CHAPTER EIGHT

April 19, 1985

"Face?" Hannibal called loudly as BA stepped out through the screen door, footsteps heavy on the wooden planks of the porch. "Get out here."

Face appeared a moment later with a glass of water in one hand and his hair sticking out every which way, still wet from a shower. And then, all eyes were on Alan, awaiting an explanation.

"We're all ears," Hannibal said flatly, leaning back against the post with arms stoically crossed.

Suddenly anxious in the limelight, Alan shifted uncomfortably. "You've gotta understand," he finally began, eyes down as if debating how and where to start. "When I got back to the States, I had no skills, no degree... and there were no jobs."

"So what was it?" Murdock demanded icily. "Drugs, guns, or murder for hire?"

BA stiffened at the accusation. Face eyed Murdock warily, but didn't interrupt. Under Hannibal's watchful, weighty stare, Alan lit his cigarette with fumbling fingers and squirmed uncomfortably before answering. "Drugs to get back home," he admitted, and the emotion in Murdock's glare turned to something dead set between smug and hateful. "But after that, it was cars."

"Cars?" Face asked, brows raised.

Alan sighed. "There was a team of us. We stole cars, drove them across the Mexican border, and my contact sold them to foreign markets."

"You been stealin' cars?" BA was clearly disgusted.

"Look, I knew it was wrong," Alan shot back defensively. "But my family was starving. I couldn't get work. The only skills I had were for hot-wiring cars and killin' VC!"

"Who were you working for?" Hannibal demanded, redirecting the conversation back to the point. "Since I assume it's important to this job you have for us."

"A man named Sam Corrolini." He dragged deep on his cigarette and shifted uncomfortably. "It was a simple gig. I drove the cars in, dropped them off, and walked away with ten percent of their market value, cash."

"So what went wrong?" Hannibal asked.

Another long pull on the cigarette, and Alan eyed the empty bottles before finally setting his fidgeting fingers to tapping on the arm of the wooden Adirondack chair. "Corrolini got an order from some big shot in Venezuela," he said clearly. "The cars he wanted, three of them, were difficult to find... and even harder to boost. But they were big, big money."

He glanced around at the men who were all watching him intently, waiting for more. "We were up in Minnesota still trying to get the third car when we hit the deadline. The other guys split, off to Canada. They didn't have families to go back for."

Hannibal folded his arms, not sure how much of this to buy. Why would an international crime boss risk bringing the police down on his whole operation by going after his employee's family? Still, it wouldn't be the first time a megalomaniac acted irrationally. If Corrolini was used to getting his way all the time...

"I tried to call my wife," Alan continued, "over and over, but I couldn't get an answer. By the time I got back to Arizona, they'd come looking for me." He took a deep breath, almost losing his composure. "He took my daughter. And he killed Bach Yen."

"Do you know it was him?" Hannibal challenged.

Alan sighed deeply, reflectively. "Well, someone who works for him. There's no one else who would've done something like that and it's a hell of a coincidence."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" BA demanded.

"You gotta understand," Alan stammered, looking up again. "My fingerprints are on file 'cause of the Army. They know who I am, and they know I was in that house."

Murdock spoke up this time, with surprising control and clarity. "I think whatever conspiracy theories you might still hold need to take a backseat for the time being," he said. "Are you here because of your missing daughter or because the Agency might find you?"

"You don't get it," Alan shot with an accusing glare. "They think I killed Bach Yen. And missing persons is looking for my daughter. They think I kidnapped her."

"Well, maybe you'd better set 'em straight," Murdock suggested.

"And tell them what?" he cried in frustration. "That I know who's got my daughter 'cause I was boosting cars for the guy? And how am I going to explain the fact that I'm supposed to be dead?"

"Sounds like you're more concerned about doing a few years jail time than finding your daughter," Hannibal pointed out.

Alan glared at him. "I'm not afraid to go to jail if that's what it takes. But Corrolini is across the Mexican border. By the time the cops and the FBI got through all the bureaucratic bullshit to make a move on him, he'd know they were coming. He's probably only keeping her alive for leverage, and he'll kill her without a second thought if she becomes a liability."

