ellery

Title: Conversations & Old Scotch
Rating: For mature readers
Word Count: around 8,400
Warnings/Spoilers: Modern AU.
Disclaimer: Nope, don’t own Lancer.
Summary: Continuation of the Modern Lancer series. Scott deals with difficult memories. Follows Escape 2009.

~#~#~#~

Scott gritted his teeth to avoid biting his tongue as the vehicle bumped its merry way on this so-called driveway of Bell’s. Having learned from his previous trip, Scott had taken a Jeep. Given the rattling his body was undergoing now, he figured the drugs Bell had given him had been much better than he realized.

It was with a good deal of relief that he pulled into the secluded clearing and parked with a mental note to check the undercarriage before he left.

The door to the cabin opened to reveal Bell himself, a cup in his hand and a mild look of curiosity on his face.

“Good afternoon, Scott.” The smile, while a bit cautious, appeared to be genuine. “You’re looking well.”

“Only hurts when I laugh now.” Bell chuckled as Scott crossed the yard. “I wanted to come and thank you. I appreciate what you did for me.”

Bell leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re welcome, but that isn’t the only reason you came.”

Scott stopped midway. Shit. He would have liked to work up to it.

“I-”

“Would this go easier with a beer?”

Scott let his shoulders drop. “Hell, yes.”

“Come on in then.” Bell straightened and pushed the door open wider. “Beer, I’ve got.”

Bell also had pair of comfortable chairs near the fireplace. Scott dropped into one with a soft sigh and enjoyed the quiet. His host joined him with a bottle in each hand. Scott took the offered one and waited for Bell to seat himself before taking a swallow.

The silence was companionable, but it only made it more difficult for Scott to say what he needed to.

“Too hard to get the genie back in the bottle?”

Scott’s free hand came up to wipe across his face. “Something like that.”

“You sleeping at all?”

“No more than a few hours at a time.”

“You know that’s not good.”

“I do.” The anger swept over him. “I dealt with this. Then Dan Cassidy shows up with his ideas of revenge and it all gets stirred up again.”

Bell snorted. “You didn’t deal with it. You just stuffed it into a handy little box and taped it shut.”

“Voice of experience?” Scott forced most of the anger from his voice, but couldn’t tamp down the resentment.

Bell was unfazed.

“Quite a bit.” He took a deep swallow of his beer and set it aside. “You need to talk to someone and I don’t mean a professional listener.”

“You don’t count?”

“Not really. Not yet anyway. I’ve been where you are, you know that. So yeah, I’ll understand and maybe it’ll even help somewhat.” His eyes met Scott’s. “But I’ll tell you what someone told me. Talk to your family or those closest to you because they’re the ones that you need to understand you.”

Scott winced at the very idea of it. Tell his grandfather? Wouldn’t happen. Johnny and or Murdoch? Family, but not close yet. Not for this.

“That’s not so easy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I told your father when he gave me that advice. It turned out all right. Think it will for you too.”

Murdoch.

Scott’s respect for Murdoch Lancer was growing in a steady, easy way, and it was that newfound regard for his father that made this so much harder.

Bell let out a soft chuckle and leaned forward in his chair rolling his beer bottle between his palms. “Your father is a good man. I think you know that, but what you might not know is that he’s an understanding, forgiving one.”

Scott, about to take a swallow of his beer stopped midway. “Again the voice of experience?”

Bell grinned. “A story for another time and with something stronger than beer.”

Scott couldn’t help laughing and it felt strange with the heaviness of the past weighing down on him. “That is a story I’ll be interested in hearing.”

“We’ll get to it someday.” Bell rose and fetched two more beers from the fridge. Scott finished off the one he had and settled back with the cold bottle. He was content to sit for awhile and enjoy the silence. He could understand why Bell chose the place. Lancer quieted down around twilight. Most of the time.

“I’ve told Johnny some of it.” The words were out without Scott having put any real thought behind them.

