Author's Note: Thanks for all the kind reviews! I appreciate it C: Also a minor disclaimer here: I know nothing about the following: China, jungles, planes, military stuff, science or disease. So...most of what I write I made up and is complete bull. With that in mind, have fun!


Chapter 3

Face stirred from a restless sleep, blinking into consciousness as a stream of new daylight hit his eyelids. He hated sleeping on planes, and he remembered the magnitude of his hatred suddenly as his whole body ached upon sitting up. Placing a hand on his lower back and feeling about 70 years old, he pried himself out of the seat and cracked every joint in his body.

Now standing, he noticed Murdock passed out on the seats behind him, one arm dangling over the edge. Quietly, Face crept over to the sleeping pilot and felt his forehead, which was still very hot. Clearly, he thought, Davie is a quack. I knew it. As Face turned to make sure that someone was actually flying the plane, he heard Murdock utter a low moan and roll onto his back, shivering. Face removed his jacket and placed it over the pilot's thin frame before trotting down the aisle to the cockpit.

"He's not doing much better," Face said as he entered. Hannibal was leaning on his hand, staring out the windshield looking extremely bored.

"I know," Hannibal said, swallowing the last word with a yawn. "But I'm not too worried right now. He thinks he's a robot," Hannibal swiveled to give Face a bemused look.

"And you're not worried?" Face asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Nope," Hannibal stuck a cigar in his mouth. "Cause if he's got enough energy to think up another persona, I'd say he's doing alright."

"Hannibal I think that ah…talent, comes naturally to him," Face seated himself in the vacant pilot's seat. "He's back there shivering from fever, and those meds Davie gave him don't seem to have done diddly."

"Well knowing Murdock, he probably didn't take them," Hannibal said with a shrug. "You know how he feels about medication. But why don't you get a wet cloth and put it on his forehead. We're about two hours out, only a half hour from mainland China. He won't have to hold out too long."

Face did as instructed, but almost as soon as he'd placed the washcloth on his friend's warm brow he heard an ear-splitting crack and the entire plane gave a violent lurch.

Murdock tumbled from his makeshift bed and sprung up to a standing position, all in the moment that it took Face to regain his balance.

"What's goin' on?" He asked groggily, his body tense.

"I should be asking you!" Face yelled as more noise flooded the cabin in a swelling cacophony. "Something is wrong with the plane!"

Murdock gave a curt nod and pushed past Face towards the cockpit, wincing with every movement. Face ran to one of the windows but could see nothing beyond a thick veil of wispy, smoggy cloud.

Hannibal was struggling with the controls, trying to fly by instinct which would eventually, Murdock saw, kill them all.

Murdock felt distantly a sudden stabbing pain in his chest, but removed it from his plane of consciousness immediately. He grabbed the controls from the desperate Colonel and sat himself down in the adjacent seat, his hands moving across the dashboard at lightning speed.

"What happened, Hannibal?" He asked as he slipped the headphones on.

"I'm not sure, everything I pick up on the radio is in Mandarin – "

Murdock held up a finger to silence the older man as he listened intently to the chatter in his ears. It was indeed in Mandarin, odd considering they were clearly an American plane. Whoever was sending these messages did not intend to be interpreted. But they didn't know that the pilot of this American plane spoke nearly fluent Mandarin, and that in situations of great pressure his fluency increased, a phenomenon his psychiatrist had never been able to aptly explain to him.

"Enemy aircraft flying in hostile territory," said the voice in rapid fire Chinese. "Repeat, shoot to kill," Murdock whipped off the headphones and thrust his arms forward, sending the plane in a dizzying descent as above them a missile imploded, just barely nicking the tail.

"What is going on Captain?" Hannibal yelled as the rush of air hitting the nose of the plane deafened him. Face staggered in just in time to hear the response.

"You remember all those times you asked me that, Colonel, and I always said 'We're gonna crash!' and then always we ended up just fine?"

Face nodded vigorously and started to speak but Murdock cut him off.

"Well I wouldn't want you to misunderstand me now fellas, so believe me when I say that we are going to crash, and it ain't going to be pretty, so hold on tight."

Hannibal stared wide-eyed at Murdock.

"You're saying there's nothing you can do?" He asked, because the pilot didn't look like he was trying.

"There's some things," Murdock said as the ground quickly approached, his eyes still feverishly focused on the controls. "But I think I really ought not to, cause frankly when this is over," He swallowed nervously. "We gotta look like we're all goners or they're just gonna blow us to smithereens."

"WHAT!" Face was yelling, strapping himself tightly into the first row of cabin seats, using all three seatbelts. "MURDOCK YOU ARE FUCKING INSANE!"

"The trick here, Faceman," Murdock called back. "Is to crash and burn just enough to be convincingly dead, but not so much as to be for real dead." He turned back and grinned at the con man, who was saying some final prayers he had thought he'd forgotten from the orphanage.

Murdock turned to Hannibal, his smile fading. They were maybe ten seconds from impact.

"Colonel?" He asked, his eyes searching.

"I've never doubted you captain," Hannibal said, a firmness somehow edging his quavering voice. "I don't doubt you now." Strapping himself in as tight as could be, Hannibal placed a hand on Murdock's shoulder briefly before withdrawing it as the pilot did his final maneuver.

It was a fancy trick. The plane had nosedived almost to the forest floor, but at the last moment, with remarkable grace for a commercial jet, Murdock righted it to a 30-degree angle where it skidded nose first into the ground, tearing up trees and earth beneath it. Just as the front end hit the ground however, Murdock thrust the engines powerfully and briefly, and the result was the plane slowly but surely flipping upside-down as its tail end's velocity exceeded the front's. Hannibal's last view before losing consciousness was Murdock, still clutching the controls and manipulating the plane as shards of glass rained down on them both. The sound of twisting metal and disturbed jungle filled his ears as the sudden change in pressure and shock of impact sent him spiraling into darkness.