💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › sf › STARTREK › mashtosc captured on 2022-06-03 at 23:21:35.
⬅️ Previous capture (2022-03-02)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Path: moe.ksu.ksu.edu!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!mips!apple!olivea!uunet!munnari.oz.au!uniwa!cc.curtin.edu.au!tnorthtj
From: tnorthtj@cc.curtin.edu.au (Tim North)
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: MASH/Trek story: Again No More Angels.
Summary: MASH/Star Trek crossover story
Message-ID: <1991Jul29.114238.9030@cc.curtin.edu.au>
Date: 29 Jul 91 03:42:38 GMT
Reply-To: North_TJ@cc.curtin.edu.au
Followup-To: North_TJ@cc.curtin.edu.au
Organization: Curtin University of Technology, Perth. W.Aust.
Lines: 1055
This story is a cross-over between MASH and Star Trek. It occurs after
the death of Spock in STII:TWOK and in the later years of the MASH
series.
Comments and flattery eargerly solicited. :-)
Tim North
(North_TJ@cc.curtin.edu.au)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
The small wooded area in which the two strangers materialised
seemed almost peaceful. In fact, had their thoughts not been
otherwise engaged, the two men now standing there might even have
felt happy to again tread upon real earth, and not the cool, but
somehow barren steel of a ship's hull; glad to be able to reach down
and feel the damp, wholesome soil running between their fingers.
But as things would have it, they did not have time for such
reflections and even if they had, they would not have had the
inclination. For some meters away from them, obscured by brushwood
and other vegetation, lay a standard, United States army issue jeep.
A normal jeep by all accounts, and one that had lain there for only a
few hours since its previous owner had so carefully abandoned it. It
was a well kept jeep too, except that an acute observer might just
still see where its serial numbers had been painstakingly removed and
rewritten.
But its cover served it no good as the two strangers walked
towards it almost as if they expected it to be somewhere nearby and
began clearing away its camouflage. This done, and having climbed
aboard, they started the engine and within minutes of having invaded
the tranquillity of the scene were out of sight down the winding,
gravelly road nearby. The small wooded area again seemed almost
peaceful.
* * *
James Kirk started as the vehicle went over another in a series
of almost innumerable pot holes in this poor excuse for a road. He
had been driving for some time now and realised sheepishly that he
had not been paying attention. He pulled himself up straight in the
seat and made as if to renew his concentration.
He looked over at the good doctor snoring next to him, it was a
wonder to him how McCoy could sleep in a situation like this. Though
if he could sleep over the sound of his own snoring, he could sleep
through anything, Kirk supposed.
He turned his attention back to the road and concentrated on his
newly acquired skill of driving. 'It's a pity I haven't learned to do
this earlier,' he thought to himself. He remembered the last time he
had driven one of these things, Bela's place, he smiled as he
remembered Spock's face, he had nearly killed them both!
Spock. Why were his thoughts always turning to Spock? He'd taken
this new mission to try and get away from those memories and yet they
kept haunting him, always and ever present, no matter what he did and
no matter where he went.
He remembered how surprised he had been when 'Fleet' had asked
him to participate in another of their series of 'historical
reconnaissance' missions, seemingly out of the blue, and he more than
a little suspected McCoy of complicity in this somewhere. They argued
of course that he was uniquely qualified for the task etc., etc., and
he couldn't entirely deny that in some sense he was. He still viewed
with some foreboding though anything that might resemble his previous
abortive dealing with these reconnaissance missions.
The last one had thrown him back to about the same time as this
one. When was it exactly, 1960? No, it was more like 1970. What a
surprise that had yielded! Then of course there was his other
experience with this sort of thing, that, like this one, had involved
that mysterious machine--or perhaps being, no one had yet decided
which--the Guardian.
Of that incident he seldom thought, or tried not to anyway, but
he did now in the loneliness of this unending road, and his thoughts
were drawn to the similarities between what he had lost then and what
he had only now lost. With them came the inevitable recriminations of
knowing that if he had acted differently, if he had been more
observant, if ONLY, then things could have been different. If only...
He was saved the pain of further self examination by the
literally jolting realisation that they were finally approaching
their destination. He reached over to shake the incumbent doctor, but
the road in its final desperate bid for dominance had at last managed
to tear him from his slumber and McCoy was groggily stirring himself
in the manner of those unceremoniously awakened.