“Didn’t run screaming now, did he?”

The mere idea of Johnny reacting in such a way had Scott fighting not to snort up his beer. He swallowed hard and avoided the embarrassment.

“No, he just told me it must have been hard to find out I wasn’t perfect.”

“Well, that is a bitch, but we all discover it at some point.”

Scott wiped the condensation built up in his palm down his thigh. “He doesn’t know the worst of it.”

“You think as a civilian he won’t understand that you had to kill?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Johnny’s been places that I’m glad I’ve never had to set foot in.” The chair didn’t feel comfortable anymore. The confined sensation grew and he stood up to pace around the room.

“You already know what you’re going to do, so just do it. Murdoch has some Scotch that goes down like Kool-aid.” Bell kicked his feet up on the small table that was situated between the two chairs. “You need to go home.”

Yes, he did and putting it off was making it worse.

“Thanks for the beer.”

“Anytime.”

Scott didn’t notice the bone-rattling return trip down the driveway until its absence when he turned onto the tarmac and headed for Lancer.

~#~#~#~

Johnny noted Scott’s return but didn’t think anything of it until five minutes later when he realized his brother hadn’t gotten out of the vehicle. Concerned now, he abandoned his plans to hike up the trail that led to the overlook of the wetlands. Photos could wait. One thing about California there was a surplus of pleasant days.

Johnny left his camera bag on the wicker chair and walked the length of the veranda to where Scott had pulled the Jeep up by the garage. There was a positive sign of movement as Scott opened the door and slid out.

“Thought you were camping out.” Johnny kept his expression easy, but felt his gut tighten when Scott startled. Under normal circumstances Johnny would have given him grief about catching him unawares, but this didn’t feel like ‘normal’.

Scott flat out oozed wired up tension and had all the appearance of a man about to do something he wouldn’t enjoy. Nor would anyone else.

“Hey, you all right?” Stupid question. Scott hadn’t been himself since that nut-case Cassidy had showed up with Curly and Moe.

Johnny got a nod and a very careful closing of the Jeep’s door. Killing time now, but there was deep breath and Scott looked straight at him.

“Is Teresa home?”

“Nah, she’s off with her girl posse until tomorrow.” There was relief and Johnny was glad Teresa was gone. She was too smart by half and he didn’t think Scott could take that kind of scrutiny right now.

Hell, Johnny wasn’t comfortable with it.

“Murdoch, is he around?”

Johnny laughed. “Oh yeah, heard him cussing out the computer about five minutes ago.”

Scott smiled. “Is he figuring out the database?”

“Not sure if figuring it out is the right words, but he’s doing something.”

There was genuine amusement, but it died just as fast as it appeared. “I need to talk to you both if you’re available.”

Sounded like they were setting up one of those god-awful board meetings, and Johnny got the same sinking feeling.

“My calendar is free.”

~#~#~#~

Murdoch knew that his way of running the personal aspects of the ranching part of the preserve was archaic. Many times others assured him that they would be happy to take over for him. But, there was a part of Murdoch that held onto this portion of Lancer as the beginning of all he achieved and he didn’t want to give it up. Teresa called it his favorite child. She wasn’t so far from wrong.

It reminded Murdoch where he came from and where he was now. Reminded him to be grateful, and not take anything for granted. This part of Lancer was what he held on for himself and his sons: A part as far from the corporate world as he could make it.

So, when Scott brought up the database for Lancer, he didn’t have to think twice. This is what he hoped for; his sons to take an interest in the smaller parts of Lancer. Perhaps he let sentiment make his decision, but that wouldn’t be the first time. In theory, Murdoch understood that this Access database would save them time and allow for quicker retrieval of the information needed.

In theory.

Reality was this Access database would send him to an earlier grave out a sheer frustration. Anytime Murdoch thought he had it figured out, it went and did something else on him. So, he tried backtracking and would only become so entangled that the only recourse open to him would be to start over.

