Chapter Eight
Muffled gunfire rang in Murdock's ears as he lay face down on the damp jungle floor. Beneath him, the frame of his M-16 pressed awkwardly, uncomfortably against his body; his right index finger gave an uncontrolled twitch and he was surprised to find it still tentatively resting on the trigger.
What happened? It was a simple question, but he could devise no answer.
His muddled mind pieced together that he had been helping Face lay down cover fire. He recalled watching with trepidation as BA, Callaghan and Dom hobbled away from the mass of Viet Cong soldiers swarming within the jungle, but then… what was it? Had he been hit? Was it an RPG? Something had slammed into him. Was he hurt? He didn't know.
Confusion eclipsing his courage, he kept still.
Through his numbed senses, the din of battle surrounding him sounded distant, dull, but, from the depths of the jungle, he could plainly hear a lone, long, frantic scream. Filled with agony and that imposing, singular terror of the dying, the voice was distinctly Vietnamese. The sound chilled him, made his hair stand on end.
Then, the frightened shriek came to a sudden, strangled end.
Trembling, Murdock tried to draw in a breath but found his lungs unable to grant him the minor favor. He knew he had to move; he had to set back into motion, killing to survive, helping Face and the others, but the haunting reminder of that scream echoed in his mind, giving him reason to pause. He didn't want to die, not here, and he certainly didn't want to kill.
Without his chopper, he felt naked, terrifyingly vulnerable. The feel of the gun in his hands was wrong; he needed controls not weapons. Though he'd trained plenty for ground combat, he suddenly realized how ill prepared he truly was. He needed to be in the air.
Opening his eyes, he quickly blinked the haze from his vision and regained his nerve. Come hell or high water, he was going to get to that chopper.
Sitting up, he grimaced at the tenderness in his chest, but, after a quick assessment, he found he only suffered from a few bruised ribs. With some strain, he was finally able to take in a slow, warm breath—which was tainted with the stench of rotting flesh.
His gaze gradually wandered to a patch of ground upwind of him; there he spotted a pile of pale, bloated corpses. He counted three lifeless forms, two dressed in fatigues and one in a flight suit; this had to be the Huey's crew, but where was the fourth?
With his senses returning, Murdock flinched as bullets tore into the soft ground beside him, sending sprays of loose soil flying as they landed.
Every shot, every voice suddenly seemed magnified. Colors snapped into vivid sharpness, contrasting and vying for his eye. Movements—people running, leaves flickering— were too fast as the wash of action took his attention.
Shit, shit, shit…
Raising his rifle, he fired off a few rounds from his seated position. The Viet Cong held the jungle's edge, crouching amid the growing shadows of the evening, but, strangely, those who had been closest to the chopper had seemingly abandoned the clearing.
Shouts, frantic and hoarse, sounded nearby and Murdock slowly recognized the voice as Face's.
"IS HE OK?"
Murdock cast a quick glance over at the lieutenant as the man repeated himself. "DAMN IT, IS HE OK?"
Face kept his eyes on the jungle as he continued to lay cover fire for BA, Callaghan and Dom, but it was clear from his uneasy expression that he was losing both strength and hope. Further off, Ray stood, firing and shouting orders at the three men still fleeing the enemy.
Murdock started to rise, but it was then that he spotted Hannibal lying on the ground beside him. The colonel's helmet was gone—it lay some five feet away; his greying blond hair was matted and wet with crimson.
"HOLY HELL, MURDOCK…" Face screamed. "…JUST TELL ME IF HE'S STILL ALIVE."
Hannibal stirred, his eyes fluttering open. "Tell Face to cram it, I'm fine." He muttered to Murdock, determination settling onto his gruff visage as he quickly sat up, snatched his rifle and rose. "Damn it, I'm down for three whole seconds and you all haven't cleaned this shit up yet?"
Murdock blinked, still uncertain of what had happened.
"Get that bird cranked up," Hannibal growled at the captain as he joined Ray and Face in laying down cover fire. "…And..uh…Murdock, sometime today would be great. I'd like to get out of here before I have to save your ass again."
