Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.
-M-
AFGHANISTAN – ZABOL PROVINCE
"Snakebite Zero Three, this is Snakebite One One, over."
Mac roused himself from his thoughts, glancing across the cabin of the humvee. His passenger didn't look or sound terribly alarmed, and he gestured towards the village coming up on their right. "Park us under that tree right there."
He stared at Jack another few seconds, expectantly, and their radios crackled.
"Snakebite One One, this is Snakebite Zero Three, go ahead, over."
Jack Dalton thumbed the broadcast button on his radio. "We're runnin' a little hot, gonna check our coolant level. We're stopping under cover about half a klick from Shahjoy, over." He released the transmit button. "Seriously, dude. Pull over."
MacGyver glanced back down at the dash, studying the instrument panel. "We're not running hot-"
"Well I am," Jack drawled. "And it's way the hell past lunchtime." He knocked two knuckles – one gloved, one not - against the passenger side window for emphasis.
"Snakebite One One, good copy. Advise when you roll out, over."
Mac reluctantly slowed the vehicle and made for the copse of Ulmus wallichiana Jack had indicated. "We're only an hour from base. Sure you can't hold it?"
Jack gave him a look. "Was that a thinly veiled derogatory reference to the age of my bladder?"
The 'vee ground to a halt under the trees, and Mac put it in park and killed the engine. "Nope." He gave his overwatch a crooked grin. "Wasn't veiled at all."
"Well har har." Dalton opened the door and slid out of the vehicle, slipping his rifle onto his back. "You don't need to gear up, kid. This village is friendly."
Mac dismounted the vehicle, eyeing his pack a moment. Where the MREs were stored. "Well, if you want lunch-"
"Then I'll get me some." His overwatch was already several strides away. "And if you knock it off with the old man jokes, maybe I'll get you some too."
More than a little curious, Mac locked up the 'vee and followed him.
The trees were about a hundred yards from the first building that marked the village proper, and a few young boys came tearing around the corner. Whatever their disagreement, they both came up short, staring at the two American soldiers approaching. The taller of the boys hit his companion in the chest, and they both turned tail and disappeared.
Pretty much like every village they entered, friendly or otherwise.
"You know this place?" Gravel rattled on his left, and Mac watched a sky blue Volkswagon pass by on the main road. There were two passengers, both men, and to Mac's surprise, they also pulled off at the village, disappearing around the same building.
Jack hadn't turned his head, but he knew his overwatch had been keeping an eye on it, probably since it showed up in their rear view mirror twenty kilometers ago. "How long you been wearing your big boy pants now? Ninety-two days and a wake-up?"
It was a little unnerving how his EOD classmates still referred to time by weeks and months, and everyone on their third and fourth tours counted time only in units of days, even into the hundreds. He had technically graduated from training – meaning he was no longer paired with a training officer, and instead paired with Jack - a little over three months. Three months sounded like nothing, barely enough time to get his feet wet. Or in the case of Afghanistan, covered in moon dust.
But calling it ninety-two days made it sound a hell of a lot longer.
When he didn't respond, Jack glanced over at him. "'Bout time you learned to recognize a cutie when you see one."
It took him longer than it should have to translate that into QT – a QuikTrip. It wasn't an acronym he'd heard since he'd left the States.
MacGyver eyed the village again. No gas pumps or convenience stores in sight. In fact, besides the relatively clear dirt road leading off the pavement into the village, he wouldn't have suspected it was well traveled at all.
But now that he was looking, the fine, flour-like dust ground out of the rocks by countless tires told him this village was frequented quite a bit. That building on the corner, that he had assumed was a home, was in fact some kind of shop, and its red-painted shutters were opened. Most buildings that faced the main roads in Afghanistan were closed off, windows included.
As they came closer, what one of the Brits on the FOB called a 'jinglytruck' came into view, heading ponderously down the main road towards them, and Mac watched his cover break out in a genuine grin.
"Nice! Tour bus comin' through means we'll score some good eats."
The large red truck didn't disappoint, slowing significantly to avoid tipping as it all but wallowed like a wide-bottomed ship off the pavement onto the dirt and sand. It was easily as tall as a double decker bus, but thicker on the top than the bottom, and covered in bells and swinging chains that made it jingle, hence the moniker. They were fairly common in Afghanistan, near as Mac could tell, and were used to move both passengers and goods across the country. The windows were nearly all open, and faces under colored scarves and hajibs peered out of at least half.
He and Jack finally made it to the corner shop and turned down the main thoroughfare, finding a fairly wide street choked with vehicles. The jinglytruck they'd seen arrive was one of two, and various other four doors were there, including a fairly nice older model Mercedes. They were parked wherever their drivers had decided to stop, and Mac could see why they'd left the humvee where they had. No way would he have been able to maneuver down this street.
Also, given the smells that were coming from improvised barbeques and colorful little stalls, he wasn't sure why he'd want to be driving. It was like a little pop-up market.
His cover was watching him take it all in. "Better than an MRE, am I right?"
Most of the shops were probably also residences, he could see living quarters through the open doors – and nearly all were open – and people were in and out, setting out wares on rickety tables, chatting with strangers, haggling for goods. Though a few Afghans looked their way, there was none of the open staring he'd become used to, nor any sense of unease with their presence.
For nearly the first time since he'd set foot in Afghanistan, he didn't feel completely and totally out of place.
"So this is a friendly village."
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "Figured you'd never seen one before. Shahjoy's about as friendly as it gets." He pointed to a few of the buildings. "You noticed the road – you see a lotta moon dust, it means a lotta traffic. Open shutters and open doors means open for business. Mostly men working the stalls, so they're expecting non-locals, maybe even non-Muslims. About an hour from a well-established forward operating base, right off the main drag, so it's a good guess soldiers stop here from time to time. They didn't want us around, there'd be a guy with a rifle sittin' right over there." Jack indicated a little shed, very near to the main road, with an awning that left it perfectly shaded, though it was past noon.
There was a textile stool under it, sitting empty.
Jack gave him a second more to absorb everything, and then the older man dragged him towards the nearest stall.
The first few were cookware, cups and plates in simple, traditional designs. If he thought it would actually make it back to Bozer he might've picked up a samovar, which was kind of an urn in which you could heat or boil water for tea service for your twenty closest friends. He had nothing durable enough to box one in, but he made a mental note to try to swing back for one before his first visit back stateside. The prices here were much more reasonable than in Kabul.
Though money was a thing he hadn't thought to bring with him, considering their mission had been to remove two suspected IEDs off the road near Nowrak. There'd only been one – the other major disturbance in the dirt and mud near the road had been the result of efforts by a very determined and possibly inbred goat, who had also taken a shine to the humvee's left rear tire.
It had been resolved without shooting anything, which was always a plus, and without anything blowing up, also a plus. Which was not to say he and Jack were not both sporting bruises from the encounter. And though Mac was very sensitive to where food products came from, at this point he wouldn't mind eating some goat. Maybe even that goat, specifically.
