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Going Out

Going Out

Rating: PG
Date: November 2002
Summary: A first meeting.
Warnings: Naughty word or two.
Thanks go to by wonderful betas: Mel, witchbaby, and DC!
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me no matter how much I wish they did. I only borrow them. I have made no financial profit off this story and if you wanna sue all you will get is the lint in my pocket.

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The incessant buzz of the mosquitoes was all that was heard in the impenetrable dark, and Murdock hissed as he for the thousandth time swatted blindly after one of the bloodsuckers that were feasting off of him.

They were driving him mad, but at least it was a change from the VC being the ones wanting his blood.

Murdock pulled himself up to sitting. He buttoned the fatigue shirt all the way up and rolled down the sleeves. It was a futile gesture, but he wasn't about to give the mosquitoes any more free meals. He was determined to make them work for what they got. Like the rest of the fucking world. He fumbled for the bug juice bottle. Using his teeth he pried the cap off and poured some in his cupped hand, feeling it ooze between his fingers.

Warm. Sticky. Like blood.

He rubbed the concoction onto his face.

The sliding doors of the Huey were wide open, letting in what little breeze there was (along with the million mosquitoes that were thriving in the water logged swamps surrounding the base). It didn't make much of a difference, the sweat still made the T-shirt cling to his skin. He wiped his hands on the front of his pants.

Trying not to disturb the gunner who was sleeping crouched up against the padded wall next to him, he rolled over on his stomach, looking to find a comfortable position on the hard floor. He irritably rearranged the fatigues shirt that was acting as a makeshift pillow, before settling down, resting his head on his crossed arms.

Another damn night spent waiting on some rotten firebase. Just waiting for first light, or the signal to crank, whichever came first. At least the crew chief had managed to find a decent place to bunk. But that still left three of them crammed in the back of the Huey, trying to get a couple of hours of sleep.

He desperately needed it. Too many flight hours and not enough sleep were starting to take its toll. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift.

Open, un-ending sky in front and above, greens and browns and glittering blues below. Bright sunshine falling in through dusty Plexiglas. The slick light and willing under his hands and feet, moving every which way he wanted without hesitation. Rock n'roll playing from the 8-track that was hot-wired directly to the battery. Parsons turning towards him in the left-seat, smiling. Pale gore and blood spraying over the inside of the windshield, shutting out the sun. The wetness warm against his face and left hand. Sticky.

He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness instead.

The moon had disappeared behind the cloud front that slowly rose above the distant mountain range when the radio crackled to life and the crank call came.

Murdock was in his seat, heart pounding, pulling the helmet on and strapping himself down without being consciously aware of how he got there. The smell of oil and kerosene filling the cockpit wiped the numbing fatigue away from his mind as the slicks around him began powering up.

Silent shadows moved in the blackness between the helicopters, and Murdock felt the slight shift in the balance of the helicopter as the men climbed on board.

"Flight leader, Sabre Two checking in." Sanders voice over the radio was hoarse with lingering sleep and a little tight.

"Sabre Five, checking in."

"Sabre Three, check."

Murdock pressed the com switch. "Sabre Seven, ready to rock'n roll, baby!"

"I didn't think we were going out until first light," Henderson's voice was heard in the midst of a loud crash of static.

"Probably why we weren't staying the night at Phan Rang," Murdock mused.

Murdock wasn't aware of the guy outside his door until the kid that flew left-seat with him now (Murdock had forgotten his name) patted him on the arm, and pointed. The stocky, young man leaned in through the still-open door and Murdock could see his lips move.

Murdock unbuckled his seat-belt and leaned down, indicating that the man repeat what he'd just said. Despite being right next to Murdock's ears, the man's words were barely heard in the growing roar of the helicopters.

"You're not going with the group, Sir" He gave the pilot an odd look and his hand waved vaguely towards the back of the helicopter. "He'll tell you what you need to know!" He drew an arm over his forehead and replaced his cap. "Good luck, Captain!" He paused. "You'll need it." He saluted, and hunkered down before jogging away under the rotors.

Murdock turned to the back, and a pair of clear eyes in a combat painted face met his. A flash of teeth gleamed around an unlit cigar in the darkness. With some effort he turned back to the instruments.

Oh hell.

This was not gonna be an easy job. Nosiree. From what he'd heard, it never was when King Six was involved. And he'd heard plenty of stories. Murdock secured his harness again and could feel the grin growing on his face. Guess he was about to find out first hand just how not easy it would be.

"Right clear!"

"I can't see shit!"
Henderson was peering out into the darkness to the left of them over his M-60. "Left clear! I think."

"So, Seven, I hear you're good?" King Six's voice was strong and confident in Murdock's headset.

"No, Sir." He felt the slick strain under him as he coaxed her gently off the ground, gaining airspeed and altitude in the blackness.

"I'm the best."

~ The End ~

Going Out by SnowFlake



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