Chapter Six

It was ten minutes into the flight. The steady, rhythmic whump-whump of the chopper's blades muffled all other sound, so, to be heard, Face leaned over and shouted at the man nearest him—which just happened to be BA.

"Hey there good-looking" Face called, essentially screaming into sergeant's ear. Then, with a twang of sarcastic seduction layering his voice, he added, "you come here often?"

He knew straightaway that his attempt at comic relief had been horribly miscalculated; BA tensed, casting over a deep, angry scowl.

Oh shit!

Murdock, BA and Face all sat on the rearward facing bench directly behind the cockpit on the UH-1 transport chopper or Slick as it was commonly known. The bench typically held four men, but since they were running this mission light, they had a little extra elbow room.

Across from them, Hannibal, Ray, Dom and Callaghan were seated on the forward facing bench. Though the others couldn't have heard Face's comment, they seemed able to sense the impending doom radiating off BA, and they watched with sheer fascination. Rather than offer any support, Hannibal smirked, looking content simply enjoying the entertainment.

Sheepishly, Face eyed the irate sergeant. There was no doubt about it, with his full gear on and an M-16 clenched in his beefy hands, BA looked like a Viet Cong's worst nightmare—or, at that moment, maybe Face's. However, the big man kept still, wedged firmly between Face and Murdock, glaring daggers at Peck.

Shrinking back slightly, Face offered a toothy grin that he hoped the sergeant took as an apology. Hell, there was no way he wanted BA pissed at him when they were going into the bush—not that he thought BA wouldn't still save his ass when he got into a jam, but it was best not to chance it.

Staring down at his jungle boots, still feeling the pressure of the heated gaze, Face let one long, low sigh escape him. He'd only been trying to get Bosco to relax a bit; drenched in sweat, the sergeant looked like he was either about to pass out or blow chunks, and they still had at least a good hour of flight time left.

It didn't make sense. How could someone have a fear of flying in the Airborne? It was almost pathetic, but the stoic way in which BA handled his phobia was something Face admired. BA had never refused to board a chopper.

A sudden movement caught Face's attention and, fearing retribution for his ill-conceived comment, he quickly glanced over. No fist was aimed in his direction, instead he found Murdock craning his lanky frame toward BA.

"You know…" Murdock shouted over the din of the chopper, "…statistically people are more likely to die in car crashes than in plane or chopper crashes."

Suspicion filled BA's eyes as he stared the captain down, but, slowly, as he seemingly poured over the statement in his head, Face could see the sergeant's tightly clenched jaw relax slightly.

"A' course I don't think they took 'Nam into consideration when they did the study," Murdock added, his brow wrinkled but a gleam of mischief was still evident in his eyes. "…I'm guessing it's the opposite here."

Face quickly snorted down his laughter, but, upon seeing BA's big hands tremble and the profound fear flood his typically stern face, he frowned over at Murdock.

The happy twinkle had left the captain's gaze as he studied the large lump of terrified man beside him. Face knew Murdock enjoyed a good joke, but he was far from cruel.

For as much as his girth would allow, BA seemed to cower in on himself. His pinched face was turned down, eyes unfocused—staring blankly at the vibrating floor beneath his feet, but obviously seeing nothing.

"Hey," Though delivered in a shout, Murdock's voice was gentle, and BA slowly, hesitantly glanced up.

For a moment, Murdock just stared, keeping the big guy's gaze locked in his own. The pilot's demeanor changed. It wasn't just seriousness conveyed in the man's expression; it was a sense of leadership—of unyielding empathy and loyalty that most men can barely fathom let alone exude. It reminded Face of Colonel Smith.

"The pilot of this bird, Captain Robert Alan Thompson, has three kids a wife and a golen retriever named Spud waiting for him in Gadsden, Alabama." Murdock paused, his dark eyes scanning the sergeant's face. "He is one of the most cautious men I know—he made a promise to his family that he'd get home in one piece. He's a good man, and there is no way he's gonna break that promise to his family, understand? There ain't no way this bird is going down; ol' Robert up there won't let it."

