Collateral Damage
The following week was remarkable if for no other reason than nothing remarkable happened. MacGyver had spent Sunday morning at Challengers before spending the rest of the day with Joanna and her parents. She had quickly recovered from the twenty-four hour stomach bug and insisted on returning to work as usual on Monday. Though Mac was concerned about her overdoing it, he was equally happy to have her by his side once more, engagement ring firmly in place. Tonight he had made a special meal for them to celebrate his purchase of the duplex and they now sat on the couch, his arm draped around her shoulders as she snuggled against him with a glass of sparkling grape juice in hand while Frog snored contentedly in the corner.
"You really like that stuff, don't you?" he teased as Jo reached for the bottle of effervescent juice on the coffee table.
"It's actually really good," she remarked, refilling her glass. "You want some more?"
"Naw, one of us needs to stay sober," he teased. "So you're really glad I bought this place?"
"I'm more than glad," she assured him, her warm gaze melting into his. "I've lived in the same house my entire life, and never knew another place could feel this much like home. I also couldn't imagine you living anywhere else. We belong here...together."
"I'll drink to that," MacGyver said, gently clinking his wine glass against hers.
"Ya know, I'm actually glad you made us take some time apart from each other," he confessed.
"Really?" Joanna looked at him questioningly. "Why?"
Mac put down his drink so he could wrap both arms around her. "Even though I never once doubted my feelings for you, I can see now that I took your feelings for me for granted. I also realized that while I was trying to protect you by not talking about my past I was actually hurting you by hiding the things that made me the guy I am today."
Jo studied him thoughtfully. "When you said if I wanted to know something about your past I should just ask. Did you mean that?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I have a question for you."
"Fire away!"
"How did you and Pete meet?"
"Which version would you like?" Mac chuckled.
"You mean there's more than one?" Joanna asked skeptically.
"Well...yeah. There's the version we tell everyone and then there's the truth."
"Okay...tell me both."
"In the official version, Pete was on assignment in Saudi Arabia for the DXS and I just happened to be there as well. I rescued him from some quicksand in the Nafud desert, and borrowed a camel to take us back to civilization."
"I guess that sounds believable," Jo remarked. "Now tell me how you really met."
MacGyver settled back against the couch cushions. This story would take a bit longer. He related how Jack had been a cabbie in Los Angeles at the time but had gotten himself laid-up in the hospital. Mac, never being able to say no to a friend in need, agreed to drive the cab until Jack was on his feet again. One of his fares had been a woman who asked to be dropped off at an abandoned warehouse only to be followed by a stranger. That stranger turned out to be DXS operative Pete Thornton. Ever chivalrous, MacGyver tried to aid the lady but ended up having himself and Jack's cab commandeered by Pete to chase after the 'lady', an adeptly disguised international assassin who would turn out to be Murdoc. Mac left nothing out, telling Joanna about the bazookas, exploding bed, and even Pete's tacky toupee.
"Wow," Jo remarked when he had finished speaking. "I can see why you go with the quicksand and camel story. It's a lot simpler. But I have another question."
"What is it?" MacGyver asked as she pulled away to look at him.
"Initially you were trying to help Murdoc. Why did he turn against you and make it his life's mission to kill you?"
Mac shrugged. "Good question. Once Pete and I partnered up, Murdoc saw me as the enemy, too. Then it turned into sort of a game for him: Who could kill who first. He hated it that I was always able to outsmart him and I hated it that he never got caught."
"What do you think things would be like today if Murdoc hadn't died up at Harry's cabin?" Jo asked.
The telephone rang before MacGyver could form a reply. He grabbed the cordless handset from the coffee table and clicked onto the call.
"Hello?"
"Hey Dad, what's up?!"
Mac smiled and glanced at Jo. "Hi Sam, it's been awhile."
"Yeah, I know. Listen, I was thinking of driving up tomorrow and taking you out to dinner."
"That'd be great, but Jo's been sick so I don't think-"
"You guys are back together?! That's awesome!"
"Wait a minute, you knew about that?" MacGyver glared at Joanna.
"Um, yeah. See, Jo told Becca and-"
"Becca told you. I get it." His fiancé plucked the phone out of his hand before he could say anything else.
"Jo is right here and she's feeling much better," she told Sam. "What did you need?"
Mac watched as she listened intently, nodding as if his son could see her.
"We'd love to see both you and Becca," she replied, shooting a menacing look at Mac. "But you have to let us treat you. We can pick up Chinese and relax here instead of going out. It'll be the perfect Friday evening," she smiled.
MacGyver reached to take the phone back but she pivoted away. "Listen Sam, do you happen to know if Becca still has the box I gave her?" Mac watched her nibbling her bottom lip and wondered about the turn in the conversation.