Which brought him back to the problem of money. And not having any.
"You know what this QT is missing?"
Jack cocked an eyebrow at him, looking over the table.
"An ATM."
His cover chuckled. "Relax, kid. I'll spot ya."
Before long they made it to a family that was roasting kabobs of some kind of meat over a small wheelbarrow. Mac had no idea what it was, and he didn't ask as Jack unzipped the pouch on his arm normally reserved for gum and bandaids and pulled out a small, folded rectangle of green and pink bills. Two afghani got him two kabobs, and a woman in a fairly conservative hajib accepted them from the man Mac assumed was her husband, coated them in some kind of slightly green yogurt-based sauce, and passed them back to him. Jack took both, offering one to Mac, and he accepted it with a nod of thanks.
Whatever it was, it wasn't nearly as tough as it looked, and the mint yogurt sauce was actually pretty good.
It lasted them half of the trip down one side of the street. The bills came out again, this time for cups of a hot cinnamon spice tea that washed down the mystery meat perfectly, and Mac blew on his while Jack chatted up the man with a broken English-Pashto combination that had them both laughing and clapping each other on the shoulder like they were old friends.
Forget having never been to a friendly village before. He'd never been this close to a friendly Jack Dalton before. He had no idea the man could speak any Pashto at all, and he'd never seen his cover interact with Afghans voluntarily. They were still on the clock, they were still in uniform, and Jack was acting like he was back stateside at a smalltown Texas street fair. He was wearing his sunglasses, so it was hard to see where his eyes were, but he'd never so much as twitched a hand for his rifle, not even when a few boys – possibly the same ones from earlier - had set off a string of firecrackers behind a few of the women who had come in on the jinglytruck.
He seemed completely at ease. It was –
Weird. The whole thing was a little weird.
"Oh, hey. You gotta try this stuff. Kinda like elephant ears."
It was the booth directly next door, so Mac didn't feel too badly wandering away with his ceramic cup of tea. Jack was salivating over some kind of irregularly shaped fried dough that was sprinkled with sugar and what looked like ground pistachios. Mac had never seen anything like it, and the operator gave him somewhat surprised look.
"Elephant ears," he repeated. "You know, like when your mom would bake a few pies, and there were extra strips of pie dough, she'd put a little bit of butter, sugar and cinnamon on 'em and bake 'em, just as a little treat?"
Mac flashed him a quick smile and sucked down a sip of tea. "Yeah, I think I remember Bozer's mom doing that once or twice. Don't remember what she called them."
Jack's eyebrows rose. "Spent a lotta time at his place? Or your mom just wasn't that good of a cook?"
He and Jack Dalton were on significantly better terms than they'd been three months ago, but he wasn't about to take him for a walk down 'my mom died before I remember her cooking much of anything and my dad bailed when I was twelve' lane. "To be honest, time spent eating was time not spent working on science projects, so I kinda just inhaled food as needed so I could get back to more interesting stuff."
He could tell Jack hadn't totally bought that, but he seemed content to let it go. "Funny you should mention science projects."
Mac blinked at him, not following, and Jack nodded past the table full of pastries to the shelving set up just outside the front door. There were cooking utensils, squares of a thick-woven fabric he assumed were hot pads, and a battered old radio playing more static than talk show. It was old, with a bulb backlighting the frequency dial, and he watched it flickering for a moment.
"Bet if you fixed that up, that nice lady'd give us some of these elephant ears in thanks."
The nice lady in question was also in a fairly conservative hijab, moving dough out of the indoor kitchen to the outdoor tables, and her son, who looked to be around fourteen, was watching them from the door with distrustful eyes.
That, at least, felt a little more like the Afghanistan he'd come to know.
Considering Jack had paid – unasked – for both the kebabs and tea, Mac figured picking up dessert was the least he could do. He knew very little Pashto, so he didn't even try. He gave the kid a friendly smile, then pointed at the radio. Then he gestured at himself, and mimed twisting the dials.
The boy gave him a dark look. "Radio not for sale," he declared.
Mac re-evaluated his new friend. "I can fix it," he offered. Then he reached into his vest and pulled his swiss army knife free. "If you want?"
His hunch was right; the kid's eyes went to the red multitool, with its enticing and mysterious metal blades, all still tucked away and enigmatic. After an appropriate amount of time – enough to let this American know that he was only acquiescing out of some kind of obligation to not be rude – the boy huffed and fetched the radio. It was attached to what looked like a homemade extension cord, that ran up the wall of the house, and Mac took a couple steps back, surprised to see what looked like the edge of a solar panel on the roof.
Selling pastries must make good money.
Mac plopped Indian-style on the ground between the booth and the house, which was about as far as the cord would stretch, and he made quick work of unscrewing the back. It was European made, at least thirty years old, and the super-fine sand they all called moon dust had caked itself around the board. Mac blew out what he could, then used the can opener attachment's flat edge to chip the really encrusted stuff off. Sure enough, the salt in the sand had corroded the connection between the power supply and the transceiver, and the caked sand – really almost glass at this point - was all that was still holding it together.
He scraped that out, too, then stripped a little of the wire back until he found uncorroded metal. He was going to lose about an inch, and there wasn't enough play in the existing wire to make up that distance, but a little searching in his right pocket from their adventures earlier in the morning turned up some wire from the IED that would work as a patch.
He swapped the can opener for the pliers, and cut an inch and a half pigtail for the radio from the spare wire, twisting it onto the end of the original wire. "Hey Jack. Can I see your lighter?"
His cover had been watching something down the street, but his right hand absently fished around in his vest. He produced a red Bic lighter.
Mac held out a hand, expecting the lighter to be tossed his way, but nothing else happened.
He rewound the words in his head. See the lighter. Very funny. "Well, I mean, if you don't really want some elephant ears, that's cool too . . ."
Jack smirked and refocused on him. "Given how frequently you ignore orders, guess I shouldn't be surprised you've broken rule number one about eighty times by now." He handed it over, and Mac reached out and took it, shaking his head.
"We should probably just rescind rule number one at this point."
"Only if Jack Dalton gets to rescind rule number two."
Mac groaned, grimacing like he was in pain, and his cover chuckled. That grimace shortly reappeared, real this time as he singed his thumb, but the old solder had softened just enough, and Mac used the tip of the pliers to mash the wire firmly into the small glob. He blew on it to cool it, waiting until the board was no longer smoking, and at an impatient snapping sound above him he also blew on the lighter's end, just to make sure it was also cool enough to pocket, and held it blindly above his head. It was taken, and he heard Velcro rip open as it was tucked back into place.
It wasn't like he didn't return the things he borrowed. Except for things like the gum wrapper. Or the zipper pull, it had actually been consumed as part of the fix. A couple bullets, but that was no big deal, just a little paperwork. A pair of shoelaces had bitten it when he needed a few extra feet to safely dispose of that IED by the riverbed, and frankly Jack had been more impressed with the explosion than pissed about having to get another set of shoelaces from the FOB's box-kicker.