'I didn't sleep a wink with your damn driving,' he mumbled, but
on getting no reply changed to a more productive tack, 'We there yet,
Jim?' But the question went unanswered and as he looked up he
realised why. They were indeed 'there' and at that moment Leonard
McCoy wished he could be almost anywhere else.
* * *
'Oh, my God,' McCoy said tonelessly. Kirk's dry throat couldn't
even manage a reply, and the two merely sat there in the jeep,
surrounded by an ant's nest of activity. Everywhere, people rushed to
and fro from buses that carried in the wounded. The ground outside
was littered with bodies--doctors and nurses frantically carrying out
triage--and in the background helicopters could be heard landing
bringing with them more suffering souls.
It was almost too much to assimilate all at once. Kirk's face
drew itself into a tight, hard mask. McCoy swallowed and licked his
lips, wondering how on earth any record tapes could have prepared
them for this. One of the doctors nearby looked up from the once
handsome boy he had been treating, the face now burnt and blistering,
and gestured to the nurse attending him to have the boy taken inside
immediately. 'Prep' him, I'll work on this one first.' This said, he
hurried over to the awaiting jeep.
'Colonel Potter the C.O.,' he snapped, his voice weary with the
fatigue of hours. 'We've been expecting you state-side people. You
sure picked a dandy of a time to get here.' He was about to continue,
but was stopped short by Hoolihan's shouts. 'Colonel, this man's
haemorrhaging!' Potter turned back to the new arrivals. 'You folks
'll have to find your own way to the V.I.P. tents I'm afraid, I just
can't spare anyone right now.'
He turned once more to leave but was interrupted again, this
time by one of the new arrivals. He glanced back, clearly annoyed.
'Colonel, I'm Leonard McCoy, I'm a doctor. I'd like to help...'
Potter's composure changed rapidly, 'Welllll, that's a whole new
can of worms, doctor. We'd be mighty obliged.' He gestured towards
the mass of bodies. 'Find somewhere to start, it's going to be a long
night...'
Some 14 hours later, McCoy was ready to agree with him and had
barely enough time to down a cup of hot coffee in the mess tent
before collapsing into a deep and, mercifully, dreamless sleep back
in his tent.
* * *
Eight a.m. the next morning, the mess tent saw McCoy stumble in,
a sympathetic Kirk watching his shaky progress. Kirk was sitting at a
table by himself. Around him, tables were obviously engaged in deep--
and not too pleasant--gossip, but Kirk seemed unmoved by it. He sat
casually sipping a mug of coffee, having passed on the 'breakfast',
much to the amusement of the people around him, and waved to McCoy
when he came in. 'I didn't expect you so early,' he said, when McCoy
had sat down.
'I think it's something called 'jet lag',' the other answered,
nursing a fuzzy head. 'At least that's what Hunnicut told me.'
'You seem to be fitting in all right. I think someone even said
good morning to you when you came in. What's the secret of your
success, Bones? I could use a little of it to thaw my reception
around here.'
'It's called 14 hours in surgery, Jim,' McCoy replied dryly.
Kirk was saved an embarrassed reply by the three officers who sat
down next to them at that moment.
'Mr Kirk, Dr. McCoy,' the first said, shaking hands. 'I'm
Colonel Potter, commanding the MASH unit. I think we met earlier
yesterday, but I'd kinda like to do the formal how-do's. This is
Captain Pierce, our chief surgeon...'
''Hawkeye' to my friends,' the doctor said warmly, shaking
McCoy's hand. Didn't I see you in my nightmare yesterday?' McCoy
managed a weak smile while Hawkeye shook Kirk's hand perfunctorily.
'...and this is Major Winchester.', continued the C.O.
''Major Winchester' to my friends,' Charles explained.
'Well, now that we all know each other,' Potter continued,
'let's get down to business. Frankly gentlemen, we're not quite sure
why you're here. All the army's told us is you're 'surveying' the
MASH unit to report back to some Congressman or someone.' He paused,
obviously waiting for an explanation. Well, this is it Kirk decided,
time to bite the bullet...
'Colonel, our mission is a rather broadly based one actually,'
he started. 'We're here to look at the functioning of the MASH in
a... historical context you could say.' Several sets of eyebrows
jumped at this, McCoy's included. Pierce spoke up.
