Sometimes there are situations in TV shows that we hear about before or after the fact but never actually see. (Most of these in my living memory occur in Emergency! when Dr. Brackett is about to whup someone upside the head or Johnny's got a bad idea in the works.) While that's great and all, sometimes you just want to see how these things go down; like in The Dare-Devil Rescue Raid when Troy leaves Tully to guard Moffitt and Tully just kind of. . .loses track of him.
I've never written in present tense before, so I wanted to try it out with this little fluff piece. Since it feels kind of weird and off-kilter to be writing this way, there might be a few typos here and there I missed. Sorry in advance, and don't be shy about letting me know!
In frigid defiance Moffitt moves right past Troy into the driver's seat, settling in for the long haul with a hand tightly clutching the wheel. He's already reaching for the ignition, determined to disobey whatever order and run over whoever he needs to so he can follow those tracks. Troy turns sharply on his heel, entire body pulled taut like a bowstring drawn back to strike. He's ready to drag Moffitt out by the scruff of the neck if necessary. The deadly, level force of his voice promises that.
"Moffitt!"
The Brit stops dead, and stares at him with pale, sparking eyes. His chin is raised, his jaw stiff, rebellion etched into every detail of his features. He's challenging Troy now, even in his silence, daring him to say whatever he thinks will keep Moffitt in his place.
Troy is more than willing to oblige. His orders are there to be followed, not questioned. He's given Moffitt what he understands most: logic and facts, not sympathy but reality. Any other time he would understand that, and let his anger cool. But this time it hasn't worked, and they have to move on.
Moffitt is still staring, waiting mutinously, looking almost triumphant that no warning has been put forth. His voice dead calm, Troy looks him in the eye and gives him one.
"You move one inch in that jeep. . .and I'll shoot you as a deserter."
Cozied up against the sun-warmed flank of his jeep, Tully watches in silence as Moffitt paces back and forth along the burnt fuselage of the crashed plane. Each movement vibrates with suppressed fury, his darkened gaze fixed on the settling line of dust that marks the trail Hitch and Troy have taken. His mouth is a thin, pressed line, the muscles of his face worked taut over a tightly-set jaw. Tully has never seen him so agitated and angry. Come to think of it, he's never seen him so passionate about anything before—not the war, not his own safety. . .and surely not his own father. He doesn't let emotion get in the way of logical thinking. A man could hardly know what to think seeing all that coming from someone so reliably cool and collected.
Troy hadn't known what to do with him either; that much was clear from his parting instructions to Tully.
"You keep a close eye on him. If he comes near this jeep—" He'd stopped, eyes flashing toward his British counterpart with such intensity Tully was half-surprised Moffitt didn't drop dead right there and then. Abruptly, brutally, he had finished. "Shoot him."
In horrified, automatic silence Hitch and Tully had merely looked at each other over Troy's shoulder. The blond private's face was written over with bewildered alarm as he waited for one of them to object, but Tully had only pulled his Tommy gun from its leather scabbard and drawn back the bolt. There was too much that could be said for him to even try.
Moffitt reaches the tail of the plane and turns sharply on his heel, swiveling to face the gaping desert. "He's out of his mind!" he snaps unexpectedly, half-startling Tully out of his reverie. "I can't find that road. All the knowledge in the world can't help if it isn't the right kind."
The shimmering sand soaks in the sound of his voice and offers nothing in reply. The following silence is deafening. Cradling the Tommy gun in the crook of his elbow, Tully inspects one of his silver rings until the waiting becomes too much even for him. "Nope," he finally says, realizing a response is called for. Moffitt takes this as license to continue.
"Why else did he think they were flying my father out here, for a pleasure tour of North Africa? For some soppy reunion with his son? The sorry kind of a son who doesn't even look for his own father?"
"Yeah," says Tully, though he doubts this is truly an appropriate answer. He also doubts Moffitt is even paying attention. The Brit needs an audience to work off his outburst, and Tully is nothing if not a good listener. He looks at the twisted, charred wreckage of the airplane, at its body ripped clean in two by German shells. If the elder Moffitt's body isn't in the debris, he must have fallen or jumped out when the plane was still coming down. Troy is right, Tully knows—either way, nobody could survive that.
But Moffitt's father, he suspects, is not nobody.
Moffitt himself has a penchant for the spectacular, for surviving the odds out of sheer spite and a general inability to admit defeat. If he can elude death with such stubborn determination, what must the man be like who taught him such tricks?
