniffing dogs had easily found half the ordinance in it, still waiting to be safely disposed of, but she was definitely one of the prettier soldiers to frequent it.

"So . . . just gummy bears?" She tilted her head suggestively – and for their audience, Mac knew. He played along and gave her a slow, broad grin.

"Just gummy bears," he confirmed, and Maria gave him a playful eyeroll before she turned and headed out, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do, MacGyver."

"Goodnight, Maria," he called, and then the tent flap crackled and she was gone.

The private – not an ordinance technician Mac knew well, fairly new to the FOB – stared at the empty tent flap a second before turning on MacGyver with a look that clearly said he thought Mac was certifiably insane. "Dude!" he finally spluttered. "Are you kidding?!"

Mac chuckled and started finishing up clearing away the rest of the supplies. "Sergeant Ramirez is a decorated officer and a good friend to our unit, and I'd like to keep it that way." The last part he added a little more seriously.

The private didn't take the hint. "Well, you do you, man, but I'd tap that in a heartbeat."

Specialist Angus MacGyver channeled his overwatch's carefully cultivated 'casual sternness'. "Wouldn't hold your breath, private. She's already got a special someone keeping her rack warm." He didn't see any reason to add that said individual was 84 pounds and named 'Stinker.'

Instead, Mac pointedly returned his attention to the mess he'd made, hoping to fully end the conversation. Most of what he'd used were tools, not consumables, but he did need to make a note that he'd cracked open that tube of adhesive, and Mac examined the back counter for a minute before he located their inventory clipboard. As usual, some rat fucker had stolen the pen, and the tattered and stained string on the top of the clipboard dangled empty. Which then necessitated a second search for a writing utensil. A quick glance at his watch told him his shift was up in five, and he was supposed to meet his cover before the mandatory 1800 briefing.

This was a delay he did not need. Fortunately, he had a solution. Literally, he thought with a smirk, and then he deftly uncapped the bottle of isopropyl rubbing alcohol by the desk and started searching the previous page of the inventory grid for the correct number – in ballpoint pen ink. Once he found an instance of the number '3,' he overlaid the empty grid beside 'tube, ten ounce, adhesive, construction.' A quick dab of alcohol on the top sheet, and the blue '3' from the bottom sheet bled through. He repeated the trick for the timestamp – or close enough – and then laid the clipboard on the counter to dry, re-capping the alcohol.

Realizing his audience was still hovering, Mac focused a little more of his attention on the private. "Can I help you?"

The kid was blinking at him, clearly not sure what to make of what he'd just seen. ". . . there's a whole box of pens under the det cord scraps."

"Correction," Mac told him, tucking the rubbing alcohol back in its place. "There was a whole box of pens under the det cord scraps. They've gone inconveniently missing." Mac eyed the clipboard again. "Which might answer the question of why there seem to be other items missing. You on shift?"

The private gathered himself enough to give the specialist – technically his superior – a half-hearted salute. "Private Donnell, sir, reporting for duty."

Donnell. Right. Mac gave him a broad, empty smile. "Well, go find a pen, Private, because you're doing inventory tonight." The private groaned and Mac clapped him on the shoulder as they traded places around the counter. "Try not to misplace any class one hazards."

Damn near everything in the supply tent could become a class one hazard with enough TLC, but he didn't feel the need to mention that either, and Mac pushed aside the tent flap and left the stuffy, hot tent behind to enter the stuffy, hot environment outside. They were on the Air Force base in Baghram, and Mac would swear in the two weeks they'd been there, there hadn't been a single hint of a breeze. Not even a hot one. The entire area seemed to be constantly holding its breath, waiting for the next explosion.

Sergeant Ramirez' unit was there for the same reason Mac's was, and now he had to go report for four days of training instead of four days out there with her and her dogs, making the settlements safer, one disposed of IED at a time.

The base was a more permanent situation than most of the FOBs he'd called home, and Mac jogged along actual concrete sidewalks for the brick and mortar building where the brief was being held, right across from the mess. A small efficiency in an otherwise obnoxious waste of the next half-hour; at least he could go straight from the mandatory meeting to chow.

The thought was pushed to the back of his mind, his senses sharpening enough to startle him into the present, and something he could only call a reflex forced his body to hop left, clear off the concrete. He heard a whisper of sound behind him, and conscious thought directed his body once more, whirling like a football player to get his left hand on whoever was coming up behind him.

That person wasn't where he thought they would be, but they were at least in the general vicinity, and Mac was able to snatch his left arm away from an attempted grab that would have easily become an arm lock. He kicked sand at the figure with his right leg at the same time he pushed off with it, getting space and dust between them, and Jack Dalton simply twitched his head aside, missing the worst of the moondust cloud.

"Cuttin' it a little close, there, hoss."

Mac shot him a cocky grin and shrugged his BDUs back into place. "Yeah, you really did. Not my fault if you sprain something and get taken out of rotation."

Jack's mouth gaped in comical outrage. "You callin' me old, you little shit?"

Mac offered his overwatch a casual shrug, and a wide, white grin split Jack's face. "Fine then," he drawled, turning back for the building they lovingly called "the Rainbow Room" as it was generally used for basic training classes. "No more 'situational awareness' training for you."

MacGyver just shook his head, trailing after the older soldier, and though Jack pretended to completely ignore him, after he plowed through the double doors and made like he was going to let them slam in Mac's face, he reached a boot back and caught the one directly behind him. Mac made sure to give him a little shove of thanks, which escalated into a pushing match with their shoulders and hips all the way to a row of chairs that was otherwise unoccupied.

Slightly painful contact continued, with both men sitting as visibly still as possible during each attack and parry, until one of the three officers at the front of the room sent them a particularly poisonous glare. After that, the only thing moving were feet. Luckily the room filled up quickly; this wasn't the kind of briefing you showed up late to.

"Settle down, ladies," Martinez called absently, eyes on a clipboard in his hand as he approached the front of the room. "Or the next time you hear this I'm gonna be usin' the big voice."

The 'big voice' was the PA system, and if the colonel was going to resort to calling out duty assignments via it, those people were going to wish their EOD techs had not just been assigned to four days of SERE training.

"Alvera. Dickens. Gutiérrez. MacGyver. Robinson. Smith, A. Smith, L. Zimmerman. You report to the gate at 0600 tomorrow for transpo to the Trip Canopy installation, location classified, for SERE training. You will take with you your uniform and the approved gear on this list." The colonel held up a single sheet of paper. "It'll be posted at the mess. Anything not on this list and found on or inside your person will be considered contraband and trust me, you do not want to be caught with contraband."

Beside him, Jack's expression never wavered, but in his lap, two fingers of his right hand thrust firmly into a lose fist he'd made with his left.

Shoved right up your ass.

Mac was reasonably sure that was hyperbole.

"You have been selected for this training due to your MOS. It is scenario-based and will simulate real-world situations that you may one day find yourselves facing."

The fingers of Jack's left hand that had been miming buttfucking him with his own contraband made a short, sharp gesture that was parallel to the floor.

Nope/Cut it out/Not happening.

Mac skillfully suppressed a grin, and his own right hand raised slightly off his leg, his fingers relaxed and slightly apart. He wiggled them three times in an approximation of a tremor.

Scary/Uncertain.

Jack heaved a little sigh, and Mac's grin became slightly harder to suppress.

"That is, if your overwatches fuck up," Martinez added drily, and for some reason, he seemed to be looking right at Dalton when he said it. Jack sent the colonel a politely innocent look, and as soon as the colonel cut his eyes to someone else, Mac drew a short, subtle circle with the index finger of his right hand.

Whoo-hoo/You fucked up.

"As explosive ordinance disposal technicians, you are our most effective weapon against IEDs and trust me, gentlemen, the enemy is aware. I cannot impart to you how important this training is to your survival in a hostile situation. More importantly, it's expensive. So pay attention. It's also designed with snake eaters in mind, and I do not need to tell you that you are not snake eaters."

Mac made a little stroking motion with his left thumb, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a muscle slide under the skin around Jack's jaw as he clamped down on a guffaw.

"Trip Canopy will accurately simulate the conditions in which you must survive, evade, resist, and escape. This is a full contact sport. You will be hit. You will be cut. This isn't Fifty Shades. There's no safe word and no mommy to come save you. Rely on your training and each other, because it is all you have."

Mac felt his eyebrows furrow. Granted, he'd never read Fifty Shades of Grey, but he was pretty sure the only mommy issues in the book had to do with the mothers behaving badly.

"Overwatches Ballinger. Brinks. Dalton. Estes. Molina. Peterson. Quinn. Yapp. You are off rotation as of 0600 tomorrow and will report to your division heads for duties as assigned."

Dalton flashed him a left-handed thumbs up.

Yay/Sarcastic.

"Barring any training accidents, you'll be back in rotation in roughly ninety-six hours. Dismissed."

There was a sense of urgency in some of the men, who were probably just as hungry as MacGyver was, so he and Jack waited the first crush of people out before getting up from their seats. Jack was watching the officers in the front of the room, his left hand flat on the top of his thigh, and Mac waited patiently until Jack tapped his leg twice using his middle finger.

Let's do it.

As one unit they stood, just in time for Mac to catch Charlie Robinson watching him curiously from across the aisle. His overwatch, Molina, apparently had the same attitude Jack did regarding standing in line, and the other EOD tech and sniper fell in line behind Mac.

"What was that all about?"