"Did they make a ransom demand?" Hannibal prodded.

"No," Alan sighed, then reconsidered. "I don't know. If they did, I wasn't there to get it."

Face shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I know this probably isn't exactly what you want to hear," he said calmly, "but what makes you think he is keeping her alive?"

"Blind faith," Alan admitted. "Until I see her body, I can't give up."

Hannibal exchanged a long, skeptical look with Face.

"And if he was gonna kill her," Alan continued quickly, "why not just do it then and there? Look -" Alan sat forward, on the edge of his chair. "- I got nothin' in the world anymore 'cept that little girl. An' I just want her back safe. Whatever you want, I will get it. Name your fucking price."

Murdock turned his back and stared out over the yard again, watching the last traces of the fog burn away in the bright, beautiful sunlight.

"Give us a minute Sergeant?" Hannibal finally instructed, with the polite mask of a suggestion not to be ignored.

Alan hesitated for just a beat before rising to his feet unsteadily and staggering to the door. In a moment, he was gone. "Murdock?" Hannibal asked as soon as it closed behind him. "What do you say?"

Murdock's shrugged. "I say it sounds like the same kinda thing we done a thousand times before," he answered coolly. "Got as good a reason as ever to do it this time."

"Do you trust him?" Hannibal demanded seriously.

Murdock glanced through the window to where Alan was pacing in the living room. "He's being careful not to lie," he said, sure of that assessment. "He prob'ly knows he won't get our help if he does."

"But do you trust him?"

Murdock turned and held Hannibal's gaze for a long moment, and shook his head slightly. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "But I don't think it really matters."

The answer was honest, if not reassuring.

"Face?"

With a deep frown, Face cast a glance at the pacing man as well. "I can find a dozen holes in this guy's story," he muttered. "It just doesn't make sense. I mean, come on, Hannibal - hiding from the Agency? After all this time?"

Hannibal nodded with consideration. "I'll admit he hasn't given us a decent explanation of the past sixteen years," he agreed.

"And he won't," Murdock said confidently. "I said he wasn't lying; I'd know if he was 'cause he's not real good at it. Maybe he's..." Nearly choking on the words, Murdock paused for a shaky breath. "Maybe he really is paranoid delusional. It's certainly in his genes."

"Either way," Face replied, "his story doesn't fill me with confidence. For all we know, this guy could be working with the military police."

"No way," BA declared. "If he was, he could've brought Lynch right to us. He come here for our help."

Hannibal raised a curious brow. "Am I to take it you approve of this job?"

"If they got a little girl hostage," BA replied gruffly, "I'm all for gettin' her out. That's what's important."

"Maybe," Hannibal agreed with some hesitation.

"She's probably not that little," Murdock said quietly. "Alan knocked her mom up back in Vietnam."

Murdock could almost see the cogs turning in Hannibal's brain. Alan wanted help to rescue a hostage; if everything else he said was a lie, would that be enough? Maybe the Agency really was a concern, and maybe not. Being tortured in a POW camp could make anyone a paranoid delusional. On the other hand, the threat could be real. As long as the missing daughter was real, it didn't really matter.

"You gonna be okay with this, Murdock?" Hannibal asked, shooting a sideways glance at the Captain. "We'll have to take him with us to see how the board is set up."

"I know," Murdock replied with impressive stoicism. "And no, I ain't lookin' forward to it but I'll stay focused."

Hannibal cast a long look at Face, waiting for his final statement. They were taking the job; Hannibal had already decided that. But he still wanted to know where Face stood. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Face merely shrugged.

"Sergeant!" Hannibal called toward the door.

Alan appeared a moment later, stepping back onto the porch. "That was fast," he noted, rubbing the back of his neck as he uncomfortably waited for the verdict.

"If we agree to help you," Hannibal said flatly, "that still leaves you with the problem of what you intend to do with this hostage when you get her back. You're a wanted man. If you don't sort out your problems with the authorities -"

"I'll do whatever I have to do," Alan interrupted. "But I want to see her first. I want to know she's safe."