No, sir. Tully isn't putting anything past Moffitt's father.
In a way, he understands Troy's bullheaded focus on finding the ancient road. It is the true purpose of their mission, after all. But Moffitt's point comes into play, too: only his father can locate that road. If he's dead, they'll waste as much time looking for him as they will trying to dig up a Roman ruin that only one man knew how to find. But if he's alive—as the dead Arab and wind-scrubbed tracks suggest—it makes sense to search for him. Even badly injured, he'll improve their chances of finding that roadway, and then they can wash their hands of the whole thing.
Either way it's a wild goose chase, a great big mess, and Tully's glad he doesn't have to make any of the decisions. All he has to do is follow orders.
But Moffitt is still pacing like a restless panther, as if walking his way clean through to China will somehow fix the situation and give him the opportunity he needs to find his father. All the walking in the world isn't going to do him any good, Tully sympathizes, but it's better than going crazy at a standstill.
Hitch's face comes into his memory as he watches his sergeant stalk back and forth. He sees in those young features the instant, instinctive horror and disbelief that Troy could act so callously in threatening to have Moffitt shot. Sure, the Brit is a little out-of-control. He's never been so volatile, never acted with such conviction. But still. . .it just isn't right.
Moffitt's swarthy face is set with the frozen look of one too focused on his thoughts to monitor his expression. One glance at his slanting shoulders is enough to see he's inwardly seething that he's been put under guard like an irresponsible, green recruit. He knows he can find his father, because he knows his father isn't dead. They're too much alike for that. If there's one thing to know about Moffitt, it's that he doesn't fancy death anymore than it fancies him.
Tully knows it's not his decision. He knows he has the easiest job in the world and all he's got to do is wait for Troy to come back. But the sun is eking its way across the sky and any minute now Troy will be back, and all at once Tully just plain can't help it.
He makes it his decision.
"Sarge," he says, trying to snap Moffitt out of his head and back into the burning African desert. There's no reply; the Brit is in too deep. Tully tries again. "Sarge."
"Don't call me Sarge!" Moffitt retorts, his hackles rising. He has no patience for anyone today—not now. But when his driver only stares at him, waiting for the uncharacteristic burst of irritation to subside, he sighs and collects himself. "What?" he asks in a measured, tight tone. His feet still faithfully follow the path they have carved out for themselves in the shifting sand, but he's looking up now. Tully has his attention.
"It occurs to me," says the Kentuckian in his slow, unflappable drawl, "that if you was to leave without comin' near this jeep—" he shrugs, shifting his matchstick to the opposite corner of his mouth "—well, I couldn't do a thing about that."
Moffitt stops dead and looks at him in silence, trying to wrap his mind around the not-proposition Tully has just put forth. When its meaning sinks in, his gray-frosted eyes narrow in suspicion.
"Troy will be mad," he says in a voice that suggests he rather relishes this possible outcome.
Tully raises his eyebrows. "He's been mad before."
Moffitt does not offer thanks readily. It's the proper thing to do, but at the moment it's also the emotional thing to do, and he has already spent all his energy in that direction for today. Secretly Tully is grateful for the mute reply he receives. As a lowly cog in the wheels of the military machine, he doesn't get much in the line of gratitude and he likes it that way. He didn't join the Army to be thanked all over the place.
In a matter of seconds Moffitt's lightning-quick mind has formulated a plan and the rest of him rushes to follow. Feeling it's only right to give the man some privacy, as he is about to escape unchallenged, Tully turns his attention to his Tommy gun. By the time he's put it back in its scabbard and looks up again, Moffitt is gone.
Tully cycles out his matchsticks and clambers up into the bed of the jeep to check the receiver on the Browning. The belts have been feeding pretty rough and he suspects something's out of alignment. One of the pawls has nearly wrenched loose from its pin; it's a simple matter of a quick field-strip and replacement arm and he knows the M2 will be purring through her supply of ammo as content as can be. Finishing up, he claps the cover back down and weighs the broken bit of metal in the palm of his hand. If only all problems had such an easy fix. This one certainly doesn't, and now he's gone and made it his problem. Moffitt's too far to catch and there's no one to get mad at here but him.
But he's not as bothered as he could be. He settles back against the sleek side of the Browning and waits for the hammer to fall.
Yeah, Troy'll be mad all right.
But orders is orders.