'A 'historical context'? What's historical about this place
except the food?, which I notice you've wisely chosen to ignore.'
Kirk glanced down at the mug he was holding.
'I'm not too sure I shouldn't ignore this coffee either,' he
grimaced. Addressing himself back to the group he continued. 'What
we'd like to do here Colonel is simply observe your day to day
workings, nothing critical, you're not being monitored I assure you,'
he paused, wondering how to continue. 'You see, the people we're
reporting to feel they can't get the real story of what the Korean
war is like from just reading reports about it, so they took the
novel step of sending Dr McCoy and myself smack into the middle of it
to obtain the information for them.'
He caught McCoy's curious expression and sent him back a small
shrug. Well, he could hardly explain the loss of a lot of military
records of the late twentieth century in Khan's Eugenics wars of the
nineties. It was these losses that had prompted Starfleet's
controversial 'historical reconnaissance' missions.
'Well Mr Kirk, can't say that I understand why they'd want to,
or that I even approve of sending civilians into a combat area...'
'The rest of us are born to it of course,' Pierce interrupted,
'We just love it here.'
Potter glared at him and continued, '...but since you're here
and since the army obviously approves, my people will give you
whatever help you require,' he said; meaningfully staring at Pierce
and Winchester. 'WON'T THEY!'
'Oh definitely, definitely,' they chorused, rising to leave.
'Can't wait to read about it in the history books,' Charles
muttered.
* * *
Post-op was nothing new to McCoy, but he dreaded it all the
same. Ruefully he thought that he'd seen enough wounded bodies in the
last few days to last him the rest of his career, and he was
certainly not looking forward to observing more. Hoolihan, from
across the room noticed the expression on the new doctor's face and
moved to take charge.
'Dr McCoy, I'm Major Margaret Hoolihan, head nurse. I'll just
run through the patients' files with you and let you familiarise
yourself with our post-op before you get started on your rounds.'
McCoy shot her a grateful look and accepted the chart she
offered. 'You seem to run a very efficient nursing staff, Major,' he
commented, more as a conversation starter than anything else. As it
turned out he couldn't have said anything better.
'Why thank you doctor,' she beamed. McCoy nodded and addressed
himself to the charts as she gestured to their first patient. 'This
is Mr Kim, Doctor, a North Korean farmer. We found him amongst the
wounded up on the front.' She paused before continuing, 'A lot of the
poorer villagers take to searching through the bodies of the fallen
soldiers looking for valuables or something that can be exchanged for
food for their families.'
'Barbaric,' McCoy mumbled. 'Why is it the civilians who always
seem to come out worst in this damned fighting?'
'Oh, I agree Doctor, but there's very little we can do about it
until the peace treaty's signed, and at the rate that's going...' she
shook her head. Together they worked their way through the post-op
session with relative ease until Charles came to relieve McCoy, who
then found some excuse to make himself scarce in a hurry.
'I think you're intimidating that poor man, Charles!' Hoolihan
said. Charles snorted and said nothing. Margaret smiled and glanced
out after McCoy. She saw him meet up with that man Kirk, through the
window. He was a cool one that. She'd taken an almost instant dislike
to him. Unusual for her she thought, she was normally so easy to get
along with. Oh, he'd been active enough, helping out with the wounded
of course, but there was something disquieting about the man, he was
hiding something, or perhaps he just wasn't assertive enough, she
mused. '
'Major? Oh Major?' called Winchester, sotto voce, 'I hate to
disturb your reverie...'
'Hmmm?' Margaret turned around.
'... but there are PATIENTS in here waiting for our attention?'
Margaret sighed. Perhaps she could do without the assertiveness...
* * *
Kirk strode through the swing doors into Potter's Office. 'You
wanted to see me, Colonel?' he asked.
'Just thought I'd check on your progress Mr Kirk; get the dirt
first hand as it were. Can't bare reading through pages and pages of
official reports just to be told I'm doing fine.' He grinned and
moved towards the old wooden cabinet in the corner of his office,
'You know what the army's like.'
'I assure you Colonel, our observations are proceeding just as
we'd like them to.' Kirk replied honestly.
'Good, good. I hope you're getting the required cooperation from
my people?'