"Oh, good," Jo let out a relieved sigh. "Can you guys bring it with you?"
Mac listened as the call concluded and Joanna put the phone back on the table. "What was all that about a box?" He thought Jo looked like a deer caught in the headlights as she struggled with her answer.
"I suppose I may as well tell you," she replied defeatedly. "When Becca was in town doing research for her article on computer dating, I had already decided it wasn't going to work between us and I gave her the wedding dress Connie bought for me and asked her to return it."
The worried look in her eyes told him she feared his reaction and his heart squeezed as myriad emotions swept through him. In the end, he simply took her hand firmly in his and whispered, "I'm glad she didn't listen to you."
The following evening the two couples gathered around MacGyver's kitchen table, passing around cartons of Chinese take-out. Mac and his son dug into their meal deftly using chopsticks while Joanna and Rebecca opted for conventional forks. When they were done eating, Sam leaned back in his chair and took Becca's hand.
"I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to come see you," Sam said.
Mac glanced at Jo who simply shrugged.
"You mean it wasn't to allow us to feed you?" MacGyver teased, but his son's face remained serious.
"No, Dad," he replied. "I just accepted an assignment in the Middle East."
MacGyver felt the air rush out of his lungs. Not again. What was Sam thinking?
"Sam, what were you thinking?!" Joanna cried, once again reading Mac's mind. "There's a war going on over there!"
"There's always a war going on over there, and that's kinda the point," Sam said. "My editor needs someone who has experience being imbedded with American troops to get a story. I have that experience. This could be my big break! If I do a good job the Tribune will probably hire me on permanently. I won't be just a stringer anymore!"
"Provided you don't get yourself killed!" Mac shot back.
"I've done it before, Dad! I know what I'm doing!"
MacGyver felt Joanna's warm hand on his thigh, offering him silent comfort...and perhaps a warning to calm down. He clenched his jaw to keep from saying something he might regret.
"Sam, what can you tell us about this assignment?" Jo asked, her voice low and calm.
"I don't know a lot. Apparently even I'm on a need-to-know-basis, but I should only be over there a couple of weeks at the most. Apparently military intelligence has had some kind of break through and I'm going to be joining up with a special ops team to get the scoop.
"So where are they sending you? Iraq? Afghanistan?" Mac asked.
Sam shrugged. "I don't know yet. I fly into Germany the day after tomorrow and I'll get more information then."
"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this." It was a statement, not a question, because MacGyver knew the answer.
"Nope."
"Then be safe," Mac said, getting up from his chair and walking around the table to where is son now stood waiting to embrace him.
A few hours later, MacGyver stood staring out the patio door, waiting for Frog to finish his business. He saw Joanna's reflection in the window as she approached to stand beside him.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," he said flatly, still looking out into the night.
"I know," she sighed.
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Sam arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin, Germany on Sunday where he received further identification papers and a plane ticket to Kabul. He wasn't surprised at his destination. Afghanistan had always been a hotbed of military activity and lately the news had been reporting a surge in rebel fighting within the country. Glancing at his watch he realized he needed to hurry if he was to catch his flight.
Seven hours later Sam's plane landed in Kabul. He stretched as best he could while waiting to disembark. He figured he had spent most of the last seventeen hours in the air cramped in economy class and his muscles were beginning to complain. He longed to collect his rucksack, secure a room at the closest hotel, and take a long hot shower. Unfortunately, that was not to be. A man dressed in civilian clothes but clearly an American held a sign with Sam's name written in large, dark letters. This was his contact who would transport him to the unit he would be imbedded with. Well-versed in introductory procedure, Sam had his passport in hand as he approached.
"Hi, I'm Sam Malloy," he stated, handing over his ID which the man studied for mere seconds before returning it.
"Nice to meet you," he said, lowering the sign and shaking Sam's hand. "I'm Private First Class Alex Dunbar. I'll be your escort the rest of the way."
Private Dunbar appeared close to Sam's age and height with brown hair and matching eyes.
"What's with the civvies?" Sam asked as they headed to baggage claim.
"My commanding officer thought it best if I tried to blend in. I'm not sure it's working," he chuckled as he plucked at the tropical print shirt he wore.
"You must be pretty hungry," Alex remarked once Sam had been reunited with his rucksack and camera bag.
"You could say that," Sam laughed as his stomach grumbled as if on cue. "Airline cuisine only goes so far!"
"If you can wait about an hour or so there's this little place outside the city run by local villagers. They serve the best qormah...better than you'll find in any restaurant, plus it's cheap and the portions are huge."
"Hey, you don't have to convince me," Sam assured him. "Lead the way!"
A while later, Private Dunbar guided their utilitarian Jeep off the smooth highway and onto a bumpy desert road, leaving the lights of Kabul behind.
