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 72 Pretense
Even after Murdock laid out his idea to B. A., he could tell the black Sergeant balked at the prospect of disobeying Hannibal or standing in his way.
When the Colonel came to take B. A.'s place at his bedside, the patient squinted his eyes to slits to seem almost asleep. It wasn't totally untrue.
Arguin' with th' big mudsucker over what I said 'n' what t' do with Mister Cazador . . . plum wore me out. Who knew th' Big Guy could be so stubborn . . . oh, wait . . . yeah . . . I'm talkin' 'bout B. A. . . . course he's stubborn . . .
He caught the look exchanged between Hannibal and B. A. and knew the Sergeant was debating in his mind what to do. The hesitant gaze meant one thing: B. A. felt too much of a sense of loyalty to Hannibal and uncertainty about Murdock's mental state to not tell the Colonel something about their conversation.
Our private conversation. So much for privacy.
"Fool pulled the IV outta his arm b'fore I could stop him. Been sayin' some crazy stuff, too." The Sergeant scowled back at the bed where Murdock pretended to be asleep.
"A flashback?" Hannibal scrutinized him from where he stood, his face lined with weariness and concern.
"No. Somethin' else. Look, I gotta think 'bout what he said. I'll get back ta you on it. Should I get the doc ta come and put that IV back in?"
"No. As long as he's carrying on conversations and waking up occasionally, I think the doctor will have him taking his meds orally with food and water pretty soon anyway. Right now, I'll let him rest and get back his strength."
The rest of their conversation was quieter and gave Murdock time to think.
Don' like keepin' stuff secret from Hann'bal. Ain' right but I got a duty t' my unit. Even if I'm th' only one that sees th' danger.
His mind mulling over what to do about B. A., he started to drift into light sleep. Only the soft creak of the chair as Hannibal settled into it stopped him. For now, because he seemed asleep, the Colonel was not going to try to wake him. That was obvious.
Memories of past missions and their aftermath when Face had been laid up and Murdock was the one watching by his bedside flickered in the pilot's mind.
I'm gonna hafta talk t' Face 'n' tell him th' same thing I tol' the big mudsucker. Maybe he'll keep B. A. from spillin' th' beans. Maybe he can keep Hann'bal from makin' a big mistake messin' with Mister Cazador.
The problem was how to get Face there so he could talk to him in private. Face didn't have to pull guard watch because of his injuries.
But what if I had a nightmare 'n' Face was th' only one that could get me outta it?
He scoured his memory for a hellish memory to focus on, one that he could realistically act out as a bad dream he couldn't wake from. If he was successful, Hannibal would be forced to leave to get Face. But there was also a danger he would lose sight of reality and fall into the rabbit hole where all his personal demons waited.
'N' it'd be all for nothin' b'cause I wouldn' be able t' tell Faceman anythin' 'bout Mister Cazador 'n' what he said t' me.
Still faking sleep, he skimmed through the images of the war until he decided which memory was the most disturbing. It was a difficult choice and one he wished he didn't have to make . . . or relive in such graphic detail.
But I gotta make this work. I gotta talk t' my buddy 'n' get his help.
He involuntarily flinched as he started to replay the memory.
A'ready hurts t' think o' it 'n' I ain' even got t' th' bad part yet. Can' overdo it. I gotta stay in control over it.
He heard a soft rustle of clothing as Hannibal leaned closer to the bed. "Captain?"
Got his 'ttention.
With that acknowledgment, Murdock immersed himself in the memory.
ooooo
In the tool shed, the bound man's eyelids flickered and shut again. He groaned as he struggled against the semi-conscious state he was in. Giving up the fight, he sank back into the strange dream.
Jackson floated effortlessly in a darkened sky.
To his foggy sedated brain, he only briefly questioned how he was doing it. It seemed like a remote viewing session but he couldn't be sure.
As he tried but failed to make sense of what he observed, bursts of enemy fire exploded in the air around him. Something big rushed past him, spinning crazily, plummeting to the ground.
oooooo
Murdock could almost feel the impact of the shell as it blasted the tail end of his Huey.
