Charlie Foxtrot
Author's Note: Thank you to all how have been reading and reviewing! I've really been overwhelmed at the response this fic has gotten. It was a couple years in the making and I learned more about various types of military helicopters that I probably won't use ever again, but what's life without a little adventure.
Please enjoy this last chapter and please review if you're so inclined.
Chapter 14
God, it felt good to be in the air again. After weeks of treatments, forced "rest", and enough of BA's aggressive mother-henning to last him until the next war, Murdock had had enough and longed to feel the ground fall out from underneath him again. The chop of the helicopter blades was a balm to the soul as he sailed through the cool cerulean Iraqi sky. Sure, the flight was only a quick transport of troops and medics to a drop zone, but Murdock rarely felt whole unless there was a thrum of airborne horsepower under his hands.
The mission was a milk run, but it's all the docs had cleared him for so far. Since he had re-injured his ribs chatting with Face, they had been very conservative with their clearances. Murdock was convinced they did it out of spite. So, the milk run wasn't much, but he was flying again and damn if the sky didn't always welcome him home.
It almost made up for the fact that the rest of his team was in the field being dropped off by a loaner pilot even as his own ass was sitting in the cockpit of a different bird. Hannibal had been planning that op for a while, digesting intel like it was his job, which Murdock supposed it was. The pilot had put in his two cents as usual, but his assertions that he could fly them, that the docs were wrong, that he knew his body's healing better, that he wouldn't set foot outside the chopper, Bossman, pinky swear, hadn't made it past Hannibal's steely, disbelieving glare.
"Captain, we are going to remain in *strict* compliance with doctor's orders with you from here on in." Murdock's protests had fallen on deaf ears. "Strict compliance, Captain. No combat missions yet. Is that understood?"
Murdock had pulled a face and given him the name of a stand-in pilot he trusted. Bill Tanter could get the job done for the team. Hannibal had smirked.
"Thank you, Captain. Look at the silver lining, though, Murdock." He had pulled an envelope from his desk. "Your orders. You'll be flying a transport to Base Roosevelt this afternoon."
Murdock got so excited Bosco had to physically stop him from climbing the walls.
The flights to the drop off and back were uneventful, the chatter over comms from the soldiers in the back subdued, even as they shot him disconcerted looks at this operatic howling upon take off. They looked like spooked teenagers, which he supposed many were, so he skipped his typical rendition of Puccini's "Turandot" and stuck with something from "The Barber of Seville." If it was good enough for Bugs Bunny, it was good enough for him.
His best go at "Figaro" died in his throat as he landed back at base and witnessed the barely-contained crowd gathered on one of the landing platforms.
A beaten Blackhawk stood at the corner, its rotors still slowly turning. It bore the signs of combat: bullet marks along its side and splashes of black carbon from explosions along the body. Murdock hurried through the shutdown of his own chopper, flipping switches from muscle memory alone. The brutalization of any bird was cause for concern, but the guys had been in a Hawk when they left on their mission. That knowledge had been restricted.
He hopped down from the cockpit on to the tarmac, heat rising in waves off the surface. "Corporal Gundam!" he called to the nearest solider. "Pete! You know of any birds running combat today?"
"Negative, Cap'n. Should have been all transports today."
"Yeah," Murdock said, pulling off his flight helmet. "That's what I thought, too." He strode over to the commotion. The bad feeling intensified when he saw Morrison's silver hair sticking out from under the back of a regulation cap.
Squeezing past a couple of gawking privates, worry flashed over him as he saw Captain Tanter sitting on a box outside the wounded Hawk. Tanter pressed a dressing over the streaming gash on his temple as a medic stitched up a wound on his forearm. He was briefing directly to Morrison, motioning tiredly but choosing his words carefully, eyes flashing to the very public nature of the crowd around him.
Murdock pushed passed the remaining gawkers. "General!"
Morrison's head snapped up and he visibly stiffened upon seeing Murdock. "Captain, the last thing I need right now is you. Go to the appointed debrief from your flight."