"This your first tour?" Sam asked.
"Nope. Second."
"Voluntary?"
"Aren't they all? If you don't volunteer, Uncle Sam'll do it for you."
Sam chuckled at the saying he had heard all too often years ago when he was first becoming acquainted with military operations. It wasn't long until he saw lights glowing in the darkness that had surrounded them. Minutes later, Alex parked the Jeep near an oddly shaped stone and clay structure. A mixture of white and multicolored Christmas lights powered by a portable generator provided a woven canopy for the outdoor eating area.
"Have a seat," Dunbar motioned.
Sam sat down at a rickety table for two while his escort entered the small building to procure their supper. Even though it was well past midnight, the place was crowded and alive as men, women and children chattered away in a foreign language. Enticing aromas wafted on the cool night air causing Sam's mouth to water and he was grateful when Alex returned and set a large clay bowl in front of him.
"Bon Appetit!" he said, taking his own seat.
Sam greedily dug into the hearty helping of stew covered rice. He immediately recognized the flavors of onion and lotus root along with large, tender pieces of lamb served in perfect combination. Once the two men's appetites had been sated, they climbed back into the Jeep.
"How far is the base camp?" Sam asked.
"We should get there by dawn," Dunbar told him. "Just in time for you to meet up with the convoy and head out."
"Great," Sam replied, trying unsuccessfully to smother a yawn.
Alex chuckled. "Jet lag'll get you every time. I know it's a bumpy ride, but feel free to get some shut-eye while you can."
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"What do you think, Mac?" Joanna asked.
"About what?" MacGyver asked, tearing himself away from his self-imposed reverie.
"You haven't heard a word I've said," Jo accused from where she sat on the opposite side of his desk.
"If you think it's bad now, just wait until you're married," Cynthia replied with a wry grin. "Booker, bless his soul, was the best man a woman could ask for, but that man had the worst case of selective hearing I've ever seen. At least up until now." She nodded toward Mac.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I have a lot on my mind," he snapped.
"You mean you have Sam on your mind," Jo observed, no censure in her voice, only understanding.
"Yeah," Mac confessed, scrubbing his face with his hands before standing up to pace the small room that was his office. "I don't know what it is, but since he told us about his new assignment I've just had this feeling."
Ever since Sam's announcement at dinner Friday night, MacGyver had been distracted, unable to give Challengers and even Joanna his undivided attention.
"Perhaps I should leave and we can continue this meeting at another time," Cynthia offered politely.
"No," Mac countered. "The river clean-up project is a week from Saturday. We need to get plans nailed down and the kids on board."
For the next two hours MacGyver forced himself to focus on the job at hand. The meeting ended with Cynthia volunteering to create a participant sign-up sheet and talk to Geena and Rosie about getting the kids interested in the project. Once Cynthia had left, Mac got up and began pacing the room.
"It looks like it's gonna be a pretty slow night," Jo observed. "Why don't you head on home?"
MacGyver turned to her. "Only if you come with me." He really didn't feel like being alone, and that in itself bothered him.
"Fine. But your gonna have to feed me."
Mac chuckled. "What do you say I make you my famous whole wheat and banana pancakes?"
"Sounds like a plan," she replied with a smile.
XXXXX
The couple had just finished eating when there was a knock on the front door. MacGyver opened it to find two men with sullen expressions standing on his stoop. One wore a dark suit and tie and held a large manila envelope while the other was in formal military uniform. A high-ranking official if the medals on his chest were any indication. Mac knew government protocol when he saw it, and this was it. His stomach turned to lead as he anticipated the reason for this visit.
"Mr. MacGyver?" the uniformed man asked.
"Yes sir."
"Are you the father of Sean A. Malloy?" the other man inquired.
"Yes, I am."
"May we come in?" This from Military Man again.
"Of course," Mac replied, stepping back to allow the two gentlemen to enter while Jo quietly came to stand beside him. He felt her arm wrap around his waist and saw the question and concern in her eyes. "This is my fiancé, Joanna Fairfax," he said.
The men nodded toward her in way of greeting before turning their attention back to MacGyver.
"Perhaps you'd like to sit down," Dark Suit Guy suggested.
"I'm good," Mac replied firmly. "Just say what you came here to say."
The man in uniform cleared his throat before speaking. "I have been entrusted to express deep regret that your son, Sean, was killed on assignment in Afghanistan early this afternoon. The armored vehicle he was riding in struck a roadside bomb and all occupants perished. The military and United States Government extends its deepest sympathy to you and your family in your loss."
MacGyver felt as if he had just been sucker-punched and had all the air knocked out of him. The world around him began to spin and his vision blurred. He barely heard Joanna gasp beside him or felt her bury her head in his chest.