Mac plugged the radio back in, still mindful of his young audience, and flicked it on. The bulb was steady this time, as was the transmission – as good as AM radio got in the desert, at any rate – and the boy's eyes lit up as Mac screwed the back on and handed him the device.
"There you go," he said, and untangled his legs, brushing off the sand as he got back to his feet.
A small crowd had gathered behind him, completely unnoticed, and Mac gave them a hesitant smile while his cover accepted two of the pastries as payment. He folded up his multitool and accepted his reward, and he'd gotten a bite into it before a man approached him, holding a very worn looking pair of trimming shears. They were rebranded Wahl, a heavy duty model, and just jammed up. While he still had it in pieces, Mac was able to mime sharpening the blades to the owner, and hadn't taken more than two steps before he was approached by another man, this time with an oscillating fan.
Jack just chuckled, hands hanging off his vest. "Looks like I found the ATM."
Mac gave him a look. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you."
He shrugged. "Helpin' the locals is part of our ROE. You can always tell 'em no."
Word got around. By the time they were working their way back up the other half of the street, at nearly every stall someone would emerge from their house with something that wasn't operating correctly. In return, Mac was handed some other kind of delicacy. Some of the foods he recognized as typically reserved for celebrations or special occasions, and he wondered if this was the equivalent of an Afghani tourist trap, rather than a QT.
"Hey, Maff, heck hiff ow!"
He looked up to find his partner with his mouth half-open and full of some kind of dumpling, and he offered three on a small plate. "Hoff," he added. A little steam puffed out of his mouth to accentuate his words.
"Noted." He presumed he was also on the hook to pay for the dumplings, and he was surprised to see a little girl, no more than maybe five years old, eyes as round as saucers, hiding behind her father's leg. She was holding something, but he couldn't see what it was. Her father gave Mac what was very decidedly a warning look, but his expression softened as he turned to his daughter, and his voice was gentle.
The language didn't matter. Mac knew exactly what they were saying.
Eventually, a little carved mule and a cart came into view. The mule was still in one piece, but the cart looked like it had been stepped on. Possibly by her father, from the slightly guilty look on his face, and Mac smiled and knelt beside the stall, holding out a hand.
"Can I see?"
It took a bit more cajoling from her father, but eventually the dark-eyed little girl came forward juuuust enough to hand him the toys. Then she was back behind the shield of her father.
Mac grinned and evaluated this new puzzle. Definitely stepped on. The axle of the two-wheeled wagon was snapped. He just needed a tube or dowel of some kind, a pen body would do the trick –
Mac glanced up, looking for Jack, and found that, outside of a few less interested passers by, his cover was nowhere to be seen.
Probably three stalls up looking for a beer to cool his tongue. And frankly, even if it did constitute drinking on the job, at this point Mac wouldn't say no to one either.
With no pen handy, Mac went back to his vest, pulling out the contents. Nothing useful in his individual first aid kit, chemlights were no good, some earplugs, spare cables for the radio, ID tags and card, a strobe . . . he was about to give up when he dug up half a pencil from the map compartment.
Perfect.
It was just a little smaller than the wagon wheels, and he used electrical tape to make bumpers on the ends so the axel didn't slide out of the wheels. Noticing that the mule had no harness, he pulled the bright yellow wire he'd used earlier out of his pocket, fashioning what he considered a very functional over the head harness that allowed for easy removal of the mule when not in use.
Once done, he set the mule – now with a colorful harness – and its full functional wagon back on the ground, and re-packed his vest while the little girl considered her options. It was apparently still too close to him, so Mac stood slowly and took a few steps back, reclaiming the plate that Jack had handed him and giving her father a nod, stuffing a now-cooler dumpling into his mouth and glancing down the street.
The jinglytrucks had moved out in the meantime, clearing the street somewhat, and he finally spotted his cover way the hell down the row of stalls, in spirited conversation with an Afghan male. He thumbed over his shoulder, pointing back towards where the jeep was parked, and then both he and the Afghan shook hands before the man gestured, and then he and Jack disappeared into a shop.
Mac watched for a minute, nodding with a distracted smile while the little girl reclaimed her toy and her father was clearly thanking him, and after a few minutes, Jack re-emerged from the shop, zipping up the pouch on his uniformed arm where gum and bandaides were typically stored.
And, apparently, Afghani cash.
The man he'd been talking to emerged as well, handing him an old gas can, and it was apparent from the way they were handling it that it was light, meaning it was empty, or nearly so. Mac averted his eyes, stuffing another dumpling into his face, just in case Jack glanced down the street, and he busied himself with looking at the next stall, which sold scarves not unlike the one he himself wore.
There was a term in the army for informed gossip – rumint. It was a combination of rumor and intelligence. Rumint had it that less than scrupulous Army soldiers had sold hundreds of thousands of dollars of fuel to Afghan locals over the course of the support efforts in Afghanistan, usually in the form of diesel straight from the tank. Five gallons here, ten gallons there, it was hard for a mechanic to glance at an odometer in this kind of terrain and say that fuel usage was excessive. It depended on how much off-roading was being done, at what speed the vehicles were driven, wind, even temperature.
Skimming fuel off Uncle Sam seemed harmless enough, but being EOD, Mac knew exactly how at risk those fuel trucks were, coming into the FOB to resupply the reservoir. And after three months working with him, Jack should damn well know it too. The IED they'd cleared just that morning was on a supply line.
Explained where the Afghani currency had come from, at any rate. And why Jack had been so keen to stop here, why he was so at ease with these people.
Mac ate the last dumpling, even though it tasted like ash in his mouth, and returned the plate to the stall. The man there nodded, accepting it without really looking at him, and Mac took that as his cue to finish up their little pit stop and express his disapproval to his cover.
Someone was speaking behind him, but in Mac's annoyance he didn't realize it was at him until a hand touched his shoulder, lightly. He turned to find the little girl's father, gesturing back towards his stall. Mac flashed him a quick smile.
"I'm . . . we're good, right?" Fixing a toy wasn't quite the same as fixing a fan, but –
But he didn't exactly have cash if it wasn't.
The man nodded agreeably, but still gestured for him to come, and Mac squashed his irritation and followed him back, not to his stall, but towards his house. He stepped inside, then gestured again, and Mac hesitated. The sun was pretty high, they'd been here over an hour and the Afghan jinglytrucks were gone, leaving significantly fewer people still on the street. If it was an appliance, like an oven or something he needed help with, it could take some time, and Dalton would have no idea where he was-
Not that the operator seemed to give much of a damn about that at the moment. And given how glued to his ass the man usually was, the whole thing seemed even more off.
Then again, it seemed everyone here was Jack's personal buddy. Maybe making that asshole worry was exactly what he needed to do to put a stop to this skimming nonsense.