"We took one, Captain. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" That was Lazzard, his peter pilot. His anxious words were suddenly interrupted with a loud half-grunt, half-howl, followed by gasping sobs.
Glancing over, Murdock saw blood spatter on the glass canopy and Lazzard's grimace as he tightened his grip over the torn fabric of his flight suit. Blood coated the young pilot's fingers and spread across his midsection.
Th' chicken plate was s'posed t' keep 'im safe. What th' hell?
"Lazzard! Stay with me. That's an order, mister. I'm gonna set this bird down." Murdock tried to force his voice to remain steady. The last thing his peter pilot or any of the men in the compartment behind them needed was to hear panic in his voice.
Maybe some singin' t' crash a chopper by?
Lazzard gasped out a stunned response. "Oh God! I'm hit! I been hit!"
Murdock took a deep breath and swallowed. He didn't want to sound callous but he had to respond and corral the young man's hysteria. Lazzard would bleed out faster if he surrendered to his fear. "I can see that. You jus' make sure ya obey my order, Lieutenant. Ya hang on now, ya hear?"
"Tryin', sir. Just get us down quick." Lazzard slumped back in his seat, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth clenched against the pain.
Clearing his throat, Murdock smiled weakly at the man beside him. The kid's wound looked really bad.
Bad place t' get it. 'N' it mus' hurt like hell.
"Ya want some music? How 'bout 'Norwegian Wood?' Th' Beatles. Jump in if ya know th' words, 'kay?" Lazzard's slight nod was followed by a small whimper.
"I'm gettin' us down soon as I can. Don' wanna hit th' ground at 200 miles per hour, ya know." The senior pilot was reassured by the ghastly half-smile Lazzard gave him. It faded away to a face-distorting grimace.
Murdock fought his own shock over how quickly their simple transport mission had become a matter of life and death for his peter pilot. He hummed the instrumental introduction, trying to drown out the anxiety he heard building among his passengers.
I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me . . .
She showed me her room, isn't it good, Norwegian wood?
He heard B. A.'s rumbling angry protests and a clamor behind him as his crew and their passengers realized the seriousness of the situation. A second shot from below shook the chopper.
The world spun crazily before his eyes. Then he realized it wasn't the world at all but the bird he was in.
Th' controls ain' respondin'! They must o' taken out th' tail rotor. Damn it!
Wide-eyed with the knowledge he had no control over the type of landing they would make, Murdock white-knuckled the collective and cyclic and watched the elephant grass-lined valley rise up to meet them.
Too fast. Way too fast. God, no!
oooooo
Hannibal leaned forward as soon as he saw the man in the bed flinch.
Another nightmare? But Jackson's sedated. He can't possibly be directing Murdock's thought patterns.
He knew sometimes all that was needed for Murdock to come back to reality and leave the bad dream behind was for someone to talk to him. Usually that someone was Face but he had some experience in caring for his men when they were in the midst of flashbacks and nightmares.
"Captain?"
He reached out and then drew his hand back. Murdock's fist may not carry the same force as that of B. A. but it would not end with only one wild punch. Murdock knew no fear when it came to defending himself or others. He was likely to become like a snared wildcat if when he woke he thought Hannibal was the enemy.
It was one flinch. Maybe . . .
But even now Murdock turned his head from side to side as he muttered names Hannibal had not heard for a long time.
"Lazzard . . . Collins . . . my God, what'd I do?"
oooooo
From his vantage point, Jackson viewed elephant grass and scrub brush reminiscent of what he saw in Vietnam during his time with the CIA as an interrogator and agent handler. Clouds of gray and black smoke billowed up from the broken remnants of what Jackson immediately identified as a helicopter.
As he lowered himself to better observe the wreckage, he heard groans and desperate cries of "Medic!" from inside the chopper. There were survivors though it seemed impossible.
Moments later, three soldiers picked their way out of the Huey's open cargo door. Visibly shaken, they took their places at the perimeter of the ruins, facing outward, watching for anyone approaching. Two more soldiers climbed from the smoking remains and stood a short distance away as if waiting for something or someone.