"No. It can't be. Not Sam," he murmured, his voice sounding far away even to his own ears.
"I'm sorry, sir," the man in the suit offered. Mac now realized he was a chaplain. "Your son was positively identified by the documents he had on his person at the time of the incident. Here are some of his personal effects." The man held out the manila envelope, but placed it on the kitchen counter when MacGyver refused to take it. "We'll be in touch tomorrow to assist you with final arrangements."
The two men silently let themselves out and Joanna locked the door behind them. "He's not dead," MacGyver proclaimed, turning to find Jo peering into the large envelope.
"I know you don't want it to be true, but these are his things," she replied softly. "Sam's gone."
"No, he's not!" Mac yelled as he grabbed the envelope from her and slammed it to the floor causing its contents to scatter on the carpet.
Joanna knelt down to gather Sam's belongings. She picked up a wristwatch and held it out. "Mac, it's the watch you gave him for his last birthday. The one you had engraved."
MacGyver's legs gave out and he sank to the floor next to her. "It can't be," he whispered, taking the time piece and turning it over in his hands, trying to deny the evidence he held.
"What's this?" Jo asked.
Mac immediately recognized the locket that hung from a long chain. He didn't realize Sam still wore it. He took it from her and, with trembling fingers, carefully opened it to find a picture of a much younger version of himself staring back.
"This is the locket Kate gave Sam before she was killed. This is how he knew who I was," he explained, his voice thick with emotion. Tears welled in his eyes and he knew it was true. His son was dead.
He didn't know who reached out first, but he found himself in Joanna's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Filled with anguish and rage, he clung to her like a drowning man would cling to a life preserver. Their tears mingled together until they were both too breathless, too exhausted to cry. Sitting back on their heels, they reached out and wiped the moisture from each other's cheeks. It was then that Mac noticed Frog all but attacking the forgotten envelope lying on the floor.
"Knock it off," he scolded, making a half-hearted attempt to push the dog away. But Frog would not be deterred and continued to paw at the brown paper until it was nothing but shreds. Apparently satisfied, the bull dog then returned to his nap under the coffee table. With a lump in his throat, MacGyver reached out to recover Sam's passport and press ID which was now exposed. Gingerly picking up the documents, he braced himself to see his son's face one more time, but when he looked down, it was to find a stranger's face next to Sam's signature.
"They were wrong. It wasn't Sam," Mac said huskily, afraid to believe yet knowing it was true.
"What?!" Jo exclaimed, crawling forward.
Forcing himself to remain calm and logical, MacGyver studied the ID's more carefully before showing them to her.
"This is Sam's information, but not his picture," he declared as hope bubbled up inside him.
"Is it a fake?" Joanna asked.
"Let's find out." Mac stood up and dug in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife as the couple made their way to the kitchen table. Once seated, he selected the thinnest blade he could find and probed the edges of Sam's laminated press pass until a corner gave way. With slow, cautious movements, MacGyver lifted the imposter's picture to reveal Sam's smiling countenance. "It's authentic," he confirmed, leaning back in his chair. "Someone just replaced Sam's picture with their own and did a real good job."
"Then this is Sam's too, only with someone else's picture?" Jo inquired, fingering the passport.
"Looks that way," Mac remarked. "Which means it wasn't Sam who was killed in that convoy."
Joanna leaned in. "Then who is this guy and where's Sam? He'd never willingly had over his personal information, especially in a foreign country."
"I know," MacGyver agreed, scrubbing his face with his hands.
"So, what do we do now?" Jo asked, clearly bewildered.
"We figure out what's going on," Mac declared as he reached for the phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"Craig Bannister. The government and military often work closely with the Phoenix Foundation and Bannister may still have some connections at the DSX as well," he explained as he dialed. When his friend and former colleague answered, MacGyver quickly summarized the situation. Several minutes later he slammed down the receiver.
"What happened? What'd he say?"
Mac blew out a frustrated breath and jammed his fingers through his hair. "He said we need to go through proper channels, but that'll take too long." He pushed out of his chair and bounded up the spiral staircase with Joanna close behind. He pulled out his worn duffle from underneath the bed and began randomly stuffing it with clothes.
"What are you doing?" Jo demanded.
"What does it look like? I'm going after Sam."
Joanna grabbed his arm and wrenched it harder than he thought possible. "Have you lost your mind?! You can't just run off to Afghanistan!"
"I can and I am! I hafta find Sam!"
"Then go through proper channels like Craig suggested!"
MacGyver turned and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look, best case scenario is that someone simply lifted Sam's papers or forced him to hand them over. Worst case scenario? Sam could've been kidnapped or worse. I'm not gonna sit around and wait for the government to cut through diplomatic red tape when my son is missing!"