Mind made up, and more than a little pissed off, Mac nodded and followed the vendor into his home. As expected, he was led towards the back of the dwelling, which was half shop and half living space. Besides food, it appeared the man worked with leather, he was perhaps a cobbler, and his daughter sat in the corner of the main room on a child sized stool, clutching her mule and cart to her chest.
Mac smiled at her, swallowing any irritation he was feeling for Dalton at the moment, and she sat like petrified Sequoia langsdorfii and stared at him.
At a word he was beginning to think was 'come' in Pashto, Mac gave up trying to get on her good side, and followed her father.
The back of the house was darker, the windows closed up, and at first Mac couldn't figure out why, because it was stiflingly hot. There was a woman working over the stove, preparing some kind of rice dish he figured would be their evening meal, and she was dressed even more conservatively than the women he'd seen earlier, in a niqab that covered everything but her eyes. He felt a stab of guilt, knowing that if it was just her family in the dwelling, she wouldn't be forced to wear so much clothing in such a hot room, but then he heard the distinctive metallic grinding of a rifle round being loaded into a chamber, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
The girl's father stepped further into the kitchen, pulling his wife away from the stove and tucking her behind him into the corner, and Mac slowly turned, raising his hands. On the right-hand side of the room was a small table, and behind it another door, just barely cracked open. A man whose face was also covered held a rifle casually, one-handed, pointed directly at him. Every once in a while, he glanced out of the crack in the door, clearly waiting for something.
Mac had the feeling he didn't want to find out what that something was.
And given the way the girl's father was physically shielding his wife, the guilty expression he'd been wearing earlier, his utterly silent daughter glued to her stool in the other room, it was pretty clear what the price of trying to run away would be.
Mac took another step into the room, slowly, and the gunman gave him a sharp look. "Okay," he said softly. "It's okay. You're in charge."
Everything the Army had ever taught him about being in an abduction situation scrolled through his head. Avoid the situation if you can. If escape is not realistic, don't challenge. Don't make eye contact. Keep quiet, the locals can't or won't help you. Do what you're told, within reason. Signal if you can. Observe everything.
If he hadn't been shot outright, and they'd gone to this much trouble, they were probably hoping to spirit him away before Jack came back. At least that meant they wanted him alive.
For a little while, anyway.
And either way, it was an opportunity to signal to Jack, either via radio or some other means, that something was happening.
The gunman swiped at his eyes with his sleeve, clearly just as hot as the rest of them were, and Mac kept his eyes down and shifted another step closer. Outside of the kitchen table and the stove, there wasn't much he could get his hands on quickly enough to do any good. The house was made from baked mud, meaning upsetting the stove wouldn't set it on fire. Nothing in the room seemed to lend itself to enough noise, and the explosives they're retrieved from the disarmed IED were in the 'vee.
Radio it was.
The gunman risked another glance at the door, the motion more irritated now, and Mac waited for his opportunity. The door cracked open slightly more as he tried to get a better view around it, and his left arm came up to wipe at his eyes.
Mac keyed his radio, twice. It was all he had time to do.
Since technically his cover was also the com officer of the pair of them, Mac's radio was still set to their team operating frequency, meaning the TOC – specifically Snakebite Zero Three – wasn't going to hear him. If Dalton was too busy siphoning fuel to pay attention, he was going to be out of luck.
The radio audio was going into the earpiece, the reply was inaudible to everyone but him. "I hear you, Mac. When I say go, I need ya to get that guy's attention. Nothing stupid."
Mac digested that without changing his position, or his expression.
The gunman glanced out the door again, shifting his aim slightly more towards the floor, and Mac eyeballed the distance between them. A rifle was an ungainly weapon, and he was holding it one-handed. If he could get a fingertip on that barrel he could turn it, as long as he shoved it to his right any discharge would hit the wall-
His radio crackled with an urgent whisper. "Go!"
Nothing stupid.
Mac took a step forward, and he licked his lips. "Uh, sir, I don't know what you want but-"
He wasn't sure if it was the words or the movement, but the combination certainly did the trick and the gunman leaned off the wall, putting his other hand on the rifle and shaking it at him. He was only a step away from coming into range when the door opened just a sliver more, and the extra light was blocked by a large figure. Dalton didn't fire a shot; he grabbed the rifle sling around the man's neck and yanked straight back.
The rifle flew up and out of the gunman's hands, whacking him right in his face, and then Jack hauled the man bodily backwards out the door.
Mac held out a hand to the couple in the corner, urging them to stay put, and he waited. That rifle could still go off-
There was the unmistakable sound of something hard hitting flesh, a grunt of pain. It was followed by two more strikes, then something heavy hit the ground. The door was half-open; Mac backed up a little to stay out of line of sight of whoever was on the other side of it, and he keyed his radio.
". . . you good?"
There was a long pause.
"Clear."
Mac waved at the man again, to stay where he was, and then he approached the back door, and cautiously peered out.
Jack was in sight, just barely, dragging the unconscious Afghan around the back of the house. He didn't look up, and Mac followed after him. He came around the corner about the time Jack was putting zipties on the gunman, and MacGyver was stunned to see three other men, all unconscious and bound, slumped in a neat line beside him.
The second he was done, Dalton stepped over to him, and Mac barely got his mouth open before he was grabbed unceremoniously by the vest. He almost punched Jack before he realized the man wasn't attacking – he was checking him.
For injuries.
Jack didn't even seem to notice Mac's combative attitude, fully focused on his task, and he even forcibly spun him around, pulling his vest to check his back. "You good? No new holes? Anybody touch ya?"
Mac tried to pull away, and he was spun back around. Jack's eyes were finally on his face, and Mac wasn't sure where to even start.
"What . . . what the hell-"
Jack apparently interpreted that as "I'm fine, no one touched me," because he backed off and keyed his radio. "Snakebite Zero Three, this is Snakebite One One, over."
"Jack-" He switched his radio to the TOC channel even as he said it.
"-his is Snakebite Zero Three, go ahead, over."
His cover didn't miss a beat. "We got a situation here. Four T-Men just tried to abduct my EOD. We have them in custody, no injuries. Request ARSIC dispatch ANPs to Shahjoy. We'll retain custody until handoff. Over."
Mac tried to sort out the acronyms. ARSIC was the Afghan Regional Security Integrated Command, which worked with the Afghan National and Border police to try to keep order. ANPs were the National Police variety, the uniformed Afghan police force. The US had no authority to actually arrest Afghan nationals, they really had no authority to even hold or restrain them without agreement from ARSIC-
"Good copy. Stand by, Snakebite One One."
Jack released the radio and looked him over. "You sure you're okay?"
The pieces were still swirling around his head. "You – you intentionally left me there –"
At some point Jack had pulled his eye protection – probably looking into the dim kitchen – and his brown eyes were hard and serious. "Yeah."
