So you're Murdock, huh? I sure heard a lot about you.
You heard about me? I don't know about me. What do you know about me?
Well, two tours in 'Nam, silver star, three unit citations, wounded twice, best damn Huey chopper pilot we had.
- Bounty Hunter and Murdock, "Bounty"
When I was 16, back in the days when dinosaurs ruled the planet, I was a Golden Gloves regional champ.
- Al, "Right Hand of God"
Chapter 6: A Chance Encounter
Flashback
FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 1967
DA NANG OPEN OFFICERS MESS
DA NANG, VIETNAM
9:15PM INDOCHINA TIME
A male figure with dark hair strolled into the DOOM Club within the middle of downtown Da Nang. Even though it was January, a cool night breeze provided little relief from the brutal heat and humidity. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he looked around to see if he could find a familiar face.
Strolling up to the bar, he straightened his hand painted bomber jacket as he climbed onto a bar seat. It was a bit big on him, but very comfortable . . . almost like a security blanket. He had bought it from a merchant in Da Nang in his first shore leave after starting his second tour . . . one that he hoped would be his last before returning home to his wife, Beth.
Lieutenant Al Calavicci watched as the bartender served a couple of customers at the other end of the counter. He was short and definitely native to this land, mainly based on the tanned skin, the black hair, and squinty dark eyes that seemed to be in constant motion, quickly darting back and forth almost as if he was looking for trouble to start at any given second. His clothing was simple and black, but not the type worn by the VietCong when they were out on patrol. If anything, he appeared to be someone who could disappear into the shadows when necessary.
After finishing with his other customers, he walked up to the recently seated customer and asked in broken English, "What get you, G.I.?"
"A beer," Al replied simply, putting the money for the drink down on the counter.
The Naval pilot watched the bartender pull out a frosted glass and fill it up from the tap to where the foam was peaking just over the rim. He returned to Al, gently put the glass down in front of him, took the payment, and then moved on to the next customer.
Lieutenant Calavicci picked up the cold glass and took a sip, savoring the flavor. Although some soldiers simply used Vietnam as an excuse to get away from their parents and party, Al took the assignment very seriously. He had already seen some good soldiers die . . . kids who didn't know better. Even innocent Vietnamese civilians, if there was such a thing, sometimes met with a gruesome fate if they found themselves in the right place at the wrong time.
The sound of a loud crash drew the attention of most of the bar occupants to the situation brewing. A muscular Marine Sergeant with blonde hair now held the remnants of a beer bottle, holding it up as if it was a weapon. He had a tall lanky man cornered. The tall man, like Al, was in civilian clothes, but he wore a pair of tan slacks, a t-shirt, an unbuttoned flannel shirt, and a dark blue baseball hat. His brown hair was showing very slight signs of receding, but his big brown eyes were filled with fear.
Two Marine Corporals, an African American and a Latino, flanked the Sergeant as he spoke, "I've had it with you, skinny boy. I'm going to break you like a toothpick. Now you're gonna pay . . ."
"But . . ." the tall man sputtered, squirming like a little kid who waited too long to tell their parents that they had to go to the bathroom. Frantically, he looked around for some type of salvation . . .
Normally he wouldn't have gotten involved, but Al had become enraged by what was transpiring. Having spent some time within the southeastern US, he knew a lynch mob when he saw one. Slamming his glass of beer down on the bar counter, some of the golden liquid sloshed over the rim, hitting Al's hand . . . but he was so focused on breaking up the impending fight that he didn't notice. He marched up to the men and demanded, "What the hell is going on here?"
The Sergeant and the other two men turned around to glance at the person who dared to interrupt them. Al could clearly make out the last name of the soldiers emblazoned on their uniforms in green and black. The Sergeant was Taylor, the African American was Johnson, and the Latino was Rodriguez. Taylor laughed curtly at Al, "Get lost old man. Don't go sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."
Al Calavicci's blood started to boil as he snapped in rage, "When it's three against one, it does become my business."
"I said get lost, old man," the Sergeant repeated.