"Would you just stop and think about this for a minute?" Jo pleaded, pinning him with the look she reserved for her naughtiest students. "Afghanistan is a large and very dangerous country. Where would you even begin looking for him? And what if something happens to you? Then you'll both need rescued. At least give the government a chance to do it their way."
Mac sighed and dropped his arms to his side. "I'm sorry. You're right. It's just that-"
"Sam is your son," she said firmly. "If anyone can get out of whatever situation he may be in, it's him."
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"Is he dead, Mama?" The little girl's heavily accented voice pierced through his fog-shrouded brain.
"No, my little one, he was badly injured and needs to sleep while his body heals," a melodic female voice replied.
"He's slept long enough," a harsh voice grumbled. "Every day he is here he brings more danger."
"But Father, it was you who brought him to our camp," the elder female countered.
"What was I to do? Leave him in the desert to die? I am an old man and will soon meet Allah and be judged. I cannot have a man's death on my conscience. However, it is time that he leaves. He does not belong here."
Sam's head throbbed. He reached up to rub his temple, only to find it covered with a gauze-like material. He peeled one eye open, the other was swollen shut. His lips were dry and cracked and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. Continuing his physical inventory, nothing seemed to be broken, except possibly his ankle which throbbed in rhythm to his pulse. He attempted to push himself up by his elbow, but quickly flopped back down with a groan. Better add a couple of busted ribs to the list.
"Mama! Mama! The man is awake!" the little girl cried.
"Hurry, Asal, get him some water," the woman ordered as she sat beside Sam on the narrow cot. She gently lifted his head and pressed the cool, earthenware cup to his lips. "Slowly!" she scolded as he drank greedily.
"What happened? Where am I?" Sam croaked when the woman pulled the cup away.
"My father found you beaten and unconscious in the desert and brought you here, to our camp."
With the woman's help, Sam sat up and took in the canvas walls of the little family's tent and the one large room dimly lit by kerosene lanterns. He also noticed that he was no longer wearing his khakis and t-shirt but baggy cotton pants and a long matching shirt. His right leg was splinted with two narrow boards tied with more gauzy cloth which confirmed his suspicions about his ankle.
"Do you remember who did this to you?" the woman asked, genuine concern in her voice. Yet Sam knew it wasn't wise to trust friends, much less strangers, in this volatile country.
"No," he shook his head and instantly regretted it as a stabbing pain shot through his brain. "The last thing I remember was falling asleep in the Jeep." Technically, the last thing he remembered was a very interesting dream starring Becca, but the lady didn't need to know that. "How long have I been here?"
"It is the end of the third day," came the gruff reply from the only other man in the tent. "You truly do not remember who attacked you?"
"No," Sam replied as his mind raced with possibilities. Had he and Private Dunbar been ambushed? "The man I was traveling with. Where is he? And the Jeep?"
The woman and her father exchanged troubled glances. "You were the only one there," the man confirmed.
Sam wanted to ask more questions. He needed to figure out his exact predicament, but he was tiring quickly.
"What's your name?" the girl asked from the foot of the makeshift bed. With long, black hair and wide, dark eyes, she was a miniature version of her mother.
"I'm Sam," he answered with the friendliest smile he could muster.
"My name is Asal, and this is my mama, Moska, and my grandpapa, Soban."
"It's nice to meet you all," he replied, looking at each family member in turn.
"You must be hungry," Moska observed. "I will get you something to eat." At her declaration, everyone headed toward the opposite end of the tent. Sam leaned back on his cot and waited for his food to arrive.
Sam felt the rays of the morning sun caressing his face as the flaps of the tent's entrance were pulled back. When he opened his eyes it was to see a pair of obsidian ones staring back. Asal.
"I guess I fell asleep before supper last night, huh?" he smiled gently.
"Mama said you needed to rest and will eat when you are ready."
"Food heals the soul as well as the body," Moska said as she came to stand beside her daughter holding a tray.
"I am pretty hungry," Sam confessed as he sat up and took the tray from Asal's mother. From previous trips to the area, he quickly identified 'nan', an unleavened flat bread, on a plate as well as a bowl of 'mast', a yogurt-based soup. Last, but not least, was a steaming cup of aromatic tea. Unfortunately, the delicious food soon became bland under Soban's steely gaze.
"Now that you are stronger, perhaps you can tell us what you are doing here in our country."
Sam swallowed a spoonful of soup before answering. "I'm a United States journalist. I was on my way to a U.S. military camp I'm supposed to be imbedded with. If someone can bring me my clothes I can show you my identification."
The words had barely left his mouth when Moska presented him with his freshly laundered and carefully folded shirt and pants. "They were caked with blood and sand when my father rescued you," she explained, "But your pockets were empty."
