Chapter Nine
Ignoring the pain flaring through his skull, Hannibal inched back into the chopper, not willing to take his eyes off the jungle which shrouded the silent enemy. A cold internal warning pulsed through him; the Viet Cong's sudden, inexplicable ceasefire—though seemingly a turn of luck for the team—wasn't fooling him. Charlie should have been lighting that Huey up like the Fourth of July, and the fact that they'd let up meant some bad shit was about to go down; Hannibal damn well didn't want to stick around to find out what that was.
Behind him, from the floor of the chopper, he could hear Dom's piercing cries as Callaghan tended to him.
A quick glance back proved what Hannibal already knew; all his men had made it into the chopper—whether they all lived long enough to get out of this shithole of a jungle was another story though.
Dom was pale, gasping as his glossy, pleading gaze fixed steadily on Callaghan. The medic, for his part, remained calm, focused. The red-head pulled out a syrette of morphine from his med bag, uttered soft words of assurance to Dom and then administered the drug.
Nearby, BA sat, slumped with glazed eyes. His rifle was down; his great frame was limp save for the ragged shudders of breath he drew in. For the Sergeant to be immobile when the team was under enemy threat meant the big man was hurting—badly.
Seated next to BA, Face was scrambling to pull gauze from Callaghan's med kit. The frantic pitch of the lieutenant's voice as he called out to the medic for assistance said it all; BA was fading.
On the other side of the chopper, leaning out the opposite door, Ray stood scanning the jungle with his M-16 at the ready. The sudden stillness from the enemy was obviously unnerving him as much as it was Hannibal.
And, one lone figure was in the cockpit, but he was seated in the co-pilot's position. Well, Murdock seemed capable enough, and if he chose that position then that meant something must have been wrong with the pilot's seat.
All this Hannibal had taken in with a glance before fixing his gaze back on the jungle. Carefully watching the shadows that hid the enemy, he raised his voice to penetrate the loud hum of the chopper. "TAKE HER UP, MURDOCK."
Easing himself into the door gunner's seat, he tensed in preparation for the liftoff, but, as the seconds ticked by and the Huey remained grounded, he felt his agitation rise.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? TAKER HER UP!"
Clinging to the remnants of his composure, Hannibal fought back the urge to fling himself into the cockpit and unleash all hell on the pilot. With a weary sigh, he wetted his lips, ready to call his order out again. Couldn't one damn thing just go right for them?
Suddenly, a few lone shots sounded, and a lanky figure appeared in the clearing, racing toward the Huey. Instinct had the colonel aiming his rifle at the man, but he lowered it as the sinking realization of who was out there dawned on him.
Hannibal blinked, his breath catching in his chest as he stared at Murdock. What the hell?
He cast a fleeting glance up at the cockpit, finally noting that the young man present was shorter, paler than their intended pilot. A knot of disgust grew in his belly; how had he not noticed that earlier?
Outside the chopper, Murdock kept running, his face a wash of controlled fear and determination, but, just as he neared the bird, the pilot lost his balance and went careening to the ground; he lay there for a moment, painfully still, until Hannibal caught the faintest of movements from the man.
Bracing himself, Hannibal raised his M-16 and sprayed a few rounds into the jungle, giving Murdock what cover he could, as he sprang to his feet and crawled into the pilot's seat.
Hannibal knew it would take at least a few seconds for the man to get his bearings in the chopper, but, as time ticked by, he couldn't wait any longer. Getting up, moving toward the cockpit, he glared at Murdock. The captain had his eyes closed; his face was pinched in deep concentration.
The order flew off Hannibal's lips almost without thought. "GET THIS BIRD UP, NOW!"
Murdock jumped; his eyes popping open and flashing back at the colonel with wild, anxious surprise. Hannibal could detect something else in that gaze, a shimmer of warning, concern, but they had no time for added dangers, and Hannibal quickly turned away, settling himself back into the door gunner's seat, leaving the pilot to his work.
A few more uncomfortable moments slid by before the thunder of AK-47's resumed with full force. Face took up a position beside Ray, returning fire, and Callaghan, hands still slick with blood, was quickly beside Hannibal doing the same.