Hannibal studied him for a moment, evaluating the sincerity and worry that was difficult to fake. Especially since Hannibal's trained eye had been watching Face do his finest impressions of both for more than fifteen years.

"Alright then, let's pack up," Hannibal ordered. "We'll drop Kelly off at the bus station and head down to Arizona."

The group scattered, immediately setting about the task of getting ready to leave. Clearly stunned by the simplicity of their organization, Alan staggered for a minute before bending down to gather the empty bottles around the chair.

"And just to be clear," Hannibal warned, eyes fixed firmly on his new client, "you've got exactly one hour before we leave to sober up so I'd go make some really strong coffee, if I were you. From here on out, I catch you with so much as a wine cooler in your hand and you'll be walking home. Without your daughter. Think about that before you crack open another bottle."

Alan nodded slowly, mutely.

"We'll leave at oh-nine-hundred," Hannibal informed him, disappearing into the cabin. "Be ready."

September 24, 1969

At exactly oh-nine-hundred hours, Colonel Smith entered the TOC to find a small crowd waiting. Aside from the team that had dropped into A Shau, there were five others that Murdock did not know - all Yards. Murdock was perhaps a bit more awake than the rest of them; a bit more panicked at the prospect of having to fly when his senses weren't entirely engaged. Luckily, the adrenaline was doing a fantastic job of countering the effects of the alcohol. The caffeine and wake-up pills undoubtedly helped. His entire body was on overdrive, including his liver.

"Alright." Colonel Smith took charge the instant he'd closed the door behind him and Murdock sat up a little straighter. Hannibal walked directly toward him, and he prepared himself for an inspection to see whether or not he'd sobered up. But the colonel seemed disinterested, as if he'd completely forgotten the "sobering process" that had begun only an hour before. Murdock blinked in surprise as he was suddenly handed a razor knife.

"All patches need to come off your uniform," Hannibal ordered.

Murdock's eyes widened a bit. "Sir?"

But the colonel didn't repeat himself. Instead, he held out his other hand, palm up. "I'll also need your dog tags and any other personal identification you have on you."

After a moment of hesitation, Murdock handed over his tags. He could feel the eyes on him, an audience here for the details of their mission, anxious to get to the point, but still remarkably relaxed and calm. Both Cipher and Boston had lit up cigarettes and were leaning their chairs back against the cement walls of the underground bunker.

Murdock sat up a little straighter as Smith began pulling back the big black sheet labeled "top secret". He secured it to the side, letting them study the map underneath. Still carefully cutting the stitches on his identifying patches, it took Murdock a moment to realize what he was seeing, and he didn't like it. Little pin flags littered the map of Laos, marking places with names like "Death Trap", "Murder Hill", and "Baby Killer". He realized as he stared at the map that he was now part of something clandestine and extraordinary. The President of the United States had repeatedly and vehemently denied any military operations in Laos or Cambodia. This map said otherwise.

"Are those landing zones?" he asked, hazarding a question before Smith got into the details.

"Yep," Cipher confirmed. "Where we goin' today, Hannibal?"

Unlike the last mission into A Shau, Murdock was briefed right along with the rest of the team this time. He knew the details of the assignment, and he knew just how dangerous it was before he ever went in. He would be dropping them off deep inside of the no-man's-land jungle of Laos. He would be on standby at Tay Ninh to pick them up at any time. He would be flying back - probably into a hot area - to pull them out.

Once Smith had said all he had to say, he asked if there were any questions. Murdock had a million of them, but none of them were specific to the drop at hand so he kept them to himself. Nobody else said anything, and Hannibal dismissed his team.

"Murdock, wait a minute," the Colonel called before he had a chance to make himself scarce.

Murdock closed his eyes and took in a breath before turning back, waiting for the others leave. Soon it was just the two of them in the room. Now the ass chewing would commence, he was sure. But Smith remained almost passive as he dropped the cover back over the maps and reached into his pocket for a cigar.

"A few things you should know before you go out there," he started, his tone calm and even.

Murdock immediately braced himself for a very different kind of conversation than he'd been expecting. "Alright..."