His chin dropped to his chest. "Terrific. I'm in a foreign, war-torn country with no way to prove who I am," he mumbled before looking up at Soban. "How far is it to Kabul?"
"Not far. At most it is a two-day ride. I will saddle you a horse, or camel, if you prefer, but you must agree to take a guide from the camp to show you the way and make sure my animal is returned."
"Father!" Moska exclaimed. "Our guest is not healed enough to make such a journey! You must let him stay!"
"He can stay until sun-up tomorrow. Then he must leave and forget he was ever here." The old man turned and stomped out of the tent.
"You must forgive him," Moska said, shaking her head sadly. "He has lived his entire life in this desert as his ancestors before him. We are a peaceful, nomadic tribe, but that doesn't keep violence and bloodshed from our homes."
"It's understandable that he would want to protect his family," Sam assured her. "I couldn't help but notice your husband isn't here."
Moska's eyes took on a glassy sheen. "Several years ago, rebel insurgents tried to recruit my husband to fight with them. Asal was just a baby. My husband refused as our people do not believe in war and for that he was killed. My husband and father were very close. That is the reason my father distrusts strangers."
"I'm sorry about your husband. I didn't mean to bring up difficult memories, but I am glad your father saw fit to not let me die."
"Our religion demands we practice charity," she explained. "I will leave you to rest now."
Sam spent the day sitting just outside the tent on a small, stone bench watching the other families in the camp go about their normal routine. Their self-sufficiency amazed him, as did their acceptance of him amongst their ranks. Moska had given him a walking stick and he was pleasantly surprised to find that his ankle wasn't as sore as he first thought. Perhaps he had only sustained a sprain. It hadn't taken very long before Asal insisted on introducing her friends to him and he spent the next hours fielding a plethora of questions about life in America. When the children could think of nothing else to ask, they split up in small groups to play soccer or baseball, but Asal remained steadfastly at his side.
"How did you and your friends learn to speak such good English and play sports?" Sam asked.
The little girl shrugged. "Sometimes American soldiers stay not too far from our camp. They bring us gifts and teach us things."
"That sounds pretty cool," Sam remarked.
"They also tell the boys that if they get real good at playing ball they could move to America and make lots of money, but I think they're just teasing. Getting paid to play a game is silly," she giggled, and Sam couldn't help but chuckle as well.
That evening, Sam joined the family at the supper table and was amazed at the delicious meal Moska had made from such basic ingredients. When everyone was done eating, Asal and her mother cleared the table and Soban leaned back in his chair.
"I have arranged for our neighbor's son to take you to Kabul tomorrow. He will meet you outside at first light. I am loaning you one of my best stallions. I trust he will be returned unharmed."
Pleased that the old man apparently trusted Sam more than he let on, and infinitely relieved to learn he would not be riding a camel, Sam simply nodded.
Early the next morning, Sam stepped from the tent. The eastern sky was just beginning to blush a light pink, promising another sunny day ahead. As expected, a boy in his early teens stood holding the halters of two finely bred horses. He was admiring the animals when Moska approached with Asal and Soban behind her. She handed him a pair of saddlebags and a canteen.
"I packed your clothes and enough food for a two-day ride," she informed him.
"You shouldn't have gone through so much trouble," Sam said, shaking his head. "You all have done so much for me already, there's no way I could ever thank you."
Moska gently put her hand on his arm. "It has been our honor to assist you. You can thank us by safely returning to your homeland."
"Sounds like a plan," Sam agreed with a smile, before hoisting himself up on his large steed, taking care not to aggravate his injuries.
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Twilight was falling on the second day of the journey when Sam's guide reined in his horse, causing Sam to do the same. While the young man hadn't been exactly friendly, he had been polite and accommodating.
"Why are we stopping?" Sam asked, his instincts going on alert. "Is something wrong?"
His escort graced him with a rare smile. "No. See those lights in the distance? That is Kabul and this is where we must part ways."
"Looks like a pretty long walk," Sam grimaced.
The teen chuckled. "It is only about a mile to a well-traveled road. Someone will stop and give you a ride." Then he looked critically at Sam. "You might want to change into your Western clothes. Locals will be more likely to take pity on you."
"Gee, thanks," Sam grumbled as he dismounted and dug his clean but now-wrinkled clothes from the saddlebag Moska had provided. His guide reached for reins of the stallion Sam had been riding and turned both horses back towards the direction they had just come from.
"You're not planning on riding back tonight, are you?" Sam asked, concerned for the boy's safety.
"I have traveled this desert since I was a small boy. I will be fine. And if I fall asleep, the horses know the way home." He flashed Sam a parting grin and spurred the horses into a gallop, sand flying in their wake.