Five times he had started over. Five times was four too many.

Johnny entered the great room, with Scott trailing behind. Gathering what dignity he had left, he stood up and decided to ask for help.

Johnny’s uneasy expression stopped him cold. Scott’s closed off demeanor kicked out any remaining concern over his own ineptitude and he shut the program down.

“Boys?”

Silence.

Johnny glanced over at Scott and gave the barest of shrugs to Murdoch. At least he now knew it was Scott that he needed to be concerned about.

“Scott’s calling a meeting.” Johnny perched himself on the arm of the couch and waited.

Scott seemed to give himself a little shake and met Murdoch’s eyes. “Bell says you have Scotch that goes down like Kool-aid.”

Oh.

That kind of meeting.

“That I do. Care to try it?” Wasn’t even two in the afternoon yet, but this didn’t promise to be an easy conversation.

Johnny made for the liquor cabinet and pulled out three tumblers. Murdoch pulled out the bottle of Glenmorangie with the memory of the little shop located near London’s theater district. If he recalled, the shop had moved on to a different location, but if his sons proved to show their interest in fine whiskey, he would love to take them there. And since they were there, go north to Inverness and explore their roots a bit.

And he needed to get back to the task at hand. Pouring a generous amount in the three glasses, he handed them over to his sons. Scott nodded as he took his and moved to the sofa, while Johnny dropped onto the oversized ottoman by the fireplace. Murdoch settled into his favorite leather chair near them both, and waited.

Scott stared down at his glass, then looked up, expressionless.

“I need to tell you what happened back in Honduras. Why Dan blamed me.”

Murdoch was so relieved to not hear the words ‘I’m leaving’ that he covered it by taking a healthy swallow of his whiskey.

“You know, that Cassidy was kind of an ass.” Johnny’s voice was mild, but there was no doubting his dislike for the man.

“Yeah, he kind of always was.”

~#~#~#~

Honduras, 26 Jun 2006

“Hey, asshole!” Dan grinned at him over the hood of the ‘copter. “Have a late night at Knob Creek? You missed breakfast.” The grin only widened when Scott rendered him a one-finger salute.

Knob Creek--even the name made him shudder. It was bad enough the dilapidated refrigerator hummed then rattled to a stop in an irritating rhythm. But deep within its moldy confines was a chilled bottle of Knob Creek. Someone had brought it out and filled a shot glass for every person in the debriefing lounge then proposed a toast to the end of a successful mission. At the conclusion of the toast, they all downed the liquor in a single gulp. Like kerosene, the hundred-proof had burned all the way down to his toes. He’d had a violent reaction the first time he’d tasted it, ralphing over his boots, much to the delight of his crew. But one had to contend with tradition. At least this time his stomach hadn’t betrayed him, and after two cups of the chief’s vile morning coffee his vision had returned to normal.

“When are you gonna grow a pair and take it like a man, Scotty?”

“Right after you, Pony Boy, right after you.” He chuckled seeing Dan’s face darken, the joker smile gone. Pony Boy was a not-so-subtle reference to Dan’s recent ardent admirer – one who didn’t care if he was married or not. To say the girl had a long face would be kind. He left Dan and proceeded to the Blackhawk, finding the logbook under the seat and starting his pre-flight. It was still early morning but the sweat was already sluicing down his back by the time he finished, the humidity making his flight suit fit like a second skin. He snapped the book closed and looked around. This part of Honduras was lush—the wild vines and low vegetation was greener than anything they had back in Boston, but he was ready to go home. These last three weeks spent on the humanitarian mission had presented some unique flying challenges but it was settling into a routine now.

He tapped his thigh where an envelope peeped out of the pocket. It was a letter from his grandfather; the heavy, to-the-point scrawl informing Scott that he’d been under the recent care of a physician. As usual, the old man had let him know after the fact, not wanting “to bother him”. It didn’t bode well, this letter. To have his grandfather admit something was wrong, sent up a red flare. He needed to take leave as soon as they hit U.S. airspace because in two short months the 83^rd Airborne Cavalry would be casing the colors and heading off to Iraq again. Grandfather would not be pleased.