Kirk shifted in his seat, 'Yes we've had a good response to our
questions from everyone.' He paused. 'I'm afraid though I don't seem
to have made too favourable an impression with the Major.'
Potter looked up. 'Who, Margaret?' Kirk nodded his affirmation.
'Well, I wouldn't be too worried, she's probably just got herself in
a knot over something. Give her a few days, I dare say it'll blow
over.' Potter mused, if the truth be known he shared his head nurse's
reservations about this whole affair. He still couldn't see any point
in all this. Come to think of it he'd never quite heard of this type
of observation before. Maybe he should check with I-Corps.
Mind you, he thought, this Kirk fellow seemed a nice enough type
of chap, and although he hadn't had a chance to actually see McCoy at
work, judging by the reports that had filtered back from the surgery
and his own observations in post-op he was a damn fine doctor. Top
notch, in fact. Strange, he mused, why would a doctor be doing this
sort of work?
'Meanwhile,' he continued, 'and this is the real reason I asked
you over, can I offer you something to drink--a small scotch
perhaps?'
'Why thank you, Colonel. Actually I've always been rather
partial to brandy, myself.'
Hmmm, a brandy man hey?' Potter smiled amused at the memories
than invoked. 'Why I remember back in doubleyuh, doubleyuh one, we
had a chap in our outfit, 'Killer Carlson', was his name--what a
character!' Potter paused as he poured their respective drinks. 'He
was a brandy man too, you know. I remember one night he'd had just a
tad too much to drink, and he thought he'd tell one and all just how
fine a drink brandy really was. So he staggered into the nearest tent
and began to sing an ode to the relative merits of brandy over any
other drink.' Potter chucked to himself, 'Would've been hilarious if
it hadn't been his C.O.'s tent!'
Kirk smiled, and was just about to enquire as to the hapless
young officer's fate when the doors to the office burst open and
Corporal Max Klinger strode in, his dark features clearly worried
about the information he bore. 'Sorry to interrupt you sirs like
this,' he began, 'but we've just received word from the front that
they're taking in more heavy casualties and urgently need medical
supplies AND a couple of doctors if we've got 'em...'
'Damn!' Potter slammed his palm down on the table. 'Just when
we'll be receiving kids by the bucket load. They know I can't spare
my people at a time like this.'
Kirk mused, this was a perfect opportunity to observe an actual
combat situation. Until now their time had been spent in the relative
safety of the MASH and, although their mission didn't specifically
call for them to be at the front, he knew it would add significantly
to the body of knowledge collected. He spoke up. 'If you can spare us
a driver, Colonel, Dr McCoy and I can go along. It'd be a fine chance
for us to see just how things really are at the front,' he offered
honestly.
Potter hesitated for a moment, these men were still unknown
quantities, but hell, he thought, he had no better alternative.
'That's mighty nice of you boys,' he replied. 'I'll fit you out with
a jeep and send along Major Hoolihan, she's been up there before.' He
turned to his company clerk, 'Klinger get on to it.'
'Consider it done, your Colonelness,' came the reply from
Klinger already halfway out the door.
* * *
The two travellers thought they were past being shocked by the
brutality and senseless loss of life they had seen. But somehow the
filthy tin shack that was all there was to see of the battalion aid
station here at the front, managed to shock them even further.
Soldiers lay dead or dying in the dirt around the hut,
unattended and oblivious to the explosions all around them.
McCoy, his face pale, stood at the entrance to the hut looking
in, before entering, incredulous at the sight of bodies lying opened
on tables, dirt everywhere and medics frantically working amidst the
screams; trying to patch them up just enough that they might survive
the chopper journey to the MASH.
Hoolihan, hardened to the atrocities inflicted in the name of
God and country was already surveying the wounded. 'Kirk, don't just
stand there gawking,' she snapped, 'start helping these people!'
At the sound of Hoolihan's dulcet tones Jim Kirk shook himself
from his dazed posture and, accepting the horrific situation as best
he could, went to work repairing what damage he was able, and hoping
all else could be restored by either McCoy or those back at the MASH.
They worked on in the midst of the shellfire for what seemed like
hours, both of them having lost count of the bodies dozens of faces
previously.
