CHAPTER NINE

Dec 14, 1969

In the three months since Murdock had joined Hannibal Smith's team, he had redefined the term "impossible". He'd also redefined his concept of insanity. From day one of this ludicrous war, he'd been willing to take phenomenal risks if it meant getting even one American out of a red LZ alive; it was what had earned him his nickname - "Howlin' Mad". But Hannibal introduced him to a new level of crazy. He didn't just drop into red landing zones; he made them red - quite literally, in fact - if he thought he had a chance of taking out a few of the commie bastards before getting his men out alive. It seemed once the adrenaline started flowing, he didn't know when to stop.

Now Murdock understood why Hannibal's team had a legendary kill ratio. He also understood why the team was made up of these particular soldiers who, each in their own way, were all just as crazy as their One-Zero - including the latest addition of Bill "Bulldog" Tawney, a PFC with only minimal experience in Special Ops. Although Hannibal had been reluctant to take him, the order had come from Westman himself in light of the fact that Ray "Boston" Brenner was getting short, and unlike the rest of them, he had a wife back in the States. He was expected to go home just as soon as he was released.

SOG teams normally did a six month rotation in which every member was wounded at least once, or KIA. Miraculously, Hannibal's team had survived well into the fifth month with only minor injuries to the Americans and few dead Yards. In spite of their proclivities to going above and beyond the natural course of wartime danger, they had shockingly long life spans.

Not uniquely, but nevertheless at a startlingly high ratio, Hannibal also had a habit of pulling some of the most dangerous assignments, often into areas where "plausible deniability" was a key term. In three months, Murdock had dropped his team into Cambodia four times, Laos twice, and North Vietnam three times. They'd also visited half a dozen camps in "friendly" territory. Normally, SOG units had several days or even weeks between assignments. RT Cannon never seemed to stop moving; their tasks, quite often orchestrated by Hannibal himself during their official "down time", came so fast and furious, Murdock wondered how they kept up - or more importantly, how they kept alive.

For his part, Murdock had adjusted quite comfortably to the stresses of his new life. He dropped the team into enemy territory, returned to base, and spent the next few days waiting on high alert. He did no other runs, flew no other teams, lifted off the ground for absolutely no reason, and remained completely sober until they called for extraction. Sometimes the waiting was nice, if there were people to talk to and things to do on the base. Other times the boredom nearly drove him batshit.

This time, he had a slight advantage in the war with uninspiring monotony, as he found himself back in the now-rare and always pleasant company of the US Air Force at Ban Me Thout - the very base he had been stationed at before Hannibal had taken him in.

"You really got assigned to a specific SOG unit?" Murdock didn't really know the man who was asking the question, but he understood the skepticism in his voice.

"Yeah, crazy huh?" Murdock answered, a bit uncomfortably. He completely understood how rare his situation was, and how naturally curious people would be. But he also completely understood the meaning of the words "court martial". He didn't want to talk about his team, or about the kind of operations they ran.

"Hey!" Every head turned as a man in green fatigues burst through the flap of the tent, looking around quickly. Murdock recognized him as Specialist Murphy. "Anyone with orders for RT Cannon needs to get back out there! FAC says they're in trouble!"

Murdock was out of his chair like a shot, and out to the rows of choppers even quicker. They had only been on the ground for a few hours; things had clearly gone very wrong, and they were probably under fire. Completing his pre-flight check in all of two minutes, Murdock was in the air long before the other choppers lifted on either side. His co-pilot, an unfamiliar man graciously provided by the base captain, had barely strapped himself in when Murdock lifted the skids off the ground, calling back for a clear almost as an afterthought. In seconds, he was headed into the dead air above the thick jungle. Before the other choppers - two more like his gunship and two troopships - began moving forward, he was already a good distance ahead of them.

"Hey Howlin' Mad, you're not anxious to get out there, are you?" the voice came over the radio, right into his ear.