But this mission came first. The toast had been a bit premature. He and Dan were tasked to fly to Yoro, the Tolupan Indian village devastated by the earthquake. Despite the severity of the quake the surrounding countryside, it was considered a milk run—dropping off a much-needed medical supply pallet and ferrying more villagers out of the rubble to a nearby base camp set up by the NGO. The only problem Scott could see was the villagers oftentimes didn’t want to leave, especially via air. Superstitious to a fault, they would rather eke out a living on the hard scrabble of what was left of their village before accepting any aid offered by either the military or the NGO network. He’d leave the small details of how they actually got into his ‘copter to the politicians and intermediaries, for this trip he was just a taxi driver.

Thoughts were interrupted by his crew chief’s adamant curse. With a thick body and no visible neck, Jack Lewis resembled a human fireplug. In a twist of fate, Hardy’s younger brother, Jed, shared the ride with Cassidy. Despite Jack’s rough edges, he knew he had gotten the better brother. “Tough night, Chief?”

“Huh.” The chief nodded towards a pimply-faced corporal making his way to the bird. “Bad day more like it. I got better things to do than baby-sit some pissant kid. He turned towards Scott. “Can you tell me why we always end up with the newbies, Lieutenant? I’m startin’ to think someone put the bad mojo on us. And why does junior always have to man the guns? Jesus, I bet he talks a mile a minute. I got sixteen more days, Lieutenant, just sixteen more days and I drop papers.”

Scott shrugged and turned to hide his smile. Lewis’ bark was worse than his bite. No one who met Jack Lewis would ever accuse him of being a softie, but underneath that thick shell of crankiness he was certifiable. He’d heap verbal abuse upon the poor kid’s head, all the while keeping an eye out for him. And if Lewis was going to drop his retirement papers in sixteen days, well, Scott would eat his Stetson for lunch.

He looked over to Cassidy’s helicopter. The crew was rigging the hoist to the right side of the cargo door. Dan had lost the coin toss and would be carrying the pallet this time. He had just enough time to round up his co-pilot then they’d be off.

He and Dan played follow-the-leader to the drop. A cloud of gas marking the zone was like a harbor fog blowing into the target area. Within minutes, the open expanse of the village was full of whirling rotor blades and green fuselages. Scott surveyed the village below, making slow swaths around the lingering smoke. He could see Dan already jockeying his bird into position. “Seven-niner-zero, drop looks clear. Over.”

“Roger, zero-six-zero. Beginning drop.”

Scott continued to make paths around the zone. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off-kilter. He nudged the intercom. “Chief, do you see anything?”

There was silence from the back of the helicopter then a loud squawk. “We got a problem, Lieutenant. I don’t see nothing out there.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Scott yelled, not bothering to use the intercom. He punched the radio. “Seven-niner-zero, abort drop. Repeat, abort drop. Something’s wrong.”

“This is seven-niner-zero. Is this some kind of a joke? We’re dropping the pallet.”

“Negative, seven-niner-zero. Do not drop. Something’s wrong with the target, Dan.”

“Bullshit, Scott. You did the recon didn’t you? We’re dropping the package.”

Scott pulled on the collective and picked up speed, heading straight for the heart of the village.

The intercom chirped with the Chief’s voice, urgency replacing his usual drawl. “There to starboard. By the tree line.”

Scott’s low hover sprayed dirt and debris across the windshield and sent clouds of dust billowing out. He flipped up his helmet’s clear face shield. The co-pilot pointed downwards and Scott looked to the trees. There they were—several straw hats with brown faces peering out.

Brilliant white muzzle flashes arced across the nose of his ‘copter. Where were those intermediaries now when they were getting their asses shot out from underneath them?