Eyes wide with fear, the medic glanced up at Hannibal as he grabbed a fresh clip. His voice, shaky and hoarse, still managed to break through the madness. "We're not gonna make it…" Without waiting for a response, Callaghan turned back, spraying bullets into the jungle.
Pulse racing, Hannibal watched a Viet Cong collapse as his bullet hit its mark, but still they kept coming. Shit; there were too many of them out there. If this bird didn't fly the coop soon, then Callaghan was right, and there wasn't a god-damn thing Hannibal could do about it.
A lengthy, manic howl suddenly emanated from the cockpit, resonating through the chopper just as the Huey—with tremendous, jaw-shattering thrust—lifted upward.
Toppling to the floor, Hannibal cursed and quickly reached out, getting a firm hold of Callaghan before the man disappeared out the door to the jungle below.
"Holy shit…" Wide eyed, that's all Callaghan was able to utter before shaking the fright off and hurrying back to check on Dom.
Holy shit indeed. Hannibal glared up at the cockpit. After a takeoff like that, they were all damn lucky to still be in one piece. He'd expected better of Murdock—far better. Or maybe he'd expected better of Face; this guy was the lieutenant's choice, after all.
Ace pilot…my ass…
Hannibal cast a quick glance to the opposite side of the Huey, anxious to see if Ray was still seated in the other gunner's position or if he'd been thrown from the bird. Thankfully, a rather shaken, pale Ray was still present, firing into the surrounding jungle—not that his M-16 would do much good at this distance, but it was better than nothing.
Leaning out his door, Hannibal watched for the RPG's that were sure to come, but the searing hiss of rockets never sounded.
As they rose up over the canopy, Hannibal pulled himself back into the chopper, still unable to shake his doubt, his growing, gnawing worry. Something wasn't right…
"How's he doing?" He asked, peering over Callaghan's shoulder to get a better look at Dom. The kid looked bad; pallid and beaded with sweat, his face held that lingering pain and confusion of a doped up, dying man.
The medic shrugged, his vague answer was crafted to sound hopeful, despite the grim realities of what lay before him; Hannibal had heard it before, standing over Sergeant Rolland. The words came out the same then as now…
"It could have been worse."
Hannibal's memories of Rolland faded as another jubilant howl erupted from the cockpit, bringing his irritation with the team's new, temporary pilot to a peak.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" He yelled, glaring at Face.
Damn it, short or not, he should have put his foot down and demanded Williamson for this op instead of some hot-shot rookie friend of one of the biggest pains in the ass on his team.
Even as he held a wad of gauze to BA's oozing shoulder, Face managed a bright, flashy grin. "Well…um…they don't call him Howlin' Mad Murdock for nothing."
A spark of consciousness returned to BA; he stiffened, pulling at the straps holding him in. "W-what…we in a chopper with that fool? H-howlin' Mad? I don't wanna…"
"Easy, big guy, easy," Face cooed, gently pushing BA back. "Everything is going to be A-Okay, alright?"
BA didn't look reassured, but he'd lost too much blood to put of much of a struggle. The big sergeant's eyes fluttered closed, his body going completely limp.
Smile gone, Face quickly reached for more gauze, but, eyes wide, he suddenly paused.
"My ears are burning. You all musta been talkin' about me."
Hannibal glanced up, completely unprepared for what he saw. Having maneuvered himself out of the cockpit, Murdock stood beside Face.
"MURDOCK!" The horror in Face's voice echoed in Hannibal's head. "Who the hell is flying the chopper?"
Tilting his head slightly, lips pursed, Murdock stared contemplatively at the floor for a second before looking up, a wide, toothy grin lighting his face. "Well, I don't rightfully know his name, but I found him in the jungle back there. I was hoping…" He cast a friendly, pleading glance at Hannibal. "…that the Colonel would let me keep him. I think I'll name him George."
"Murdock…"
Hannibal cut Face off. "WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING BACK HERE, CAPTAIN? GET BACK INTO THAT COCKPIT NOW; THAT'S AN ORDER."