"Sergeant Taylor! You would be strongly advised to watch your tone with me. I may not be in uniform, but as a Lieutenant I still outrank you. Now answer my question before I decide to report you to your CO for insubordination," Al lashed out fiercely.
At the mention of the higher rank, Taylor stiffened and showed a bit of reserve, but the anger was still clearly present on his face. "Sir, we were talking about how hard we've been having it in 'Nam, and this guy jumps in saying that he's had it harder than the rest of us, and starts in on some wild stories that sound like nothing but just fantasy."
"That's a lie!" the tall lanky victim protested with his Texan accent shining through. "I was mindin' my own business and they were the ones who came up to me, ragging on me that I couldn't have been in this war for as long as I have and still look like some bright-eyed kid from right out of high school."
Al turned to the person the three men had been harassing. Almost instantly, he could tell that there was something different about this individual . . . something special. Al could see it within his eyes. "What's your name and rank, son? And what division are you assigned to?"
"First Lieutenant H. M. Murdock, Army Special Forces," the tall man revealed.
The Sergeant and the two Corporals with him looked totally stunned. Al could almost see a hint of fear gnawing within the eyes of the three men as they realized that their victim was of a higher rank. "But sir . . ." Taylor stammered.
Al knew, just as anyone else, that some sections of Special Forces had it worse than anyone. That was no fabrication. They were the elite, often sent on suicide missions. "I think you men owe Lieutenant Murdock an apology . . ."
Although it seemed that the other two wanted to apologize, Sergeant Taylor did not. He just walked away, exiting the bar. The look on his face suggested that this was far from being over . . .
Turning to the lanky man, Al asked, "Are you okay, Lieutenant?"
"You shouldn't have got yourself involved. Those guys are just lookin' four trouble . . ." Murdock stated somewhat coldly. It wasn't that he was ungrateful for the help he just received, but he tended to wear his pride on his sleeve . . . much like his emotions sometimes . . . and he really hated having to let someone else get involved in his problems.
"I don't know about you, but where I come from three against one is hardly a fair fight. These guys will be lucky if they get to keep their ranks and have to do KP duty for a week," Al noted strongly, still upset by what had transpired.
"No, you go reportin' these guys and they're just gonna want to get back at me, and they'll also try to do the same with you. It's just better to let this drop," Murdock insisted, wanting to head off a potential problem before it got any worse.
"Well, at least let me buy you a beer," Al offered, glancing toward the door of the DOOM Club just in case Taylor got second thoughts and would want to try again so soon, before turning his attention back to the guy he had just helped out.
"I don't know . . ." Murdock hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't want to pass up a chance to grab a beer, but after what had just happened, he couldn't afford to let his guard down . . . and alcohol would certainly do that once he had a few beers.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Al wondered
"You could say that," the Army Lieutenant replied cryptically, glancing toward the door for a moment. His friend had a thing for making an entrance sometimes, but he had never known him to be this late before unless there was something big going on. But, he did ask Murdock to meet him here, so there was no way that he wasn't going to show up.
"Then at least let me buy you a beer while you're waiting," Al offered again with a bit of a warm smile.
"Okay," Murdock conceded, although his voice clearly indicated that he wasn't very trusting of anyone after what had just happened. It wasn't that he didn't trust the guy who had just kept him from being pummeled by three Marines, but there was just more to things that even he didn't want to go into. Or rather things that he couldn't go into if he valued his own life, and the lives of others.
"By the way," Al started as he led Murdock to the bar and put out money for the bartender, "my name is Albert Calavicci, but my friends call me Bingo."
"Bingo?" Murdock parroted with a raised eyebrow. "Sounds like a pilot call sign to me."
Al quirked his head inquisitively. "How'd you know?"
"Lucky guess," Murdock noted, picking up the frosted glass of beer that had just been placed in front of him. "'Sides, I'm a pilot myself. Flew for the Thunderbirds before being shipped over here. My call sign is Howlin' Mad."