Without thought, he clicked the intercom mic. "Nah, I just do this for fun," he answered his gunner. Tim Jacobs was a man Murdock had worked with several times before Hannibal had arranged for his reassignment. He was proficient, if a bit carefree, and Murdock tried to keep his tone equally light.

"This gonna be a solo kinda mission?" Tim asked, looking out of the chopper's open side panel at the escort they were leaving in the dust.

Murdock frowned. "Nah, they'll catch up."

The other choppers wouldn't catch up unless he slowed down, and he knew it. But he wasn't overly concerned. If there was ever a chopper that could kick ass, it was the one he was flying. The "Green Hornets" at the 20th Special Operations Squadron had been equipped with two hand-controlled miniguns that fired six thousand rounds per minute - one on each side. They could fire during approach, while passing a target, and they could even pivot backwards to shoot after they passed. But even better than their maneuverability was their reliability. When a Green Hornet minigun jammed, the gunner put on a glove, spun the barrel to clear it, and kept right on firing. With two such guns and two capable gunners, Murdock was brimming with confidence. Still, in keeping with good practice - and good manners - he slowed just a bit to let the others catch up, remaining at the point of the V-formation.

RT Cannon was, indeed, in trouble. Their call for an emergency extraction had been picked up by Covey, flying high overhead in a Cessna O-2 Skymaster. Apparently, their mission had gone well at first, but they had since been backed up against a wide stream. Cornered on three sides by advancing NVA, their only option for retreat was into the water, which would make them wide open targets. Dangerously low on ammo, they were running out of time.

"Hornets One, Two, and Three need to sweep," the FAC ordered. He'd been watching the firefight below, and knew better than the newly arrived choppers what was happening. "Take out their guns if you can hit 'em."

"Roger, Covey," Murdock answered. "Hornet One, sweeping right."

Briefly, Murdock's gaze drifted to his fuel gauge as the other choppers acknowledged their orders. The flight from Ban Me Thout had left him with only enough fuel for a quick extraction. The others would be in the same position. But he couldn't think about that now; he needed all his attention for the RPGs heading in his direction...

"They're right on the water, guys," Murdock called back to the gunners, leading the formation and the other two choppers. "Let's not make this a friendly-fire kinda day."

The only answer he received was the sudden burst of rattling machine gun fire, but he knew they'd heard. Muscles tense and tight, he dove as low as he dared, almost scraping the tops of the trees, to give the men in the back a clear shot at two of the enemy's RPG launchers. Almost simultaneously, they exploded into an impressive ball of fire.

"Hornet Two, I'm goin' down..."

For just an instant, Murdock's blood ran cold. Those were haunting words nobody ever wanted to hear, much less say. Craning his neck to see the wounded bird behind him, he frowned at the smoke pouring out behind her tail.

"Gonna try'n land in that clearing over there," Hornet Two's pilot continued with enforced calm.

"Trooper One, I'll pick him up," came the serious, intense voice of the hopeful rescue party.

Drawing in a deep breath, Murdock circled back around, leaving the two choppers to help each other. They were both out of commission now. Trooper One would be heavy after he picked up the Hornet crew; he'd have to head back. But as long as no one went down in a bright ball of flame, they were still on the path to success.

"Trooper Two, I'm runnin' on fumes." Murdock's eyes narrowed as he checked his own gauge. They were all on fumes and they all knew they would be. Every minute they spent out here consumed more fuel they simply couldn't spare. But he still hadn't caught sight of his team.

"I'm headed back," Trooper Two declared, calling it too early, in Murdock's opinion. But he kept his criticisms entirely to himself as he swept low again, wincing at the sound of AK rounds hitting the chopper from all directions. The NVA had set an arc of fire in front of them in an attempt to force the Green Berets into the river. The flames were already reaching into the second tier of the jungle canopy.

"C'mon, c'mon," he whispered under his breath, eyes sweeping the smoke and flames and shades of green jungle foliage. "Where are you guys?"

