Chapter 13

Squaring back his shoulders, Murdock sauntered into the cockpit still chomping on Hannibal's cigar. Even if it was a shitty, at that moment, it tasted pretty damn good. With a grin, he eased into the pilot's seat but didn't bother taking the controls—after all, he needed to leave again soon enough; he'd just wanted to check on the kid.

This was a lot to ask of anyone but especially of someone so green—someone who'd just been through so much.

He caught the sideways glance from Oz, and, eerily enough, the guy was stone-faced serious, all business. If any trauma from his ordeal remained, he hid it really damn well. Though impossible, Murdock almost suspected the kid had been taking lessons from Face—which wasn't necessarily a good thing.

An inkling of disgust slowly seeped onto Oz's face as he raised a brow at Murdock. With a wrinkled nose, he eyeballed the cigar but made no remark about the pungent, sweet odor wafting from the rolled tobacco—the look said enough. He didn't like it, but he knew well enough not to hound a Captain for his smoking.

After clearing his throat, Oz turned his attention back to the flight. "We're low on fuel," he said, deadpan, before adding, "Like drop out of the sky low."

Yep, that could be a problem…

Murdock reached up and plucked the cigar from his mouth, before studying it thoughtfully. Why did Hannibal smoke such shitty cigars? Couldn't a Colonel manage to get his hands on something better? With Faceman on his team, he could get whatever he wanted—if he wanted to, but maybe he didn't want to encourage those specific talents.

"They're all out?"

Thoughts disrupted, Murdock blinked, trying to register what Oz had meant. "Uh…yeah…they're all out—with some coaxing."

"Even the Colonel? Smith? I thought you said he was going to be hard to convince…"

Murdock put the cigar back to his lips, took another puff and then let out a low chuckle. "People are less difficult to persuade when you just shove 'em out."

"WHAT?" Oz turned, eyes widening, mouth hanging slack for a moment as he stared at Murdock. "You pushed a Colonel out of this chopper?" Expression still frozen in stunned disbelief, he turned away, slumping back into his seat. "You really are crazy," he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the Huey.

"Crazy like a fox," Murdock answered, still grinning; he'd expected this reaction from his young co-pilot. "You know, I might have just saved that Colonel's life."

Oz gave a sad, dry laugh; then, he quieted and they sat listening to the blades turn for a while before he finally spoke again. "You know…that kind of implies we aren't going to make it."

Shit. Murdock frowned. Well, he hadn't meant it that way. At the very least, he had no intention of taking the kid out with him if it came to that. He hoped it wouldn't come to that…but…

"Don't worry…" Feeling antsy, Murdock stood, staring down at the kid. "…you'll live to fly another day."

He watched Oz at the controls for a moment. The kid wasn't bad, he wasn't great either, but that came with practice. Given some time, he could whip him into one hell of a pilot.

Murdock shrugged. Shit; he had to get going; he couldn't keep stalling, because that was totally what he was doing and he knew it.

"I'm heading to the back, ok?" The Captain grimaced at his own words. He hadn't thought this through enough; panic welled inside of him, but he forced it down. This was his bird now, and he was gonna do everything he could to keep her going, or at least to keep her crew safe.

Oz nodded, not taking his eyes off the controls—his expression reverting back to the haunted mask it had been earlier when he'd relived the deaths of his fellow crewmen. Murdock reached out to place a comforting hand on the kid's shoulder, but he pulled back. He didn't know the kid well enough for that. Slowly, he turned and started to head out of the cockpit.

"Murdock?"

At the sound of Oz's voice he halted, but didn't turn to face the kid. It wouldn't have mattered; he knew Oz would still be focused on the controls. "Yeah?"

"It was like you said, wasn't it? He threatened you with a court-martial?" He could hear the shadowy, sad amusement laced in the kid's tone.

Murdock chuckled. "Not at first, but…" He paused, giving in to the dramatic effect. "…he sure did once he saw I'd swiped his cigar."

"Ah, shit…" Oz's voice was low, but the tired, honest laugh that followed was really damn refreshing. "And, why do I think you did that just for the threat of a court-martial?"

Hmmm, that was a good question.

"Well," he answered at last, playfully, "the Colonel would have been a lot more pissed off if he'd landed and taken a lit cigar to the eye. I was just …saving face…so to speak."

Oz laughed again. "Alright, I'll buy that if you want me to. Just go on…and…well…try not to blow us up, ok?"

Murdock shrugged. That was actually a lot to ask for, but he tried to keep his answer energetic, hopeful. "Yeah, muchacho, no problem!" And then he quickly ducked out the cockpit.

Shit…shit…shit…

This plan had sounded a hell of a lot better earlier in his head, and before he had kicked everyone with any kind of demolitions expertise out of the Huey. Now…well…this seemed like a giant, fucking mistake.

Nearing the right door gunner's position, he grabbed a monkey harness and slipped into it—not that it would do a lick of good if he blew himself and the chopper to hell, but at least they'd all go down together.

Staring out at the right skid, he took a deep breath. There wouldn't be much light left if he didn't hurry. Dusk here wasn't like back home; the day didn't leisurely dim into darkness but instead seemed to turn, like a flick of the switch, to night.

Murdock stepped onto the skid, eyeing the rice paddy below—watching the dark ripple of stalks and leaves bow and sway beneath the Huey's downdraft. Slowly, he crouched, taking out his knife as he did so. He studied the length of the skid carefully, quickly.