"So that's what the H. M. stands for," Al assumed, knowing that most call signs were often based off of either a pilot's name or something that they did. They were often fun and meant to be light hearted, even teasing, although the unspoken rule generally was that if someone liked or complained about their call sign, they'd usually be saddled with another one they likely wouldn't like and would probably stick even more. Of course, he had earned his call sign after spending a night with triplets . . .
"Not really, but I'd rather give that out than my real name," Murdock shrugged, almost as if he was ashamed of what his parents had called him. He had been teased mercilessly as a kid over his name, and with how some were bullying him even in another country, he didn't want just anyone to know in case they decided to use it to further their bullying. Call it an occupational hazard . . .
"Looks like we've got something in common, then," Al said with a smile. "How long have you been flying?"
"Since I was 'bout five, after my mom died. My grandpa was a pilot . . . one of the best crop dusters around Eagle Pass. He took me up with him all the time and started teachin' me. How 'bout you?" the Army Lieutenant wondered before taking a swig of his beer.
"I always wanted to do something with my life, and I was fascinated with flying. I enrolled in the Naval Academy, spent part of my studies at MIT, and then got into the Navy's aviation program," Al replied, grabbing the glass of beer he put down earlier and took a sip.
Murdock surveyed the bar, almost as if he was expecting more trouble, and then glanced at his watch. Al couldn't help but to notice this and questioned, "Is your friend late?"
"Yeah, he went to see the base CO about a different problem I'm havin'. He's been late before, but never this late," Murdock noted with a tinge of worry. It likely meant that the news wasn't going to be good. "Do you have someone you're waiting for?"
"Chip, my tail-pipe buddy from my Naval Academy days . . . he's also serving over here, but wasn't sure if he could get a pass for this weekend. He said he'd meet me here if he did," Al explained.
"Must be nice to have a friend like that. You must be a lucky guy," Murdock remarked.
Al was somewhat shocked by what the Army officer had just said. The statement seemed to suggest that Murdock didn't have any friends . . . and yet his tone indicated that he yearned for that missing piece within his life.
"I don't think I'm that lucky," Al commented, thinking about all of the hardship he endured while growing up. The orphanage, his sister Trudy, his dad . . .
Murdock finished off his beer and set the glass on the bar. "Well, I'm gonna step outside for a minute and see if I can spot him."
"Want me to come out there with you?" Al wondered, finishing off the last of the golden liquid within his own glass. Marines like Taylor certainly didn't seem like they would be scared off that easily, so there was still a pretty good chance they were out there, lurking, and ready for a chance to get even with Murdock.
"Nah, I won't be too long. When he gets here, I'll introduce you to him," Murdock replied, getting up from his seat at the bar.
Al watched the tall lanky Texan walk out the door to the establishment. An ominous feeling settled at the pit of his stomach, seeming almost like a ton of bricks with a few butterflies using them as a landing strip. His gut told him that Murdock just blindly hopped out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.
Not wanting to see that Sergeant bully Murdock around any more, Al got up and made his way to the door. Stepping out into the muggy night air, he could not see the pilot . . . unusual since he had indicated that he would be right back inside.
Al's senses heightened a notch as the sensation grew stronger. He took a few steps along the street until he spotted an alley. Voices emanated from it, but two stood out above the others . . . Murdock and Sergeant Taylor. Taylor and his band of fluzies were probably going to pummel Murdock until he either gave in to them or was killed. Considering Al's perception of how strong-willed Murdock was, the latter seemed more probable to happen unless he intervened. He edged closer to the entrance to the alley, ready to jump in once it became necessary.
"You and I have some unfinished business, toothpick," Taylor sneered, forcefully shoving Murdock against a brick wall.
"Was what happened back in the bar business? I should have brought my tie," Murdock cracked, a goofy grin spreading across his face. He was out-manned and out-matched against these three guys, yet he still managed to toss out zingers. It was guys like this that he enjoyed getting riled up, since when they got angry they didn't always think straight.
"Keep it up, smart mouth, and you'll be diggin' your grave," Taylor countered, punching the Texan strongly in the gut.