Nine-zero had realized the trouble and was backing off the target. More bullets traveled Cassidy’s way and the heavy pallet shifted as Dan tried to pull up. The steady hum of the rotors changed to a distinct whump, whump as the blades slowed. Scott could almost see each individual blade and knew they weren’t going to make the climb.

“Dan, punch the load! Punch the load! You’re starting to oscillate!”

Air clogged in Scott’s chest. He lowered the collective and the bottom dropped out, the ground rushing upwards. The aircraft shimmied then settled under his hand. He skimmed the tree line and banked a hard left, drawing more fire away from Dan’s bird.

His co-pilot searched for the mic box and flipped the switches. “Base Alpha, this is zero-six-zero Nighthawk…the zone’s turned hot, repeat the zone is hot, we’re taking fire northeast to north…” Sharp pings puncturing aluminum crowded out the rest of his sentence.

To Scott’s right, he could see the medical pallet being released from its sling, heading in a straight trajectory to the earth below.

An acrid smell reached his nose as a voice from Nine-Zero yelled in his earphones, "Hey, Six-Zero, you're burning." Scott looked to the back but couldn't see Lewis or the gunner, only smoke.

“Chief! Can you hear me? Gunner? What’s going on back there?” Silence greeted him. Then over the intercom came words so faint he almost missed them.

“Hit…he’s hit. Help…” A racking cough sputtered through the last of the communication and the intercom went quiet again.

The co-pilot twisted around to peer into the back. He looked at Scott through saucer-like grey eyes and made a slicing gesture across his throat.

Strong rotor vibration fed into the cockpit, and the ‘copter jumped and twitched under his hands like a bucking bronco. Scott countered the downward motion by pulling on the collective. Instead of changing the pitch and slowing the bird down, the craft settled even faster.

He glanced to Dan’s hawk and could see its gunner through the open cargo doors, a horrified expression on the man’s face. Nine-zero’s fifty-caliber guns opened up, their booms immediately upping the level of chaos in the air.

His co-pilot screamed out the altitude and speed. “Four hundred…eighty-five percent.”

They needed airspeed and they needed it now.

“Three hundred, eighty-two percent…”

His heart thumping in his ears, Scott pulled the cyclic and the helicopter jerked into a sideways yaw. It was an attempt to gain precious speed but if it didn’t work… Smoke started to crowd into the cockpit.

“One hundred, thirty percent.”

He tapped the airspeed indicator. They weren’t flying anymore, they were sinking.

“Damn it…brace for impact!” His voice was lost over the whir and whine of the engines. Without warning, the sky dropped and the sun was blotted out.

~#~#~#~

Johnny drew in a breath once he realized he had stopped. Scott’s story was vivid in the details and he swore he could smell the jungle, hear the guns and whump, whump of the Blackhawk’s blades. Most of all he could feel their fear.

Murdoch leaned forward in his chair and filled Johnny’s glass at least three fingers full. He wasn’t sure when he had finished the first one, but he wasn’t going to refuse a second.

Scott had taken maybe a swallow of his drink, but Murdoch moved closer anyway. Parked himself on the coffee table, and laid a hand on Scott’s knee. But Scott wasn’t with them and when he continued his narrative, he slipped further into the past.

~#~#~#~

Scott opened his eyes trying to remember where he was. As far as he could tell he was in the helicopter and crashed against the side of a mountain. He tried to straighten up. Something was wrong with his side. He took a deep breath and fire bloomed in his chest with most of the pain located in the left side of his rib cage. His back stung, but didn’t feel broken. His knee, trapped under the console, was complaining. He lifted his head from the side window and took his helmet off with a shaky hand, his nose twitching with leftover smoke and the smell of blood.

The co-pilot was splayed at an awkward angle across his seat, bubbles of red froth coming out of his mouth. The man’s eyes were open and unseeing; staring right at him.