"General, with respect, the Captain here was flying my team. If they are in danger, I have the right to know."
The chatter of the crowd around them quieted slightly. This was Morrison's base. No one pushed back on Morrison.
The General's eyes narrowed. "I trust I do not need to remind you that this is the United States Army, Captain. You have no rights unless I give them to you. Is that clear?"
All sound dropped from around them, the crowd going silent at Morrison's tense words. Even Tanter had become suddenly interested in the medic's work on his forearm.
"General," Murdock continued despite the withering glare, "if they're in trouble, I will fly the retrieval …"
"Captain," Morrison's voice was steel as the eyes on them seemed to grow in number and in intensity, "you are ordered to that command tent," his fingers stabbed towards a tent on the edge of the landing platform, "to debrief from your mission."
Murdock persisted. "General, I can get them out!" Murdock's voice bounced off the wounded Hawk in the stunned silence. The soldiers around him backed away cautiously as Morrison glared.
The General's eyes narrowed dangerously, his voice low and cutting. His face reddened in the heat. "Captain Murdock, you would do very well to remember who it is you are speaking to."
Murdock's eyes glinted in defiance but his mouth remained closed. He pulled in the hot desert air. Both parties remained silent for several seconds, Morrison's furious yet contained glare boring into Murdock. The crowd froze as if moving would attract the general's wrath.
"Now, Captain," Morrison continued. "Have you regained your composure?
Murdock's eyes narrowed, but he ground out a "Yessir."
"Good." Morrison's voice was deceptively calm. "Now, report to that tent," – again the order was punctuated with a stabbing point – "to debrief immediately. Or, if you prefer, I can have the MPs drag you away, kicking and screaming if necessary. You can't help anyone if you're behind bars, Captain."
Murdock's eyes narrowed, recognizing the inevitability of the situation. He saluted smartly, turned on his heel and strode to the command tent, fists clenched at his side. Two MPs swung in behind him, taking positions outside the entrance.
Murdock had been in this tent many times before, clearing crews, assigning birds, or completing any one of the hundreds of administrative details that goes along with flying a machine worth millions of tax-payer dollars. The tent was usually active with personnel filing 3201gs or 3301cs or whatever forms were necessary to get Murdock into the wild blue yonder.
When Murdock entered the tent, however, it was still and empty except for the desks and the forms. He looked around. Who was he supposed to debrief to, exactly?
He wandered over to the closest desk, the name plate said "Major Lynsey", and began rifling through paperwork, more for something to do than actual interest. The second folder was full of requisition forms and he had already slipped a small stack in his pocket for Face's later use when the door flew open and Morrison barreled in, chest out and shoulders back. Despite being an inch shorter than Murdock, the pilot still felt dwarfed under the commanding presence.
"Captain, what the *hell* was that performance?"
"General, you know I'm the best for …"
"Stow that, Murdock!" he bellowed. "I am not talking about your skills as a pilot. You, a captain, openly argued with a me, a general, in front of a crowd, and you think I am going to have any other option but to dress you down?"
Murdock's mouth snapped shut. Shit. Worry about his team had short circuited his brain's involvement in what came out of his mouth.
"That was stupid, Captain," Morrison continued. "You are not a stupid man."
Murdock remained silent.
"Instead of keeping your mouth shut, you very vocally jump to the conclusion that your team, on a classified mission, was not only involved with the battered hawk, but are now in need of pickup as a result. You should not know any of this! Not on paper! I would have thought your stint with the Company would have taught you better."
Murdock's eyes narrowed in indignation. "Permission to speak freely, sir," he ground out.
Morrison jutted out his jaw. "Tread carefully, Captain. The stockade is still an option."
"General, no combat missions were flown today, only transport. Tanter was the pilot I recommended to Hannibal and he was flying the team on a 'transport' mission. He and his bird came back alone, beaten, and bloody. This is concerning but not worthy of the attention of the brass until the highest-ranking soldier on base comes out of his command tent to personally debrief the injured Tanter, clearly urgent as said commander does it right there on the tarmac. That alone speaks to either an intense worry for the C.O.'s personal friend heading up the op, a deep investment in the mission's objectives, or some combination thereof. Sir."