"You're trailing smoke, Hornet One."

Murdock checked his gauges quickly, trying to decipher what had been hit. Everything still looked okay, but smoke was never a good sign. "I'm still go for pickup," Murdock answered firmly. "That's my team down there and I ain't leavin' without 'em."

"Hornet One," Covey ordered, the radio transmitter in the plane overhead distinctly clearer than their own, "if you're still a go, you need to move along the river."

"Roger, Covey," Murdock replied with determination. "Talk me through it."

The FAC guided Murdock through the approach at the same time he guided the recon team on the ground to the water's edge. Full throttle, Murdock skimmed along the water, so close it parted on either side. Listening to the orchestration of their efforts, he knew the team should've been waiting. Unfortunately, faced with so much firepower from the enemy, they were too busy shooting to run for the chopper.

"Blast those fuckers, Tim!" Murdock ordered through the mic, adrenaline pounding in his veins as his right-side gunner shot over the top of the team, into the trees. It barely even slowed the enemy's rounds.

Murdock couldn't see, in the dimming evening light, where the team was. All he saw was shadows, muzzle flares, and flashes of tracer rounds. Then came the call that made his blood run cold.

"They got us!" BA yelled into his headset. "Get out, man! Get out!"

Reacting on instinct, Murdock pulled pitch and climbed. No longer willing to work through the middleman FAC, Murdock clicked on his mic. "Hannibal! SITREP!"

The long moment of silence instigated a momentary lapse of Murdock's necessary calm. "RT Cannon One-Zero!" he called again. "SITREP!"

"We blew them back." That wasn't Hannibal's voice, or BA's. It was Face's, out of breath and heavy with exhaustion. "But we're out of claymores. We can't hold them back much longer."

"I'm ready and waiting," Murdock said encouragingly. "Everyone still alive down there?"

Murdock glanced at his fuel gauge. No way in fucking hell he'd make it back to base. But he'd be damned if he turned back now. He was going to get his team out of here, and if they ran out of fuel halfway back, so be it. A rescue chopper would already be on its way.

"One KIA, two wounded," Face answered. Then, after a brief pause, he continued with a slightly shaky voice. "Please get us outta here, Murdock."

A tense smile crossed Murdock's face, his confidence boosted by the faith that he absolutely could get them out of there. "Will do, Faceman. Just hold on." He drew in a breath and spoke again to the FAC. "One more try, Covey."

"Hornet Three," the FAC demanded, "how's your fuel?"

The other remaining gunship hesitated a moment. "I'll give 'em everything I got for one more pass... but then I've gotta pull out."

Murdock pulled in behind him as he swept in over the trees again. But instead of following, Murdock veered off suddenly and lowered to the bank. The sheer number of bullets ricocheting off the surface of the water made it glisten as though catching the sunlight. Any one of those bullets could take his life, crash this bird, and strand them all in enemy territory. But they looked so much like harmless raindrops on the water's surface, it made the thought feel foreign and surreal. Drugged by the adrenaline, well past the point of reason and understanding, Murdock relied on instinct and gut reactions.

"There they are!" Tim suddenly yelled over the roar of the machine guns and the deafening rotor.

The chink of bullets in the side of the bird made Murdock wince as he lowered and held her two feet off the ground, rock steady in spite of the incoming fire. He couldn't really see the team, but he was as close as he could get. It was up to them now to make it to the chopper.

Ducking as much as he was able in the harness, Murdock listened to the deafening sound of his own breathing and wondered how much longer he could keep this up. The windshield shattered as it was riddled with AK bullets, and more than one RPG passed within inches of them. A cry from the back let Murdock know Tim had been hit, but the machine gun fire continued so the wound couldn't be mortal, could it?

Murdock dared a look up through the shattered, gaping hole where the windscreen had been. The team was bolting for their last chance ride, shooting as they skipped and tripped backwards. An unconscious Hannibal was draped between Cipher and BA, his shirt tied around his waist like a tourniquet or fast field dressing. It was too dim to see if it was covered in blood, and Murdock didn't really want to know. One KIA, two wounded... Murdock's stomach tied itself in knots.