Smith hesitated for a moment. "As far as the United States government is concerned, you no longer exist. If you crash, it's your responsibility and yours alone, to find your way into friendly hands. There will be no rescue attempt. The most you'll get is a fly-over, or - if it happens in the target LZ - a chance to rendezvous with the team that'll be sent out to replace us. If you go down and you don't make it back, you will be listed as MIA somewhere inside of South Vietnam."

Murdock nodded, processing this very slowly. Hannibal gave him a few moments before continuing. "I don't need to remind you what 'top secret' means, do I, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," he answered quietly.

"Just to make sure we're on the same page, if you talk to anyone - and I do mean anyone, friend or enemy - about these missions, you will be court-martialed for treason," Smith reminded him. "After you drop us off, write one last letter back to your family in the States to explain why you will not be writing any more letters for a while. And it will have to pass a censor, so keep it clean."

Murdock lowered his eyes. "I don't have any family to write to, sir."

"Well, then, that makes it easy," Smith answered, not sounding the least bit surprised.

Smith started to the door and Murdock followed a half step behind, still listening as the colonel continued. "When we drop, you're on-call for pickup until we're extracted. I'll be speaking with the commander at whatever FOB we run out of to make sure we're clear on that. I suggest you make sure that your chopper is ready to crank at any moment, because you may not have time for a pre-flight if we call for an emergency extraction. If you're not at the base when we call, you'd better be in the air and en-route. We won't have time to wait for you."

"How much trouble do you guys run into on these missions?" Murdock asked hesitantly.

"Personally?" Finally, Smith lit the cigar he'd been chewing. "I haven't lost a man in five missions. That's damn close to a record. Sometimes an entire team goes MIA after an insert. Or in the chopper on the way out to one."

"You don't maintain radio contact?" Murdock questioned, surprised.

"We check in with the FAC in the morning and evening," Hannibal explained. "But the only thing you'll be hearing from us is an extraction request."

"What about in the chopper?" He was careful not to let his uneasiness show. "Who will I be in contact with?"

"Usually, you'll have an escort plane - a Birddog or Skyraider, most likely - and you'll be in communication with them."

"And Covey?"

"Once you leave the base, the FAC is your highest and only authority." Smith gave a slight smirk, a look that made Murdock even more unsure. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. Your chances of running into any other aircraft out there will be pretty damn slim. Not too many people fly where we're going."

Murdock wasn't sure if that was supposed to make him feel better. If it was, the effort had failed miserably. But he didn't let it show. He simply nodded, and braced himself for the mission that was to follow. More than that, he realized, he was struggling very hard to brace himself for a whole new way of doing war.

April 19, 1985

Special thanks to baltikagirl for correcting my Russian in this chapter!

"Segodnya ya govoryu tol'ko po-russki."

Alan stared at the man seated across the table from him as if he'd just grown another head. "What?" He couldn't even identify the language, much less what Murdock had just said.

But if that bothered Murdock, he had a funny way of showing it. He smiled broadly as he gestured in the air. "Ya dumayu, chto eto budet zabavno."

Alan looked to Face, who just so happened to be the first one his gaze found. "What's he saying?"

Face shrugged as he studied the diner's well-worn menu. "Beats me," he answered, not bothering to acknowledge Murdock. Instead, he flashed a well-practiced smile at the waitress as she approached.

"What can I get you boys to drink?" the pretty, young blonde asked, eyes lingering on the clean cut man with the dazzling smile.

"Coffee, please," he answered, with a smooth slide in his voice that nearly made Alan gag. He'd seen a fair number of smooth-talkers in his time, but Face wasn't even subtle about it.

"Mozhete sdelat' mne molochnye kokteil'?" Murdock asked. At least, Alan assumed it was a question by the way his voice rose just slightly at the end.

The waitress stared at Murdock, blinking in confusion and searching for words. "Uh, I'm sorry?"

"He'll have a glass of milk," Hannibal answered, studying the menu with intent.

"Same here," BA declared.

"And I'll have a coffee," Hannibal continued. "Black."