'Never let them see you suffer,' was the first words that flashed through Murdock's mind as the blow came. His CO was right about that . . . suffering equaled weakness, which an enemy could exploit. He didn't grimace or cry out in pain, but he did have the wind knocked out of him for a moment as the hit forced him to double over.
After catching his breath again, Murdock looked up at his assailant and remarked, "Gee, I didn't know you cared."
The Texan steeled himself for another blow, but it was never delivered. Instead, his eyes widened when he looked upon the source of the new voice in this melee. "Hey! I thought you bozos learned your lesson once already! Now leave him the hell alone and get out of here before I call in the MPs."
Murdock had not expected Albert Calavicci to be the one standing at the entrance of the alley, trying to break up the soiree before it got out of hand. He had to blink, just to make sure that it wasn't an illusion or some trick his mind was playing on him. Although he had earned and lived up to his call sign of Howling Mad, Murdock tended to wonder if the Navy Lieutenant was the crazy one in this situation.
"I told you before to get lost, old man, and I ain't gonna tell you again," Taylor replied with growing contempt.
"I'm not moving until you let Lieutenant Murdock go and you tell me what's really going on here," Al demanded, sensing that there was something more to this impending fight than just someone bragging about their hardships in Vietnam.
"It's your funeral, old man," Taylor commented. Turning to his cohorts, he barked out, "Johnson, Rodriguez, you guys take him. Toothpick here is mine."
Murdock knew that he couldn't sit idly by and let himself get beaten to a pulp, or allow Al to meet the same fate. He knew his own limitations to fighting and guessed that the Navy Lieutenant wouldn't be able to handle two men at the same time.
The Army officer was actually a bit shocked when he saw Al set himself into a classic boxing stance, and start bouncing and weaving around like Cassius Clay . . . completely unaware that Al was once a Golden Gloves boxing champion.
Murdock was carefully watching, waiting for his chance to act . . . studying the events taking place, biding his time for just the right moment. Having Taylor sic his two lap dogs provided just that opportunity . . .
The Special Forces member noted that Taylor had made a grievous mistake. He seemed to be more interested in watching his men fight Al Calavicci that he almost completely ignored the Army Lieutenant. As soon as Johnson threw the first punch at Al, Murdock took advantage of the moment by laying into Taylor with a solid hit of his own.
The Sergeant had not expected the Texan to retaliate, especially not by throwing a punch. He was caught off guard and went down from the blow, even though he was more built than the lanky man.
Murdock scrambled to his feet, watching . . . reading his opponent's movements. With the training he had received over the years, he had gotten really good with reading people and being able to tell what they were going to do. He had to try and hold him off long enough until the cavalry could arrive. The only flaw he made was glancing over to see how Al was faring . . .
Sergeant Taylor, his eyes and face filled with rage, was now brandishing a knife. He slashed at Murdock, cutting him across his left palm and drawing blood. The pilot instantly and instinctively backpedaled, grabbing the wounded hand with his uninjured one. Another assault with the knife broke skin on Murdock's right forearm, coming very close to nicking an artery.
A dark looked filled Murdock's eyes as he glared at Sergeant Taylor. The Army officer harbored something deep down inside . . . something very dark, almost sinister, brought on by a traumatic experience from his childhood. It was a side filled with hatred and rage, making the normally gentle and playful Texan capable of murdering in cold blood without scruples to stand in the way. It was a portion of himself that Murdock feared and took great lengths to bury deep down inside . . . to hide it so it wouldn't surface and pose a danger to others, including those that he cared for, and especially within the jungles of Vietnam.
Without regard for his bleeding wounds or the pain it was causing him, Murdock lunged at his attacker. If he could get control of the knife, he knew that he could gain control of the fight . . .
Despite the fact that it was two against one, Al was holding his ground. He had gotten lucky. The two goons that had been sicced on him hadn't gotten their acts together to put up a unified attack. He knew that, if they did, he would be in serious trouble.
