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There’s a lot that Murdock’s proud of from this mission:
He found the information they were looking for in the Russian Consulate without getting caught.
He and Face learned what they needed to know to nab Panchow before Bertka could get to him.
He successfully infiltrated the Russian-led terrorist group despite delayed intel that could’ve spelled his untimely demise.
He passed along that note so the team could follow him and the terrorists to where Abraxas was hidden.
And he kept Ivan “The Terrible” Padavich from getting away with the top-secret space laser despite his cover being blown.
It’s no one’s fault when he gets caught in Hannibal’s tackle of Padavich. That’s just how physics works: (Force + Mass) x (no way to get out of the way) = Twisted Knee. He still manages to tie up the communist general and make his way to where he can hook up with the team’s “old friend” Dimitri Shastovich. There, he gets read in on the Russian agent’s plan to free the rest of the team after Fulbright double-double-crosses them.
The adrenaline that helps him focus on the job also helps him keep the pain in his knee at bay all the way up through driving B.A.’s van to where Shastovich has intercepted Fulbright and his minions.
Rescue complete, Hannibal hands Shastovich a cigar then climbs into the front passenger seat of the van. Having slipped into the back next to Face when B.A. took the wheel, Murdock slides the side door closed, and in moments B.A. turns the van around and they’re speeding away. Shastovich bought them a 15-minute head start, and they can count on Fulbright not letting a single second past that delay him.
They all breathe easier as the highway looms ahead and B.A. quickly merges onto it, heading back toward LA at Hannibal’s direction.
“You sure, Hannibal?” asks B.A., following the instruction despite his doubts.
“It’s the last thing Fulbright will expect,” Hannibal replies around his cigar. “Plus, it’s easier to blend in in the city. Out here we stick out like a sore thumb.”
He’s not wrong, so no one argues.
Murdock settles in behind Hannibal. With the mission over and Fulbright left in the dust, he has the luxury of relaxing. The past 24 hours have been hair raising to say the least, culminating in a fairly spectacular fashion as these things go. As the adrenaline fades, he feels tired and oddly shaky. Letting his head rest against the padded seat, he closes his eyes.
Face shakes him out of a nap he didn’t mean to take. “Hey. Hey, Murdock. Wake up.”
“Aw, Face, don’t wake him up,” says B.A. “I was enjoying the quiet.”
“You all right, Captain?” Hannibal glances over his shoulder as Murdock blinks awake and shifts in the bucket seat.
“Huh? Fine, Colonel,” Murdock replies. His right knee aches and he’s sore from being the crash mat under Hannibal’s takedown of Padavich, but he’ll get over it. “I’m on this new med. Makes me sleepy sometimes.” It’s true, but in this case it’s an excuse. He’s not sure why he conked out like a toddler after a day at the waterpark, but he’s pretty sure it’s not the meds since he sort of accidentally-on-purpose “forgot” to take them since Face picked him up from the VA Friday afternoon. Unless he conked out because he didn’t take them and it’s a withdrawal thing? He and Dr. Richter are still figuring stuff out. There’s always a transition period when his meds get adjusted. He doesn’t like this new one and plans to talk to the doc about it at his next session.
“I hope you get that sorted before we have to fly anywhere,” Face says, a hint of nervous tension in his tone.
“I ain’t flyin’ anyway, so it don’t matter,” B.A. declares. “Go back to sleep, fool.”
Murdock’s reply hints at sarcasm. “Thanks, B.A.” He hides a yawn in the sleeve of his bomber jacket. “What’s the plan now, Hannibal? And please say it involves dinner before Face takes me home.” This is one of the reasons he “forgot” his new meds. They also mess with his stomach, and he didn’t want to be nauseated on his weekend out.
“Why do you assume I’m dropping you off?” Face asks, even though it’s practically a given the task will fall to him.
“Because I know you’re hoping that pretty new nurse is at the desk again. That one with the soft brown eyes and pretty brunette hair.” Murdock bats his eyelashes at his buddy and follows it with a knowing smirk. Face doesn’t usually come inside when he drops Murdock off, but the way he ogled Nurse Gina when she wasn’t looking suggested this time would be different. “And since you got me out on a legitimate weekend pass from Doctor Richter, you don’t have to dump me off and run away this time.”