Mac politely held open the door for his fellow tech as they crossed back out into the harsh sunlight. "What was what?"

In answer, Robinson wiggled his fingers at Mac, causing the younger man to grin.

"That's just our SS."

"SS? Like the Schutzstaffel?"

In front of Mac, Jack snorted. Loudly. "Blond hair, blue eyes – sounds like Robinson's got your number, wunderkind."

Said blue eyes rolled in irritation. "SS – Sandbox Shorthand. It's how we communicate when speaking aloud is ill-advised." Which, even on the base itself, happened a lot more frequently than Mac would have guessed.

Charlie didn't seem in the least surprised; he turned to his own cover as they entered the mess. "That's smart. We should do that."

Molina was holding up the rear, and gave his tech a droll look. "We do. I order you to hurry the hell up, you FTA via that unnaturally long middle digit there," and the man jerked his chin at Charlie's hands. "Then I just wait for it all to go tango uniform."

"Ain't that the truth," Dalton agreed, leading them to the rapidly diminishing chow line.

"Which, statistically speaking, it would do a lot more frequently if we rushed the job." Charlie sounded as tired of repeating it as Mac felt. "You know you got paired with the best. Just admit it."

"Always late, worth the wait," Mac agreed, and the two bumped fists.

Behind Charlie, Molina exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yeah, let's see how that works for you two in training, commander private majors."

That was a non-existent rank that was meant to be a very insulting jab at their actual one, which was currently Specialist. "Wow. Shots fired," Mac murmured, and then they were picking up their trays and sliding down the bar. "Still better than Carl's Junior."

"First off, that's a nickname you damn well earned," Jack threw over his shoulder, "and speakin' of, tonight's your lucky night."

Indeed, hamburgers were on the menu, and while a rehydrated beef patty wasn't his favorite, it was better than a lot of the alternatives. The guys behind the line were being especially generous with the quantities, and Mac opened his mouth to protest the three patties deposited on his tray when Jack shook his head, ever so slightly.

"Just trust the man and say thank you, chief."

He similarly received three portions of fries, cheese, and several extra chocolate chip cookies. His salad, however, was the same size it always was. Jack grinned at Mac's slightly disappointed look. "That rabbit food's wastin' perfectly good real estate, you ask me."

The four soldiers found a table near some of the other techs, and a surreptitious glance at their trays showed the same generosity. Charlie had noticed the same thing, but shrugged it off as he began constructing a massive, three-patty burger. "Protein and carb loading. I'm guessing we're not gonna get three squares in training."

Molina and Jack exchanged a look. "What'd they tell you about it, anyway?"

Mac also chose to combine the patties, using part of his salad to keep the condiments evenly distributed. "SERE training. Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape. Two days of classroom training, two days of simulations." Mac wordlessly stabbed his pickle spear and dropped it on Jack's tray, and received an additional slice of cheese for his burger creation. "They'll have us rough it in the desert one night, pick us up, knock us around a little in interrogation, some stress positions, sleep deprivation, manual labor tasks designed to demoralize. Two days in some Rangers will 'liberate the camp' and they'll play the national anthem on the PA."

Javier Molina fixed Mac with a flat look. "Guess you got it all figured out."

Mac shrugged a shoulder. "I don't think it'll be fun, but it's not like they can really simulate what abducted soldiers go through if they expect us back in rotation next day."

"Admire the confidence," Javier waved a fry. "But let's be clear. I've seen the both of you back on rotation after getting blowed up the day before."

"Only a little." Charlie took a massive bite of his burger.

Javier rolled his eyes. "And I have absolutely gone outside the wire after taking a bullet. My advice, keep your heads down and don't make these guys curious, or you're in for some long nights."

Mac's mouth was also too full of food to respond, but his overwatch's deep chuckle told him exactly what Jack thought about his odds of taking that advice.

MacGyver couldn't deny he was curious. It had been made clear to him, repeatedly, that it was unusual for EOD to go through SERE. This was typically a training reserved for people more likely to go beyond the front lines into close combat – like Army Rangers, Green Berets, SEALs and Delta Force. And it was true that EOD did frequently travel close to the front lines in small groups, and absolutely were a target – but not for interrogation. EOD didn't have the advanced intelligence on troop movements and operations like elite combat soldiers did. The reason he'd been paired with Dalton was due to the much higher probability that he would simply be shot.

And for all that Jack liked to impart his 'Texas wisdom' on literally any subject – unbothered by either the accuracy or relevance of it – he hadn't said more than ten words about it since they got their orders. Hadn't shared any stories about his own SERE training or anything pertaining to it. Not even bragging about pranks he pulled. And that only served to fuel Mac's curiosity – and desire to excel.

This training was everything Jack had been trying to teach him for the past eight months. Being aware of what was happening around him. Pre-planning his response to threats, should a situation escalate. Using his training as his primary tool rather than his go-to improvising.

So this training, first and foremost, was a test. Not just the military testing his readiness for potentially more dangerous deployments. This was also a test in Jack's eyes. To see how much he'd learned. How much of Jack's instruction had stuck. This training would force them to actually practice the skills listed in the acronym, and Mac intended to do just that. How he would actually respond in these scenarios.

And if the Triple Canopy contractors thought EOD would be easier to handle than special forces, they were in for a surprise.

The list of equipment posted was disappointingly predictable. Just the standard issue uniform and the equipment a serviceman would be issued if they were expected to camp overnight in the desert. Camelbak for hydration, modular sleep system, IFAK, two energy bars. They were also allowed a knife and/or multitool, but Mac had a feeling they would not have access to that gear when the training moved from classroom to simulation. Too much risk of the instructors getting injured.

Training materials and writing utensils would be provided on site - which reminded Mac about the missing box of pens. And that was the end of the list.

To his credit, Jack didn't even hesitate when Mac bid Charlie and Molina goodnight and headed west – which was not in the direction of the barracks. His overwatch trailed along behind him unquestioningly, and after a few yards Mac threw a grin over his shoulder. "You don't have to come with. I'll meet you in the barracks in a few, just wanna check on something first."

"Back in the EOD supply tent," Jack added agreeably, having already concluded that was his destination. "After you just checked out the list'a'stuff you ain't allowed to take to training with you."

"We do get everything back, right?" Smuggling contraband wasn't actually on his to-do list, but he wasn't taking his swiss army knife if there was the slightest chance it would get 'misplaced' during the course.

"Usually. You offer a bribe, though, they're liable to keep it."

Good to know. No point in taking any cash, then – wasn't like there would be vending machines. "Speaking from experience?" Mac quipped, hoping their usual banter would make something slip.

The former Delta snorted. "The United States of America does not negotiate with terrorists." His Texas drawl emphasized the U.

"You're really not going to tell me anything about it, are you," Mac said almost wonderingly, pivoting to the direct approach. "Not even to give me advice you know I won't follow."

"Now hang on a minute." Jack mimed like he was calculating a complex equation. "Wouldn't that be . . . lemme see here . . . every damn piece of advice ol' Jack Dalton's ever given you?"

He groaned. "Rule number two? Really?"

"Well, seein' as rule number one's a total wash-"

Mac just shook his head as he brushed the supply tent's entrance away with a crackle of sun-treated tarp. It was very much as he'd left it before the briefing and dinner. Private Donnell was present and accounted for, slouching comfortably behind the counter. The moment he registered who had entered, he straightened up guiltily.

Mac gave a sarcastic whistle. "That must be the Army record for fastest inventory ever completed, private."

Donnell's gaze shifted briefly behind Mac, where Jack had followed him in, and based on the dismayed expression that crossed the private's face, Dalton was using his Delta glare. "No, sir – I mean, it would be, but Specialist Stinson cancelled it, sir."

His eyebrows climbed, and it was Mac's turn to look beyond the private, where a head in digital camo cover had popped up behind the Class Two hazards shelf. "Did he."

Stinson was permanently stationed at the base and not a technician Mac knew at all apart from the name on his uniform and the curl of his lip as he strolled over – and stayed behind the counter. Clearly comfortable in his own territory. "It's squared away, MacGyver. We got a system and it works."

Donnell shifted a step away from both of them, content to leave his superior officers to duke it out, and the motion brought Mac's attention to the clipboard on the counter. Without hesitation he picked it up, noticing Stinson suddenly shift his weight, as if he'd meant to beat him to it and then stifled the move.

The private had started the inventory Mac had ordered – and found a working pen somewhere - and Mac scanned the first page, noticing three discrepancies already recorded before flipping the page. Donnell hadn't gotten far, and yet there were two more there at the top of the second page – and their clacker count was off by over a case. "Yeah, your system works great," Mac commented drily, letting the second page drop and flipping the clipboard so the other specialist could see. "Good thing no one's lives depend on any of the equipment stored here or anything."

The other soldier responded with an irritated roll of his eyes. "You're a tourist, so it must have escaped your attention that this is an Air Force base, specialist, not some cute little Jawa Army tent in Bum Fuck Nowhere. We get five times the traffic and eight times the transactions, and nobody in my unit's gonna delay a deployment because we gotta stop and update IMS. We know what we've got on hand. When we get breathing space someone pushes the paper. Guess we printed out a DA Form 1 this morning and you just lucked out."