"And the – I saw you with the gas can-"
At this point the Delta operator's eyebrows rose. "Really? Not bad, kid."
And then it all clicked into place.
Jack had done that to make the insurgents – whether they were truly Taliban or not – think that he was just another Army grunt selling gas to the locals. The jinglytrucks were leaving, the crowds were dispersing, they had a small window to take him in any of those vehicles and Jack wouldn't have known which one, satellite wouldn't help them –
Jack had given them the literal perfect opportunity.
Which didn't leave many questions at all. "How did you know?"
His partner followed his train of thought pretty well, considering he hadn't said much of it out loud. "Y'mean how'd I know they'd go for ya?" In answer, he reached out and fingered Mac's EOD patch. "This shit's catnip, dude. Surely they told you bomb nerds why you got meat-eaters watchin' out for ya."
Mac was well aware that EOD were targets – they were one of the only tools the Army had against IEDs, which were by far the most effective weapons in the enemy's arsenal. He knew very well why he and the rest of the top quarter of his EOD class had been assigned to the next available SERE training by their CO. And he knew enough about Jack Dalton, at this point, to know that he'd already been through SERE training, and a hell of a lot more than that.
"How did you know they were there?" A glance at the four of them – all still very unconscious, despite Jack's assertion there were 'no injuries' – showed that they were dressed exactly like every other man that had been in that crowd. They'd simply pulled down their headscarves to cover their faces.
In answer, his cover sighed, and glanced at the line himself. He'd just opened his mouth when the radio crackled.
"Snakebite One One, this is Snakebite Zero Three, over."
Jack grabbed his radio. "Go for Snakebite One One, over."
"ANPs are being dispatched to your location, ETA four zero mikes. Routing backup to your location, callsign Lancer Zero Seven. Lancer ETA is two zero mikes. Hold position, Lancer takes security once on site. How copy, over."
Jack's eyebrows twitched, but that was all the surprise he showed. "Snakebite Zero Three, good copy, we'll be on the lookout for Lancer. Over."
Then he smirked. "Well, kid, you're in for a treat." Then he paused. "Do me a favor, though. The jeep really did overheat . . . you with me?"
Mac took in the four unconscious guys – all downed without a shot, without so much as a yell – and then he found himself slowly nodding.
"Yeah. Jeep overheated."
The next eighteen or so minutes passed relatively slowly. Many people came to the back alley of the houses, staring at the men lined up against the wall and the very serious American soldier standing over them with his hand on his sidearm. Mac tried asking a few questions, but Jack waved him off, and Mac was again reminded that he couldn't be sure what language anyone spoke, and Jack probably had his reasons.
He was sure, now – more sure than ever – that Dalton would never have made them stop if he'd thought for an instant that anything remotely like this would happen. He'd been sure it was a friendly village. He'd been there before, clearly. The people remembered him, and some of them seemed glad to see him.
And Mac wondered if that was how Jack knew – if the man who sold them the tea, or the woman with the elephant ears, or the man selling dumplings had tipped him off. Had asked him for his help.
Villages could be turned from friendly to hostile in a night, because the ANP – the Afghan National Police – could only be in so many places, and they were only as loyal as their police force. Men could be bought, same as in the United States. American soldiers came and went, but these people, they lived here. There was nowhere for them to go, and the Taliban – or any other local warlord – could come and threaten them, even shoot them, almost at their leisure.
Telling Jack, if they'd done it, was taking a huge risk. There was no guarantee these four were the only ones. And that there wouldn't be retaliation against the village for their arrest. The Afghan judicial system was overwhelmed and flawed. Even with evidence, the illegal automatic weapons, and witness statements, these men could be free in a matter of days.
The fourteen year old boy who had been amazed by his swiss army knife. That little girl he was sure was still glued to her stool, if she wasn't in her father's arms. There was nothing he could do to make sure they stayed safe.
Mac pulled a couple paperclips from his vest, hoping for inspiration, some way to fix this, and by the time his radio crackled, it legitimately startled him.
"Snakebite One One, this is Lancer Zero Seven, how copy, over."
Jack smirked and grabbed his radio. "Lancer Zero Seven, this is Snakebite, good copy. We were startin' to worry you boys were lima lima mike foxtrot."
Mac wasn't familiar with the term, but the letters LLMF, plus context, brought a ready guess – Lost Like a Mother Fucker.
There was only the briefest of pauses. "You should be so lucky. Wrap up your shopping, ladies. ETA thirty seconds."
Jack glanced at his wrist and chuckled. "Right on the nose."
From his vantage, Mac could see the road headed north, towards their forward operating base, and while he didn't have his binoculars with him, he was pretty sure there was no vehicle, military or otherwise, arriving in the next thirty seconds.
Which probably meant –
He barely suppressed a flinch as a helicopter roared out of seemingly nowhere, popping up over the ridge to the north only about two hundred yards away. Even at that close distance, he didn't immediately recognize the silhouette of the bird, and it came in fast, picking an LZ like it had already scouted the area.
Then again, satellite being what it was, the TOC could have given them precise coordinates.
Jack put his back to the wash, unwilling to take his eyes off the insurgents, but Mac had no such qualms, closing his eyes and holding his breath against the swirling sand. The helo spun down, but not off, and four uniformed soldiers, all bearing the yellow patch of US Army Rangers, were up on them before the wind had even died down enough for Mac to risk turning around.
"Sergeant."
The greeting was to Dalton, which Mac found a little odd, considering his cover never wore any kind of identifying patch or insignia, including his rank.
Jack took it in stride, nodding to the man who'd spoken to him. "Major."
"These your T-Men?"
Around them, the other three Rangers wordlessly headed around the cobbler's house and disappeared.
"Yep."
"Any other excitement we should know about?"
"Nope. Just be sure to check the 'vee for any surprises our good friends here mighta left ya."
The Ranger and the Delta evaluated the four men, two of whom had come around when the helo landed. "You got 'em lined up so nice and pretty. Seems a shame to waste a formation like that."
"Yeah, I know." Though they were speaking loudly to be heard over the helo, Mac thought he could hear real regret in Jack's voice.
To shoot bound men, even enemies, would be unequivocally murder, and Mac lifted his head, giving Jack a warning look his partner clearly noticed.
So did the Ranger. "Who the hell's that? Your EOD's son?"
Mac transferred the warning glare to the Ranger, who started to chuckle. "Good ears on that one."
"Good instincts too," Jack added. "They're all yours, major."
"Copy. You and the kid are taking the bird back to base. We'll clean up here."
Mac just stared at them, not sure he'd actually understood that correctly. When Jack didn't protest, and even gestured that they should get moving, Mac approached – but not towards the helo.
"All due respect, sir, even if there's no new IED on the humvee, there are components of an IED I disarmed earlier today already on board. EOD needs to confirm safe transport."
The major's hands were resting on his rifle, and his eyes were sharp and amused. "Got it covered, son. Move out."
