Every Thought Captive
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 30 The Dead and Dying
Colonel Frank Jackson tossed the duffel bag with his own items and Murdock's change of clothes onto the motel room bed. Even though his journey from the Granite Peak installation to Las Vegas had been by chopper, he felt weary from the day's two remote viewing sessions and the trip itself. But he had to remain alert and focused on the test subject and his thoughts. There could be no slip-up.
He thought the threat of the army Colonel . . . what was his name? . . . Lynch? . . . would have sent the three men and reporter with their two captives dodging the military all the way back to Los Angeles. And to drive to Los Angeles, they would have to pass through Vegas.
It had been an inconvenience for the Captain's friends to remain in Utah overnight before making their way back home. That meant a delay in implementing the next set of instructions.
Damn that Colonel Smith! Because of him I have to lose sleep. But maybe if I make sure the Captain's dreams are bad enough to disturb his sleep but not so bad he wakes up I can get some rest.
For as long as he remained awake, Jackson continued his psychic assault on Murdock's mind. He sprawled in the motel room chair and rubbed at his eyes.
Planting thoughts in the pilot's brain was easy with Murdock as confused and suspicious as he currently was. Jackson chose another incident from the Captain's service in Nam and twisted it to serve his purposes.
Not enough to drive him to suicidal thoughts, not yet, but just enough mix of false and real memories to keep him paranoid and antisocial.
As the Captain cried quietly on the cot back in Simpson Springs and drank himself to sleep, Jackson determined to get a little shut-eye himself. He would need it for when Murdock arrived in Las Vegas with the A-team.
He dialed back the horrific memories and allowed the pilot to think about flying his Huey over the triple canopy rain forest of Vietnam searching for wounded soldiers he would never find in time. Confident the dream from that thought would keep the Captain from waking for a while, Jackson closed his eyes and slumped in the chair. Within minutes he was asleep.
oooooo
Murdock tipped the last of the whiskey into his mouth and swallowed. Getting drunk had always helped empty his mind of lingering memories in Nam but tonight the memories did not go away. It was as if they had an evil desire to taunt him, maybe drive him to do something that he couldn't ever undo.
He landed the chopper in a hot LZ, nothing more than a postage stamp with so many casualties scattered around the perimeter he knew he couldn't transport them all. He sure hoped the medic and corpsmen were getting the most urgent cases first, the ones that had the most chance for survival. No sense transporting someone who would live for only half the trip to the helipad. Even as he thought that, he knew he had become much more calloused to death than he ever wanted to be.
Closing his eyes, he felt droplets form at the corners.
He always tried to keep his eyes to the front, watching the tree line in a 180 degree scan for an enemy advance until he got the word from the crew chief they were loaded and ready to go. It was only supposed to take a maximum of one minute. It was taking longer for some reason. Wanting to know why, he glanced back. Big mistake.
He lifted the bottle, saw the last few drops in the bottom through eyes awash with tears, slanted it until the last of the whiskey touched his tongue.
The corpsmen lifted the screaming young soldier onto the floor of the cargo bay. Then they tucked his severed lower leg close beside him. Maybe they were hoping the army surgeons could pull off a miracle and reattach it. An impossible wish. Insane almost, to hope that. Blood continued to seep from the artery and veins despite the tourniquet. More blood spurted from the area of his groin. Another man's manhood destroyed by this unending war.
Swiping his hand across his mouth, he pitched the bottle at the far wall of the tent as hard as he could. It made a dull whump as it hit the canvas.
In those moments as he scrutinized the soldier's face . . . God, how old was he? Eighteen? . . . the suffering warrior looked at him. He saw shock and something else, something he knew would haunt him the rest of that day and through the night. Damn his eyes!
The bottle lay on the ground. Darkness hid most of its contours but even from this distance its emptiness mocked him, reflected the emptiness inside his soul.
He knew the medic had not read this one right. The young soldier knew it, too. He screamed, cried and pleaded with Murdock to lift the chopper up and away, to give him a chance to live. But in his eyes was the glazed look of someone who would die very soon. And there was nothing Murdock could do about it.
He was caught up in the memory and he realized that if he went to sleep his dreams would become nightmares. And no one would help him.
Those men he called friends at one time had not helped him the night he came back from that dust-off. Each of them had something else they needed to do. They hadn't sensed his pain and he hadn't told them. Seeing something was a bit off with his behavior, mentioning it but not pursuing it, they let him nurse a bottle of whiskey long into the night. They had not helped him then and they wouldn't now either.
The thought forced the silent sobs that were making his chest heave to surface and become loud enough to be heard beyond the walls of the tent. He didn't care anymore.