Anyone who worked logistics – even EOD – knew that a DA Form 1 was the Army designation for toilet paper. Meaning the morning's inventory sheet, printed out of the IMS system and what Mac had been using all day during his assigned rotation in the tent, had been garbage. MacGyver flipped to the pages beyond the inventory he'd ordered, which showed the last week's worth of daily sheets. He hadn't had any reason to look at them earlier, and he flipped through a few of them, pausing when he noticed the M57 Firing Device column from a few days before. Sure enough, the case plus of missing devices showed as issued.

He studied that line a second, then glanced down at the signing officer's signature before he offered Donnell back the clipboard. "Sounds like you're the one who lucked out," Mac told him, lightening his tone just a little. "Guess my unit's CO never pulled duty on a base. She uses a different system. Real stickler about it, actually."

"That Smiley?" Stinson stayed right where he was, arms crossed over his chest. "Heard she's a real peach."

"That's Lieutenant Peach to you." Jack's tone was not light, and Stinson's head came up a little as he took in what he could see of Dalton – which was simply a man he could easily infer was Mac's cover, wearing a uniform with no identifying patches of any kind.

After giving Jack a once-over, Stinson shifted back to MacGyver. "Tell you what, specialist, if you're so hot to run inventory," and he uncrossed his arms to gesture broadly at the tent, "it's all yours."

Mac offered the other technician a wide smirk. "Wish I could, but I've got orders to be somewhere at 0600 tomorrow. Wouldn't want to piss off Martinez."

"No, wouldn't want that," Stinson agreed. "Guess you'll have to leave the inventory to the grunts that actually live here."

Mac inclined his head. "Guess so. Have a good night, then, gents." He turned to find Jack shifting smoothly out of his way, eyes still on Stinson, and Mac led them back out into the still somehow stifling twilight. They were both a good twenty yards from the tent – sound traveled pretty far in the desert – before Mac gave a sharp exhale and a shake of his head. "What a dick."

"Hey, let him run his little kingdom. Guys get stuck in logistics a little too long, it's like you called his baby ugly."

Mac didn't even attempt to correct the mixed metaphor. "His baby is ugly. Notice the pen?"

It took a couple of strides before Jack ventured an answer. "The pen was ugly?"

Mac actually chuckled. "No, the pen was blue, and tied, not clipped. If you're walking up and down the aisles checking things off, are you going to leave that pen dangling in your way and find a different one?" He didn't wait to hear the Jack Dalton answer – no matter how creative it might be. "No. You wouldn't. They were using a blue pen three days ago, too. Most of the numbers in blue, signing officer's name in blue. Except the quantities that weren't. Those were in black ink. Guess what color pen the next day's inventory was signed in?"

This time Jack didn't even try to make the smartass comment. "So they're back-logging the inventory." He half-expected Dalton to give him shit for nitpicking, but his cover's voice was even and low. "Think it's off enough to cause a real problem?"

Jack had been a soldier long enough to know – there was a reason you were deployed with the equipment you asked for. Mac hadn't made the comment facetiously; soldiers' lives depended on it. When you asked for certain gear in your kit, it better be in your kit, and the last place you wanted to discover that you were short a clacker was when you were on the opposite side of the door from a room full of Taliban. Accurate equipment numbers were life and death.

But after a moment, Mac let out his breath. "No. If Donnell's count was right, the clackers really were issued." Regardless of what day it was actually done - or documented. The numbers added up, and the ink hadn't been fresh. "It's just needlessly sloppy."

Beside him, his cover quietly chuckled, and Mac glanced at him, still irritated by the earlier encounter. "Cue a comment about my hair in three, two-"

"It's only 'cause you're worth it," Jack teased him with the Loreal tagline. "But I wasn't gonna mess with ya, chief. Someone was dumb enough to hand you a piece of paper with numbers on it, that's all. 'Course ya did the math. We both know you ain't happy unless you're lookin' for trouble."

Mac analyzed that for a moment, trying to decide if it was leading somewhere, but Jack didn't say anything else, and Mac let it drop. "Still on for PT tomorrow morning?"

His cover glanced at him as they walked. "Don't wanna sleep in, take the morning off? It's not like you're about to get four days of R and R."

So still not offering any advice – at least not directly. "Not if I'm going to be sitting on my ass in a classroom for two days."

For a moment Mac thought that was the end of it; one more dangled invitation, one more invitation ignored. Then Jack surprised him, and slowed both his stride and his words. "You're gettin' better at this stuff, but you ain't a Delta, hoss, not yet."

'This stuff' being his situational awareness and combat prowess. The praise was unexpected but nice. "Or a spook?"

Jack made a shushing noise. "Hey now, I can neither confirm nor deny that second part, you know that," and he dropped his voice lower as they approached the barracks, "- but take it from the old spook - they'll respond to a troublemaker the same way an enemy would. Just know, if you push, they're gonna push back."

That single offer of advice stuck with him as they entered the barracks, completed their evening rituals, joked with the other guys as everyone unwound and prepped for the next four days. It wasn't too much longer that Mac climbed up into the top bunk in a tee and boxers, idly turning his SAK over and over in his hands as he debated whether or not to leave it in his footlocker.

Jack hadn't instructed him not to make trouble – just warned him what would happen if he did. It really was a test – Jack wanted to see what he was going to make of it, on his own merit, no backup. Just like he would have had to if Jack really had been selling fuel in Shahjoy all those months ago, and he actually had been abducted. Just like if things had gone just a little differently the morning their Blackhawk had been shot down over the Afghani mountains north of Kabul.

If things had gone just a little differently, you would be dead.

There was no way he would have survived his crash injuries without surgery, even if the enemy had wanted to take them alive – which they hadn't. And according to Jack, there would have been only a few hours between his abduction from Shahjoy and his very Internet-public execution. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about both, analyzing them, debating probable actions and reactions.

In both of those situations, the enemy didn't want to interrogate him. Didn't want to ransom him, didn't want him to do anything for them or give anything to them. The enemy simply wanted to kill him. There was no resisting, no escaping. Just surviving and evading.

Well, at least I've got half the curriculum down, he thought with a little grin, and his hand closed firmly around his SAK.

There was a difference, after all, between a troublemaker and a troubleshooter.

-M-

0559 HOURS, WEDNESDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE

"Ah, come on," someone huffed in disgust, and MacGyver looked up into the dim interior of what had probably been a pretty nice bus – back in 1992. As soon as he had the vehicle's crumpled roof between his eyes and the glaring morning sun, a shape standing near the driver's seat became visible. "This ain't the daycare bus, kid."

It was easier to curb his eye roll than it should have been – something he could probably thank Jack for – and as soon as he'd climbed the three steps into the stuffy interior, the tanned and disapproving Caucasian man became fully visible. He had a clipboard held carelessly in his hand, and after a second of clear incredulity he just shook his head and consulted it. "And who might you be?"

"MacGyver. Sir." No point in making himself a target this early in the game.

"Hollywood!" someone hooted from the back, and then several of the assembled EOD techs chorused, "Always late, worth the wait!"

Their bus driver simply brought his free hand up to his eyes, rubbing them vigorously. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Just –" He gestured blindly with the clipboard towards the seats, firmly pinching the bridge of his nose, and Mac sent him a smirk he couldn't see before heading down the aisle. There were few enough of them that everyone could have a two-seat section to themselves, and Mac tossed his pack at the window seat and settled in. Charlie reached over the tattered and faded seatback to clap him on the shoulder.

"Beginning to think you got cold feet," he murmured, while the generally rowdy group resumed their previous conversations and the driver of the bus checked something off his clipboard, still shaking his head.

"Just had a couple last minute things to take care of," Mac assured him, glancing out the window to take in the base motor pool. Two nondescript men in desert fatigues were leaning against one of the humvees, staring dispassionately in their direction, and Mac wondered if either of them could actually see inside.

Charlie didn't even bother to look. "They still watching us?"

"Oh yeah," Mac confirmed, then shook his head with an honest smile. "Think they'll be bored without us?"

"Hope so." The older tech settled back into his ratty seat. "Hate to think that Javier could actually be more bored in my presence than absence."

"They have no idea how good they've got it."

"Word," Robinson agreed. "But seriously, Mac, you cut it a little close. What was with the pow-wow at the main gate?"

In answer, Mac just smirked over the sagging headrest. "That's for me to know and Specialist Stinson to find out."

"And that makes all eight legs of the octopus," the driver announced, almost to himself, before he tossed the clipboard on the driver's seat and took a few steps in their direction. The conversation died back and Mac turned to sit in his seat properly.

"Gentlemen." The word looked like it tasted sour. "You have been selected by your commanding officers for SERE training. I know it sounded like an order, but if any one of you feel you are not able to complete this training, you need to step off this bus right now. It will not be bringing you back to this base."

That wasn't as ominous as this guy wanted it to sound; if the training scenario involved the Army rescuing them from an enemy stronghold, chances were they'd ride back in an Army convoy. So the bus wouldn't be bringing them back.

Then again, he'd said this base, which didn't necessarily mean any base –

"Call me Duke. I'm one of the Triple Canopy instructors-"

"That a title or a name, John Wayne?"

A few of the guys chuckled, and Duke grinned agreeably. "I see you've lost all sense of discipline and decorum. Didn't take long. My job is to put it back, no matter what it takes. When you get off this bus, it's you versus the enemy, and the only piece of the United States that'll be with you is right here." He tapped his temple.