After several minutes, two men staggered out of the chopper and seemed to carry on an impassioned debate about something. Then they reached in and tugged at something in the chopper's troop compartment . . . a body. The soldier they extricated dangled limply between them as they moved him a safe distance away.
They returned, this time to the cockpit and carried someone dressed in a flight suit between them. They laid him on the ground beside the other man. The two waiting men assessed the first soldier's head wound.
One of those who extracted the wounded man in the flight suit knelt beside him. His head bowed over his fallen comrade and his hands pressed down on the freely flowing abdominal wound. As he applied pressure, the man on the ground groaned. The soldier attending him also wore a flight suit. Jackson saw blood, lots of it on the unconscious soldier's head and the other's abdomen.
"Lazzard!" The cry seemed to catch in the pilot's throat as the blood seeped through his fingers. He glanced at the white-haired soldier. "Colonel, ya gotta do somethin'."
The Colonel shook his head as he stared down at the unconscious man with the head wound. The pilot followed his gaze and paled.
Jackson felt himself sink back into a dreamless blackness as the scene melted before his eyes.
oooooo
A small choked whining sound came out of Murdock's mouth. He drew his leg up to form a ninety degree angle with the mattress and tried to push away from something. His eyes were still closed and his breaths were short and harsh. His body was trembling and both fists were tightly clenched.
"Captain? You've got to listen to my voice. You aren't in Nam anymore. Do you hear me? You're not in Nam." Hannibal kept his voice low and calm even though his chest tightened with the anxious thought that the man in front of him might not return to reality. Especially not if Jackson was calling the shots on this nightmare.
Murdock thrashed from side to side as the nightmare worsened. His whine became a series of unintelligible sounds that might have been the names of his dead crewmen from so long ago. Hannibal knew it was time to act.
There was no way of getting someone to check on the man in the shed.
But before Murdock goes too far, I can get someone to help ground him again.
With that thought on his mind, he strode to the door and moved quickly down the hall to the room where Face and Amy slept.
He knocked and opened the door all in one motion. The blonde Lieutenant shot upright in bed, his hand feeling around for a weapon that wasn't there. As he did, he woke Amy beside him. She rubbed at her eyes and squinted at the man at the door.
Ignoring the reporter's indignant look, Hannibal relayed his command. "Face! Need your help."
He didn't wait for the con man to follow but turned on his heel and rushed back to Murdock's side.
oooooo
Murdock whispered the crew chief's name, the shock of what he saw constricting his throat. "Collins. God, no."
In his short time with the CIA under Jackson and Henderson's supervision he witnessed them put a pistol to stubborn VC heads and fire. Usually one of the victim's friends watched in horror. It was their way of loosening tongues. It worked when the ones being questioned knew more than they were telling. It didn't when there was nothing to tell.
He had seen brain matter, bone fragments and blood fly across the room and spatter on the ones yet to be interrogated. It made him sick, a reaction Henderson and especially Jackson found amusing.
He never thought he would see one of his crew in a similar state, part of his skull fragmented into small shards, the gray matter visible among the bloody pieces.
"Collins." He turned wide uncomprehending eyes on Hannibal. "Colonel?"
"He heard what was happening up front and thought he could help Lazzard while you landed the chopper. When we crashed . . . " The Colonel studied Murdock's stricken expression.
"We gotta get 'em outta here, get 'em t' a . . . " The words strangled in his throat as Hannibal solemnly shook his head.
"No!" He frantically shook Lazzard's shoulder. The peter pilot's breathing had become ragged and bloody flecks speckled his lips and chin. He was no longer responsive.
Murdock scrambled over to Collins, reaching out to cradle the crew chief's head in his lap. Looking up at the Colonel, he swallowed back his horror and stammered, "W . . . we can' leave 'em. They'll make it. I know they will."
"Murdock . . . Murdock . . . come on now . . . "
That was Face. For a moment Murdock couldn't figure out where his buddy was.
Ain' he over there . . . watchin' fer Charlie?
Hannibal's voice cut in. "I'm going to go out to that shed and make sure Jackson isn't the one responsible for this. Take care of him, Lieutenant."