There so many groans and screams of pain that they made a kind of macabre symphony in the back of his chopper. His eyes were locked on the young soldier's gaze. To interfere with the medic and corpsmen, to question their decisions, was to delay treatment to someone who would survive. He was, after all, only the pilot, not the one providing the medical care. But he sensed the end for this young kid and it shredded his heart.
He didn't know the moment the curses in his mind became the curses on his lips. The damn whiskey hadn't done a thing this time. He would have nightmares tonight if he slept at all. Sometimes it happened that way.
The life light was fading quickly from the depths of those brilliant blue orbs. The young man's eyes transferred the taste of approaching death from himself to Murdock. It was a horrific bond they shared for those few moments. And then the word came from his crew chief. They were clear for take-off. He broke eye contact with the soldier and lifted the chopper out of there. Another Huey took his place. By the time they cleared the canopy, he decided he would find out who the young man was and pay a visit to his next of kin when he ended his tour of duty. It was an unspoken promise that he never had the opportunity to fulfill.
Still thinking that, he shut his eyes to force the memories to retreat into the dark place in his mind. His words slurred, ran together until they were little more than a groan. Sleep overtook him. Tears continued to trickle from his eyes as memories of searching for the dead and dying inhabited his dreams.
oooooo
Face moved the beans around on the paper plate in front of him and strained his ears to listen for any sounds coming from the tent. If he focused hard enough, he could hear the glug the whiskey made in the bottle whenever Murdock lifted it to his lips for another swallow. Each time he heard it, he winced.
So much pain. Jackson and Stafford reversed years of therapy in just two days.
"He's going to finish off the whole bottle, Hannibal. He doesn't do that unless he's thinking about the past and hurting." The Lieutenant lifted his gaze to his CO and pushed away his plate. "You know what that means."
He rose from the picnic table and took a few steps toward the tent. Pausing, he looked back at the three men and Amy, a recriminating glare directed at Hannibal. "I'm going to talk to him."
Just try to stop me.
"Leave him alone for a few minutes. You don't know if he'll accept your help." The Colonel pushed away his own half-eaten food and and met Face's glare.
"Hannibal!"
"Sit down, Lieutenant. We'll know when he needs someone to intervene. Just keep listening for trouble."
But I know him like he's my identical twin brother. He hurts, I hurt. It's been that way since Nam. And right now, he has so much pain in him, he could do something drastic.
Face paced back and forth beside the picnic table, only occasionally stopping to put his hands on his hips in frustration. "We usually react right away when one of us is having a nightmare or flashback. We don't let it go."
Hannibal set his mouth in a firm line. "Maybe if he does have a nightmare or flashback and you help him come out of it, he'll trust you again. Right now, he doesn't. You can do more damage than good if you offer your assistance too soon."
"Oh, so now you're a head doctor, huh, Colonel?" Face put his palms flat on the picnic table and leaned across it, almost but not quite face to face with his CO.
This is Murdock. This one of your own men. We've got to get him back from whatever dark place in his mind he's gone. Before he retreats so far we can't ever get him back in one piece.
Amy looked at the two men, concern in her expression. "He trusts me," she murmured.
Hannibal and Face shot her irritated glares. Both men said at the same time, "No!"
"If he's real bad, he'll hurt ya, li'l sis." B. A. hadn't spoken during the argument but he did now. He stared down at the food in front of him, avoiding the heated looks his team mates were exchanging. He shoved his plate away as well with a heavy sigh.
When the bottle hit the wall, the Sergeant's head jerked upward. An anxious scowl formed on his face as he peered at the tent.
As soon as he heard the first uninhibited sobs come from the interior of the canvas shelter, he was on his feet.
Face straightened and headed toward the structure. A second later, B. A. held him back, restraining him from going further. "Wait, Faceman. Hannibal's right. The way he is right now, he needs ta hit rock bottom b'fore he'll let anyone help 'im, least of all us."
"Damn you!" Murdock's words were almost too soft to hear at first but Face heard it and cringed.
"Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!" The curses increased in volume. Choked back sobs punctuated every word.
"Hannibal!" The Lieutenant pushed away from B. A.'s grasp and stormed toward his CO. "Listen to him! Still think we should wait? Huh?" He could feel his face flushing with anger over the Colonel's orders.
Murdock's next words sent a chill through Face's entire body. "Why'dja look at me like that? Why'dja hafta pick my bird t' die in? Why?"
The protracted groan that followed sent the Lieutenant hurrying toward the tent. Not even Hannibal attempted to stop him this time.