Taking a chance, Al looked over to where Murdock was. He hadn't expected the Army officer to put up a fight against a stronger opponent. He was taken aback by not only the look in Murdock's eyes, but also the fact that he was now injured.
That was enough to distract Al. With his attention drawn from his own fight, Johnson and Rodriguez were able to regroup. Together, they made their assault, one swinging high and the other going low. The two blows felled the Golden Gloves boxer, sending him crumpling to the ground, doubled over and stunned, with the wind knocked out of him.
Al managed to look up, steeling himself for the next round of blows, when he saw a gloved fist make contact with Johnson. Another man had joined the fight, one who's uniform had the markings of an Army Colonel. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join in on the fun?" he joked darkly.
Reinvigorated by a new surge of adrenaline brought on by getting some assistance, Al scrambled to his feet and started laying in heavily to Rodriguez. The Latino hadn't expected interference from another individual, let alone the vigor of the attack from the Navy pilot. A few good hits from Lieutenant Calavicci sent him down to the ground, stunned and on the verge of losing consciousness.
No sooner had he finished off his opponent, Al looked over at the person who had joined in on the fight. He was an older male with icey blue eyes that seemed to sparkle, and silver-white hair. Whoever this person was, he expertly felled the person he had squared off against and looked over to Murdock.
Al also looked over to where the Army officer was, only to see that he wasn't doing so well in his fight. Taylor had gotten the upper hand again, forcing Murdock back in a corner. The Texan's eyes were filled with fear, much like that of a caged animal . . . but Al knew just how dangerous caged animals could actually be.
"Taylor!" Al called out, hoping to draw the Sergeant's attention away from Murdock.
"Well, well, well," the Colonel started. "I knew you would have tried something like this. You're too stupid and bull headed to know when you're in over your head."
"Smith . . . I should have known you would have come running once you found out that one of your men were in trouble," Taylor spat with defiance despite the change in the situation.
Al noted that Murdock was starting to inch away from the spot where he had been. He had to buy time for Murdock . . . "Sounds like you don't know what trouble really is, Taylor."
Taylor glanced back to see the Texan try to edge out from the corner, and turned back menacingly. He moved to attack Murdock again with the knife he held in his hands, only to have a gloved hand firmly grasp one of his wrists and draw it back . . . and another set of fists swiftly moved in to deliver several quick blows, including an undercut to the chin.
The white-haired Colonel got in a couple of good shots of his own, disarming the Sergeant in the process. The last blow knocked Taylor unceremoniously to the ground, allowing the two men that had come to Murdock's rescue to stand over him. "The next time you have a problem with one of my men, you come to me about it. Attack one of them again and I will rain down on you so hard that you'll be buried so deep within the stockade that you won't see the light of day again for a very long time," Colonel Smith threatened.
Taylor scrambled out of the alley, the two men who had also been part of the assault following closely behind. No sooner had they disappeared from sight, Al rushed over to Murdock's side. Colonel Smith also did the same, asking, "You okay, kid?"
"Just gotta get patched up, Hannibal, but I'll live," Murdock replied, his voice now clearly etched with pain.
"I would have gotten here sooner if I could have . . ." Smith said almost apologetically.
"I know . . ." Murdock told him, grimacing from the pain.
Al moved in closer to inspect the Texan's injuries, only to see that the cuts were still bleeding fairly good. Since Murdock's flannel shirt was already ripped up by the knife cuts, he figured that it would be better to use that to control the bleeding until Murdock could return to a base and see the medics. He gingerly cut off a couple of strips and then wrapped them around the wounds, careful not to tie them too tight.
Hannibal gave Al an approving nod, his eyes sparkling . . . almost laughing. "You did pretty well yourself there, kid . . . holding off two of them at once. I'm impressed," Colonel Smith told the Naval pilot. "I think that deserves a cigar . . ." Hannibal said, pulling out one of his fine Cuban El Capitan's and handing it over to Al.
