First Impressions - Hannibal & Face - Part 5

[indigo_angels]

..5..

 

Hannibal’s head is pounding and threatening to spilt wide open; he closes his eyes and opens them again, trying to persuade his fuzzy vision to clear so that he can assess just how much shit he is in. He’s kneeling in the damp jungle undergrowth, wrists fastened together and tied securely to a tree behind him. A quick physical inventory reveals that, apart from the pounding head, he’s in pretty good physical shape.

 

The same cannot be said about Bunter. Hannibal’s gut clenches unpleasantly as he takes in the still form of his XO slumped five meters or so to his left. He too is tied roughly to a tree, but his fatigues are soaked in blood, and insects swarm and buzz around him. His skin is pale, sweat standing out on his face, but Hannibal is relieved to see the slight rise and fall of his chest as he struggles for every laborious breath.

 

Hannibal lets his head fall back against the damp bark of the tree as he marshals his thoughts and tries to remember how he ended up here. He remembered the mission, kidnapped aid workers, one the nephew of some anonymous European royal, being held somewhere in the Cambodian rain forest. His team had been here two weeks, had located the hostages, Hannibal screws up his eyes as he tries to pin down the facts, yes, he’s sure they were all free, he’s sure they were retreating… So what went wrong?

 

His eyes open again as the details come back. Yes, they were retreating. Hannibal and Bunter were bringing up the rear when Bunter went down, shots in his thigh, and Hannibal went back to help him. And that’s all he’s got. He can’t remember any more, doesn’t know how he ended up tied to this tree with a monster headache, or what happened to the rest of the team or the hostages. He looks around the rainforest, but the foliage is too dense, he can’t see anyone else or any sign of human life anywhere around him, but it’s actually difficult to see more than three meters into the jungle in any direction.

 

He hopes that means that the others got away. Hopes they have enough sense to keep going and get the hostages to safety. Hopes Piper will keep the rest of his men focussed and moving in the face of this FUBAR. Sharkie, Jonno and Face are all very young, all very inexperienced, and Hannibal knows that Piper will struggle to keep them going, but the mission has to come first.

 

And he and Bunter? Well, they will bide their time, and take their chances when they come. But Hannibal is worried that his XO is just bleeding out all over the jungle and he knows that there is no way in hell, even if a chance to escape /does/ come his way, that he will be able to carry his injured companion for the three days it would take them to hike out of this shit hole. It’s not looking good.

 

At some point, Hannibal realises he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows is snapping back into awareness as the sounds of crashing vegetation fill his consciousness. He bites back the panic and forces himself to relax, taking it all in, storing it all away. There are five of them, obviously the Khmer Rouge kidnappers and Hannibal can tell from their faces and body language, that at least some of his team and their charges have escaped.

 

Despite his own dire situation, he cannot contain the flare of joy that jumps in his chest. He thinks of Piper, Jonno and Sharkie, all excellent soldiers and excellent men. He hopes they make it back safe, they deserve it. And Face... Hannibal registers that strange little swooping feeling he gets in his chest every time he thinks about his lieutenant and tries to justify it as regret, of maybe a bit of guilt.

 

Ever since the incident in the shower block, Face has been a stranger to him. The friendship that was just starting to build between the two of them is gone, shattered by Face’s reluctance to trust his CO and Hannibal’s horrific over reaction. Hannibal shakes his head as the memory of his hastily conceived words burns in his mind. He’s been at a loss as to how he can fix this situation between him and Face, and now it appears that his time has run out. He wonders if Face will mourn the loss of a chance to repair their mistakes as much as he does...  

 

His dry throat tightens and he can’t suppress a cough. The kidnappers turn to him as one, two of their number rising from their crouched positions and making their way towards him across the little clearing. Hannibal can clearly identify the leader; he looks the most pissed off of the five, blood smeared all across his face and neck and a black bandana tied around his head. He spits at Hannibal and barks a couple of sentences out, but Hannibal doesn’t speak a word of Khmer, so contents himself with a smirk in reply.