He could see the figures advancing after them, backlit by the flaming jungle, guns blazing. Grunts and cries and shouts from the back made it clear they'd reached the chopper, but Murdock still didn't get the clear to leave. His adrenaline-drugged mind struggled to find the reason and realized only six men had been pulled in. Not counting the KIA, there should've been seven.

BA was yelling. Murdock strained to hear words over the loud rattle of the chopper blades and the raking of the machine guns back and forth. Surely he couldn't think anyone out there was going to hear him. Eyes darting to the fuel gauge again, momentarily distracted by yet another RPG that nearly came right into the front of the chopper, Murdock realized he hadn't taken a breath in a very long time. He sucked in a lungful of the smoke from the blazing jungle, coughing and choking.

"Face!" BA yelled from behind him, "Come on!"

Still gasping as the wind from the rotors drew the blinding smoke towards them, Murdock tried to turn his head and rub it out of his eyes onto his shoulder. He couldn't see. Everything was burning and stinging and... oh shit. Through the haze, he saw the rocket launcher that had missed them only by a few inches shift a little to the right and take aim again.

"Tim!" he screamed at his gunner, choking on the words. "Blast that motherfucker!"

But he knew the launcher was out of range before the gun even tried to turn. No choice. No chance if - when - they pulled that trigger.

"I gotta go!" Murdock coughed.

"No!" Boston yelled at him. "You wait!"

Waiting wasn't an option. Murdock pulled back from the bank, ignoring the angry curses from the back. Boston couldn't see the rocket launcher, and didn't even notice the RPG the skimmed the bottom of the bird as Murdock pulled up sharply, towards cleaner air. With bullets slapping the water all around him and riddling the metal walls of the Huey, Murdock climbed... and saw Face's head poke up above the bushes as he sprayed gunfire at the invisible NVA in the thick, smoky foliage behind him.

"Fuck!" he cursed, not sure whether he was more relieved to see the kid alive or concerned now that he had to figure out a way to go back for him.

"One o'clock!" the peter pilot screamed. "One o'clock!" Murdock wondered if the co-pilot had just now seen the rocket launcher that was positioning again.

"Everyone hold on!" Murdock yelled into the intercom as he banked right so hard and so fast the chopper's overhead rotor nearly went vertical. He pulled back just in time to keep from hitting the trees, and realized he was still alive. The rocket had missed them.

A quick glance over his shoulder saw Cipher dropping a rope ladder. He looked up at just the right time to catch Murdock's gaze. "Take us back down!" he yelled.

Murdock didn't think; he simply reacted. Dropping back over the water, he watched all sides as they all loaded and aimed and fired and narrowly missed. He couldn't afford to hover anymore. There were too many guns and rocket launchers aimed directly at him.

Out the shattered window, Murdock saw Face shoulder his weapon and sprint several long strides before diving into the water. He caught the ladder mid-stroke as the chopper breezed past, and nearly tore his arm off in the process. But he held on.

"Go!" Cipher yelled from the cargo bay. "Go!"

He was up in the air in a matter of seconds, with the young lieutenant still dangling behind until the rest of the team was able to pull him in. Once they did, Cipher stumbled to the front of the chopper and grabbed Murdock's shoulder. "You sweet motherfucker!" he yelled over the sounds of the rotor and the wind sweeping in through the broken windshield. "I could fucking kiss you!"

Violently shaking with adrenaline, Murdock pushed the bird as hard and fast as she would go. He couldn't help it, even if he knew it would burn the fuel that much faster. Somewhere along the line, the sounds of relief from the back of his chopper had become more precious to him than air. This brush with death wasn't so different from the last, and wouldn't necessarily be more intense than the next. That didn't make it any less powerful to recognize he was the lifeline. These men would all be dead now if he hadn't taken the insane risk to pull them out. It was a boost to his ego like he'd never known before meeting this team, and it gave him a reason for living he'd never had before. He had purpose now. He had family. Smiling, he let himself feed on the high of that thought as the engine finally sputtered, out of gas, a mere hundred yards away from the base.