"This bus is your safe space. You brought anything you shouldn't have, feel free to leave it on the bus. What's left on the bus stays on the bus, literally and figuratively. Won't count against you, but you'll never see it again. That rule changes," and thumbed over his shoulder, "the second you step out that door. So you got a couple hours to enjoy that porn and those chocolate covered coffee beans or whatever the hell else you 'tactically acquired' from these Chair Force fobbits. After that, whatever goes through those doors better be on the authorized list or inside of your body, and if it isn't, I will personally put it there."

There was a general jeer that went through the vehicle, not unlike one would expect from a bus full of frat boys, and Mac angled his head slightly as he heard Charlie murmur, "That one's easy. Exit via the window." Then no passing through the doors, thus no problem.

"They haven't changed that line since Jack went through this," Mac muttered back, careful to keep his lips from moving too much.

Duke didn't seem perturbed by the quiet chatter. "I invite you all to relax until then. Gunner's gonna be in the lead vehicle with Zero, our own bomb disposal expert. We call him Zero because that's how many IEDs our team's gotten hit with since he became our eyes."

"Only takes one," Robert Zimmerman scoffed, across the aisle from Mac.

"Hey yo, Bobby Z, how about you don't fuckin' jinx us before we even get there?" It was one of the Smith twins, honestly even Mac had a hard time telling them apart.

"You think Imma let a buncha contractors tell me to 'relax'?" Zimmerman shot back. "Only way I'm getting shut-eye is if one of you's riding shotgun. And wasn't Zero the name of the damn dead dog in the Nightmare Before Christmas?"

After a few back and forths, Smith A. was voluntold to man up and keep them alive, and Mac wordlessly held out his fist as the losing twin shuffled down the aisle. It was summarily bumped, and then Aaron threw himself into the front-most seat opposite the driver.

Duke was unmoved. "Let me save you the suspense - we're headed to a retired FOB about a hundred and twenty klicks northwest." Mac couldn't help but picture a map in his head. "There is nothing but sand between us and it. No one knows we've acquired this vehicle, and trust me when I tell you that no one on the planet outside of your command and the four of us know who we're transporting. Nobody's dying today, gentlemen."

Mac's mental map of the region concluded Duke was right; there was nothing of interest along the way, not even so much as a town. If there was an IED out there, probability said it would have been put there solely for them.

"Never discount the humint," Charlie muttered cynically, once again sharing his brain, and Mac silently nodded his head. Human intelligence was hard to account for. Anyone who'd looked at the sheet taped up in the mess last night knew that someone was deploying for SERE, and since both EOD teams on base had been called into a brief right before it went up –

Still, hard to believe someone on base would leak that kind of intel to anyone, let alone their enemies. EOD were the only thing between driving down a sandy road and getting blowed up, and every allied soldier in Afghanistan knew it. Humint aside, Mac was willing to believe the assertion of safety, at least for now.

But it wouldn't hurt to have one of their own on watch. Just in case.

-M-

Dalton watched the lead vehicle – armored but not flashy, more like a well-funded local might drive than a US contractor – pull out of the main gate, followed by the more cumbersome bus. Not the same style as a jingly truck, but still not eye-catching. There was no follow vehicle, and the base's main gate rolled shut as the bus ponderously shifted itself into second gear once it hit the smooth pavement outside.

"Odd that command'd put'em through SERE," his companion drawled, unhurriedly unwrapping a stick of gum. "First time any of my tech's've done it."

"First for me too," Jack agreed casually, not moving from his comfortable lean against the humvee. His humvee, his and Mac's. Motor pool knew to keep it reserved for them after Mac made a few improvements. "Only time I've seen anythin' like this was prep for a surgical strike against one of the aces in Iraq."

And as far as Jack knew, there was no 52-card Most Wanted for the Afghani conflict. Would've simplified things tremendously.

Javier Molina dipped his head in agreement. "And I haven't seen any orders like that."

"Nope," Jack agreed, popping the 'p'.

"But if you had . . ."

"Oh I'd tell ya," Jack admitted without an ounce of hesitation, eyes on the dust cloud kicked up in the convoy's wake. "I wouldn't do you like that, brother. Swiss Family's growin' on me."

More like Charlie Robinson was growing on MacGyver, but Jack didn't really see a need to divulge that little detail.

"An' I hate to say it, but Charlie's got a real soft spot for Mac." The Ranger blew out his cheeks. "Those two gotta be the most dangerous men I ever met."

Your lips to God's ears. "Real damn glad they're on our side, that's for sure."

"What was Carl's Junior up to, anyway? The way he bolted outta the mess this morning, I figured he forgot somethin'."

"No idea." Jack offered his fellow sniper a follow-up shrug when Molina shot him a side-eye. "Kid even made me get up and run this morning, if you can believe it." Mac had been his normal self, even the scampering off between the barracks and the bus wasn't out of character.

Still.

"Don't you worry. He'll get your boy back in one piece."

Javier snorted. Loudly. "I ain't worried about my boy – or yours. I'm worried about Trip Canopy."

That thought brough a sincere – if sharp- smile to Jack's lips. Those contractors probably thought it'd go like clockwork, training a few harmless EOD techs instead of SEALs or Rangers or Delta. Not even worth the time of a private contractor with their reputation. "They ain't gonna know what hit 'em."

"That's my point." Molina wasn't smiling. "They know what to do with a bunch of dumbass grunts like us. EOD, now, those boys are a solution lookin' for a problem. First time one of 'em pulls their usual shenanigans, Trip's gonna lose their damn minds."

"Molina!"

Both men's eyes snapped to the right, at a sergeant at the outskirts of the motor pool. He waved them forward. "Command wants you!"

"Yippee," the Ranger grunted, snapping his gum in irritation before making motions to obey. "Remember, any secret squirrel shit –"

"Will not be relayed to anyone without the proper clearance," Jack promised. Even if command thought otherwise, an EOD tech's overwatch deserved to be read into whatever their tech was doing, protocol be damned. "And that better be a two way street," he called louder as the other sniper strolled away.

He got a lazy wave as a reply, and then Dalton was left leaning against the 'vee by himself, staring at a cloud of dust wondering what about it was bugging him so much.

-M-

0800 HOURS, WEDNESDAY, TRIPLE CANOPY INSTALLATION

From the front of the bus, Aaron Smith gave a low, sarcastic whistle. "Love what you've done with the place."

Mac had to agree.

It had once been a Forward Operating Base, which meant there was an obvious perimeter and a couple brick and mortar buildings, but little else. Of note were four tents that were an obvious step up from military issue in the comfort and rigid foam insulation department, and a veritable maze of abandoned shipping crates spread out behind. The perimeter fence seemed in good repair and there were a couple lights on, indicating generator power. The genny itself wasn't immediately visible.

It quietly screamed 'occupied by private contractors' which was typically enough to get the locals to leave it alone. NATO and the US Forces followed rules of engagement; private contractors like Triple Canopy considered those rules more of guidelines. High reward if you could capture one of their strongholds, but high risk.

"What do you see?"

Mac suppressed a smirk as someone in 'desert camo casual' strolled out of the front gate booth and rolled back the barricade. "I'm thinking tunnels." That seemingly haphazard maze of shipping containers would be a perfect setup to isolate prisoners, and the disorienting effects of underground passages leading up into them would make escape near impossible.

Plus it was cooler. Genny or not, they weren't gonna waste fuel on aircon if they didn't have to, and contractors like Trip Canopy weren't about to put up with that level of discomfort for four days straight if they didn't have to.

"Same," Charlie confirmed, his voice low and smooth. "And I'm pretty sure those junction boxes up there aren't for adjusting the razor wire tension."

Mac's eyes ran up the fence, noting the same small metal boxes Charlie had. "Yeah, I think you're right."

The lead car and bus trundled over the normal traffic spikes, same as in Bagram, and into a wide, sandy area that had at one point been the motor pool. The rest of the techs slowly stirred, crumping up cellophane and stretching. Mac did the same, regretfully wadding up the wrapper on his energy bar. If it went the way he expected, they'd eat well the rest of today and tomorrow morning, and once the wilderness 'survive' portion kicked off, it would be eat what they could catch – up until they themselves were caught. Until then, he needed all the salt and carbs he could get.

"Oh eight hundred on the money," Duke declared over the loudspeaker, then pulled the bus around so it was reasonably close to one of the actual brick and mortar buildings. "We do things by the clock here. Fall in."

Despite the devil may care attitude, EOD was very familiar with the concept of time, and they unloaded without fuss or delay. Each rucksack was taken by a smirking brunette and deposited into a large wheeled trash bin, the kind typically found in government-run schools and hospitals, and Mac had no illusions that it wouldn't be meticulously inspected before he saw it again.

The pat-down was exceedingly thorough. Mac had nothing to hide, and didn't let his expression change in the slightest as Duke reached into Mac's right thigh pocket and pulled out his SAK.

The trainer inspected it, even testing the flashlight, and Mac simply watched him. Multitool was on the approved list. He wouldn't have risked it otherwise.

"Been a while since I seen this model," the man murmured approvingly, folding it back up and handing it to him. "Your dad's?"

Psy-Ops 101. Establish rapport. "Grandfather's," Mac answered truthfully. No sense in giving away that he knew the play already. Also, he was pretty sure the approval from 'Duke' was genuine.

"Solid," the man told him, and Mac replaced it in his pocket and proceeded into the classroom that would be their home for the next day and a half.