Chancing one last glance at those in the most peril, Murdock held his breath as he saw the three blood soaked sergeants. BA was moving slowly; his dark face glistening with sweat and pain as he limped forward; his shoulder and right thigh were painted red from his wounds. Dom, barely managing to stand, was only able to continue as Callaghan had sidled up to him, giving what aid he could. The gut wound Dom suffered didn't look good, not even from a distance.
"GO!" Hannibal hollered; his voice startling Murdock to his feet.
In a split second, the captain was sprinting toward the chopper. Each crack of gunfire seemed to further electrify the air with an unrelenting threat of death. He kept the Huey in his sight, determined not to be detoured…until he neared the pile of bodies.
He slowed, glancing at the dead, surprised to spot the fourth body hidden behind the others, but, bound and gagged, the still form suddenly shifted.
Midstride, Murdock froze. Even through his fear, the flood of adrenaline and hailstorm of bullets, he hadn't forgotten the mission assigned solely to him…Sergeant Stinson.
There wasn't time; he knew that. Licking his lips, he studied the man—dressed in a flight suit, he had to be the Huey's pilot or co-pilot; it wasn't Agent Stinson, but did that matter? Murdock frowned, the urgency of the moment weighing heavily upon him. No, he'd never knowingly leave anyone behind…never.
Quickly, he changed course, heading toward the bound man. Shouldering his rifle, he unsheathed his knife and knelt, nearly jumping out of his skin as the man violently flinched beneath his touch.
"It's ok. I'm here to help; just take it easy…" Murdock set to work as he spoke, freeing first the man's wrists and then his ankles. Damn; the kid looked too young to be flying a plane, even by Murdock's standards.
Pallid face speckled in dried blood, the dark haired youth was quick to reach for his gag the moment his hands were freed. Large glossy eyes, shadowed with unsettling memories, peered mournfully up at Murdock.
"T-they k-killed them…" His haunted gaze shifted weakly to the pile of bodies—watching them as if he feared they might again come alive…screaming and writhing in agony as the first stages of maggots crawled through their flesh.
Murdock had to force the words out; he didn't want to sound cruel, but there wasn't time to deal with the man's wounded psyche at the moment. "Can you get to the chopper? Can you get her started?"
Blankness settled over the man's face. The fear was gone, the haunted expression had vanished; he just stared ahead, perfectly still.
Murdock let out a soft curse. He'd hoped that…
"I can do it." The man answered, already on his feet and moving toward the chopper before Murdock could react.
A twisting doubt lingered in the captain's gut as he watched the young man hurry toward the Huey, but this small saving grace would grant him just enough time to complete his mission—though he really wasn't too keen on this next part.
Trying to ignore the smell, he pulled the first corpse off the pile; dressed in a flight suit, he was sure this wasn't Stinson, but he did recognize the man. Morris Hemming…he'd met him once in Da Nang. The man was a decent pilot, though his affinity for booze did, reputedly, not help his aviation skills.
Murdock only briefly stared at the dark bullet hole in the man's temple before he leaned forward and snatched up Hemming's dog tags. That was a shitty way for any pilot to go.
Quickly, he flipped over the next body and, not recognizing the man, he gathered up his dog tags before he shifted over to the last corpse.
This had to be Stinson.
Behind him, he could hear chopper purr to life, blades starting to spin. Damn; he really didn't want to fly the bird without giving it a once over, but that couldn't be helped.
He reached out, grabbed a cold, stiff shoulder and turned the man over.
Unlike the other bodies, Stinson's eyes were wide open; his expression frozen in a state of terror. Murdock's heart started to race even more than it had already been, so that his chest ached with the intensity of it. For a moment, he remained entranced by Stinson's large, unseeing, opaque eyes—those unnerving symbols of death.
He reached out, closed the eyes and then took Stinson's dog tags. This man…he had known this man; he had flown with this man. Flies buzzed and settled, gathering at the corners of Stinson's mouth and nostrils. Murdock waved them off once before remembering himself; he wasn't yet done with his mission.