Morrison glared at him in contained rage, but Murdock could see the wheels turning behind pinched eyes. The general stayed silent.
"All of this means," Murdock continued, "that shit went down out there, shit is currently going down, or shit is about to go down. In any case, my guys are in danger, ergo," his accent twanged on the Latin, "I have some work to do. And you know that I'm the best guy to do it."
Morrison remained still and silent.
"So, General," Murdock seethed, voice honey-sweet despite the steel in his tone, "How'd I do?"
Silence hung heavily between the two men before Morrison took a breath. "There is a fine line between genius and insanity, Captain. I agree with your Colonel about which side of that line you are on, but not everyone wearing birds or stars in this army does. Keep that in mind." Morrison turned and opened a drawer in a nearby filing cabinet, grabbing a file. "I cannot officially sanction any rescue and I will not be able to protect anyone who attempted one and failed." The general opened the file and flipped through a couple pages before grunting and nodding in approval. He looked up and met Murdock's eyes. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Captain?" Shuffling the pages, he closed the file again and put it on desktop, the flat manila standing out against the gray metal. He never broke eye contact.
Murdock looked at the file on the desk, then looked at the General. Murdock smirked. "I do, General."
"Good. Now, son, you do me a favor. Assuming you see our boys before I do, ask Hannibal to come see me. Baracus still owes me that repaired radio." Morrison strode out of the tent as Murdock threw up a hasty salute. The door settled closed and Murdock pounced on the manilla folder.
He opened it to find the spec sheet for a gleaming, beautiful combat chopper with passenger capabilities. "Hello, gorgeous," he gushed. Fresh off the repair line, the bird had some cosmetic issues, but she was certified combat ready. Even better, she was already fueled up and good to go. All he had to do was pick her up and the skies – and the guys – were his. "Oh, General," he muttered to himself. "this is just gorgeous." For all his willful by-the-book bravado, Morrison was a sneaky bastard. Murdock had never expected him to be the duplicitous type.
There was no one outside the tent when Murdock strode out, eyes scanning the area for the chopper. "On my way boys," he grinned. "The calvary's comin'."
The imprecise location coordinates that Tanter had given him helped only to an extent. Flying over the immediate area had garnered him nothing but the scorch marks and detritus of a dust-up that had passed. He hovered over the area, eyes squinting through his sunglasses as he searched for signs of his team.
He found none, nor did he see any clear indication that they were hiding low somewhere waiting for a friendly chopper to pass on by.
He flew low in concentric circles, inspecting every ridge, plant, and wave in the sand for tire tracks, still bodies, or even footprints to guide him. "C'mon, boys," he breathed. "I ain't going back without you, so you might as well give me something to work with."
Approaching a rise, two insurgents popped up from behind and fired at him, the bullets from the automatic rifles plinking harmlessly off the armored skin of the chopper. They turned and sprinted back to their vehicle obscured behind the tan rocks. "Don't blame you, boys," Murdock muttered. Luckily, they were scared enough to make a beeline back to their base.
He flew higher, watching the vehicle pull into a small compound, clearly important enough to have several anti-aircraft weapons at their disposal. Okay then, Murdock thought. Air assault ain't going to work.
He banked away from the compound, making a show of getting spooked by the weapons before finding a hidden area where he could set the lady down where she hopefully wouldn't be found. She needed to stay hidden long enough for him to get the team out, return to the chopper untouched by anyone but him, and then fly them home.
These things individually may work, but together they remained wildly improbable without the proper time to scout, plan, or prepare. He had memorized the general layout of the facility in his fly-over, but his odds of success remained highly improbable, especially if the guys couldn't help him out or if the little intel he had was wrong – haha that never happened. It was all batshit, involving a complete lack of regard for his personal safety and bodily integrity. Murdock grinned. Right up his alley.