It was nothing special, a few long rectangular folding tables with the standard cheap but durable office chairs scattered around, and the two EOD divisions split themselves up basically along party lines, with Smiley's crew at one table and the other team – under Lieutenant Young – at the other. For 'Saving Private Ryan' reasons the Smith twins had been deliberately split under two different commands, and Aaron joined Mac, Charlie, and Robert.

Robert Zimmerman pushed his chair just far enough from the table to allow him to spin. "So, Robinson. What's the deal with you?"

Charlie gave the other man a raised eyebrow, which he caught on his next spin. He elaborated.

"You're not one of Smiley's. Why're'ya here? Hollywood adopt you or somethin'?"

Charlie snorted. "You got that all turned around, son." To which Mac replied by casually wadding up a scrap piece of paper from the legal pad on the table and throwing it at him. Charlie knocked the paperwad aside into Zimmerman, who fumbled it but managed to catch it without stopping his spin.

"Ramarao got a medical discharge," Mac explained. Their team had been loaned out onesie-twosie so many times it was hard to keep track of everyone. "Inner ear never healed right after that jaw break." The jaw he'd broken in the same Blackhawk crash responsible for the faded scar on Mac's chest.

Bobby Z. snapped his fingers on his next pass. "So you're the pinch hitter."

"Hey, seat was paid for, man. Looks like I was just a pretty face in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Behind them, the classroom door closed, signaling the arrival of their instructors, and Zimmerman completed one more spin before putting his massive boots on the ground, stopping his momentum cold. There wasn't so much as a hint of dizziness in his eyes. "I like this one, Hollywood. You gonna keep him?"

"Yeah, Hollywood," Charlie parroted. "White boy like you gonna keep me?"

There was no safe answer to that, and Mac just slowly shook his head as their driver, Duke, took the head of the classroom. Mac had a feeling he was their lead instructor, and had taken on the 'menial' job of driving on purpose; the two hours of 'down time' had given the man ample opportunity to get to know his students a little better. A careless comment or two in all their joking around could have revealed things a trained interrogator could use.

It was something he'd seen Jack do on more than one occasion.

"Again, my name is Duke. I'm one of your instructors. For the next four days, you're gonna learn why you don't want the Tallies to get hold of you."

"They wouldn't," Smith, Landon pointed out. "They'd just shoot us." On Mac's right, Smith, Aaron nodded his agreement.

"Would they?" It was a said in a friendly, light tone. "In a few minutes you're going to receive a mission briefing. I want you to commit to memory only what you would from any other mission briefing. You know more than you think you know, gentlemen."

So they were going to be provided the intel they were then going to have to protect. Mac filed that away as their forward driver, 'Gunner,' started passing out thin beige files.

"You may have noticed we took searching you pretty seriously. That is every bit as much for our safety as yours. A single live round in a weapon is a risk we will not accept. I told you before, and I'll say it again – no one is gonna die in the next four days." He indicated someone at the back of the room, and all the chairs swiveled – Mac's included – to take in the guard in the casual camo who had opened the perimeter fence when they arrived.

"Doc there is a fully certified 62B Battalion Surgeon, skill code 9F." Mac felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. That meant 'Doc' was essentially equivalent to a fully licensed, practicing surgeon back stateside. He might even have the MD.

The fact that level of on-site medical care was recommended was slightly concerning.

"His entire job over the next ninety-six hours is to keep all of us alive and well. We have a fully stocked trauma room and we're within a half-hour helo ride of Bagram. No matter what we put you through, and what you think your physical and mental limits, Doc'll get you through it."

Beside him, Charlie gave a soft grunt. "Chief interrogator."

Mac gave it some thought. "I'll take that bet."

Gunner got around to them, and Mac accepted his mission briefing. Just like one from the FOB. He scanned the headlines. Mission objective – clear ordinance, no surprises there. Location was basically at their current altitude, weather patterns, light conditions, terrain analysis. Friendly and enemy forces listed, coordinating instructions, sustainment, and Command and Signal. All things Jack made him commit to memory before they rolled out. He occasionally still demanded a recitation if the drive was especially long or boring.

And since Mac wouldn't know that he was about to get abducted by the Taliban, he did what he always did – a three to four second glance to take in all the information, and then he stuck the brief back in the folder and closed it.

"SERE stands for Survive, Evade, Resist, and Escape. These are your key objectives. Ideally, survival and evasion are sufficient. Not every situation will be ideal. Today, we're going to give you a crash course in these four key areas, and then dig into Survive. Because of the likelihood you will be stationed in the Middle East for the remainder of your deployment, our Survival training will be focused on the desert environment, but these principles can be applied in any environment on Earth."

Gunner started his second round, now with a stack of handouts, and Mac exchanged a quick eyebrow twitch with Bobby Z. before accepting his booklet and flipping open the cover.

-M-

1821 HOURS, WEDNESDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE

"Dalton!"

"Yeah?" He didn't bother to pull his boots off the table.

There was the sound of a phone getting dropped in its plastic cradle. "Some private's outside, lookin' for 'MacGyver's overwatch'."

Jack let the briefing – and the comic hidden inside – slide to his lap. "MacGyver's overwatch?" he repeated incredulously. "Really?

"Not like you're doin' the heavy lifting. EOD's got the limelight here, holmes. You're just the gaffer."

"I'll show you gaffer," he shot back at the desk corporal, making a production of dropping his boots heavily to the floor, one at a time, and rocking to his feet with a sound of disgust. "I'll light up this fool's little world."

"Easy on the crunchies, sarge." The corporal hadn't bothered to look up from his own 'brief'. "Better they don't know who you are, yeah?"

"Y'mean the pilot who flew the Kessel run in less'n-"

"-twelve parsecs, you know whoever's outside was born like, fifteen years after A New Hope came out?"

Jack blinked at the corporal serving as the TOC's watch officer. "That was just hurtful."

The man – easily thirty himself – shrugged and turned an invisible page. "Whatever he's got for you, don't wanna know about it. You screw up my nice quiet night and everyone's gonna know your name, you read?"

"Everyone oughta know my name anyway," Jack groused, but he proceeded to the door and waved his badge at the reader, listening to the lock disengage and officially logging him out of the Tactical Operations Center. He opened the door to find a vaguely familiar-looking man standing there. His stripes identified him as a Private, First Class, but he was peering around the corner, and Jack couldn't quite get a read on his nametag.

"Uh . . . nope, don't tell me," he added, refusing to look at said name tag as the kid jumped to attention. "Mc . . . McDonald's?"

The young man's brow wrinkled. "Donnell," he corrected slowly. "Is . . . everyone a fast food joint to you?"

Right. The private who was working the EOD tent last night. Not the one Mac got in a pissing contest with. "Not Swiss Family," Jack told him glibly. "What can I do for you?"

The private offered him a stack of paper in a stained but still serviceable beige folder. "Inventory as ordered, sir. I would have gotten it here at 1800 even but Specialist MacGyver was specific, he didn't want Specialist Stinson to know, sir, and I hadda work around him."

Jack stared at the offered folder. So that's what Mac had been up to this morning between eating breakfast in the mess, and getting his ass on that bus. " . . . then why the hell you tryin'a give it to me?"

Donnell blinked up at him. "Specialist MacGyver's orders, sir. As soon as it was finished he wanted the report delivered to you."

Made sense. If Mac was ordering inventories on the down-low, knowing he was gonna be gone for four days, he'd know it would be safe with him. "Well, you're late," Jack snapped instead, snatching the folder away and flipping open the cover. "And you didn't even bother to do a result summary?" He whistled through his bottom teeth. "Carl's Junior ain't gonna like that one bit."

"Sir –"

"Just," and Jack held up a hand before closing the report and frowning at the ring of old coffee staining the cover, "gimme the highlights, McDonald's."

The private didn't respond to the nickname this time. "Well . . . looks like he was right, sir. The paper inventory is backdated, but I checked IMS and it's right. Nothing major, no Class One's ever backdated, and no weapons. Most expensive thing was a DSP 9K handset, but, IMS says it shipped out to Dwyer same day."

So sloppy, but not a big enough deal to bring it to base command. As long as the inventory system was reasonably close and shit was getting where it needed to go, it was good enough. Not good enough for Mac, obviously, and Martinez would never let that fly on his turf, but this was first and foremost an Air Force Base, and not one Jack had spent enough time on to make the kinda friends who'd give you the skinny for a can of beer.

That was Mac's job. And honestly Jack was a little curious to see how he'd handle it.

"If you didn't find nothin', that just tells me you didn't look hard enough. You're Carl Junior's problem now. Dismissed." He waved off the private's salute with the folder and then had to make the difficult decision of going back into the TOC to finish the comic book, or head to the mess.

Corporal said it was pasta night.

-M-

2021 HOURS, WEDNESDAY, TRIPLE CANOPY INSTALLATION

Bobby Z. was the first one through the door, and after a brief amount of queuing and shoving he managed to find the lights. Mac was towards the back of the rag-tag line, and by the time he made it inside the rest of his team were already groaning.

Barracks were barracks were barracks. What was waiting for them inside the building was basically what was waiting for them back at Bagram.

"C'mon, you expecting the Hilton?" Smith, A. immediately claimed a bunk – lower – near the door but not directly beside it.

"After that dinner, yeah, I kinda was." Gutiérrez, the tech directly in front of Mac, took a little more time to take in the space before selecting a bunk. Mac followed suit.