April 19, 1985

"How did you get permanently assigned to one SOG unit?" Alan asked, sitting on the floor between the two back seats of the van. "I didn't know they even did that."

Murdock sighed. He didn't care to talk about the war on a normal day. He cared for it even less when he was sitting in the back of the van on a never-ending ride across several states, being interrogated by someone he neither knew nor particularly trusted. Whatever Alan was, he'd stopped being family a long time ago...

"Normally they didn't," Hannibal answered. He must have sensed just how much Murdock didn't feel like having this conversation.

"You guys worked for General Westman, didn't you?" Alan prodded.

"Usually," Face answered, eyeing the outsider warily. He didn't trust him either. But the war was long over and the information Alan was fishing for right now was just a matter of morbid curiosity - uninteresting if not altogether declassified. The Vietnam War would take some secrets into eternity - at least on paper - and the existence of their team might well have been one of them. But all of SOG had heard rumors even back then, and nowadays nearly all of Los Angeles knew of that special combat team who fixed unusual and challenging problems. There wasn't much to tell, so long after the fact.

"Hey, man," BA interrupted, tipping his head to look at Alan in the rearview mirror, "how come you never made it to CCN? You'da made a good recon man."

"Eh, that patrol shit never did much for me," Alan replied.

Ignoring the ever-present smugness and hint of mockery, Murdock counted each little knick and scrape in the leather covering the armrest.

"You said you know where we'll find Corrolini," Hannibal said, abruptly changing the conversation. Apparently he didn't want to talk about the war anymore, either. At least, he didn't want to sit here playing "one-up" with a soldier who was clearly more concerned about his image than any of them were. In their line of work, now as in wartime, they all knew they had nothing to prove.

"What kind of property are we talking about?" Hannibal continued, and Murdock looked up. The colonel was tired of driving, and anxious to get to the fight. Not unexpectedly, Murdock sympathized.

"It's a mansion," Alan replied seriously. "On a huge plot of land, just across the border. Most of it's wooded."

"How huge?" Hannibal asked.

Alan shook his head. "I couldn't tell you. Miles wide. There's a road leading in, past three gates. The first one you can see off the highway. The second is another two miles in. The third one is at least a mile past that." He looked around. "The road in is paved, but it's real narrow. Two cars can't pass at the same time. Place is a fortress."

"I'm assuming that there's a wall to go with those gates?" Hannibal questioned.

"It's an eight-foot wrought iron fence," Alan clarified.

Face raised a skeptical brow. "Around that much land?" he asked in disbelief. "I know some people really like their privacy but it sounds like this guy has more to hide than some stolen cars."

"You don't understand," Alan sighed. "These aren't just 'some stolen cars'. These are priceless cars."

"Well, they can't be too unique," Hannibal pointed out, ignoring the fact that surrounding several square miles of land with wrought iron was overkill no matter how valuable Corrolini's merchandise. "The one problem with stealing the Mona Lisa is finding a buyer who's willing to pay for something they can never show off to their friends."

Face nodded. "Yeah, black market value goes down with rarity."

"I'd be surprised if Corrolini didn't have his thumbs in a dozen different pies," Alan admitted. "But I never asked. This is not a guy you fuck around with, know what I mean?" He laughed, without humor, emphasizing his point. "I do know that the one time I was there when one of his clients showed up, they came in a limo with a five-car escort. I never got a good look at the guy, but he definitely wasn't your run-of-the-mill bad guy lookin' for a good deal on the black market."

"Sounds like a pretty big operation," Hannibal concluded. "How did you get in on an op like that?"

"I grew up with two of the guys I worked with," Alan explained. "They pulled me in for a few trial runs. I did well, so they got permission to bring me onboard more permanently."