But that couldn't be it. Even if one of the other Rangers was trained for EOD – and it was probable - there would have to be a statement to the ANP, evidence collected, the insurgents would have to be processed, witnesses would need to be interviewed – he would need to be interviewed, since he was the supposed victim –
The word struck Mac as utterly ridiculous. He had literally not even been touched. The cobbler's wife, on the other hand –
And they'd sent four Rangers and a helo to extract him? They were a freakin' hour from base -
"Soldier, do you know a goddamn order when you hear one?"
MacGyver pulled himself out of his thoughts and straightened a little out of sheer habit. "Yessir."
The major's eyes widened fractionally, and he turned to the Delta on his right. "Christ, is he gonna do a sniper check?"
Jack tried – and failed – to hide a grin. "I don't think they send EOD through Basic anymore, major." Then he gave an equally unsubtle 'get over here' glare and Mac curbed his displeasure – and seriously considered saluting the major, just to demonstrate that he knew what a 'sniper check' was - and obeyed.
The major yelled something over his shoulder, and while Mac couldn't make it out Jack nodded to show that he understood. Once he was closer to the bird, Mac could see it was a modified Black Hawk – heavily modified. The cockpit was full of specialized tech, and Jack let him take the canvas seat closest to the cockpit, settling himself on the floor with his back to the copilot's seat and clipping a strap to his vest that seemed to be hanging there for exactly that purpose.
Jack removed his helmet, clipping it to the front of his vest, and pulled on one of the on-board helmets, gesturing for Mac to do the same. It put them on radio with the pilots, and also offered quite a bit of sound protection.
"Jack, I still have to give a statement-"
His cover shook his head, once. "You'll do that on base, dude. Relax and enjoy the ride." He let his left leg dangle out of the loading door as the bird took off. "Thanks for the lift, fellas. You comin' back for these wimps?"
Their copilot turned his head a little, taking them both in from the corner of his eye. "That's the plan, sir. We didn't see anything interesting inbound. Anything we should know?"
"No sir," Jack responded immediately. "No sign of anti-aircraft hardware in town."
"That'll make a nice change," the copilot replied. "We'll have you back on the ground in eighteen."
"Appreciate ya," Jack responded, and the radios went quiet after that.
Mac knew the radio chatter was recorded, which might have had to do with Dalton's recalcitrance to talk, and he let it go and watched the tech in the cockpit. Colored weather maps, what looked like a radar warning receiver and infrared jammer, and a personnel locating system. This was a search and rescue helo.
While it was very cool, it was also very ridiculous. He and his overwatch were fine. The insurgents had already been taken into custody. Sure, maybe the four weren't alone, and the Rangers would be a good backup to have if they needed to defend the village, but there was clearly no sign of any other Taliban activity nearby, and more tellingly, the rest of the villagers had come out of their homes. If there had been more unwelcome visitors, they wouldn't have been so openly curious.
There was literally no reason at all they couldn't have just driven the damn humvee back to base. Even if the military wanted to edit his statement before they passed it to the ANPs.
It was . . . embarrassing. It felt like he'd done something wrong.
Mac closed his eyes. They never should have stopped.
Much as he wanted to enjoy the second helicopter ride of his life, MacGyver couldn't get rid of the knot of worry in his belly, and soon enough the FOB came into view. It looked a little different from above than the map in his head, and of course, of all the helipads on base, they landed right beside the TOC.
Which meant Colonel Martinez wanted to talk to them eighteen minutes ago.
He glanced at the loading door, where Jack was still camped out behind the copilot like he owned that piece of real estate, and his cover gave him a grin that was probably meant to be reassuring.
It wasn't.
Mac saw the copilot turn before he heard his voice come over the headset. "Sergeant, you and the specialist are wanted in the TOC ASAP. Been a pleasure, but you coulda been a little less chatty."
"Sorry, fellas, didn't see any reason for back seat drivin'," Jack replied, and Mac slipped off the helmet and unbuckled himself, heading out first. Jack stayed on board long enough to tell the pilot something else, and then his overwatch hopped off as well. He made a gesture with one hand, like he was patting air flat towards the ground, and Mac obediently crouched low as the helo immediately took off.
Once the wash and the sand dispersed, Dalton straightened, swinging his rifle to his front and removing first the mag, then the bullet from the chamber. He tucked the lone bullet into a lower vest pocket with an appreciative whistle.
"Always be good to them flyboys, at least to their faces. They'll pull you outta hell if they can."
"Not sure I'd describe that as hell," Mac replied, waiting impatiently for the Delta to square his weapon.
Jack gave him a surprised look, checking the safety on his pistol before motioning that Mac should start walking. "First time to the principal's office?"
If he had been in a better mood, he might have responded. As luck would have it, a corporal was walking out, and after a quick glance at Dalton, the man held open the door.
Mac had never actually set foot inside the Tactical Operations Center. It was really just a large, reinforced tent with rigid foam insulation sprayed on the outside to keep it cool and give it a little more stability. Inside, there were rows of eight foot tables, covered with laptops, maps, and a few phones. On the far wall were a couple ruggedized 70' flatscreens, one showing a satellite map of most of Afghanistan, and the other scrolling through text and tables. Men and women were scattered among the tables, but there was plenty of room along the back wall to stand, and Jack picked a corner and jerked his chin in a come hither motion.
The colonel was near the front, with his back to them, holding a headset to one ear and listening to a second lieutenant with the other, and Mac was beginning to think he had no idea they were there until he handed the headset to the louie and did an about-face, heading right for them.
Unlike on the field, proper decorum was expected on base, and he and Jack snapped to attention, side by side, almost exactly as they had done a little over three months ago, the last time Martinez had caught them doing something they shouldn't.
"I should have known it would be you two," Martinez growled, looking between them in exasperation. "Just when I thought I was rid of you for good, Dalton."
His cover wisely didn't volunteer any lip, and the colonel focused on Mac.
"You wanna tell me what the hell happened out there?"
Mac stared into the middle distance, pretty sure he wasn't actually cleared to look at much of anything in the TOC. "We were dispatched at 0430 to Nowrak to eval and disarm suspected IEDs-"
"Son, do I look like I have all day to listen to storytime?"
No. No he did not. "On the way back the 'vee started running hot. The sergeant suggested we park under cover of trees and check coolant levels –"
"I'm sure he did," Martinez cut him off. "Right on top of Shahjoy. Did you enjoy your visit?"
Mac was about to tell him, yes, right up until he was on the wrong end of a rifle, but it was pretty clear from the colonel's expression that he didn't really want an answer. Martinez rounded on Dalton.
"You sure it was just the four?"
"Yessir," Jack responded immediately.
"Do they have the village?"
"No sir." It was just as quick, and just as sure. "But if I may, sir, I respectfully suggest leaving Shahjoy on the liberties list."
"So we can have other personnel put at risk?"