There were two rows of five bunk frames with an aisle down the center. Towards the end of the space was a clearing where a table and eight more plastic office chairs sat facing a flat-screen TV and a wall mounted shelf with a couple dozen DVD cases. Beyond that, a laminate counter contained a sink, coffee pot, and a cardboard box that had been ripped open to display the bagged coffee and accoutrements inside. There was also a stack of faded plastic drinkware in multiple colors, and a first aid kit hanging on the wall besides a fire extinguisher.

That was basically it.

It was past sunset, a little after 2000 hours, but Mac picked out the dark, curtained windows, three in all, and then made his own choice.

Also a bottom bunk. Jack wasn't here, so he didn't have to take top for once. In fact none of them did; the barracks slept twenty and there were only eight of them.

"Si amici, that was the best meal I think I've had since we got here," Alvera agreed, tossing his rucksack onto an upper bunk before dropping an appreciative hand to his stomach. "We should all make a pact, cycle out and go private."

Mac grinned an agreement with the general guffaw, wasting no time in opening and inspecting his pack.

"I didn't know you could get fried chicken that good in this hellhole."

"What makes you think it was chicken?" Smith, L. shot back, grabbing the bunk as far as possible from his brother.

"The shape, Cal. The shape. Camel don't have bitty ickle legs." Elijah Dickens mimed biting off a huge chunk of a comically large drumstick.

"They got toes, don't they?"

"Jesus, Eli, really?"

"You know you can buy your girl panties with the camel toe built in? That's a thing now?"

Another jeer went up. "I know you'd rather eat that for dinner," was followed by a mostly unison "That's what she said!" and Mac couldn't help but chuckle.

"This bunk taken?" Charlie asked, nodding to the bed on the other side of the window, and Mac made a welcoming gesture with his free hand.

"All yours."

"Sweet." Robinson did the same thing Mac was doing; he systematically disassembled all of his gear and checked it. Mac was already mostly done. Everything was right where he left it, if not folded exactly the way he'd done it, and Mac eyed the footlocker at the end of the bunk before opting to use it as a luggage stand.

"No point in unpacking, they'll have us sleepin' outside tomorrow," Robinson agreed, taking a page from Isidoro Alvera's book and putting his pack on the empty bunk above him. Then he set about unlacing his boots.

"Yep," Mac agreed, fishing his SAK out of his pocket before he flopped back on the mattress, leaving his own boots on but hanging off the end of the bed. It was pretty comfortable, definitely a step above Army issue, even if the bunk bed frames looked exactly the same . . .

Mac tried very hard not to change expression as he toyed with his SAK and eyed what looked like a small cylinder of black plastic inside the spring attached to the inside right corner of the mattress above him. There was a matching cylinder in each of the other three springs that were directly connected to the corners. Instead of reaching for them, Mac let his eyes wander to the ceiling of the building – brick and mortar, giving them at least some protection from small arms fire – and the stained acoustic tiles on the suspended grid overhead.

A drop ceiling was not unexpected, it partially protected the pipe and electrical infrastructure from idiots hanging their towels from them, but that meant it could hide quite a bit more. Mac idly did some geometry based on the height of the doorframe measured against the six foot three inch Hispanic tech Daniel Gutiérrez who had walked through it before he had, and the distance of the top of the doorframe to the building's awning, and calculated there was a good three feet of usable space above the suspended tiles.

Plenty of room for a wireless system that connected with those black tension sensors. Which would tell Trip Canopy which bunks were occupied. And when they were occupied. And potentially how still the person occupying said bunk was laying.

After a few moments of consideration, Mac rolled lazily back out of the bunk and onto his feet. It was actually harder to do than getting out of the top one, and he made a mental note to give Jack some shit about that before exploring the contents of the little kitchenette. There was very little there that wasn't already visible. No stash of trash bags or boxes under the counter, just extra paper towels and a beat-up bottle of Avance Green.

The latrine was similarly spartan, but clean. Liquid soap dispensers for shampoo and body wash, a covered bucket of chlorine-based cleaner, and the exact same brand and model mop in the base showers. There were only a couple extra rolls of toilet paper perched on top of the paper towel dispenser – same kind as the one in the kitchenette.

Plenty to work with.

He wandered back into the main room to find the majority of his colleagues methodically sorting the DVD collection into genres, and about twenty feet away, Charlie Robinson was standing with his arms folded, watching him with a knowing smirk.

Mac smirked back, and headed straight for his bunk.

"What are you up to?" Charlie's voice was soft and low.

MacGyver fished his course booklet out of his pack, confirming a writing utensil was still securely folded therein. "Don't know what you mean."

"Uh-huh."

Mac then carried his coursework back to the table, which still had a chair his six teammates hadn't already commandeered, and without another word he flipped it open to the page marked with the pen and started on the next chapter. He registered Charlie's hip against the table, though the older man was now facing the TV, where their colleagues had chosen season one of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

"You're supposed to act like you don't know what's gonna happen," the bomb tech continued, voice still pitched not to carry.

Mac shrugged a shoulder and matched Charlie's tone. "I am. I don't know as an immutable fact that Triple Canopy is planning on skipping the Survive and Evade portion of this training and going straight to Resist." He never took his eyes off the booklet. "It's an educated guess."

"You think they're gonna make a move tonight?"

MacGyver studied the page, more interested in the markings on the native scorpions than the associated venom symptoms. "Don't you?" Without raising his eyes, he tipped his chin towards Alverez, who was perched on the back of the couch and stifling a yawn. "Half our unit's in a food coma. There's barely enough TP to get us through the night. We should be watching documentaries on desert survival, not sci fi and rom coms."

Most importantly, it was just a –

A gut feeling.

If Jack had said it once, he'd said it a hundred times. Trust your instincts.

And Mac was. The high tech surveillance, the boys' night out atmosphere. They wanted everyone relaxed, off their guard in a big way. And Mac couldn't believe it was just one last reprieve from the hell Triple Canopy intended to inflict before the training was over. That was the whole point. Don't let your guard down outside the wire.

And while they were supposedly snug as a mob in a FOB, their problem wasn't always going to be a Tally with a bomb. That was why the bus had been outfitted the way it was, why it had been a convoy. Insider threat was very real. Information was power. Being on base made you safer. It didn't make you safe.

Being out in public in broad daylight in a 'friendly' village didn't make you safe, therefore being in a training complex wasn't safe. It had been a series of tiny details Jack had seen that day and stitched into a cohesive threat. And Mac was quite sure these details were going to add up the same way.

He got through three more pages on indigenous animals and their associated dangers and benefits before Charlie responded.

"I'd say you wouldn't normally set up contingencies on such flimsy data points, but let's face it, you're you." It sounded equal parts exasperated and amused. "How can I help."

Mac grinned at his coursework.

-M-

2021 HOURS, WEDNESDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE

"Don't you have anything to do?"

His hands were filled with gun parts, so Jack figured the question was rhetorical. Less than a breath later, a darkly tanned arm bearing a Ranger tattoo unceremoniously plunked a camo canvas bag onto the table, and some moon dust puffed out the zipper.

Jack Dalton fixed the owner of that arm with a dirty look and held up what seconds ago had been a perfectly cleaned barrel insert. "You mind?"

"Don't pretend you're not gonna stay here and gossip."

Jack grumbled to himself and returned to wiping down the steel. "You got anything worth gossipin' about?"

"Nah." Javier Molina hooked a stool with his foot and noisily dragged it across the concrete, plopping his body down with the same care he'd taken with his equipment. "I looked at them, they looked at me. 'Bout it."

Meaning he'd spotted a hostile or two, and been spotted in kind, and no one had a shot worth taking. Which also meant whoever he'd been covering had a relatively good day.

"You?"

"Nope." Jack used the 'p' to blow any remaining dust or lint out through the once-again-clean barrel insert. "Got the day off. When I reupped it was contingent on being paired only with Carl's Junior, so."

Javier snorted, unzipping his kit with an exaggerated flourish – and another large puff of moon dust. "How the hell'd you manage that?"

"Good looks and charm." Jack deliberately covered his workspace in a hand towel, and Javier sent him a shit-eating grin.

"Or more of that secret squirrel stuff," he guessed aloud, and then removed his rifle from the duffel, with far more care than before. "You holding out on me?"

Jack touched his chest with a highly affronted look. "Moi?" The other sniper shook his head, setting the Barrett on the cleaning table by its shoulder stock and bipod before turning for cleaning supplies. Jack eyed the duffel, still absolutely full of sand, and wisely kept his own equipment covered. When Javier turned back, his eyes were a little sharper, and Jack dropped the innocent act. "Nah. Did discover the best aircon is in the TOC."

"Duh." Javier retook his seat, breaking down the rifle on autopilot. "Seriously, you been off duty all day and got nothing?"

Jack glanced casually around the shed, but it was fairly late, and because they were on an Air Force base, the operators had their own dedicated space to play with the good toys. The cleaning bench could easily accommodate four snipers and their gear, but right now he and Molina had the place to themselves.

"No orders, no operators or callsigns I ain't heard before." Nothing that would indicate a big operation was in the works – meaning nothing to indicate why Mac's EOD unit had suddenly been singled out for training. "Logistic's the closest thing to secret squirrel shit I got." He tapped the corner of the folder Private Donnell had given him, then went ahead and pulled it out, spreading it over his covered gear. "Mac got bent outta shape about the inventory in the EOD tent. Had some fobbit run an audit. That's what he was up to this morning."