Al accepted it from the Colonel, somewhat floored by the gesture. It wasn't something that he had expected at all, especially when one considered all of the rivalry that often existed between the different branches of the military. "Thanks . . . but I don't smoke cigars," Al mentioned.
Hannibal simply laughed, and then flashed a smile that could practically light up the whole alley. "Keep it. Besides, it's a great time to start."
Murdock realized that introductions were in order and decided to start them off. Turning first to Hannibal, he gestured to where Al was and said, "This is Naval Lieutenant Albert Calavicci. He saw those guys try to jump me in the bar and broke it up." Turning to Al, Murdock told him, "This is Colonel John Hannibal Smith, my CO and leader of the Special Forces group known as the A-Team."
Al was absolutely floored by what he had just heard. The A-Team was famous in Vietnam, so it was almost like standing in the presence of a Hollywood movie icon. He stood there, totally speechless and in total awe of the two men in front of him.
"Murdock, I think we'd better talk alone. I'll meet you inside the bar," Hannibal noted in a serious tone, leaving the two pilots alone in the alley.
A wild thought filled the mind of Al Calavicci, a decision that was almost instinctive. He shrugged out of the leather bomber jacket and held it out to Murdock as he offered, "Here . . . I want you to have this."
The lanky Texan was stunned by the gesture. "I . . . I can't take this."
"I bought this from a merchant here in Da Nang a couple of months ago and had them hand paint the city along with the year that I'm going to complete my tours. It's been kind of a good luck charm, in a way . . . and good luck seems to be something you could use right now. Besides, it's a bit big on me," Al explained.
"Howard Madej . . ." Murdock murmured as he grasped the bomber jacket, almost as if it had become a security blanket.
"What?" Al asked, totally thrown off by what Howling Mad had just said.
"You asked me what H. M. stood for . . . that's my name. I'm not proud of it . . ." Murdock told him, clearly embarrassed. .Based on the mournful look on his face, it was clear that he didn't like what his name was, much less sharing it with anyone.
"I think Howie is a great name," Al told him with a smile.
The Texan was clearly stunned by what the Naval pilot had told him. He never expected that kind of a reaction from anyone when it came to his name. He looked up, his spirits obviously brightened based on the smile that crossed his lips. "Albert . . . you wanna come inside for a drink?" Murdock wondered.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world . . ." Al replied, putting his arm around Murdock's shoulders as the two of them made their way back into the bar.
"Murdock, I need to talk to you alone," Hannibal started, his voice taking on a serious and almost dark tone.
"Whatever it is, Colonel, you can tell me with Al here," Murdock mentioned. He didn't want to make it seem like Hannibal was pushing Lieutenant Calavicci away after how Al had helped him out twice in one day when he could have looked the other way. Trust was something that he didn't give out very easily due to how things were when he grew up, but once he did trust someone it was something that lasted a lifetime.
"I talked to Morrison about your situation. The guys that processed your paperwork screwed up royally, sending you to Special Forces instead of the Air Corps," Hannibal stated to explain, pulling out a cigar and lighting it.
Al rolled his eyes upon hearing that. With his experience in the Navy, he knew all about paperwork snafus, especially with flight plans that were supposed to have been filed, but either got lost or misplaced somehow, which often kept pilots from getting their time in the air. Even he had missed a few training exercises because of this very fact. But, hearing this revelation also reminded him of something. Murdock had mentioned that he had flown with the Thunderbirds before Vietnam . . . so if he wasn't flying missions now, there had to be some reason why, and apparently paperwork is what got in the way.
Murdock let out a sigh. "I kinda figured something like that was gonna turn up sooner or later, Colonel. Things were just goin' too smooth after we got our kinks worked out," he noted somewhat glumly. Truthfully, he had grown to respect Hannibal tremendously, and there were a lot of times when they were so much alike with how they thought.
"Isn't there a shortage of pilots right now?" Al questioned, trying to still piece together how a screw up like this could have happened in the first place. A guy who flew for the Thunderbirds shouldn't have been sent to Special Forces, to fight on the ground. Murdock would have been a lot more valuable in the air. He pulled out the cigar that Hannibal had given him back in the alley and wedged it between his teeth. Al nodded his thanks to the Colonel, who reached over to light it for him.