"Man, how'd you get so good at stealin' cars?" BA demanded. There was clearly disappointment in his voice. "I never took you for a thief."

Alan chuckled. "Stealin' cars was how I got sent over to 'Nam in the first place. My probation officer told me next time I got caught, he was movin' me to the head of the draft. And since we both knew I would get caught again, if I wanted any say about how I went over, I'd better sign up on my own." He smirked a little. "I went down to the Army recruiter the next morning."

Murdock's eyes were fixed firmly on one of the raised dots on the interior wall of the van, ignoring this part of the conversation. None of this was new to him. Alan's first run-in with the law had been at the age of fifteen, for a joyride he and his significantly older friends took in a brand new Ford Thunderbird. It happened to belong to the mayor of their small town. It was the first of many times Alan would stand before a judge to explain his stupidity. When he hit eighteen, and it came time to be tried as an adult for the crimes he kept repeating - most of them involving cars in some capacity or another - he'd joined the Army. That was just two months before Murdock put in his application to the Air Force Academy.

Murdock's eyes slid closed as he considered the long dead memories he hadn't brought up in years. There seemed no point in dwelling on the fact that the single most influential decision in his life had simply been a reaction to Alan's choices. The ongoing rivalry between brothers near enough in age to be mistaken for twins had culminated in a standoff. Who would have the fuller and more rewarding life? Whose lifestyle would be more profitable in the end? Whoever dies with the most toys wins. Whoever died last got bonus points.

Murdock only realized how far he'd wandered from the conversation when he heard his name, and realized Alan had posed a question. "Huh?" he asked, glancing over at him.

"Man, you ain't listenin' at all, are ya?"

Murdock rubbed the armrest with his thumb again. "Not really," he admitted, disinterested.

"I was just askin' - did you have to transfer to Army?"

Murdock sighed. Why had they gone back to this conversation?

"That one unit you were in was the only Air Force unit that even flew choppers in 'Nam, wasn't it?"

"The 20th Helicopter Squadron," Murdock offered without answering the question.

But Alan noticed the avoidance and asked again, "So did you transfer?"

Shifting a little uncomfortably, Murdock cast a quick glance across at Face's slightly concerned expression before answering. "Eventually, yeah." It was more complicated than a transfer, but he didn't feel the need to explain. "1st Aviation Brigade."

Alan sneered at him. "Too pussy for Special Forces?"

The tense silence that followed that statement was thick enough to be cut with a knife. It wasn't immediately clear whether no one knew what to say or they were just waiting for Murdock to make the first move. But then, in the rearview mirrors, Murdock could see BA's tight jaw. Hannibal passed Murdock's reflection a quick glance, the look in his eyes betraying how he felt about that statement in spite of his casual demeanor. Either one of them looked ready to tell Alan to step out of the vehicle and into the dry desert of Arizona. Whether or not BA would stop the van first seemed yet undetermined. Face's look of surprise lasted a little longer before his eyes flickered with a dangerous look Murdock hadn't seen in years. He opened his mouth, but a quick shake of Murdock's head made his jaw snap closed again. Murdock didn't need any of them getting into a fight for his sake. It wasn't worth it. He stared at the wall again.

Alan must have realized he'd made a mistake, because the smile fell from his face when he saw no one was laughing. He cleared his throat, lowering his head a bit. "Nah, I'm just kiddin', man," he tried to recover. "Special Forces takes a certain kind of soldier. You're either that kind of soldier or you're not. No gettin' around it."

Alan looked to the other three Special Forces soldiers in the van for confirmation, but none of them spoke and none of them held his gaze. The silence lingered, and Alan continued uncomfortably. "I found that out the hard way," he rambled. "Saw one too many guys crack under the pressure. Guys always said, right from the beginning, always told me. You're either born with it or you ain't. Some guys just can't take the stress."

Still, nobody responded. And finally, Alan shut up.