Javier took that in with a nod, breaking out the wire brush and taking it to his own barrel insert. "Sounds like him."

"You have no idea."

A smug little grin touched the other sniper's lips. "Kinda surprised you're so attached, Dalton. You got yourself a regular Boy Scout." The wire brush scraped loudly against the steel of the barrel a few times before Javier pulled it out and inspected the barrel up against the light. "Still, devil's in the details."

In more ways than one. A few particles of Afghanistan weren't going to stop a Barrett from shooting true, but any decent sniper would still spend a good hour getting rid of as many of them as possible. Jack pretended to be irritated to no end with how careful Angus could be during a disposal, but he trusted the kid's instincts, and if he said there was a problem with the way something was happening, there was. And he'd been right. Mac was going to use this report to take care of a little problem before it became a big one.

A few grains of sand weren't an issue. But add a few more, and a few more, and even a weapon as powerful as a Barrett could get gummed up.

"Yep."

Reasonably sure that Javier was finished with his deliberate mess-making, Jack went to clear the folder off his own gear, and Molina jerked his chin at the report. "So what's that got to do with the main gate then?"

Jack gave the sniper a shrug, tapping the papers on the edge of the table, "Hell if I know." It wasn't until he'd tucked the report back into the folder that the words really registered. "Wait, what?"

"This morning." Javier set down the barrel and started working on the spring. "Your boy made a stop there right before he got on the bus."

Jack thought back. Mac had scurried over to the gate and spoken to the officer there. "Oh. Beats me. Figured he was tryin'a get a 411 on Trip's camp."

Molina chuckled. "Lemme guess. He's plannin' on joggin' back here on his own."

"You'd think that, given the pace he set this mornin'," Jack growled, and Javier straight up laughed.

"Gotta keep up, old man."

"That's why I picked this MOS. No running required."

"Yeah, well." Javier waggled the spring and bolt he was cleaning at Jack's nose. "Your boy takes off, he better bring mine with him."

-M-

0312 HOURS, THURSDAY, TRIPLE CANOPY INSTALLATION

Mac had been resettled in his bunk for about ten minutes, and was legitimately drifting off, when breaking glass sounded from the kitchenette. He had exactly enough time to hastily clamp his hands over his ears and get in an open-mouthed gasp before the flash-bang went off.

He felt the pressure kick in his chest, marveling that despite the half-dozen times now he'd experienced that sensation it still tried to take his breath away. Then he was rolling off the cot, ripping a wad of neatly folded, still damp bandanas out of his vest pocket. Small arms fire kicked up outside, sounding loud enough and real enough that he actually flinched, and then again when he felt a hand grasp the uniform on his back.

Mac blindly plucked a bandana from the pile and passed the rest back. As soon as he had his tied around his face, Mac scrambled to the foot of his cot and groped underneath it until his searching fingers found the plastic handle of the coffee pot.

Almost at the same time, the main door banged open, and there was enough ambient light to see the haze of tear gas spreading. Several men stormed in, voices muffled by gas masks but plenty loud enough to hear that the orders being shouted were in Pashto. Mac yelled a warning to his own unit and let the coffee pot fly, then covered his ears and eyes for the second time in as many minutes.

It didn't pack the same punch as a real flash-bang, but it was definitely sufficient to disorient their attackers, and Mac didn't wait, sucking in a deep breath and snatching his pack off his footlocker. Then he crouch-sprinted back to the kitchenette, where the painted-shut window was now conveniently open via the rocket propelled flash bomb still spewing gas into the barracks. Mac grabbed the cardboard box of coffee pouches, upending it over the offending thing. His lungs were just starting to burn and Mac ignored them, using the pack in his hands to clear the rest of the broken glass from the windowframe before tossing it through and diving head-first after it.

He had enough rotation to land on his shoulder, rolling out of the way of the tech who was right behind him, and Mac came up in a crouch, snatching up his pack and a handful of sand to hurl at anyone still standing back there. However, his guess was right – after launching the flash bang, their attacker had decided to circle around to the side door that led to the latrine. Again without waiting, Mac shot to his feet and sprinted straight into the darkness, trying to wrestle his pack onto his back as he ran.

The desert air was straight-up cold and welcome to his streaming eyes, and Mac ran flat-out the entire ninety meters to the first of the surplus trucking containers. He didn't slow his pace until he'd looped it, and only with the entire container between himself and the barracks did he slow his gait, gulping air and again grabbing a handful of sand as he stared at the nearest corner.

The footfalls pounding after him were getting louder, and a figure in desert camo, wearing his vest and pack, came flying around the side of the container.

No gas mask.

Mac didn't relax, letting Charlie run past him, straining his ears for any other sounds of pursuit. There was more small arms fire coming from the barracks, as well as yelling in both Pashto and English. After about fifteen seconds, Mac dared to creep up to the edge of the container wall, yanking his bandana off his face and using the inside to wipe his watering eyes.

"You good?" The whisper was hoarse, and then Charlie muffled a cough in his elbow.

"Yeah," Mac whispered back, peering slowly and carefully around the edge. The base perimeter lights were still on, back-lighting figures struggling near the barracks. On the opposite side of the barracks, back towards the classroom building, Mac noticed something that looked a lot like a body in desert camo lying motionless on the sidewalk.

"They're really going all out," he muttered, eyes roving to the front gate, which was open, just wide enough to permit a beat up Toyota pickup to wedge itself in, effectively jamming it open and providing cover. There was no one visible in either the truck or the guard booth.

"Anybody else make it out?"

Mac refocused on the barracks, hesitating. "Not looking good," he admitted, watching one of the Smiths being thrown to the ground by a man in typical Afghani garb. Belatedly remembering that he wasn't wearing his beige scarf, Mac drew back a little and aimed his exhales at the wall of the container lest the cloud of steam give him away. As it was, they were near the back of the perimeter fence, just as backlit as the men he was watching.

Behind him, a zipper was quietly opened, and a couple breaths later he felt two taps on his shoulder. Mac obediently eased back around the corner and then turned to find Charlie edging along the wall of the container towards the closest stretch of perimeter fence. He had his wire cutters in his hand but was looking almost straight up, and Mac followed his gaze to find a camera perched on the top corner of the container, looking out along the fenceline.

It was the domed kind, a fisheye view rather than a servo that could get jammed up with sand, and wireless to boot. Charlie silently jerked his chin towards it. Mac nodded, eyeing the ground for anything useful before registering the cold, damp bandana still in his hand. A small rock would probably get him enough weight to get it up there, he could use his still-loosened bootlaces to try to control how it landed or to tug it over the dome for better coverage -

There was an amplified screech from the main cluster of buildings, the PA system coming online, and Mac exchanged a quick look with Charlie before they both put their backs to the container wall and waited.

They didn't have to wait long.

"This area is now under the protection of Al Qaeda," a heavily accented voice asserted. "All foreigners must surrender now. Anyone who resists will be shot."

"Guess that's better than getting decapitated," Charlie muttered, and Mac cast a withering look over his shoulder before creeping back along the container wall.

They were the only ones who'd managed to escape. Backlit by the perimeter lights, Mac could make out six men kneeling on the sand, flanked by three fighters with what looked like AKs. By the classroom building, another man in a headscarf was standing by the open door, and Mac noticed the body he'd seen earlier was still there, exactly as it had been before.

Even though he knew it was just for ambiance, to make the training feel more realistic, his gut still clenched a little.

"Everyone else is caught."

Charlie hummed. "Think we can mount a rescue?"

And that was really the question. Mac knew he and Charlie could short the fence and get out, and he knew the general direction of Bagram – a hundred and twenty klicks away, which was a long fucking walk, with not much between them and it. They had no hope of making it without stealing a vehicle, like that pickup, or managing to hitch a ride with a friendly, which didn't seem too likely with the aforementioned stretch of nothing.

Was that why the pickup had been abandoned in the gate . . . ? To see if they'd go for it?

On the flip side, even surrendering meant they'd still probably scored some points for evasion. Jack might as well have been standing behind Mac, as loud as his voice sounded in Mac's head.

Just know, if you push, they're gonna push back.

Something told Mac scoring 'points' wasn't going to be physically pleasant.

"Probably not," Mac admitted. "But we might be able to play hide and seek long enough to secure a vehicle or get ahold of a radio, and that ups all of our chances."

The only thing visible in the shadow of the container were Charlie's eyes, reminding him powerfully of Bozer. "Out of curiosity, what does the book say to do?"

Mac almost laughed. "You seriously didn't read the rest of the coursework?"

He heard fabric rustle in a shrug. "I figured two of us on camera reading ahead would be a dead give-away."

Charlie probably wasn't wrong. "It basically says to save yourself." Which wasn't advice Mac was entirely sure he agreed with. But then again, from the perspective of the US Government, the fewer soldiers in captivity being tortured for intel, the fewer leaks, even if the soldiers that got away were also eaten alive with guilt.

There was another loud crackle from the PA. "American soldiers. Surrender yourselves immediately. A member of your unit will be executed for every minute you hesitate." This voice was not heavily accented, the English absolutely pristine. In fact, it sounded a lot like Duke.

Mac glanced at Charlie. It was just training, after all. ". . . think the enemy would really sacrifice all six of them just to get us?"

It was clear Charlie was thinking it over. "If it meant being immediately detected by US forces, maybe," he finally concluded. "If they get all of us, it's radio silence, which buys them a lot more time than someone sending up a flare."