“I never just dump you off,” Face protests indignantly. “That implies a lack of finesse.”
“How about you ‘finesse’ us some grub, Face?” Hannibal says with a tease in his tone.
B.A. speaks up again as they idle at a red light. “Someone better decide something soon so I know where to go. I ain’t driving all over town killing time while you guys make up your minds what you wanna eat.”
“Fish and chips,” Murdock says quickly. “Can we get fish and chips?”
“All right, but we eatin’ in a restaurant. I don’t want fish wrappers stinking up my van.”
The others nod okay, and with everyone in agreement, it’s not long before they pull in at a seafood chain restaurant and park.
Murdock’s got the side door open almost as fast as B.A.’s got the engine shut off. He steps out—only to have his twisted knee protest vehemently and collapse under his weight. “Gah!” He barely catches the edge of the door with one flailing hand, otherwise he’d be on the pavement. He mutters curses and hops on one foot while he tries to pull himself together after the shock of pain.
Face is by his side at once. “What’s wrong?”
“Is it your knee still, Murdock?” Hannibal stands by the open front passenger door, concern in his bright blue eyes.
“Yeah, Colonel. I guess it’s got opinions on being a landing pad,” Murdock says.
“Landing pad?” Face echoes in confusion.
“Mishap when we took down Padavich,” Hannibal says and leaves it at that. Murdock doesn’t contradict him or elaborate. Face’s expression is already dark; if Murdock clarifies matters, it will turn outright stormy.
“It’s nothing, Faceman. I’m okay. I just got a little banged up.” Murdock tries to sound reassuring as he takes a seat on the floor of the van. He rubs his knee. It’s stiffened up badly and is throbbing something fierce and he can’t pretend otherwise. He tries to straighten the joint and sucks in a breath at the stab of pain then looks up sidelong at Hannibal. “Guess it’s more than my jetés I have to cut back on for a few days, Colonel.”
The reference is lost on Face, but Hannibal nods, remembering Murdock’s comment when the injury first happened. “And having to hightail it out on your own didn’t help.” There’s a thread of self-recrimination in his voice. “Sorry about that, Murdock.”
“It’s not your fault, Hannibal.”
“Yeah it is. But I don’t see any way it could’ve been avoided.” He lets out a small sigh. “Dinner’s going to have to wait. We need to get you to a doctor. Make sure nothing’s torn or broken.”
“Can’t that wait until I get home? There’s plenty of docs at the VA,” Murdock points out.
“You in the psych ward, fool,” B.A. reminds him not unkindly (for B.A., anyway).
Murdock doesn’t take offence. “I know, I know. But there’s other wings, B.A. The funny farm’s just one of ’em.” He turns back to Hannibal, a pleading look on his face. He feels a little like a kid trying to convince his dad to let him have cake for breakfast. “It still sort of bends, so I don’t think it’s broken. And I was really hoping to eat before going back. It’s pork chop night tonight, and they always cook it into shoe leather. And I missed Friday night clam chowder, too, and that’s actually pretty good.” The thought of clam chowder, deep fried fish, and french fries doused in malt vinegar makes his mouth water and his stomach growl. He’s not sure he can walk the few yards to the door, but he’ll hop if that’s what it takes.
Face catches Hannibal’s gaze and they lock eyes, a silent debate passing between them. Finally, Hannibal nods. “Okay.”
“Lean on me,” Face instructs Murdock. They hobble to the restaurant’s front door together as Hannibal and B.A. go on ahead to secure them a table.
***
If Murdock were rational, he’d regret the extra walking and the extra waiting before finally getting his injured knee examined. It’s swollen to roughly the size of a cantaloupe, and the weight of his cotton trousers against the inflamed flesh is kind of like agony by the time he and Face finally roll up to the hospital in Face’s car. But Murdock is officially not rational, so the orthopedic doc at the Vet doesn’t give him too hard a time. She does, however, scold him for failing to ice the joint, and give Face a stern talking to for not bringing his friend in immediately after the injury occurred.