'Kirk give me a hand with this man,' Hoolihan's voice called
urgently, as she struggled to control the incoherent thrashings of
the wounded soldier at her side. Together they managed to
anaesthetise their struggling charge and Margaret began preparing the
boy for surgery. As the boy subsided and gave in, finally, to her
ministrations she chanced to look up at Kirk and noticed, to her
surprise and concern, that he was bleeding from a shrapnel wound to
his shoulder. ''Here let me look at that.' She probed around cleaning
the wound. 'Why didn't you tell me about this?'
Jim Kirk shrugged as he dropped down beside their dust covered
and battered jeep. 'There was no time,' he replied. 'Anyway, there's
nothing lodged in the wound,' he said and treated her to one of his
most disarming smiles.
Margaret sighed heavily and dropped down next to him, both of
them exhausted. They sat propped up against the wheel of the jeep and
allowed themselves their first break in what seemed like days.
Margaret was the first to break the awkward silence that ensued.
'Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you before, this hasn't been easy for
you has it? I mean giving triage at the front isn't quite
'observation''.
'It's been no easier for you,' came the reply. 'But it would be
easier if we didn't have to call each other 'Major' and 'Mr Kirk' all
the time wouldn't it?' he said, alluding to the tension that had
existed between them.
Hoolihan smiled. 'Yes, it would wouldn't it,' she agreed, as she
rose to her feet, not really answering the question. 'Well, there's
no rest for the weary here,' she said, 'lets start with this fellow'
and gestured towards the bandaged body of a nearby soldier.
Kirk began to rise from his position, favouring his injured
shoulder, when there came a tremendous explosion from a close shell.
To their horror they both saw a young Korean boy, previously
unnoticed, had been struck down by the shrapnel from the explosion as
he searched for valuables on the fallen bodies as so many of his
people were forced to do--his shrill cries of pain and fear reaching
them even over the ensuing retaliatory fire.
Kirk jumped to his feet, wincing as a bolt of pain tore through
his shoulder. 'Stay here, I can get him!' he shouted, an edge of
authority appearing in his voice that had not been there before, as
he darted off into the combat area.
Oblivious to Margaret's screams to do no such thing, which
rapidly changed to violent abuse as she realised that this damn fool
might get himself killed, he weaved and ducked his way towards the
prostrate boy. Twice he was thrown savagely to the ground by the
proximity of the explosions around him, and twice he struggled to his
feet, again setting off towards the screams of the wounded child.
He made the last twenty meter dash toward the boy and dropped
down beside the boy's battered body. Stopping only briefly to examine
the child's condition, he scooped him up, oblivious to the pain in
his shoulder, and began weaving his way back through the perilous
fire.
Margaret suspended her verbal barrage just long enough to grab a
stretcher for the boy and started to make her way out to a rendezvous
with Kirk, determined to chew him out thoroughly for such a suicidal
action. Joined by McCoy who had come out to investigate the verbal
abuse flowing through the combat area they dashed out towards Kirk's
encumbered form.
They prepared to grab the boy as he was rushed inelegantly
through the last few meters of fire, but their expectation was
tragically unfulfilled. Seconds before James Kirk made it to the
relative safety of their encampment a titanic explosion intervened,
spewing football size pieces of jagged metal spinning outward, end
over end in a deadly arc at terrible speeds.
James Kirk could never have known what happened when, only
meters from safety, he was cut down in a bloody heap, spraying them
all with his blood, as his body smashed to the ground inert.
* * *
The scene in the O.R. at the 4077 was one of frantic, but
ordered, confusion. 'It looks like we'll all be working around the
clock again,' Potter grumbled to himself for the second time in a few
days. 'Hell, I'm too old for this,' he proclaimed. 'I should be at
home with Mildred wondering what colour daisies to plant!'
'Speaking of plants,' came Pierce's voice from the table behind
him. 'What was that green stuff they served up in the mess at lunch?
It sure wasn't salad...' he insisted.
'Maybe it was the Colonel's daisies?' piped in Hunnicut. 'Nah,
can't have been,' he corrected himself, 'daisies smell nice.' The two
continued bantering back and forth on all kinds of topics bringing
forward comments and laughter from the rest of the team--and snide
remarks from Charles. Together they made it through another long
night.
* * *
Leonard McCoy cursed for the thousandth time, damning the
conditions he had to work in and damning mans' abhorrent disrespect
for life.