Sam quickly changed clothes, wanting to reach civilization before total darkness encompassed the desert. By the time he reached the paved road, his ankle was screaming in protest. He had taken the splint off the night before to make sitting his horse easier but now wished he had it back. On the other hand, how was he to know his guide was going to dump him outside the city to fend for himself?
Surprisingly, it wasn't long before a taxi cab pulled to a stop in front of him.
"Need a lift?" the cabbie asked.
"Yeah, but I'm afraid I don't have any money on me at the moment."
"You are American?"
"Yes sir," Sam replied, imagining what the man must think of his ripped shirt and torn jeans, not to mention the slowly healing bruises on his face. He wouldn't be at all surprised if the cabbie suddenly turned tail and ran.
"My shift is over. I'll keep the meter off," the driver said after some consideration. "Where can I take you?" he asked as Sam climbed in.
"The U.S. Embassy if possible."
With no further conversation, the driver zigged and zagged his cab through the city before pulling up beside the large building. Sam thanked the cabbie for his kindness before the man sped off. Now his next task was to convince the government officials in the embassy of his identity with absolutely no proof.
Sam made his way wearily up the steps and stumbled through the main entrance before approaching the reception area. He was hungry, tired, dizzy and in pain from head to toe, but he knew he had to hold himself together if he was to secure a way home.
"May I help you?" a young, female secretary asked warily from behind a large desk. Sam took a deep breath and pasted on what he hoped was a charming yet non-threatening smile. It was now or never.
"I hope so," he replied in a friendly tone. "I'm afraid all my identification was stolen, but my name is Sam Malloy and I'm a photojournalist here on assignment for the Chicago Tribune." He was prepared to say more but stopped short when the woman turned so pale you would have thought she had seen a ghost and shot to her feet.
"Please have a seat," she invited, gesturing to a row of chairs lined up against the opposite wall. "I'll be right back." She hurried away and Sam sighed, sure he would soon be in handcuffs and sitting under an interrogation spotlight. He sat down, allowed his head to fall into his hands and silently bemoaned his fate even as he wondered how his dad would handle a situation like this. He didn't have long to think before a burly, middle-aged man in military uniform approached, followed by a lanky, balding man in a disheveled suit. Sam rose to meet his fate.
"Did you say your name is 'Sam Malloy'?" the office asked without preamble. He stood a head taller than Sam and clenched his hands behind his back, causing his chest to puff out.
"Yes sir," Sam confirmed.
"Is that your given name?"
Now it was Sam's turn to become wary. "No sir. My full name is Sean Angus Malloy."
"Well, I'll be!" the man in the suit exclaimed. "MacGyver was right!"
Thoroughly confused at the mention of his dad's name, Sam's questioning gaze bounced between the two men.
"Welcome back from the dead, son," the officer proclaimed as he shook Sam's hand with a sturdy grip. "I'm General Rimmer and this is Special Agent Max Foster with the DXS," he explained, nodding to the man beside him who also shook Sam's hand.
"I'm sorry. I...I don't understand."
"Let's go back to my office and get this all sorted out. Then we'll get you to the hospital and have a doctor check you out."
General Rimmer led the way to his cavernous, well-appointed office in the bowels of the embassy. When everyone was comfortably seated, the general's assistant brought in a tray of tea, coffee, and light refreshments. Having not eaten since early that afternoon, Sam eagerly indulged himself.
"Now, why don't you start from the beginning and explain how you came to be here tonight?" Rimmer prompted.
Sam set down his cup of coffee and leaned back in the buttery soft leather chair. He was hoping the general and agent would have offered the same information, but he couldn't fault them for not showing their hand. Afterall, he was the beat-up guy with no ID. Sam settled in and explained how he had flown from O'Hare to Berlin then on to Kabul where he was met by Private Dunbar and the events that followed.
"Then I woke up in a tent in the desert," he told them and chronicled the days spent with Asal, Moska, and Soban, as well as his two-day trek back to Kabul.
"But you don't actually remember the attack itself?" General Rimmer asked, not for the first time.
Sam shook his head. "Like I told you, I must have dozed off in the Jeep and was knocked unconscious. I was kinda hopin' you could tell me what happened and if Dunbar is okay."
The two older men exchanged somber looks laden with emotions Sam couldn't quite identify. Finally, Agent Foster got up and retrieved a file sitting front and center on the general's desk. He took out an eight-by-ten photograph and handed it to Sam.
"Do you recognize this man?" the agent asked.
"Yes," Sam replied immediately. "This is Private First Class Alex Dunbar, my military-appointed escort."
Foster plucked the picture from Sam's grasp. "I'm sorry, Sam, but 'Alex Dunbar' doesn't exist. Did you ask for his identification when you first arrived?"