“I know, and I’m really sorry about that,” Face says, and his regret is genuine even though he’s in the middle of spinning a convincing lie. “We were out skiing at Bear Mountain and we were headed down this black-diamond run—Desperado. Are you familiar with it?” He doesn’t quite wait for an answer before going on. “Anyway, I’m schussing through the final bowl when out of nowhere, I mean nowhere, I hit a gnarly divot. I tried to shout a warning, but Murdock was coming too fast, and he caught an edge as he came around. Sent him tomahawking like you wouldn’t believe.” It means nothing. He’s simply stringing together words he’s picked up from dating downhill skiers now and then. “We got down the mountain okay after that and neither of us thought it was all that bad. But—” He shrugs, pasting on his best chagrined face. “—it’s a long drive back into town and sitting still for that long in the car… Well, you can see for yourself what happened.”
If anyone puts them together with the Corvette convertible outside, the lie will be instantly blown out of the water. Fortunately, the only people who saw them enter the hospital were on their way out, so Face figures they’re in the clear on that front. He also pretends it’s perfectly normal that they would have changed out of ski clothes into civvies before driving home.
“Well, Mr. Murdock’s in luck. X-rays show no fracture. And the ligament isn’t torn, which is what I honestly expected to find. It’s the most common injury in cases like this. However, this is simply a bad sprain.” The doctor speaks more to Face than to Murdock, which irritates the pilot because he’s crazy not stupid, and he doesn’t like to be talked about like he’s not in the room.
“Talk to me,” Murdock says sharply, leaning into her line of vision. “I know he’s prettier, but I’m the patient here. I’m the one sitting here with my pants off and an icepack on my leg.”
“Of course. My apologies, Mr. Murdock.” To her credit, she directs the rest of what she says to him, only glancing at Face occasionally, making sure someone more sound of mind is paying attention. “I’m going to write you a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories, but I need to speak to your prescribing psychiatrist before I put them through to the pharmacy. According to your chart, you’re on a number of meds already, and I want to confer with him and make certain nothing I give you is contraindicated with any of them. In the meantime, I’ll make sure the nurses on your ward are aware of the situation and are cleared to give you over-the-counter medications for the pain and swelling. All right?”
“All right,” Murdock confirms. “Thank you.” He doesn’t resent her hesitation in giving him the prescription drugs. Some of the stuff he’s on is pretty new on the market. It’s not surprising she might be unfamiliar with one or two of them. And he wants to talk to Dr. Richter about them himself, anyway. Nauseated and sleepy is no way to go through life, especially when he’s pretty sure the one causing both isn’t any better at calming the purple wobblies than the one he was on before.
The doctor rises, closing his chart and tucking it under her arm. “Go ahead and get dressed. A nurse will bring you a knee brace and pair of crutches. You’re to use them both until I say otherwise. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re going directly back to your room now, correct?” It’s more order than request, although she phrases it like a question.
“I’ll make sure he gets there safe and sound,” Face assures her. “And that he uses the crutches.”
“Good.” She looks back to Murdock. “I’ll see you back here in a week to assess your progress.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Murdock says again, and the doctor leaves.
“You want help with your trousers?” Face asks.
“Just pass ’em over. I can manage, thanks.”
There’s some juggling of ice pack, pants, and pilot, but finally Murdock is fully dressed again. Face kneels and ties the laces on his high tops for him.
"This is sort of familiar.” Murdock can’t quite put his finger on why.
“Yeah. I did this the last time I had to take you out of a hospital after an injury.” Face straightens up and looks his friend in the eyes. “At least this time it wasn’t life threatening.”
“Oooohhh. I remember now.”
I can’t forget, Face thinks but chooses to keep to himself. He hands Murdock his jacket at the same time there’s a knock on the door followed by a nurse poking her head in.
“Mr. Murdock?”
“That’s me.”
Unlike that previous occasion, Murdock’s given no further after-care notes; it all goes into his chart for the psych-ward nurses to keep track of instead. This nurse simply gets him settled into the brace, explaining how to adjust it. Tells him he doesn’t have to sleep in it, but that he needs to wear it for any activity more strenuous than bathing. Murdock obediently nods agreement with everything she says. When she’s satisfied, she finally lets them depart.