James Kirk's body lay inches in front of him, an enormous
incision exposing the internal organs to his delicate touch. He swore
again as a nearby shell shook dust and sand from the roof of their
makeshift hut and threw his body over that of his friend in a vain
attempt to minimise the amount of sand and dirt invading the opened
wound.
He looked around for the clamp he needed, damning himself for
not remembering what the hell it was called and snapped at Hoolihan
when the one he asked for wasn't what he needed. 'Blasted cat-gut
surgery!' he muttered. 'How are people expected to work in conditions
like this?' He stared loathingly at the collection of lethal-looking
and none-too-clean surgical instruments in the dirty tray next to
him. 'These knives should be in a torture chamber, not an O.R. Damn
it, I'm a doctor, not a butcher--how can I save him with these?' He
lapsed back into self deprecating muttering as he, once again, began
work on the open wound.
Hoolihan however had no such feelings about his competence. She
watched almost dumbfounded as this seemingly ordinary Southern doctor
exhibited surgical techniques of such extraordinary sophistication
and elegance that she didn't even think to question him on the source
of such wisdom. Even had she thought to do so, she would have had
precious little time as they worked frantically to control the
massive bleeding and repair what damages they could. Once more her
attention was drawn to the ever accumulating pile of shrapnel that
had been drawn out of Kirk's tortured body as McCoy withdrew yet
another sliver of the deadly metal and added it to the collection of
would-be assailants.
In any other circumstances she would have dismissed the
patient's chance of survival as minute, but here she began to allow
herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, this enigmatic man may yet
survive. Onwards into the night and then untiringly into the
following morning they worked, heedless of the demands of their own,
already strained, bodies for rest. At last, countless hours later,
they stood back and relaxed their vigil, collapsing almost where they
stood, into a dreamless sleep, unconcerned with, and ignorant of, the
incessant shellfire around them.
* * *
Some days later, to the amazement of all, Jim Kirk was
convalescing in the post-op ward back at the MASH--albeit painfully
and slowly. His progress was helped considerably though by the not
infrequent visits of Margaret Hoolihan; visits that were met with
well-intentioned jibes of favouritism from fellow patients. Their
developing friendship, he knew, was not going unnoticed.
He propped himself up in bed, adjusted the reading glasses that
Potter had lent him and returned his attention to the book he had
been reading before Margaret's visit, resolutely ignoring the
insistent and painful tugging in his chest. Somehow, he dropped off
to sleep.
Next to him, a fellow patient, Kim, awoke startled and
dissoriented. His eyes darted side to side in panic not recognising
his surroundings. But as sleep all too quickly left him he remembered
where he was, the Americans' hospital, and he slumped back in his
bed. He longed to see his family, longed to know if they were even
alive. After the bombs had destroyed his farm, killing his youngest
boy, he had fled with what was left of his family to the relative
safety of the nearby hills. But somehow, they had become separated,
weeks ago now, and he had not seen or even heard from them since.
With no farm to provide even the meagre subsistence living that
they had eked out all their lives, he was reduced to stealing from
the bodies of the fallen soldiers and selling what little he found to
the black marketeers in order to buy food. But now even that had come
to an end and he had only dim memories of the pain as the bullets had
torn through him.
Kim turned his attention to the soldier in the next bed, hearing
again the muttered curse that had awakened him. He sat up, curious,
and saw Kirk deep in the clutches of a nightmare. He was about to
ignore the man and go back to sleep when the thrashing figure let out
a long string of words which brought his attention sharply back to
the feverish figure.
He caught the words 'Admiralty', 'mission' and 'Enterprise', and
something that might have been a name, although it sounded more
Korean than American. He glanced around the darkened ward but no one
else had awoken and the nurse on duty had slipped out for a cup of
coffee. His eyes started to shine with an idea. Perhaps this man
wasn't just a soldier, perhaps he was an officer. An officer whose
secrets he could trade for in exchange for assistance in finding his
family.
Furtively, Kim slipped out from under the sheets and leaned
closer to the American officer, listening to the man's mumbled
ravings. Any information he obtained would have to be worth something
to someone, surely.
Moments later Nurse Kelly chose to slip back into the ward, cup
of coffee in hand and he frantically scrambled back under the covers
and feigned sleep while Kelly hummed over to check on Kirk. Kirk's
dreaming seemed to subside and, satisfied that all was well, Kelly
returned to her coffee. Gleefully she slipped out the choc-chipped
cookie she'd scored earlier that day and admired it reverently before
devouring it.