Assuming they had a flare.

Or there were enough materials in these crates for Mac to make one that would launch high enough to be noticed.

The instructions in the Evade section had been pretty clear – and covered in class that day. It was the duty of the individual soldier who became isolated from their unit in the course of combat operations to continue to fight, evade capture, and regain contact with friendly forces.

This pretty squarely fell under the 'evade capture' principle. Turning themselves in wasn't going to result in the release of anyone. They had no guarantee that all eight of them wouldn't be executed anyway.

Still, the reality of their position said they were likely going to be caught or die of exposure before they could get to safety. They were 75 miles from base – the average military march pace was 25 miles a day. And that was properly hydrated. Both men had kept their camelbacks in their packs as a precaution, but that was only a day's worth of water. Assuming perfect conditions, it would take three to walk back to base. The odds were not with them.

On the other hand, they were potentially valuable sources of intelligence on US military operations in country. The enemy had a reason to keep them alive. The desert did not.

Plus, it was just training.

"Honestly I'd be fine if they took out Aaron, but the odds are one in six, so . . ." Charlie trailed off. "Guess we're effed."

"Guess we are," Mac agreed, and after bumping fists – they did evade, even if was only for about five minutes – Mac rounded the corner of the container, with Charlie at his side.

Apparently they'd been pretty successful evading the cameras, too, because it took the opposing force a good twenty seconds to spot them. There were some orders shouted, in Pashto, and several other figures clad in traditional local garb came running out of the main building. All in all Mac counted six 'hostiles', which was two more Trip Canopy personnel than they'd seen all day.

Mac raised his arms agreeably as two of the contractors playing Al Qaeda aggressively approached, and he had enough time to notice a man in desert camo come around the side of the barracks before the broken Pashto-English command registered.

Get down.

Charlie obviously translated it before Mac did, because he reached over and tugged on Mac's sleeve, half-dragging him down onto his knees on the sand. The two Al Qaeda were right on them, shouting mostly in Pashto, and Mac kept his arms raised as much as he was able as they roughly stripped both him and Charlie of their packs.

The man in US military camo walked in lock step with one of the Afghani insurgents, pulling a light out of his pocket and clicking it on, blinding both Mac and Charlie with the military-grade beam. Even though they'd already heard his voice, Mac was somehow still surprised to realize it was Duke, unapologetically coming to a stop before them and inspecting them both.

"That's them," he confirmed, sounding satisfied. "No firearms, we checked them when they came in. That one has a knife." And the flashlight stayed steady on Mac's face.

He felt a quick pang of anxiety for his swiss army knife, even with Jack's assurance that he'd see it again, but instead of being manhandled to the ground, the insurgent nearest him just trained his AK's barrel up to Mac's right temple. He put his eyes on the ground, more to avoid the flashlight beam than to indicate surrender. On his left side, Charlie grunted as his own insurgent shoved him forward.

"Who was master mind of this escape? You?"

Of course. Robinson was also technically still a specialist but obviously older. It was only natural for this ethnic group to assume age brought rank and experience.

They were about twenty yards from the rest of the unit, well within speaking distance. Mac was not at all surprised when Zimmerman called out, "I am Spartacus!"

The chorus was taken up by several other, and when it died down, Mac raised his eyes defiantly against the flashlight beam. "Actually I'm Spartacus."

"They're real sweet and all, but I'm Spartacus," Charlie added drolly, and Mac smirked into the blinding light.

There was a dry chuckle from the contractor playing Head Al Qaeda Guy, and the flashlight beam didn't move from MacGyver's face. "Why do all Americans think they are funny?"

"Because we are," Charlie told him glibly, and Mac actually heard the stock of the AK hit bone when the man behind Charlie struck him. Robinson grunted and barely seemed to have the presence of mind to catch himself with his hands before his forehead hit the sand, and Mac had to clench his jaw to prevent himself from calling out.

That had been a real hit, and it would leave more than a bruise.

"Okay, funny American. Tell me the truth or I kill one of your friends. Who master minded this pathetic attempt at escape?"

The contractor behind Charlie dragged him back upright by the back of his collar, and Charlie spat sand and coughed. Mac was legitimately surprised to see actual blood reflected in the perimeter lights, there on the back of Charlie's clean-shaven head.

Martinez said they'd get hit, but that didn't extend to drawing blood. That was a biohazard at minimum, a concussion at worst –

And it was undoubtedly worsened when the man behind Charlie hit him again with the stock of the AK, sending him this time face-first into the sand.

Mac couldn't help the alarm he was sure was on his face, but looking back up at the men in front of him only resulted in getting blinded with the flashlight again. "Unconscious men can't answer questions," he pointed out with a growl. "So maybe stop hitting him, yeah?"

Then Mac was on the receiving end of a hard shove, but at least the guy behind him didn't crack him over the skull. "Oh? Should we hit you?"

"How did you know?" Duke asked suddenly.

Mac glared sullenly at a point below the flashlight beam. "I don't know what you mean." The curriculum had been very specific; the details of evasion were considered classified intelligence and could only be revealed to the appropriate chain of command after a 'returnee' was recovered by friendly forces.

Also, Jack had used that tactic on him at least a dozen times. Answering that question also answered several unspoken ones, and Mac wasn't ready to admit to any of it just yet.

"Yes you do." For some reason Mac expected to get hit, but no one touched him. On the ground beside him, Charlie groaned, slowly gathering his arms to push himself up. His insurgent planted a boot on his back and pointed his AK at his already-bleeding head.

And even though Mac was still almost certain this was just training, he also knew a dummy bullet, fired point blank, would still do damage. And he knew he'd never let a teammate be executed when he could do something about it.

Unfortunately, his options were limited by the multiple guns and the literal spotlight pointing straight at him.

"You're fully dressed. You were ready for the tear gas. One of you made a homemade flash bang. Something or someone tipped you off. I want to know who."

"No one," Mac answered. It was even the truth. "I just like sleeping in my vest and boots," he added with a growl as Charlie's insurgent prodded him with a heavy foot.

"Kill them both." It was Head Al Qaeda Guy. "We do not have time."

"You're still gonna pay for them, dead or alive," Duke replied, his tone harder than before. "We're not responsible for your guys blowing the grab."

"These men had time to prepare! My men were not even here!" Head Al Qaeda Guy took a step away from Duke, and the flashlight beam dropped enough that Mac was able to make out Duke also stepping off square, his right hand trailing down to the sidearm strapped to his thigh. The guy standing on Charlie's back actually raised his AK – and pointed it at Duke. "If anyone made a mistake, it was your men!"

Mac tried to get a bead on the AK behind him, but before he could blink the photo-bleaching blobs out of his eyes, Duke drew his sidearm and fired – and the sand popped directly in front of Charlie's head. The shot was loud, and the scent of gunpowder came immediately after.

For a split second, Mac mistook it for a live round. But no, gunpowder would still be used. Blanks were often tiny wads of paper, at this distance it would have made the sand pop, just like it would break the skin at this range.

It still felt far too real.

There were calls of alarm from the rest of Mac's unit, they couldn't see what happened, and then Duke modified his aim, right at Charlie's still-bleeding head. Mac was aware of the other men shifting around them, taking their weapons out of his reach.

"Last chance, nigger. How did you know."

Charlie chuckled – or maybe coughed – and Mac straightened, still on his knees but now looking back up at the men. "He's right, you know. It would have to be one of your guys." Sewing discord among the enemy forces was a course-approved tactic, and Mac needed a larger diversion if he was going to get them out of this.

Both Head Al Qaeda Guy and Duke put their attention on him, and Mac offered both men a smug look. "Wouldn't be surprised if he's also tipped off base command by now-"

"Well that's bullshit," Duke interrupted, and then he dropped the flashlight beam to his own waist, where a radio was strapped to a holster on his left hip. "Jammer's still going strong." The firearm moved from Charlie to Mac, and even though he was still ninety-seven percent certain it was loaded with blanks, it still kicked his unease up another notch. "Nah. I don't think anybody tipped you off. I think you're just a cocky little show-off who got lucky."

"And if someone did try to help them?" Head Al Qaeda guy didn't seem like he was buying it, and his two guys still had AKs pointed at Duke.

The head instructor never took his eyes off Mac. "Then I'll take care of it. Stick to the agreement, and everybody wins."

And then he fired.

Mac felt three distinct strikes, almost like someone had banged on his chest with a hammer. He found himself on his back in the sand, staring up at the sky, gasping against suffocating pressure, like his vest was strapped on way the hell too tight –

Duke appeared above him, then Head Al Qaeda guy. Duke spoke to him, but Mac couldn't hear it above the ringing in his ears. Head Al Qaeda guy was scowling, but he reached into his vest and that was about the time Mac's brain finally put together that he'd been shot.

He'd just been shot in the chest three times with live rounds.

Head Al Qaeda produced a wad of cash, which Duke accepted, and then both men disappeared from his field of view. Mac was still trying to breathe around the feeling of broken glass in his lungs when one of the insurgents walked up, glared down at him, and then something hard collided with the side of Mac's head.

-M-

NOTES: By now you can probably tell why this is a standalone and not a Trimming; I continue to be utterly unable to tell a short story. At the moment I anticipate it'll be three chapters, which probably means five. I know it's been a minute, and I'm out of practice, so please forgive my typos (I chose not to trouble my amazing beta reader for this one) and set your expectations to a weekly update, not a daily one.