 

The smirk earns him a sharp backhand across the face, making his head pound even harder and his ears ring. By the time his vision clears again, the guerrillas are huddled together at the far side of the clearing, muttering intently together. Hannibal watches them carefully, tries to learn from their body language what he can’t from their speech, and waits, with ultimate patience, for the one chance he will need to get free.

 

He is working his hands constantly, twisting, turning, trying to get just that little bit of freedom that he can work with, but so far nothing is helping. He’s still tightly bound, and so he forces himself to keep calm and keep trying.

 

The thick black jungle night comes and goes twice. Hannibal aches all over from sitting immobile for so long. At some point in the first dark night, he heard Bunter regain consciousness, somewhere off to his left, but Hannibal’s efforts to talk to his XO only resulted in them both being gagged. The gags are removed a few times a day and water poured into their mouths, but that is the only sustenance they have had. Hannibal supposes the water is a good sign. It means that the Khmer Rouge obviously want to keep them alive. But for how long? Hannibal hopes they may try and ransom their two US Army hostages. He knows that the Government will never agree to a ransom, but at least it means that they will be kept alive long enough for a rescue attempt to come.

 

And Hannibal knows it will. He knows that Piper will do the right thing, will get the hostages to safety and then will give the brass every scrap of information he has on Hannibal’s last known position. But it won’t be Piper or any of his team that comes for them, no, he’s almost certain of that. Someone else, Marines perhaps, will get the job. Piper and the others are far too inexperienced to do this on their own, and Hannibal is glad. He’s sick to the stomach with worry over Bunter at the minute without having to worry about any of his other boys.

 

But at the back of his mind Hannibal knows that none of that will happen if his team don’t make it back to base alive.

 

The guerrillas leave them alone for long stretches in the day. They are obviously content that their captives aren’t going anywhere soon and so disappear for hours at a time. Patrolling, Hannibal supposes, hoping against hope that their original hostages are somewhere close by, or maybe just paranoid that there are more Rangers out there, just waiting to come back for their buddies.

 

It’s late afternoon and they are alone in the clearing again. Hannibal is listening to Bunter’s ragged breathing and the assorted sounds of the rainforest when he hears a sound over to his right. His eyes flick into the foliage and within a minute he can just make out the outline of a man, creeping forward. His heart speeds up. This is definitely not one of his captors, they seem to have no fear of being seen or heard anywhere around this clearing, Hannibal can hear them coming for miles. This person, whoever it is, does not want to be noticed.

 

Hannibal drops his head, pretends to be asleep but keeps his eyes on the approaching figure. He’s moving stealthily, hardly making a sound now, and Hannibal is glad that Bunter is sleeping; hopefully it will keep his XO safe. The figure is right at the edge of the clearing and crouches, waiting, listening, watching. Long minutes pass, but suddenly the figure seems to decide it is safe. With one last glance around, he breaks free from the foliage and sprints across the clearing, dropping to Hannibal’s side and reaching up for the gag.

 

“Jesus, Christ, Face!” Hannibal’s voice is dry and scratchy, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

Face is grimy, his skin barely visible through the dirt and he stinks of sweat and rotting vegetation but an easy and natural smile breaks across his face. “Hey, boss, good to see you too. You miss me?”

 

His tone is flippant, but his eyes are deadly serious as his fingers skim over Hannibal in the gloom of the jungle, checking him out, lingering at the bloody mess of matted hair on the side of his head.

 

Hannibal is almost speechless. The thought had comforted him through his long vigil in the jungle, that his other boys, that /Face/, had got away, that he was safe. But now… He is almost thrown into a panic. “Where are the others?” he hisses, “What does Piper think he’s doing coming back here with the hostages?

