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 66 Not Nam

Murdock struggled to open his eyes but his own fear held him back. After all, he had crashed the chopper and killed everyone on board, including the owner of that familiar-sounding whisper that came from beside him. But that man was now a ghost if he was speaking to him. If it wasn't Face's ghost, it was the adrenaline coursing through him, causing him to hallucinate.

I pulled 'im outta th' bird myself. He's dead, 'n' so's Hann'bal, B. A., Lazzard, Collins . . .

The whisper came again. "Come on, buddy. You can't die. Not like this. Not like this."

"C'mon, Murdock. Don' waste the blood I gave ya." The voice on his other side, deep and rumbling, didn't have the same threat to it he was used to hearing. It was almost a plea.

B. A.? Beggin' me t' stay 'live?

Almost at the same time, he felt both of his hands being squeezed, not in a way that would hurt but as if to tether him down from flying up into the sky.

Like I'm a big ol' balloon jus' waitin' t' escape its ropes.

Something tightened around his upper arm and made his bicep ache. Just when he thought his arm was going to explode from the pressure, he heard a soft hiss and the constriction slowly released.

"55 over 45. I can barely find a pulse, doctor." The feminine quality to the new voice puzzled him. There could be only one explanation for that in the place where he knew he was.

Damn hallucinations. I don' have time fer this. Th' soldiers are comin' . . . I 'member th' bushes rustlin' all 'round me . . . why'm I still 'live?

But the air no longer reeked of blood, JP-4 and smoke. It didn't smell like Nam.

"I'm going to have to give him another dose of atropine, gentlemen. If this doesn't work, I'll try again in five minutes but . . . "

"But nothin', sucka. Ya keep tryin' an' don' stop 'til I say ya can." There! That was the abusive tone he remembered. He hoped the person the words were directed to wasn't shaking too much in his boots.

The sounds and smells of Happy Valley had changed and he was afraid to wonder why. Without opening his eyes, he saw a dark shape with light all around it loom in front of him. For a brief moment, he 'saw' Hannibal, a cigar clenched in his teeth, snarling into his face as he held him up by his flight suit collar. "That's what I thought. You bastard."

Wait! What'd I do t' d'serve this sorta chewin' out? . . . oh yeah, I crashed th' chopper . . .

Hannibal's next move would be to either punch him or hurl him backwards in disgust. Not that the Colonel had ever done that to him. No, he did that to grudge-bearing Marines in smoky bars. Not to him. But maybe this time he had finally done something so bad that Hannibal was going to let him have it.

Like crashin' th' chopper 'n' killin' everyone on board.

Murdock braced himself for the punch or the fall. Neither happened.

He felt something suddenly release in his mind. At the same time, he felt a needle being poked into his thigh. Things were happening too quickly for all of his thoughts to unscramble and make sense in his brain.

With his next shallow breath, he detected a strange yet familiar scent. Even as he felt his heart tremor in his chest and pound more insistently, he knew he could not be in Vietnam.

Soldiers in the field never wore cologne. It gave away their position if the enemy was near.

The soldiers he transported in his bird certainly never wore the scent he was smelling. Not even when they were on leave to go into DaNang to visit a bar or brothel.

What had Face called it? Obsession For Men? It was a brand new cologne out on the market and his buddy managed to get his hands on a bottle. It was a "knew someone who knew someone who could get it for him" type of thing. The woody fragrance would drive the most unwilling woman wild with passion, he said.

He let Murdock use it once when they were on a double date with Felicity and Sheila. Face told him to be ready for action. He was. He remembered being ready for whatever action Face meant, but it never came. Outside of some smooching in a shaded corner of the park, Sheila treated him like a one-night event. The con man had scored much better with his half of the bewitching duo. After that, Face said Obsession For Men didn't really fit with the type of man Murdock was.

Whatever that meant . . .

But that cologne wasn't around during the war. It hadn't been created yet.

What th' hell is this? Some sort o' time warp? Or maybe I'm not in . . . Nam?

Realizing that, Murdock drew in a sharp breath and felt his hands squeezed even harder.

"That's right, buddy. Now take another breath. You're doing fine," Face's phantom whispered. "He is doing fine, isn't he, B. A.?"

"Fool still don' seem like he knows we're here. He ain' spoke, opened his eyes, moved his muscles even a li'l bit . . . I dunno, Faceman." The last few words hinted of discouragement.

I gotta let 'em know I understan' where I am, what they're sayin' . . .

He directed every thought toward making his fingers grip the two hands in return. He could manage only one. His fingertips twitched weakly before he closed his thumb and fingers around the warm flesh of the larger of the two hands and pressed lightly. His muscles couldn't hold the grip for long. He hoped it was long enough.

Murdock felt the mattress shake slightly with B. A.'s reaction. "I felt the fool move his hand. He's gonna live, Faceman. He's gonna live." The relief in B. A.'s tone was almost identical to the feeling Murdock had, knowing that maybe his buddies on either side of him were not wearing halos and playing harps after all.

'N' thank God fer that . . . B. A. with wings'd be too much . . . have t' have wings th' size of a Boein' 747 t' keep 'im up in th' air . . .

He tried to mumble something but all that would come out was a raspy whine. His lips would not obey enough to shape words.

"Shhh . . . don't try to talk. There'll be plenty of time later. Rest."