It’s a bit of a hike from this ward to the psych ward, but it’s quicker than going around outside the building, and there aren’t any stairs this way.
Normally, Face doesn’t mind hospitals. Just sometimes something he sees or smells in one will trigger a memory he’s tried to put behind him. This time it’s Murdock’s crutches plus the smell of the industrial-strength cleaner they use on the floors. “Remember when I took that through-and-through in the leg back in ’Nam?” he says.
Leaning on his crutches, Murdock nods as they wait for an elevator. “I remember that.”
They recall the incident together, placing pieces of memory into a puzzle frame from two points of view.
“VC troops were all around us. Ray was out cold from that ricochet that cut his head open and knocked his helmet clean off.”
“The area was hotter than a Tennessee barbecue pit, and you guys were in so tight I couldn’t find an LZ. We had to drop a couple ropes to get you all out.”
“Hannibal and B.A. covered our backs as I tied Ray and me in.”
“You didn’t even know you’d been hit till we were at the evac hospital.”
“Yeah. Hell of a ride, but you got us out in one piece.”
“Except for that through-and-through.”
Face shrugs. “It wasn’t as bad as when I got shot in the leg during the op in Khe Sanh six months later.”
“That’s true. Damn, I hate getting shot down.”
“Same leg, too. It was so annoying.”
Murdock eyeballs him as the elevator arrives. “What made you think of that?”
“I don’t know.” They both know it’s a lie, but Murdock doesn’t press him.
Eventually, Face can’t stop himself asking, “What really happened back there?”
Murdock doesn’t need clarification. He knows exactly what Face is referring to. “Like Hannibal said. Mishap.”
“And you said landing pad.” The challenge in his tone is unmistakable.
“And I said I’m fine. Even the doc said it ain’t so bad.”
Face isn’t satisfied but he drops the subject, much to Murdock’s relief.
They ride the slow-moving elevator the rest of the way in silence until it opens on Murdock’s floor. Then it’s a leisurely stroll through the corridors to the front desk of the psych ward where the duty nurse has been notified to expect them.
It’s not Nurse Gina like Face was privately hoping, but this one’s nice enough. Pretty, too, if he were into older women.
“Thanks for bringing Mr. Murdock home in one piece,” she says to Face. “Even if he is a bit worse for wear.”
“Uh, right.” Face turns to Murdock, mock stern. “Next time I take you skiing, I’m not letting you talk me into any black-diamond runs. We’re sticking to the kiddie slopes from now on.”
Murdock sees the twinkle in Face’s blue eyes as he continues the ruse begun in orthopedics and plays along. “Aw, but we were having such a good time, and those girls were real impressed with your technique.”
“We are not discussing my technique, Murdock. You just do what the doctors tell you to, okay?”
“I’m real good at that by now, muchacho.” He’s careful not to call Face by name. He’s lost track of which alias the conman used when he picked him up, and no one here needs to know who Face really is.
“All right. I’ll let our friends know you’re okay, and I’ll call and check on you in a couple of days.”
“Sounds good, thanks. See you around.”
Face hesitates then forces himself to turn away, wishing he didn’t have to go. Wishing more he didn’t have to leave Murdock behind. As he waits for the elevator at the end of the hall, he hears the nurse talking to Murdock.
“I’m afraid you’re too late for dinner, but I bet I can scare up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for you if you’re hungry,” she says, and Face feels better hearing her kindness as she speaks to his friend.
“Oh, thank you but I’m okay. I had dinner already,” Murdock answers.
The elevator dings, and Murdock tosses a glance back over his shoulder, sees Face do the same. They catch each other’s eye and trade small smiles, smaller nods. Then Face steps into the elevator and the doors cut off their gaze.
Back in his car, he takes a moment to himself in the quiet. The sun’s gone down. On an ordinary, non-mission day, this is when he’d head out to find some amenable company for drinks and maybe more. Tonight, he’s exhausted. It’s not exaggerating to say they saved the world today, yet it feels more important to him that they escaped from Fulbright and that Murdock’s going to be okay.