 

Face reaches into his pockets and brings out a glucose bar, breaking it up and dropping the pieces into Hannibal’s mouth as he replies. “Piper’s not here. He took a whack with a machete on his head, should be okay but he’s badly concussed. Jonno and Sharkie are taking him back with the hostages. I moved out with them for a day then turned and headed back here.”

 

Hannibal swallows the chunks of glucose down, almost choking himself in his haste, “You came back alone?”  His incredulity is obvious, “I can’t believe Piper let you!”

 

Face glances up at his CO as he searches about in his pack bringing out a water bottle, “Told you boss, Piper’s really out of it. He’s not in charge. I am,” Hannibal opens his mouth to hiss his outrage but then the bottle of water is tipped in and he has to concentrate on drinking and not choking. He’s sure Face timed that to perfection.

 

Bunter moans slightly and Face glances over then back to Hannibal, “Listen, boss,” and this time Hannibal can see the fear in his eyes, the concentration, the determination, “I only have a minute here, those assholes are on their way back,” he lowers the bottle and scoots over to Bunter. “I just needed to check you both out, see how you were,” he’s running his fingers over his XO; frowning at the bloody mess his legs are in. He glances back at Hannibal, “You think you can walk?”

 

Hannibal nods and the relief is clear in the kid’s eyes. “Great, ‘cos Bunt here isn’t gonna…” Face has pulled a syringe from his pack and is busy shooting something into Bunter’s arm.

 

“Face…” Hannibal can hardly speak around the terror in his throat, “you need to get out of here, kid, you can’t do this, you shouldn’t have split from the others! There are five of them you know-”      

 

“Six,” Face interrupts, “They always leave one guy about two hundred metres south east of here, near the bridge over the river,” he’s shooting another syringe into Bunter’s arm.

 

Hannibal swallows his panic, “I am ordering you Lieutenant! You need to leave the area /immediately/ and regroup with-”

 

Suddenly Face is back, right up in Hannibal’s face, his lips so close that Hannibal can almost taste his words, “Hannibal, listen to me. They have been deciding what they are gonna do with you, I was happy to wait for reinforcements, you know, just watch and keep out the way, but,” he pauses and licks his lips nervously, “they’ve decided that it’s too risky to keep you, they’re gonna kill you both, tomorrow, as soon as their boss has had chance for a little ‘chat’, you know?” Hannibal knows. “That’s why I have to move in, can’t let them do that…”

 

He doesn’t move. He’s so close and Hannibal’s heart is pounding painfully against his ribs, “You could get killed…” he whispers.

 

Face doesn’t miss a beat, “Worth it to save you,”

 

They stare at each other.

 

“How do you know their plans?” Hannibal asks, breaking the intensity of the moment.

 

“I heard them discussing it,” Face is back to business, back over with Bunter, trying to drip water into his mouth.

 

“You speak Khmer?” Again the incredulous tone.

 

“Yeah,” Face throws over another easy grin, “I thought it might come in handy.”

 

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak, but both men freeze at the distant sounds of disturbed vegetation. “They’re back…” Face hisses, shoving the bottle in his pack and scrambling back towards his CO. He lifts the gag once more, pushing it into Hannibal’s mouth and Hannibal can feel his fingers, gentle but firm, smoothing the sides of the rag, making it lie flat, trying to make it as comfortable as he possibly can. “I’ll be back,” he whispers right into Hannibal’s ear, and then he is gone, melting silently into the jungle.

 

A couple of hours pass and the daylight is starting to fade. Hannibal has spent the last two hours almost thrumming with anxiety. It was bad enough that he had Bunter to worry about, but now there is Face as well, and that’s twice as bad. Face is so young, too young, and he’s rash, reckless and irresponsible. He never thinks ahead, never plans, never considers… He’s going to get them all killed…

 

But if he’s right, and the Khmer Rouge are going to kill them in the morning anyway, then what difference does it make?