"I wasn't at risk-" Mac began, only to have the full brunt of a Martinez Stare directed his way.
"Specialist, the first time I laid eyes on you, you were rolling around on the floor with this ground-pounder." Another dark look was cast towards Jack. "Going toe to toe with him showed brass, but also showed an obvious lack of brains." His barrel chest deflated just slightly. "I knew Al. He was a good officer, and a good friend. He told me you were smart."
Mac tried very hard not to flinch, and he wasn't sure how well he pulled it off.
"I have yet to see these smarts he was talking about. I paired you with Dalton here because I knew he'd keep you above ground. Do him a favor, and stop making it so goddamned hard."
There was only one answer to that. "Yessir."
The colonel gave him a long look. "Report to the MPI Office to give your statement. Your gear will be dropped off at your barracks. Dismissed."
He saluted on autopilot, well aware he was being dismissed only so Martinez could speak with Dalton without a lowly specialist in earshot. He didn't really remember the trip from the TOC to the MP's office, or of being fast-tracked to an interviewer. He told the story three times, as short as it was, every detail. The more he repeated it, the more cemented certain things became.
He hadn't seen any of those men. In the struggle, or perhaps after he restrained them, Dalton had pulled the scarves from the insurgents' faces. He didn't remember seeing any of them, not in the groups that watched him repairing things, not as other shoppers at the stalls.
He didn't know what vehicle or vehicles they had been driving. He hadn't seen them arrive.
The behavior of the cobbler, the warning look he'd given him, then the guilt . . . he'd been trying to tell him that something was wrong. The more Mac thought about it, the more certain he was that the toy had been crushed by one of the Taliban. It was the only thing the man had for Mac to fix, to slow him down long enough for Jack to get off the street.
He'd been, literally, oblivious. Utterly unaware that four men had been stalking him with the intention of spiriting him off to wherever they'd holed up. And if Dalton had been skimming diesel off the humvee, like he'd thought, he would be in Taliban hands right now. Lancer could have been dispatched the second Jack realized he was missing, and they would have gotten there eighteen minutes too late.
By the time he left the MPI office, it was only a little after 1400. He was rarely on base that early, and his stomach was tied up worse than it had been during the flight. For the first time in recent memory, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing. Eventually he settled on returning to barracks, to wait for his gear and be ready to record the IED remnants into evidence before handing them over to the disposal officer.
The barracks were strangely empty. A couple guys were at the far end, working on reports, and didn't do more than look up when he came in. Without gear to break down and prep, and unable to write up his own reports without the evidence in hand, Mac went through half a dozen paperclips before he gave up and hit the showers.
By the time he returned, his gear was still nowhere to be seen, but a large figure was stretched out in the bunk reserved for Sgt Dalton, Jack W, and Mac wasn't entirely certain he wasn't asleep until he spoke.
"We're off the hook with Martinez."
Like that was what he was worried about. He tossed his damp towel over the end of his bunk to dry, and his dirty uniform into a laundry bag to deal with later.
"Been meaning to ask you . . ." Jack's voice trailed off, and he heard the older man lean up. "What's with the paper clips, man?"
He turned to find Jack holding up one of his pre-shower sculptures, the outline of a mule. Without a word he walked over and plucked it out of Jack's hand. "Did you hear back from Lancer?" he asked, instead of answering.
His cover let it go. "Yeah, they were on the horn when we walked into the TOC, actually. Tallies left 'em a grenade on a string. Even I coulda avoided that."
A grenade on a string was simply a hand grenade, placed unobtrusively but still in an area where it could do damage to soft targets, with a string connected to the pin, and to something else, like, say, a rivet on a humvee's driver-side door. Open the door, pull the string, pull the pin, boom.
Not the most complicated of IEDs. Probably all they'd had time for. Just enough to slow Jack down, or disable the 'vee to prevent pursuit.
"How did you know they were there?"
His cover gave him a long look. "Look, I know you're probably pissed, you feel like I used you-"
"As bait. You did." He said it dismissively. "How did you know they were there?"
A look of surprise crossed Dalton's face, but he finally answered. "Shahjoy's in one of the more liberal provinces. It was unusual to see all the women wearin' that kinda hajib. Some of the food, like the elephant ears, that's standard fare, but the dumplings, they're a pain in the ass to make. Those get made in big batches for things like weddings and babies. If a real celebration had been goin' on, there woulda been music and dancin', not the imam dronin' on and on through that radio you fixed."
Mac thought that through. "So you'd been there before."
"Yeah. Shahjoy's a well know pit stop. It's been friendly to us for years, and they earn a tidy living off us grunts. Saw you checkin' out that solar panel. That was courtesy of ol' Uncle Sam."
And all that told him was that Jack had noticed the villagers were acting a little off. "But how did you know it was them?"
His brown eyes were unusually keen. "Black strap of an AK peekin' out from under one guy's man jammies. Ridge of a weapon when one guy turned his back to me. One of those two signaled his friend, and didn't even try to be subtle about it. The fourth guy grabbed a woman that wasn't his wife by her elbow."
. . . those were very explicit details. Not something he'd noticed, and he had a near eidetic memory.
Mac blinked at him, a little nonplussed. "You saw all that?"
The operator's eyes hadn't lost that intense focus. " . . . yeah, kid. I see all that every time we cross the wire."
He didn't know what to say. " . . . is that from your Delta training?"
The way his overwatch looked at him made him a little uncomfortable. Finally, Jack let him go, laying back in his bunk. "Not all."
The way he said it, with such finality, it was clear he wasn't going to reveal anything else, but Mac pressed anyway, because he had to know. "So those people –"
"They'll be fine."
But he couldn't know that. Mac said as much.
Jack chuckled, low in his throat. "None of 'em said bupkiss. Hadda chat up half a dozen before I got anywhere. An operator takin' 'em down like I did, quiet-like, throws suspicion off the village. The Taliban didn't see a thing. Far as the T-Man's concerned, the village did their part, and we were just too good."
But it couldn't be that easy. If they were supposed to be 'celebrating' the Taliban entering their village, which Jack was suggesting, those four weren't the first to visit. There would have been others, a demand of tithe, a visit from an imam, other traffic –
Those four weren't the only men to visit that village. Weren't the only men who knew the Taliban wanted to turn it.
"Dude, are you okay?"
Mac hadn't realized he was pacing until he had to turn to see Jack's face. Not that he could see much of it; Dalton had one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.
"I'm fine. I didn't need an extraction, we didn't need rangers as backup, we didn't need a damn helicopter –"
His cover was just suddenly there, on his feet and right in Mac's face. "Kid, you and me need to get on the same page about this-"
Mac threw out his arms. "They never even touched me, Jack! What do you think they did to the cobbler's wife? What they'll do to that little girl-"
His tee was grabbed by the collar, and Mac once again found himself about to throw a punch. Jack was right up in his face.
"What about what they were gonna do to you, huh? You think about that?"