Staring the captain in the eyes, BA nodded. Gradually, his stern expression returned as he looked away—all traces of fear departed.

Face stared in disbelief. Damn, Murdock was good.

Afraid to upset the delicate balance keeping BA's nerves in check, Face opted to keep silent for the rest of the ride, but it was a challenge. His own anxiety was kicking up and he desperately wanted to combat it with some pointless banter.

Smith's missions had never proven to be cakewalks—especially when the colonel did his damnedest to say they would be. Fortunately, Hannibal hadn't tried reassuring them that this outing would be 'a piece of cake,' but Face still felt on edge. There was some vital piece of information evading him; he could feel it—he kept trying to dig it free, like a stubborn splinter just under the skin, but it was to no avail. Quietly, he mulled over the briefing again.

Morrison had stated that the chopper had gone down ten klicks outside of Dong Xoai; the closest LZ to the crash site was about a klick south, but, with heavy enemy activity in the vicinity, it would be hot. They'd have to hit the ground running. Plus, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot of light left in the day; it really wasn't the optimum time to start a retrieval op, and not one in which their pilot, without the aid of a crew, would have to fly solo out of a rabbit hole in the jungle. Of course, that was if they flew the chopper out at all.

Frustrated, Face sighed. What was he missing?

The more he pondered the op, the more he questioned whether Hannibal had done something to royally piss HQ off. This felt way too much like a suicide run. Was a downed chopper really worth all this? There had to be something more.

He glanced up at the door gunner nearest him. The man was focused; his M-60 at the ready as he leaned out the side door and scanned the jungle below. This mission seemed to have everyone on edge.

A flutter of dread continued to grow in Face's stomach; like clockwork, it wormed its way into his belly before every drop. Once on the ground, he would get his shit together, but there was something about being in transport—not knowing yet what awaited them—that terrified him.

A sickeningly cold sweat tickled his skin, and he drew in a shaky breath. Somewhere in the jungle, Viet Cong were waiting, ready to kill. He knew they were there; they were always there—somewhere. The hidden booby traps, the ambushes, and the possibility of being captured gave him nightmares. He liked to be the man with all the answers, but out there, amidst the fog and thick jungle shrubbery, there was too much unknown. And, there was too much death.

He glanced over at Murdock, eager to gather some courage from the man, but the captain was deeply engaged in a conversation with the chopper's other door gunner. Whatever they spoke of was lost to Face amid the rumble of the blades. He hated how the pulsing of the chopper didn't synch up with the pounding of his heart, so that the flow of blood coursing through him felt confused, out of sorts.

Body relaxed, eyes dancing with some inner delight, Murdock laughed and made wild hand gestures, simulating what Face could only guess was the movements of a chopper as it dove through the sky. Both Murdock and the door gunner were smiling brightly, seemingly sharing some joke that, despite their current circumstances, managed to amuse them.

Face wondered then, while he watched the two, if his friend felt the same cold pull of fear. He had to, right? Uncertainty plagued Face's thoughts, making him shamed by his own fear.

Briefly, Murdock glanced over, his enormous, toothy grin never faltered, but, for a second, Peck saw through the façade. There was a hollowness to the smile—beneath the thin veil of pleasantness, hidden in the depths of his eyes, there was fear. He was just better at hiding it than Face had imagined.

Murdock returned to his story but with less vigor. They were getting close to the LZ.

Face drew in an unsteady breath.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. If he'd known of this mission, he never would have pushed so hard to get Murdock as Hannibal's pilot. Yeah, Murdock was the best; Face knew that—he'd seen the man fly countless times. No one could do what he did. But, he was the best in the sky; this mission was different.

Grounded, would Murdock survive? Face swallowed down that anxiety, burying it deep inside, hoping that he would never have to deal with it again, but, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, that fear was still there. He had countless acquaintances he could spare but few true friends.

Friendship took too much trust, cost too much of himself to invest in someone who might leave him. People came and went in and out of his life, usually wandering off when he had no more to offer them. Wasn't that the point of learning to accquire so much... to keep people around? Trust was hard—especially for a conman.