The waitress paused for just a moment to scribble on the pad in her hand. Looking very unsure of the foreign-speaking customer who had taken to staring intently at her with a not-quite-sane grin, she finally gave Alan a tight smile. "And you, sir?"

"Oh. Uh..." He didn't want to admit he felt just as uncertain of the present company as she looked. "Coffee. Thanks."

After they'd taken Kelly to the bus station, they'd started south. Murdock hadn't said a damn thing since Kelly had boarded the bus four hours ago. Now he was talking gibberish. Alan didn't know what to think about that. Or what to think about the fact that nobody else seemed to think it was strange. Except for a brief glare from BA, the antics had hardly been acknowledged by the rest of the team.

"Alright, I'll be right back," the waitress concluded as she tucked her pad of paper into her apron pocket and scurried away.

Another nonsensical question tumbled from Murdock in Hannibal's direction, and Alan looked to see if he would respond. He didn't. BA - who was apparently familiar with this game - had little patience to spare for the unintelligible speech. "You wanna talk?" he snapped. "Talk English. Or don't talk at all. Nobody can understand you, fool!"

Alan stared at BA for a moment, then across at Murdock. "Ya ne ponimayu vas," Murdock declared with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What language is that?" Alan asked, genuinely curious. He was looking at Murdock for an answer, but receiving only a blank stare. "Is that Russian? When did you learn Russian?"

Murdock sat blinking at him in confusion for a few seconds, then leaned forward. He gestured with his hands as he spoke loudly and simply with a thick Russian accent. "I no speak the English," he declared. "Speak only Russian."

"Oh, well that's convenient," Face observed with the same casual dismissal as before. Like Hannibal, he seemed more interested in the menu. "Except that none of us speak Russian."

"You're going to need a translator, Murdock," Hannibal suggested.

Face rolled his eyes, but didn't look up. Alan watched, stunned and confused, as Murdock's face lit up with a wide grin. "Eto pohozhe na rosygrysh!" Then, like an actor in a screenplay, Murdock straightened in his chair and held his head up before continuing in a new persona. "He asks -" this one spoke with a British accent "- if you would prefer another language? He is fluent in many languages, you know."

"How 'bout English!" BA shot. It sounded like more than a suggestion.

If Alan didn't know better, from the way that Murdock slipped back into his Russian-speaking self, he might have actually wondered if his brother had developed some kind of split personality. He continued to stare as Murdock rambled more gibberish that "the translator" deciphered.

"He says he is bored with English. Any other suggestions?"

"Sorry, Murdock, I'm going to have to go with BA on this one," Face declared without looking up. "English is our official language, boring or not."

Murdock cast a glance at Hannibal, but got no support there, either. Only a shrug as the older man glanced up briefly to see why the conversation had stopped. After a quick roll of his eyes, Murdock looked back at Face, letting both "personalities" drop.

"Oh, come on. You gotta know another language other than English! What other languages do you know, anyways?" He glanced up briefly as the waitress returned and transferred the drinks from the tray to the table, one at a time. BA was scowling at him, as though the question was just another one of his antics. Perhaps it was. With as long as they'd been together, Murdock should've known what languages they all spoke.

"French," Face smiled politely. "Which I happen to know you don't speak."

"What about in school?" Murdock prodded. "Didn't you ever study a foreign language in school?"

"Latin," Face replied. "Which you also don't speak."

Murdock's eyes lit up. "Oooh, Latin!"

For a moment, Face looked as though he genuinely feared Murdock might break out in a Latin soliloquy. But instead, he only cast a wicked grin, leaning back to allow the returned waitress to set a glass in front of him.

"I don't know Latin," he answered. "How 'bout pig Latin? Do you know pig Latin?"

Face sighed tiredly. "If I say no, would that deter you in the slightest?" Another smile at waitress - their gazes locked for a long moment - made it perfectly clear where Face's interest lie.

"Oh-nay I-ay on't-day ink-they it-ay ould-way."

BA growled. Alan stared. Face gave a subtle wink to the blushing girl who'd managed to ignore the ludicrousness of the mental patient at the table this time around. And Hannibal glanced up from the menu as if nothing was the least bit out of the ordinary. "How's the grilled chicken?"