 

Still the anxiety doesn’t fade, and at the back of his mind, Hannibal knows why. He knows that somehow and for some unfathomable reason, Face is working his way into the very fabric of Hannibal’s being. And if it were Face he has to watch die in a few short hours, he knows he’ll never be able to go on.

 

As it is, Hannibal doesn’t have to wait anywhere near as long as he had thought for Face to make his move. He had presumed his lieutenant would wait for the blackness of the jungle night, but it is still barely dark when he hears distant crashing in the undergrowth up ahead of the camp.

 

The guerrillas, who are crouched together eating, hear it too and leap to their feet, brandishing their guns and whispering frantically to each other. Hannibal’s’ blood turns to ice. What the hell is Face thinking of making such a racket? Hasn’t Hannibal taught him better than that? Surely he can remember even the basic rules of covert operations? He goes back to struggling against his bonds.

 

After much heated whispering and pointing, the guerrillas move out. Hannibal senses a movement beside him and looks round as Bunter blinks his tired and confused eyes in Hannibal’s direction. He struggles against the gag that Face had placed in his mouth and manages to spit it out, hissing at his XO through the darkness, “It’s Face, Bunt. He’s gonna try and get us out. Can you move?”

 

He sees the same shock on Bunter’s face that he is sure had been on his own when Face had turned up that afternoon, but his XO only nods and starts to struggle up into a sitting position. Hannibal turns his head towards the now silent jungle and continues the desperate wrestle with his bonds. If he can only get free then maybe he can help; maybe then Face won’t have to die out here in the jungle tonight.

 

Suddenly shots ring out in the night and Hannibal and Bunter exchange worried looks. Hannibal can hear screaming and shouting, and then an orange flare rises up in the gloom of the jungle in front of him. It’s so bright that Hannibal has to clamp his eyes shut, but even then he can still see it through his closed lids. The heat reaches his cheeks and he thinks that the whole damn rainforest is on fire but then it dies back to a dull glow and he realises that the gun fire and the shouting and the screaming have all stopped and his stomach heaves as he wonders if that means that Face is dead...

 

There’s no sign of the guerrillas as Hannibal writhes against his bonds for what feels like the hundredth time. He knows the skin around his wrists is torn, but he doesn’t care, he just needs to get free, he just needs to find Face. He looks over at Bunter and sees his eyes, wide and horrified, starring out into the jungle and Hannibal whips round to see where he’s looking.

 

A figure has crashed out of the foliage, the orange glow behind him making him a silhouette, the black outline of a machete standing out above his head. Hannibal’s’ struggles go into over drive, it seems the Khmer Rouge have decided not to wait till the morning to finish off their guests. As the figure gets closer, Hannibal realises that the cords on his wrists are never going to budge and so he leans backwards onto the small of his back, transferring all his weight off his legs, preparing to strike, drawing his feet off the ground. He can kick out pretty well from this angle; maybe even break the bastard’s neck. He tenses, waiting, if he’s going out, he’s sure as hell going to take some of them out with him...

 

“Move, boss, I need to cut those ropes...”

 

Hannibal’s breath catches in his throat as he recognises the voice and throws himself forward to give Face access to his wrists, “What happened?” he hisses, pain flaring and burning as Face yanks at his arms.

 

“All dead...” Face mutters and Hannibal can hear the cold and barely contained horror in his voice, “Blew the fuckers up...”

 

Hannibal groans in pain as he is at last released, and rolls onto his stomach in the mud. And that’s when he realises. Face hadn’t been crashing about in the jungle like an amateur. Oh, no, it was far more elegant than that. He’d set a trap, thought it through, drawn the guerrillas right where he wanted them. Clever little bastard. He drags himself up onto his knees just as Face crashes out of the jungle once more, this time pulling a homemade litter behind him; he drops it down next to Bunter and starts dragging him onto it, ready to move out.

 

Never thinks ahead? Never plans? Never considers?

 

Looks like Hannibal might have been wrong again... 

Part Six