Kim waited another hour and a half before Kelly chose to leave
the post-op again, but in that time he had planned well. As soon as
she was gone he slipped out of the bed, quickly shoving the pillows
under the sheets to simulate a body and crept out of the ward, intent
on finding his wife and remaining children.
* * *
McCoy sighed, exasperated. 'Klinger, where are those 'Expected
Enemy Activity' files?' he said, sticking his head out through the
door from Potter's office. 'They're missing, they're not in the 'E'
folder'
Klinger strolled leisurely over to the frustrated McCoy 'Never
fear, Doc.,' he announced, as he rifled through the old filing
cabinet. 'Ah! Here they are, under 'V',' he smiled, handing the
documents to a bewildered McCoy. Seeing the man's confusion he
continued, 'They're under 'V' for Very-important,' he explained. 'We
wouldn't want to loose 'em, you know!'
McCoy shook his head, amused. 'OK, thanks Klinger,' he said.
'I'll read these in my tent and return them later.'
'Sure thing Doc.,' Klinger replied, 'Beats me though why you'd
want to read 'em in the first place.'
'Oh, just checking out a hunch, Klinger. Something that sounded
familiar,' he said.
* * *
The scene in Rosy's bar was one that could be found the world
over. War or no war, east or west, after long hours of stress the
human body demanded relaxation. And if pumping it full of alcohol,
amidst laughter, singing, and dancing wasn't quite what its designer
would have recommended, it was still close enough that it relieved
the tension of the inhabiting souls.
Jim Kirk and Margaret Hoolihan sat together at a table in the
midst of the revelry, relaxing, the first time either of them had had
a chance to do so in recent weeks. Margaret looked over the now
impressive collection of bottles and glasses that had somehow
accumulated on their table, and at the thin, but mostly recovered,
figure of the man who had occupied so much of her time.
'Jim, I'm so glad you're well again,' she said, a smile
lightening her features. 'Let's go on a picnic tomorrow,' she
announced. 'We're not expecting casualties, so we can take a basket
with us and have a lunch in the field behind the camp.'
Kirk laughed, something he hadn't been doing a lot of lately.
'Margaret, that sounds wonderful,' he said. 'There's a condition
though--we go further away than that, somewhere where there's no one
to disturb us--just the two of us.'
She laughed with him, 'You're on. It's a deal!' They would have
continued to plan their happy retreat except for the arrival of a
disturbed and worried McCoy. 'Jim, can I speak to you?,' he looked
over at Margaret and then back to Kirk, '...outside.'
Kirk frowned, as did Hoolihan, 'Bones...' he started but was
interrupted.
'Jim, it's important.' Kirk looked up at his chief surgeon, and
friend, and saw worry in his eyes.
He turned to Hoolihan, 'Excuse us for a moment,' he said as he
rose. Outside with McCoy he started once more to seek an explanation,
'Bones...' he began but was again cut off.
'Listen, Jim,' urged McCoy, 'Don't ask me for reasons just yet,
because I still haven't got things sorted out in my own mind,' he
paused, searching for words before continuing, 'but I don't think
it's wise for you to see Hoolihan for that picnic tomorrow.'
Kirk's jaw dropped, 'Wise! What do you mean it's not wise?
Bones, I'm a big boy now, what I do with my own time...'
Again McCoy interrupted. 'Jim, it's not that. You know I
wouldn't interfere if I didn't have a reason, but I just don't think
you want to start cultivating a relationship here and now.'
Kirk looked him straight in the face, 'Damnit, Bones, if you've
got a reason I want to know about it!' He could see McCoy hesitating
to talk so he continued, his voice softer. 'Bones, if you're worried
about me having to leave Margaret in a few weeks...,' he paused,
searching for words, 'well, I've been through that before, I can
manage, okay?'
McCoy continued, slowly. 'Jim, that's only part of it. I know
you can handle yourself, but there's more to it than that.' He
stopped, unsure how to continue, 'Jim...'
'Bones, what is it?'
McCoy resigned himself to what he had to say. 'Jim, I think we
may have to leave rather sooner than we'd planned.' Kirk started, he
was about to ask if the Guardian had recalled them, but that wouldn't
account for McCoy's distress. He looked up at McCoy, not speaking,
waiting instead for the doctor to continue.