“I should call the guys. Fill them in.” He’ll never find out what actually happened to cause Murdock’s injury, and that bugs the hell out of him. He knows Hannibal blames himself, and as a rule the colonel only does that when it genuinely is his fault. Face tries not to let that color his emotions, but it creeps in in the fact he calls B.A. first.
“Hannibal’s not with you, is he?” he asks, thinking he can kill two birds with one stone.
“Nah. I dropped him off at his apartment more’n an hour ago. He’s probably still there,” B.A. says. “You home yet?”
“On my way now.” He starts the ’Vette so it isn’t a lie. He doesn’t like to lie unless there’s a purpose to it.
“You sure the fool’s gonna be okay?”
“The doc said so, and she seemed to know what she was doing.”
“Good.” It’s as close as B.A. ever comes to showing he cares—at least when there are witnesses.
“Hannibal didn’t happen to tell you what really happened, did he?” Face takes the Hail Mary shot even knowing it won’t go in.
“You kidding? This is Hannibal we’re talking about.” Face can see B.A.’s sardonic expression in his mind’s eye. Then B.A. goes on. “Murdock didn’t say, either?”
“No.” Face barely manages not to whine the word.
“Best let it go then, little brother. You ain’t gettin’ nothing if neither of ’em is talking.”
“Right.” He’s out of the parking lot and into the late evening traffic. “Look, I’ll talk to you later. Okay?”
“Okay. Drive safe, Faceman.”
“Thanks, B.A.”
Face dials Hannibal’s number while waiting for a light to turn green and gets no answer but a machine that says if he wants to leave a message for the Aquamaniac to please do so after the tone.
“Hey, it’s me. Just letting you know the package has been safely delivered with no permanent damage and should be fine in two or three weeks.” He draws a breath, wanting to say more, weighing whether it’s worth bothering. “I— Never mind. I’ll see you next time I see you. Bye.”
Alone in his apartment, staring out the window and smoking a cigar, Hannibal listens to the message as Face leaves it. It’s appropriately vague while still imparting the information he needs. His shoulders relax from where they’ve been hunched too close to his ears for comfort. Ever since B.A. dropped him off, he’s been replaying what happened with Padavich and Murdock and that forklift in the woods outside the military fortress. Even the snafu with Fulbright bothers him less. He knows every time they go out that one of his men could be injured in the line of duty. He’s accustomed to giving them orders knowing they could be hurt or even killed.
When it’s his own damned fault, though… That stings. He never wants to be the instrument by which someone under his command is taken down. He shakes his head. “Sloppy work, John,” he mutters to himself. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
He sits on the sofa, pours another shot of bourbon from the bottle on the coffee table, and kicks it back. He wants to make a promise to himself not to let it happen again, but he knows that’s a pointless exercise. It’s not a guarantee he can make. His men know that and choose to follow him regardless.
“Like they have a choice.” He doesn’t often curse his luck or his lot, but tonight he allows himself to feel the resentment. To feel the regret and betrayal. To feel the anger at a fate that has put him and his men in this fugitive position. Face nailed it in the truck earlier when he lamented their situation as Fulbright was hauling them away.
“It’s ironic, huh, guys? Every time we try to serve our country, we end up behind bars.”
He pours himself one more glass, sipping it this time between puffs on his cigar, and simply wallows in the injustice of it all.
By the time he’s done with the drink, he’s done with the pity party. He shakes off self-indulgent melancholy, stubs out the cigar in the ashtray, and sets the glass in the sink in his small kitchen.
He’ll analyze the op in the morning, go over what went right and what went wrong all the way from helping the ballerina “defect” to escaping from Fulbright yet again. He doesn’t like owing Shastovich, but it’s a small price to pay for the team’s freedom, and the Russian isn’t likely to collect on the debt.
“Tomorrow’s another day,” he says to himself. It’s the closest he ever comes to those affirmations Murdock was on about a while back thanks to some new positive-visualization exercise he’d learned at the VA.
With that quiet declaration, he shuts off the light and heads to bed. He has an early call on set tomorrow, after all, and it wouldn’t do for the monster to be late.