Hannibal nodded to Al, and then took a puff of his own cigar. "That's exactly why this is all happening, and Morrison said that there's nothing he or anyone else can do to block this. I'm sorry, Murdock. I know you just got in country a couple of months ago and onto my unit, but they're reassigning you for some kinda training and repurposing BS as of December 1st," he explained, sounding sincerely apologetic, and with good reason. Even though the first few weeks after Murdock had joined the unit was rough, he had come to terms with things and the two of them had developed a very strong rapport. He thought that he was letting a member of his unit down by not being able to keep Murdock on the team.
Murdock just sat there in silence, looking down into a fresh glass of beer, his expression revealing nothing about the feelings he held deep down inside. He felt hurt, not at Hannibal, but more so with how his government was screwing him around . . . first wanting to toss him aside because he got in trouble once too often with that mouth of his, and then once he started turning things around and improving under the guidance of his CO they wanted to take that away from him. He was starting to think that he either someone or something was intent on making his life miserable, he was just having a horrible string of bad luck, or he was simply jinxed. The only thing that felt right to him, that felt safe, was when he was up in the air . . .
Al puffed on his cigar as he looked over to Murdock, noticing how glum he appeared to be. He had to really like his commanding officer . . . this Hannibal . . . in order to react the way he did. Some guys got shipped around all over 'Nam, getting a new CO every few months, so for anyone to develop a good relationship with their CO, that was a rare thing. It was even rarer if someone didn't want to transfer out of a unit . . .
After a moment, Hannibal broke the silence, knowing his Lieutenant too well. He was determined not to let this die without a fight, and he wanted to make sure that fact was well known. "I'm not about to give up on this, Murdock. I can take your case to a higher level and see if there's any way they can block this. This isn't the first time the military's screwed up, but that's no reason for them to treat you like this."
Murdock looked up from his glass, glancing intently at his commanding officer. It wasn't a look filled with anger or shock, but instead filled with compassion from a man who was resigned to accept his fate. He knew that Hannibal would have ways of blocking this if he could, but the fact that he couldn't meant that it had to come from higher up . . . and that unsettled the Texan to no end. But, if it did come from higher up, then continuing to pursue the matter would be risky.
"No, Colonel," Murdock started to say in a bit of a defeated tone. "I don't want you ruining your military career by fighting to keep me in your unit. I'll accept the reassignment."
"Are you sure about this?" Al asked, hoping that Murdock wasn't making a huge mistake. He only got a nod out of the lanky officer in return.
Hannibal let out a sigh, hating to see Murdock like this. He loved the Texan's antics, his wit, and even his one-liners that often riled up others even though it often got him into trouble. He loved how full of life Murdock often was, and hated to see him so down. "Murdock, don't worry about my military career. They could bust me down to Lieutenant, and I'd still fight to give all you guys the best opportunities, especially you. When this is all sorted out, I'm going to try and get you back into the unit, even if you're on attached duty. I'm not done fighting yet, and don't you stop fighting either."
Murdock took Hannibal's words to heart. He knew, from the short time he had been on his unit, that there was more than one way to fight. Although the Colonel was very fond of being direct and taking the front door tactics, there were often other methods that involved more subtle approaches. That was something he was beginning to appreciate . . . knowing when to fight, how hard to fight, what methods to take when fighting, and even sometimes who you needed to and not to fight.
Raising his glass of beer, Murdock gave a bit of a knowing smile as he offered a toast, "Here's to fighting the good fight."
Hannibal flashed a smile that lit up the room like a thousand megawatts, his crystal blue eyes twinkling as he clinked his glass against Murdock's. "And to when plans come together," he added jovially.
Al joined in, clinking his glass against theirs as he added, "And to good cigars."
All three men grinned before taking a swig of their beers, any problems that happened just a few moments ago washed away in the froth of their alcoholic beverages.