The C-4 under the bird had to go first. A few wires ran from a nasty and rather makeshift looking claymore on the skid to the chunk of explosives fixed in place under the Huey. Murdock sliced the wires then contorted his lanky frame and made the long reach for the C-4. With his knife tip, he dislodged the explosives and watched as they silently tumbled to the ground below.

He worked the claymore loose next, cutting easily through the twine holding it in place. Again, he let it fall to the ground, but this time the landing wasn't so quiet. The blast didn't extend far enough upwards to do the chopper any harm, but the suddenness of the explosion must have startled Oz as the Huey suddenly jerked stiffly to the right.

In his awkward position, Murdock clung, white-knuckled, to the skid. Yeah, he was harnessed in, but there were still about four or five more claymores on that side that he was liable to set off if he was left dangling. As the chopper steadied, he immediately set back to work, making quick time in getting the right skid cleared. Only two more of the claymores exploded on impact with the ground, but Oz, not giving in to any further sudden lurches, must've been prepared for these.

Arms weak, shaky, Murdock hauled himself back into the chopper. He lay on the floor for a moment, panting and listening to the frantic pace of his racing heart; it filled his ears, competing with the sound of the chopper. He was sweating quite freely in the humid air, but rubbing away the rivulets of sweat making their way from his temple down his face was pointless; they would return in seconds. He only wiped a sleeve across his brow when the sweat made its way into his eyes and blurred his vision.

Not allowing any more time for hesitation, he made his way to the left skid and lowered himself out. Again, he extended his reach, disconnecting the C-4 from the fuselage. Then, he moved on to the claymores.

The first came off without incident, but, as he moved on to the second, he felt a new dread settle over him. The claymore was sealed in mud—dried mud with telltale bulges.

Damn it. He stared at it a moment, knife at the ready. Could he chance it? He shrugged; no. Digging the knife in, trying to pry it loose would undoubtedly trigger the grenades in the mud.

He glanced down the skid; there were three more claymores to go—all free of mud. Moving down, he started to work on the next, but it was then that ping of riveting gunfire rang out.

"SHIT!" His shout cost him Hannibal's cigar as it flew from his mouth, twirling downward and out of sight.

Murdock pulled himself into the tightest ball he could manage, but kept working on the claymore. Time was too short to halt his work, but the gunfire kept coming. In his peripheral vision, he could see the dark silhouettes of the Viet Cong filtering through the field below.

Oz was moving them away already, but the progress, at least to Murdock who was painfully exposed, seemed muted, horribly slow. Another shot rang out, striking the chopper close to Murdock's head; the sound ringing in his ears as he kept working.

Shit…shit…shit…This wasn't at all what he pictured his end would be like. If he was gonna die in a chopper, he always figured it would at least be with him behind the controls.

He couldn't keep the tremors from his hands as the shots continued. The claymore he'd been working went free, falling away and detonating itself amid the group of Viet Cong below.

That didn't put an end to the attack though, as an RPG tore by, barely missing the bird. Still dodging gunfire, Murdock drew in a sharp breath as he moved on to the next claymore. Oz was taking evasive maneuvers, making the Captain's job even more difficult, but he'd rather have that than have the Huey take an RPG.

Giving up on all finesse or care, Murdock slashed at the last two claymores, cutting their bonds quickly before he heaved himself back into the chopper, unhooked his harness and scrambled back into the cockpit.

He slid into the pilot's seat and quickly took back the controls—which Oz seemed more than eager to hand over.

"I kept moving off…but they're crawling all over these parts…" There was a hell of a lot of fear in the kid's voice, and Murdock didn't blame him one damn bit.

He turned the chopper back toward the SF camp…well, so much for his plan of ditching in the Song Be River—not that it really mattered; he didn't think he had enough fuel to get there anyway.

"Hey…"Murdock kept his eyes ahead as he spoke; the bird was giving him trouble—she must've taken some hard hits, but at least she was still airborne. "…Oz, reach into my pocket there on my flight suit and get the dog tags out." He paused while Oz did as he said. "There might be some people coming around to ask you about Stinson…be sure they see those and tell them that…well, tell them the Cong might've gotten something off him. A paper or something, but no one saw exactly what it was, ok?"

Silence…

Murdock raised his voice. "OK?"

"Y-yeah...you didn't get it all off the skid, did you?"

"Nope." That was slightly painful to admit, but it was the truth. That last mud encased claymore was going to make landing a son of a bitch. "And…you need to tell Colonel Smith that the Viet Cong have a large mass of soldiers to the east of the city, ok?" Even in the heat, Murdock could feel his blood running cold. After he let the kid out…Shit; he didn't want to think about it. He hated knowing that he was gonna crash a bird.

Oz's answer was quiet, almost meek. "I'll tell him."

Ahead, Murdock could see there was activity around the camp but no combat yet; it was just the ARVN and SF units preparing the area for the upcoming engagement. He scanned the soldiers, looking for any sign of his team, but he didn't see them. He liked the feeling of having a ground team, no matter how short lived this pairing was.

Still a distance away from the camp, he lowered the chopper, hovering above the ground. "Looks like we're at your stop, kid."

Oz stood, slowly making his way out of the cockpit. Murdock could feel the reluctance wafting off the kid—leaving a chopper like this would have felt wrong to any airman, Oz included. He was almost out of the cockpit when he paused.

"Stay safe…" That was all the kid said before he left, and Murdock was glad of it; he hadn't the energy for another argument, and there was no one else left to fly the chopper so he could go back and shove the kid out of it.

He waited until he saw that Oz was safely outside and weaving his way toward the ARVN and SF men. Then, Murdock pulled up, flying aimlessly around the outskirts of the camp, wondering exactly what the hell he was going to do now.