He swung his eyes away from the dead pilot—not seeing him made it better somehow. “Chief!” he shouted, surprised when his voice came out too thin. A low moan responded from the back of the bird.

“Jack, can you hear me?”

Familiar voices crowded around him from outside the helicopter. He managed to check his watch. Only eight minutes since landing. It seemed like all day.

He wasn’t prepared for the door being yanked open and was flung halfway out. Dan and Jed grabbed him and pulled him from the wreckage.

Dan looked over him with wide eyes. “You all right, Scott?”

“I’ve been better. Get Jack out…and the gunner, they’re still in the back. The co-pilot is dead.”

Scott heard Jed cry out for his brother then the sound of metal wrenching against metal. He pushed himself up to one knee and watched Dan and Jed half-drag, half-carry Jack over to him. The Chief’s broad face was contorted in pain. Blood swathing the upper portion of his flight suit changed its color from green to almost black.

“The gunner?” Scott croaked.

Dan shook his head. They lowered the injured man to the ground beside him. Jack looked up at him, his eyes shadowed with pain.

“Damn, Lieutenant. Looks like we screwed the pooch.” He craned his neck to look at the aircraft and gave a low whistle. “Goddamn bastards shot my ‘copter.”

Scott gestured to the man’s chest. “And you it looks like.” Jed brushed past him and knelt beside his brother.

Jack turned a grin Scott’s way. “Oh this? Purely a scratch. Find me a pretty nurse and I’ll be right as rain.” He turned his attention to the man unzipping his flight suit. “And Jed you aren’t her, so quit fussing.”

Jack pushed Jed’s hand away from his chest and came up to an elbow. “I don’t see the kid…did he make it?”

Scott held his eyes for a moment then looked down. “No.”

“Well, hell. He was too young, Lieutenant, just way…too young.” With a groan the man slumped into his brother’s arms.

Cassidy had taken charge, using some system of his own to determine what to take, what to leave. The helicopter was a loss; it would be left here until a recovery unit could dismantle it part by part, destroying it in place. The two bodies were laid out on the ground. An under-smell of fresh blood mixed with metal and hot oil, turning Scott’s stomach. He met Dan’s eyes and struggled to his feet.

“We need to get out of here. Whoever shot at us will come soon enough.”

Dan nodded. “We left Pete and Tracey in our ‘copter, engines still hot. We’ll get you two loaded then come back for the bodies.”

The small party limped its way across a nearby stream and started into the dense underbrush. Scott pulled up and placed a hand on Dan’s sleeve.

“Dan, hear that?”

“Hear what? It’s quiet except for the ‘copter.”

“That’s what I mean, there aren’t any other sounds.” He pulled out his nine-millimeter.

“Detener o disparo!” a voice from the jungle in front of them commanded.

The group froze in their tracks.

“Parar!” another voice called from their right.

“Caída de su arma!” came the order from their left.

Surrounded. “Shit,” Scott hissed. He dropped his gun and raised his hands over his head.

Now there were sounds of other people coming from the jungle around them. A soldier wearing a tattered uniform stepped out from behind a tree and held an M-16 on him. Scott was surprised. The soldier who approached him was young, just a boy with bright brown eyes and black hair.

A burst of gunfire sounded in the distance and the noise from the ‘copter was silenced. Dan started forward, his quick movement earning a rifle butt to the ribs that dropped him to his knees. Another soldier stepped in front of Cassidy and yelled.

“Levántate! levántate!” He backed up his words by stepping closer and pointing his rifle at Dan’s head.

Jack was leaning on his brother, barely conscious, while Jed’s face was a picture of frustration and anguish.

Scott shifted his weight from his injured knee. They were prisoners and the Code of Conduct was no good in Honduras, especially for what was supposed to be a humanitarian mission. With a curse he called up habits learned from exacting training over the last two years. Use your eyes and ears like your life depends on them. Because it does.

Part Two