Irrelevant. He almost said it, apparently he didn't need to because Jack could see it in his eyes.
"You really think you're six foot tall and bulletproof, dontcha. I got news for you, Angus, if they'd've gotten you out of that little village, the next time I saw ya your head would be a couple feet from the rest of you. Y'really want your parents watchin' that on the news?"
It was extremely unlikely that he wouldn't have found a way to escape. And also irrelevant. He almost said as much, but he knew what his cover was getting at, and Martinez's words echoed in the tent.
Do him a favor, and stop making it so goddamned hard.
"You remember when I told ya you wouldn't last two days in the sandbox without me? I was talkin' about this."
"I know what I signed up for, and I understand the risks!" Mac shot back. "I never asked you to re-up!"
He might as well have just thrown the punch, from the look on Dalton's face. "I never said you did! But dammit, Mac, you have got to start being more aware of what the fuck is happening around you!"
Mac bit back an angry retort. He knew he tended to focus on the problem, just like he'd been taught. Block out distractions. See the situation for what it was. That was his job. That was the reason EOD were assigned overwatch in the first place.
Worrying about the rest of it . . . that was his cover's job. That was Jack's job.
But maybe he wasn't appreciating how hard that job was. Or how good Jack was at it.
Or – maybe - how much of his own safety was still his own responsibility.
Jack mistook his silence for disagreement. "That's why I had us stop there in the first place! So you could get out from behind a damn bomb for once and actually look at the people you're laying down your life for!"
It wasn't what he expected, and Jack didn't really look any less surprised to hear it.
"They're people, dude, not background! And if you let 'em, they'll tell you what's goin' on! I know it didn't seem that way today, and I'm damned sorry about that. Those villagers were in a tough spot they couldn't get out of. They didn't have it out for ya. They just wanna live their lives in peace, same as you and me." His cover released his tee shirt, but didn't step back. "They tried to tell you, man, but you just shut out everything goin' on around ya to do your thing."
"I know they're people, Jack! I'm not angry that they cooperated. I'm angry that we just pulled out and – and left them! You know how the cops work, the courts work here. They don't get to call in Rangers and an evac every time someone points a gun at them! Those men are gonna be back there in a week, in a month, and –"
"No they're not," Jack cut him off, with a surety that Mac just couldn't understand.
"How do you know that?!"
"Because I gave the village leader enough bribe money for the ANPs to make sure those four stay locked up the max processing period," he growled. "The Tallies will assume the money came from us in a more official capacity. They'll think base command authorized it, that the village is important enough to us strategically to increase security. So long as we leave Shahjoy on the list of friendlies, there'll be enough Army traffic through it to keep the Tallies off their backs the next four months, easy."
Which he wasn't sure he actually believed, but it brought him to another question he'd been wanting to ask. "Where did you get those Afghani notes, anyway?"
"What, you think I legit skim fuel?" Jack's expression was a cross between disappointed and something Mac couldn't quite put his finger on. "Weekly poker game. Though I can't really say I blame you for thinkin' what ya clearly ain't thinkin', seein' as you don't know me too well just yet."
A fact that was becoming increasingly clear to him.
"And maybe I ain't got you pegged yet, either," his cover allowed, taking a step back. "Here you are, more worked up about what'll happen to them than you are worried about your own damn hide. I'm beginning to think you don't have one single ounce of self-preservation in ya."
But that wasn't the point. "Why?" When it was clear Jack wasn't following, Mac pinned him with a look. "Why would you put up your own cash to do that? What do you get . . ." But then he realized he knew the answer. Jack got a village full of Afghans who could give him intelligence. Buying their safety gave him informants.
Dalton wasn't just Delta.
Noticing a sliver of black canvas on the shoulder of one person out of a hundred was not something most people could do. The things Jack had told him, the details he'd noticed, that wasn't something he'd learned in the Army. At least not without help. It wasn't like either of them had been on high alert when they'd walked into that village. Jack had been downright relaxed. What he'd seen, he'd seen because it was such an ingrained habit it happened automatically.
Technically the Delta division didn't exist. The US government denied the entire branch. Rumint had it that the CIA borrowed Deltas – and Rangers – as needed to complete intelligence operations. A month ago, he would have collapsed laughing if someone had suggested Dalton was such an operator, but now . . .
He wasn't as dumb as he acted. Mac had figured that out within the first couple weeks they'd been working together, but –
He hadn't really realized how badly he'd underestimated the man until today.
Mac had trailed off without finishing his question, but maybe the realization was written across his face, because his cover sighed, and then scrubbed a hand over his whiskers. "I really am sorry if I scared ya. I couldn't afford a firefight, not with so many civilians."
Mac lowered his voice a little as well. "Why didn't you just tell me? I would've been all for it."
The look he got was almost pitying. "Mac . . . you're damn near a genius, but you are the worst liar I have ever met."
He felt like that was probably an overstatement, but he didn't contradict the other man, and Jack shook his head.
"You were sittin' in the sand playin' with toys, happy as you could be. If I'd'a told you Taliban were in that village lookin' to snap you up, you can't tell me you wouldn't'a gone skittish as a long tailed cat in a room full'a rockin' chairs."
At least he could count on the Texan for his colorful colloquialisms.
"They'd a seen through you in a heartbeat, backed off, let us go, and that village would be under Tally control by the end of tonight."
It occurred to Mac, suddenly, that maybe he wasn't the only one doing the underestimating. "Fine. If I'm so bad at situational awareness, I'm not going to get any better at it until someone corrects me, right?"
The other man snorted. "I dunno if 'correct' is the right word-"
"Call it whatever you want. The next time you see something, just tell me. Bring it to my attention. I promise I won't get –" and he made a face, "skittish."
Jack's expression was doubtful. "Bud, I don't think I got enough years left in me to improve your situational awareness." He didn't actually mime air quotes, but they were implicit.
Mac thought about that a second, and then he smiled. "Was that a thinly veiled derogatory reference to my learning abilities . . . or your age?"
His cover broke out in a broad grin. "Whatever. Smartass." Jack turned and flopped back into his bunk, letting his boots hang off the edge to keep sand off the sheets. He threw an arm over his face again to block out the light. "Fine, kid. I'll do what I can, but frankly I think you're a lost cause."
The door to the barracks opened, and a private MacGyver didn't recognize ducked in, holding a familiar looking pack.
"Lookin' for A. MacGyver?"
"We got a MacGyver," Jack confirmed, before Mac could answer. "And lemme tell ya, one's plenty."
-M-
Not much to say here – I needed to establish the first time Mac realized Jack wasn't just the muscle. And it coincided nicely with also needing to establish how Mac ended up a top notch spy right out of the Army with pretty much zero experience, when Jack had been working with the CIA for, according to SEO9, about thirteen years by then. I figured Mac must have figured that out at some point, and maybe Jack gave him a few tips before they bailed on the Army for DXS.