A door opened and closed somewhere. "Mister Cazador, Mister Scanlon sent me up to get a sedative for Colonel Jackson."

Another familiar voice a little farther away spoke. "Did he wake up?" A pause and then, "Damn! You tell Mister Scanlon that I'll see him in my study later. And keep that blasted Colonel unconscious!"

"Yes, Mister Cazador."

Mister Cazador?

Shadowy images and memories played hide-and-seek in his mind. None of them were clear for him to know exactly what he had been doing to bring him to this point in time. He sensed nothing was blocking his spirit from reuniting with his body anymore.

"I'll go make that report to Colonel Smith and let him know what's happening."

Now that he felt himself pass through the end of the tunnel and settle into his physical body completely he wondered what had obstructed him from doing it before.

'N' why was Hann'bal so pissed at me?

Very little was making sense to him. But Face told him to rest and right now, that seemed like a terribly good idea.

oooooo

"Thanks, pal. Your boss will thank you, too." Hannibal sauntered in through the open door of the library, shooting his comment back over his shoulder as he did. "In fact, I'll make sure and put in a good word."

His remark was met with a snort and a quickly closed door.

Amy gasped and ran to him, throwing both arms around his neck. "God, Hannibal, don't ever do that again! I thought for sure you were dead."

The Colonel grunted as the cast struck his shoulder. "Miss me?" He was glad Amy hadn't hit him on the back of the head with her injured wrist.

That'd be all I'd need: a concussion.

"So, I take it Cazador didn't come back yet?" He glanced over the reporter's shoulder at Stafford. The doctor shook his head.

That was worrisome. If Cazador hadn't returned. It meant he was preoccupied with something that was happening in the makeshift emergency room. Hannibal was beginning to think he had a pretty clear idea of what that was but he wanted to check with Cazador to confirm his suspicions.

And if I'm right, not even B. A. will be able to stop me from finding a way to destroy Jackson.

Stafford stubbed out his latest cigarette and exhaled as Amy released the Colonel and sank into one of the library arm chairs.

"Did you find out anything?" Stafford peered at Hannibal, gauging his response. The question seemed innocent enough on the surface. Knowing this man placed that transmitter in Murdock's brain to help Jackson carry out this suicide mission raised Hannibal's wariness.

No, Stafford may be seeing how expendable he is in Jackson's eyes and wanting to throw himself at my mercy but he's far from trustworthy. He's fishing to see if Jackson told me anything that will get him in worse trouble than he already is. That's what I would do, if I were him.

Ignoring Stafford, letting the medical man stew, the Colonel spoke directly to Amy. "I was right. Jackson was concentrating pretty hard on something when they let me in to check on him. He didn't even know I was there until I had him up against the wall." The memory of the punch he delivered to the man's chin brought a satisfied, cold grin to his face.

He wasn't out then, but he sure is now.

"He wasn't sedated?" Stafford hesitated, his lighter halfway to the fresh cigarette dangling from his lips. He flicked the lighter on but his hand was trembling as he applied the flame to the tip. Hannibal narrowed his eyes at the medical man.

"It's time . . . no, past time you tell us what you know about Jackson and Murdock and how dangerous the Colonel really is."

The doctor finished lighting his cigarette and shakily blew out a puff of smoke. "Jackson has been following your pilot's life ever since Captain Murdock was tested before entering kindergarten. He was abnormally bright and his high scores throughout school raised several flags. There were those . . . departments . . . of the government that specialized in finding . . . new talent, shall we say, and grooming them for use around the world as agents against our enemies. Jackson found Murdock."

Amy frowned as she thought over what the man said. "CIA? FBI? NSA?"

The Colonel continued to stare at Stafford as he responded. "Alphabet soup, Miss Allen, but Jackson's working for only one of those groups. None of the three organizations share their toys and they don't play together nicely. If it was CIA, it could explain why the NVA enjoyed Murdock's company so often for their interrogations." Hannibal rubbed at the bridge of his nose in sudden awareness of the reasons for many things he had not understood about Murdock. "So how dangerous is Jackson, Doc?"

The door opened quietly behind them. "That's a good question, Colonel Smith." The Tucson businessman flashed an apologetic but dark look at Hannibal. "I understand my men were not diligent enough to keep Jackson unconscious. They will be disciplined for that mistake."

Cazador strode to within two feet of the doctor and pulled him by the front of his shirt to his feet. He snarled, "That man in there was almost dead fifteen or more minutes ago. It sounds like to me his near death corresponds with Colonel Jackson's moments of consciousness. Coincidence? I don't think so."

Amy let out an alarmed gasp but the trio of men in the room ignored it. Hannibal cast a troubled glance at the door, then focused on the two men in front of him.

I should be there with Murdock and Face but I have to know . . .

As if Cazador read Hannibal's mind, he muttered,"Now he's breathing normally and his vital signs are showing he's in recovery. He responded to your two men." The businessman glared into the medical man's eyes. "His amazing return from the dead seemed to happen minutes before my man Randall came to Doctor Willis looking for a sedative for my prisoner. What's Jackson's trick? How is he able to affect Captain Murdock like that?"

Hannibal came up behind Cazador but didn't speak. He would let the businessman get the information he needed. After all, he was the host of this little shindig. And Cazador seemed like a man who would get his answers at any cost.