Ignoring the insects, he started to paw through Stinson's pockets, searching for anything that the CIA wouldn't want to fall into enemy hands. Coming up empty, he sighed and, about to get to his feet, he paused as he caught sight of a face watching him from the jungle.
The boy's dark, narrow eyes watched him with such heated, angry intensity, that Murdock felt his breath falter. One side the youth's face was smooth, healthy, but the other was marred, puckered with the red wounded skin seen too often in these parts—a little souvenir from a napalm attack.
As he peered across the clearing, there was some spark of understanding in the young man's gaze; some recognition that, at first, Murdock couldn't understand.
Then, slowly, the boy lifted a single slip of folded, bloodstained paper for Murdock to see. A crooked, tight-lipped smile spread across the young Viet Cong's face as his gaze shifted to the body the captain had been searching. Murdock followed the gaze, realizing what this meant, and, looking back up, he found the smiling, scarred youth raising his rifle.
SHIT!
Murdock didn't hesitate. He turned and ran like a jackrabbit on crack as the kid opened fire. A wisp of pain brushed his leg, but he ran on.
As he neared the chopper, he found the rest of the team already loading into the back. Hannibal gave him a questioning glance, obviously unaware that another man had started the Huey up.
He'd let the colonel chew him out later. Legs pumping, Murdock continued his mad dash, but, suddenly sensing the surprising lack of gunfire, he stumbled and went crashing to the ground beside the chopper.
He blinked, ready to leap back up, until he spotted something beneath the leafy palms that were partially covering the chopper's skids. Reaching out, he tentatively brushed the greenery away; his blood running cold at the sight that awaited him.
A few bullets hit the dirt beside him. The Viet Cong obviously didn't want him messing with their work, and, if the chopper didn't take off soon, they would undoubtedly beginfiring on the bird.
Murdock scrambled to his feet. He felt a wave of numbness wash over him as he pulled himself into the pilot's seat. The cold-eyed young pilot he'd saved had placed himself in the co-pilot's seat; he kept calm, unnaturally focused on the gauges as Murdock entered.
That was why the Viet Cong had cleared so much brush away. A single bounce on takeoff and all their hard work would have been for naught. That was why they ceased firing when the team had neared the Huey; one stray bullet and the chopper would have sent out shrapnel far enough to take out most of the Viet Cong crouched nearby.
Murdock took a second to listen to the hum of the Huey. She sounded alright. The gauges looked good. There was enough fuel to get them back to Dong Xoai. Everything seemed in order…besides the load of explosives latched to their belly and skids.
He closed his eyes, hoping like hell some kind of brilliant plan would come to mind. He'd seen the small pits beneath sections of skids housing the pressure sensitive triggers. Once he was up in the air, landing was going to be a damn big problem.
"GET THIS BIRD UP, NOW!"
Murdock jumped and then glanced back, catching sight of Hannibal's bloodied face before he turned away to settle himself into his seat.
Like Hannibal, the Viet Cong seemed to be losing patience; their gunfire slowly started up again.
And suddenly, Murdock knew, there was no choice. Steadying his breathing, he grinned over at his young co-pilot.
"Well," he said, putting a bit of a sing-song nature into his voice. "It looks like we're going up, one way or the other."
There was a glimmer of confusion in the young man's eyes, but, besides a slight frown, he gave no indication that he cared to know what Murdock was talking about.
For whatever reason, it was the second act of Jules Massenet's opera, Don Quichotte, that sprang into Murdock's head and then came from his lips as he firmly grabbed the stick. This seemed to startle the co-pilot a little more, much to Murdock's amusement and relief. The coldness from the youth had been…unsettling.
Bellowing out one of Sancho Panza's lines, Murdock silently prayed that he could get get them off the ground without blowing everyone up; after all, it would be a shame if he never got to his favorite part of the opera—Don Quixote tilting at windmills.
And with that thought, he reached down and placed his left hand on the collective-pitch lever and let out one blood-curdling howl before pulling up.