Sam lowered his head. "No. I'm sorry. I was tired and just assumed he was who he said he was. He said all the right things."
"There's no need to be sorry," Agent Foster assured him, "But perhaps it's a lesson learned for next time. At any rate, the man in this photo was an American sympathizer with the rebel insurgents in the region. He went by several aliases which made it that much harder for us to pin him down. From the information we already had, and now with your side of the story, we believe it was this imposter who attacked you in order to steal your identity. You see, you were cleared to be imbedded with a special ops team on a highly sensitive mission that 'Dunbar' planned to sabotage. It would have been way too difficult to pose as specialized military, so he targeted you, a reporter, instead."
"But how could he have possibly known about me?"
"We're still trying to figure that out," General Rimmer replied, stroking his chin. "Your incident has opened a very large can of international worms, so to speak."
Sam took a sip of his coffee which by now had turned cold before raising further questions for the two men. He looked toward Rimmer first. "When we met earlier, you welcomed me back from the dead." He then turned to Foster. "And you said that my dad had been right. What was that all about?"
General Rimmer scrubbed his face with his hands. "The man you knew as 'Dunbar' successfully infiltrated the special ops unit you had been assigned to. Their convoy hit a roadside bomb. Everyone in the vehicle 'Dunbar' was riding in was killed, including 'Dunbar'". He was identified by his passport and press pass that of course had your information on it. Per military protocol, officers were dispatched to inform next of kin and hand over personal effects."
"So my dad thinks I'm dead?!" Sam exclaimed as he realized for the first time that not only were his ID documents missing, but he also did not have his watch, locket, or Swiss Army knife.
"He tried to deny it but, yes. At least until he discovered the altered credentials."
Agent Foster picked up the story from there. "And you know how your dad is, like a dog with a bone when he has a puzzle to solve. I heard he even thought about coming here to look for you himself but his fiancé managed to talk him out of it."
"Yeah, Jo's about the only person who could do that, too," Sam said with a smile until he realized that Joanna also thought he was dead and he hated to think of her and his dad grieving when he was very much alive. And what about Becca?
"So anyway," Foster continued, "Mac called Craig Bannister at Phoenix and, since we all used to work together at the DXS, Craig called me after warning MacGyver to mind his own business. I was over here already so I started pokin' around, but to be honest, there was very little to go on. Chances are we never would have found you if you hadn't walked through that door tonight."
Sam took a few moments to let this all sink in before the general spoke again.
"You're a very lucky young man," he observed.
"You call being beat up and left for dead 'lucky'?" Sam snorted.
"I do, considering if you had been where you were supposed to be, you'd most certainly be dead right now."
Sam blew out a breath. "Yeah. I guess I hadn't thought about that. General, do you mind if I use your phone for a minute?"
"Be my guest."
"It's long distance," Sam warned.
"I think the U.S. government can afford it," Rimmer replied with a wink.
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"Mac, I think we ought to head home and let Sam get some rest," Joanna suggested.
Sam had returned to his Chicago apartment twenty-four hours earlier and for at least twenty of those hours, he had been hovered over by either MacGyver, Joanna, Rebecca, or all three.
"He seems to be in good hands," she offered, nodding toward where Becca stood.
"Oh, don't worry about a thing," the younger woman assured them. "I'll take real good care of him."
Jo bit back a giggle when Sam rolled his eyes. Like his father, he didn't care to be fussed over.
"It's okay, Dad. I'll be fine now that I'm home," Sam confirmed.
"Besides," Joanna added, "You need just as much rest as your son, if not more. You've hardly slept a wink since this whole thing started."
Mac blew out a breath and jammed his splayed fingers through his hair. "I guess I am being a bit of a 'father hen'," he admitted sheepishly.
"Look, I really appreciate your concern, but you can see I'm fine now," Sam said from where he lie on his couch. His ribs had been bound and his taped ankle rested on a pillow.
"Alright," MacGyver acquiesced. "But call if you need anything."
"Would you like me to drive?" Joanna asked once she and Mac reached the parking lot.
"Why?"
"Because you've been awake for hours on end."
"Fine," he groaned, tossing her the keys and climbing into the passenger side of the Nomad.
Jo slid behind the wheel and grimaced.
"What's wrong?" Mac asked.
"I never realized how huge this car is. It's like driving the Love Boat!"
"Changing your mind?" he teased.
"No," she replied firmly. "You just sit there and relax. You might even fall asleep, which would be a good thing."
Mac snorted. "Like that's gonna happen!"
Joanna carefully backed out of the parking space, quickly getting a feel for the big car. She tuned the radio to her favorite country music station and spared a glance at MacGyver who was snoring softly before she even reached the interstate.