He found a suitable landing location, just over a mile away from the compound, a comparatively secure site up against a large, curved cliff face and tucked the chopper up against it. He ripped off his headset and flight helmet and strapped on his body armor, checking his assault weapon and service pistol. It wasn't the best plan. He hoped that these insurgents thought he flew away when they heard the chopper recede into the distance. He hoped they were dumb enough to not come looking for him or the chopper. Or too dumb to find and booby trap his girl. Or too dumb to track him and come after him. Or too dumb to know that he would head straight to compound to rescue his compatriots.
That would be a whole lot of dumb, but Murdock was constantly surprised by how stupid humans consistently behaved.
This situation involved a complete lack of regard for his personal safety and bodily integrity. His hand passed over the scars from his chest wound and he paused, wondering if this was what Face had talked about after their impromptu race across the base. But really, Murdock did not have any other choice. Face would thank him later.
He hoofed it across the landscape, the midday sun beating down and making sweat trickle out his helmet to steam underneath the collar of his BDUs. His thought again about the chopper and her staying exactly where he left it. Even if they had a pilot, he would have to have a hugely high skill set to get it out of the spot where Murdock had wedged it. He ran over the layout of the compound as he had seen it from the air: fairly open construction nestled against a crescent-shaped ridge from the north and steep hills on other sides. There was no fence or wall. The buildings were one to two-story and plain, simple concrete, some with glass windows, some with bars, some with frames simply left gaping. The geography allowed one easy entrance and exit point, but the hills on either side had enough outcroppings and spiked, sharp vegetation for a single man to have a controlled and covert descent. Roughly ten minutes later, his boots pressing cascading imprints into the loose soil, he climbed a rise where he could see the compound spread out beneath him, flies buzzing maddeningly in his ear as he caught his breath.
After a quick surveillance that revealed only a couple of roaming guards with small caliber firearms, he pushed off again, skating down the hills and keeping low to whatever cover was available. His assault rifle bounced against his back and he drew his service pistol, tucking it low in front of him.
He thought he admirably performed the four Ds – duck, dodge, dash, and uh … dodge again? – as he moved constantly down the hillside and noted with pleasure that none of the guards had even looked up at the sounds or the sights of his approach. He slid against the wall of one of the outbuildings, eyes burning from sweat and chest heaving as he gulped in air. Shit, so maybe the docs still had a point about combat missions.
He consulted his mental map of the compound – thank you photographic memory! - and crept around corners and along walls to the most likely place they were keeping the guys, the largest, central building with multiple floors.
The crack of boot hitting body echoed around a corner, along with it a sharp grunt, laughter, and a dangerous voice cutting through it all saying, "You try that again, sucker, I'll rip that leg clean off your body."
Murdock smiled. Ah, Bosco, he thought. Our dramatic avenging angel. He darted closer to the sound - dart! Dart was the fourth D! – crouching below a small, empty window of a single-floor building before popping up to get a feel for the situation inside.
His Team sat in the middle of the concrete floor in the sole room of the building, tied at the ankles in front of them and the wrists behind them. They looked filthy and roughed up, but not seriously wounded. Five men stood over them, two with semi-automatic rifles held at low ready, two with handguns holstered on their hips, and one, clearly a higher-ranking officer, plastered with ostentatious bling hanging over every inch of his pristine uniform. Shit, even his boots sparkled.
Officer Fancy Pants strode over to Murdock's team, glaring down at them. Hannibal was doubled over, forehead nearly touching his knees, Bosco looked like he was ready to tear out of his skin in anger and Face, a single drop of blood trailing from his nose, beamed at their captors with the biggest shit-eating grin Murdock ever saw, which served to hide his deft motions that loosened the knots tying his hands.
Murdock grinned as he dropped his head back under the windowsill. Popping up once more, he quickly assessed the environment and then glanced around him. This was going to be fun. All he needed was a bit of a distraction – Distraction! Wait, were there five Ds?
Officer Fancy Pants started in on a lecture and Hannibal laughed, earning another kick to the ribs. Oh, hell yeah, Murdock thought. This is going to be fun.