"No can do…" the pilot answered calmly, pivoting around a stunned Ray and reaching for a monkey harness. "We're short a crew chief and this bird has got some…ah…uh… problems."
Slipping into the harness, Murdock sighed, his expression growing stern, serious. Hannibal's anger faded; this explained why the captain had been so reluctant to take off.
"Will we make it back?" He asked, watching the pilot's reaction carefully.
"Maybe…"
Murdock wasn't sure; there was doubt reflected in his hunched posture, his wrinkled brow.
Shit.
Again, the wide grin returned to Murdock's face. "Hold on, I'll be right back…maybe it's not so bad." And, with that, he edged out onto the skid and disappeared from sight.
There seemed to be a general tension that hung in the air—which was understandable seeing as they had just watched their pilot step from their chopper…midflight. Nervous gazes were exchanged, questioning what had happened, but no one seemed willing to step forward and see. Only Ray, who sat close enough to have a good vantage point, seemed slightly more at ease; still, that hardly settled anyone else's nerves.
"What's he up to?" Hannibal finally asked his LT, but Ray only shrugged.
"I have no idea, can't see exactly what he's doing. Maybe the fuselage was hit? He's looking under the chopper."
Eventually, Murdock pulled himself back into the Huey. A smile still remained on his face, but it was far more restrained, maybe slightly forced.
"Uh…ah…Colonel?" The pilot unstrapped his harness, carefully crossed the chopper and stopped only inches away from Hannibal. "I need to have a word with you."
Murdock's voice was low, and Hannibal could see the strain on his men's faces as they tried to listen in. Still, if the pilot felt this needed to stay between them, he'd trust the man…for now.
A curt nod was all Murdock needed from Hannibal before he continued. His words grew quieter still, so that they were barely audible to even the colonel.
"When we get to Dong Xoai…" He paused to wet his lips, perhaps giving himself time to gather his thoughts. "…I can bring her down low, but I won't be able to touch down to let you all out."
Shit. Hannibal immediately looked to Dom; in his current condition, that kind of drop would probably kill him. And the chopper had been stripped by the Viet Cong. All the rappelling gear was gone. Hell, they were lucky they still had benches to sit on.
Murdock shifted and Hannibal could sense that he too was eyeing the injured man.
"That's a death sentence for him." Hannibal murmured, keeping his voice low.
"Maybe not," Murdock answered softly. "I'll get the chopper as low as I can, and…" He kept silent until Hannibal looked back, meeting his grave gaze. "Setting down would be a death sentence for all of us."
There was a moment of silence, which wasn't at all comfortable.
"What aren't you telling me, Captain?" It was a fair question.
Murdock fidgeted, not meeting Hannibal's gaze. "Um, who's your demolitions expert on the team?"
Damn-it! That was not what he wanted to hear.
Hannibal immediately looked to BA. "Baracus…"
Murdock sighed. "I was afraid of that. I barely got the chopper up…one bounce on liftoff and that would have been the end. When we get to Dong Xoai, I'll let you out…get as much weight out of the bird as possible. It'll make it easier for me to land…" A hollow smirk formed and then vanished from Murdock's face, pulling suddenly into a puckered frown.
Easier for him to land? That was crap, and Hannibal would've called him on it, but, for once, he decided to let the lie be.
Lost in thought, Hannibal suddenly realized his hand had gone to the pocket with his one lone cigar in it, but it still wasn't time to smoke it, not yet. "I'll see that everyone gets off in Dong Xoai, but I'm staying onboard and…"
"Nope; end of story. You're getting off with the rest of them." Murdock's response was quick, as if he'd expected this of Hannibal, and he didn't give the colonel any time for argument either, as he turned and started to work his way back into the cockpit. "Everyone gets out before I land."
Hannibal sat, dumbfounded, watching the man leave. No junior officer just flat out refused a colonel like that. Either the guy had a massive set of balls or he was completely insane, and the bellowing operatic voice suddenly sounding from the cockpit was starting to verify which it was…
*I'd like to give a special thanks to sss979 for some good advice on this chapter...Thanks!*