Murdock had been different though. The pilot wanted nothing; when Face was at his lowest, Murdock always managed to suddenly appear, ready to help out, but he never sought anything in return. Finally, one humid afternoon months ago, Face had found the pilot, red-eyed and exhausted, clutching a letter from home. Murdock's grandparents had both passed away within days of each other; they were the last of his family—they had raised him like a son since he was five years old.

Misty eyed, Murdock hardly spoke. He just sat, staring sadly down at the crinkled paper. Face asked if he could get Murdock anything—it was a lame attempt at comfort, but it was all he knew.

Face would never forget the man's answer, the way he gazed up, grief stricken and dazed. "I could use a friend."

Ever since, that's what Face had been—a friend.

His wandering thoughts were reined in as the chopper's flight path shifted. Hannibal peered forward, carefully watching the cockpit, waiting for a signal. It wouldn't be long.

Time felt distorted, slow and heavy as they waded through the sky. Face tensed, checking his rifled again. It was then that the chopper turned, slowly descending.

"Everyone ready?" The inflection made it sound like a question, but Face knew it was Hannibal's warning. Prepared or not, they were about to land in the thick of it.

He nervously eyed the nearing jungle canopy. The LZ was a small stretch of barren land courtesy of a B-52. The bomb sites made great landing zones, if they weren't booby-trapped.

The long stretch of time suddenly gave way to a sweep of frenzied action as the chopper made a rough landing. Face shuffled out, hearing the scuffle of BA quickly following him. Careful to keep his body low as he hurried forward, Face set himself behind Dom as they entered the thick greenery.

He could hear the chopper as it began its struggle upward, fighting against the warm, still jungle air. As much as he wanted to glance back and watch their last tie to the base leave, Face knew he had to stay focused.

Like a well-oiled machine, everyone quickly set into their positions. Ray took point with BA as the slack man—since he was a genius at spotting and disarming booby traps. Hannibal came next with Murdock behind him. The captain hadn't been satisfied that the only task the colonel had assigned him was 'not to get killed.' With a light squad, everyone else would be pulling double duty, so the special treatment didn't sit well with the plucky pilot. Murdock did have an M-16, but Hannibal had been adamant in telling him to hit the deck the moment they took fire—which was a command Face was wholeheartedly behind.

Next in line was Callaghan followed by Dom—who was their com specialist this mission. Finally, Face brought up the rear.

It was silent, save for the hum of the departing chopper; every fiber of Face's being was tense with warning and his intuition normally proved very reliable. They hadn't gotten two steps into the jungle before gunfire erupted all around them.

Face dove for cover as he heard the familiar sound of an RPG being launched. He braced, preparing himself for the pain…possibly death, but he was spared.

Hearing an explosion, he glanced up, watching in horror as the chopper, sputtering thick, black smoke and flames, wobbled and dipped as it still fought to gain altitude.

Another RPG flared through the sky, barely missing the wounded aircraft.

Suddenly, Murdock was up, shifting through the leafy cover, firing in the direction the RPG had come from. Bullets struck the ground and trees all around him, but he moved quickly and with surprising precision, either ignoring or simply not hearing the angry shouts from Hannibal.

Face almost went after his friend, but held still instead. As loyal as he felt toward Murdock, he knew stepping out into the open fire would do no good. That would only give the Viet Cong two targets instead of one. Instead, he steadied his rifle, quickly taking out as many of the enemy as he could—lowering the risk of Murdock being shot.

Murdock fired a few more rounds and then dropped to a crouch, eyes fixed in the direction of his hidden enemy, but all was quiet again. Face panted, adrenaline pumping as he scanned the area for any more activity, but they seemed to be clear. Slowly, Murdock glanced up, his gaze settling on the chopper still struggling in the air.

The damage had been too severe. A final explosion ripped through the fuselage, and the chopper, now no more than twisted, flaming wreckage, dropped swiftly from the sky—only the trail of heavy black smoke filling the air hinted of its existence.

Murdock stood stock still, a frown marring his face as he stared hopelessly up at the blacken sky. He had to have known, like they all did, that no one had survived.

Captain Thompson had broken his promise.