In the end, Murdock remembered, it took a lot of improvisation and a complex series of maneuvers including, but not limited to:
blowing up a fuel tank;
sliding Face a knife to free himself and the guys;
some ultimate stealth badassery to take out of two of the guards on the guys while Hannibal, newly freed from his constraints, took out the rest;
scaling a concrete wall to run across two rooftops with enemies chasing, like "Prince-of-Persia" only with bullets;
an intentionally pitchy version of "I Saw the Sign";
Bosco slamming two heads together from behind – completely awesome but who actually does that?!;
back-flip kicks that launched bad guys across the room that didn't actually happen but would have been *so* cool if they had;
a run-and-gun fire fight back to the helicopter, thankfully unfound and untouched, that resulted in a good deal of chafing due to sand caught in uncomfortable places;
a pounding heart but steady hands as he maneuvered the helicopter out of its precarious landing position to open up the throttle towards home;
Face's hovering after Murdock winced at a sore spot around his chest, but then Face throwing his head back and joining in Murdock's take-off howl;
and Hannibal clapping him on the shoulder in that relieved way that always gave Murdock a bad case of the warm fuzzies.
In that order. Or not. Murdock couldn't be too sure.
Later, after showering, changing, and getting checked out by medical – a grumbling doctor cleared him even as she marveled how he managed not to strain *anything* this time - Morrison appeared at their post-mission celebration. Their sobriety had disappeared with the sun, and BA leaned precariously onto Hannibal, his arm around his CO's shoulder as Hannibal supported his weight and mostly balanced a tin cup of whiskey in the other hand.
"Gentlemen!" Morrison called, striding up to the makeshift fire pit. "Congratulations on yet another successful mission! How many does that make now?"
"Wait? We're s'ppsed to be counting?" Face slurred. "I don't remember." He lifted the half-empty bottle of tequila. "Booze …" he trailed off by way of explanation.
Morrison smiled. "Whatever the number, well done. Intel is intact and everyone came back safe. All in all, I'm very happy."
"Glad to hear it, General," Hannibal grinned, adjusting BA's lax weight on his shoulder. Bosco stared, bleary-eyed at the General and muttered something about a fossil of a radio before slipping back into semi-consciousness.
The General chuckled. "Indeed, Corporal. Boys, enjoy your evening."
"Not joining us tonight, General?" Murdock called.
"Not tonight, Captain. I'm still on the clock, so to speak." The corner of his mouth ticked up in a grin. "Seems there's some folks upset about a stolen chopper taken into a hot zone by a pilot who had no clearance to fly combat missions. How do you think that could have happened, Captain?"
The pilot grinned back. "I don't rightly remember, Sir."
Face leapt to his feet, wavered at the sudden movement, then grabbed Murdock's shoulder. Whether Face was stabilizing himself or offering stalwart support, Murdock couldn't tell. "People are upset? That's bullshit, General!" Face slurred. "This man saved our lives today!"
Morrison put his hands up. "At ease, Lieutenant, at ease. I'm handling it. In the meantime, though, you four – and you especially, Murdock – need to lay low."
"Anything else we can do, Russ?" Hannibal rumbled.
The General narrowed his eyes in thought, scratching at his chin. "Now that I think about it, yes. Lieutenant." Face perked up. "You know some of the players involved in this. A little buttering up wouldn't hurt."
Face saluted sloppily. "Yessir, General, Sir! I will definitely lube up whoever needs lubed. Sir."
Morrison's mustache twitched in amusement. "Interesting choice of phrasing, Peck," he said dryly. "But whatever gets the job done, I suppose." Face again saluted sloppily, nearly poking himself in the eye as Murdock giggled. Morrison shook his head and left them to their celebration.
Face took another swig out of the tequila bottle and sat heavily back into his lawn chair, the frame creaking at the weight. Hannibal and Murdock exchanged a glance behind the receding General's back. "I'm real glad he's on our side, Hannibal," Murdock muttered, running a hand through his messy hair.
Hannibal's eyes smiled as he watched the older man cross over the sand. "Me too, Murdock. Me too."