McCoy lowered his gaze, his voice dropping of its own accord.
'Jim, I don't think the 4077 is going to survive the war much
longer.' He ploughed on, wishing he hadn't seen the look on Kirk's
face. 'History doesn't have any record of this camp, or any of its
people, much beyond the end of this week...'
* * *
The Korean sun was still low in the sky as the dusty jeep pulled
to a stop in the small wooded area. Kirk looked around him,
recognising it as the area where McCoy and he had first appropriated
the jeep, carefully secreted here by the Federation intelligence
operative who had prepared false identities and papers before the
start of their mission, a time now seeming so long ago. Things had
been different then. He'd come here partly to escape the pain of a
previous loss, and now it seemed like he was going to lose someone
else all over again.
'Jim, what is it?' Margaret said as she took his hands, leading
him away to sit in a small grassy area. 'Jim, you haven't said a word
in ages. What's wrong?'
He looked away before answering, chewing idly on a blade of
grass, seemingly ignoring the question. After a while he looked up,
'You know, out here away from all the fighting and the people it's
almost peaceful; you could close your eyes and imagine you were
home.'
Hoolihan looked deep into the eyes of the handsome, compelling
man next to her, wondering how she could ever have been so wrong
about him. She could see the pain in his eyes and she wanted
desperately to help. Sitting by his side during the long nights in
post-op listening to him talking as he slept, she'd begun to piece
together something about him, enough to know that he'd lost someone
close to him. She decided it was time to broach the subject. 'Jim,
who was Spock?'
Kirk paled. A look of disbelief crossing his face, to be
replaced by an expression of profound sadness. 'How do you know about
that?' he said eventually, his voice so quiet that she had to strain
to hear him. He frowned, 'McCoy didn't...,' he began.
'No Jim, Leonard didn't say a word, you did.' At Kirk's
uncomprehending look she continued. 'Your were talking in your sleep
in post-op; you talked about him a lot you know.'
Kirk looked away for a moment before continuing. 'What else did
I say?'
'A lot of things, I didn't understand most of it, but you always
talked about the Enterprise. Is that where you're from?'
Kirk looked up sharply, dreading for a moment that he might have
said far too much. But Margaret was just sitting quietly watching
him, not realising that they spoke of two different Enterprises. He
relaxed somewhat and continued. 'Yes it is. Bones, Spock and I served
on her together for a long time.' He paused, not wanting to continue,
but yet somehow wanting Margaret to know. 'After Spock's death McCoy
and I were sent here on this mission.'
She nodded. That answered a lot of questions she had wanted to
ask. It explained her initial mistrust of him--he HAD been hiding
something--his real identity, and it explained his sadness. As a
nurse Hoolihan had seen enough cases of people wounded by the loss of
people close to them, and instead of making her cold to it, it seemed
to make each one hurt all the more. She found her thoughts turning to
her own losses and she remembered Henry Blake fondly. A few moments
passed with both of them lost in their own thoughts.
She looked over at Jim and somehow knew that there was something
else troubling him, something that was hurting him terribly. 'Jim,
what is it, what else is worrying you? Jim, let me help...'
Margaret Hoolihan couldn't have known the terrible memories
those three words evoked; the inevitable comparisons with Edith and
the regret, the longing for things that could have been. She couldn't
have known that it was those three words that finally made Jim Kirk
realise just how many people he had already lost in his life and just
how badly he didn't want to lose anyone else.
* * *
Dinner that evening saw James Kirk eating alone in his tent,
lost in how own thoughts and conflicting desires. He didn't hear
Leonard McCoy knock softly and, on finding no reply, walk in and
stand quietly behind him.
'Jim?'
Kirk looked up, registering McCoy for the first time. 'Bones, I
didn't hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?'
McCoy rested a hand on Kirk's shoulder. 'Long enough, Jim; long
enough to know what you're thinking. That's why I'm here.' He reached
for a chair and sat himself down only a few inches from Kirk, his
voice a whisper. 'Jim, it's true. I've confirmed what's going to
happen, what HAS to happen.'
He watched Kirk accept the news, outwardly without reaction, but
the doctor in him worried over what he wasn't seeing. McCoy knew it
was time to act, now, while Jim accepted the inevitability of the
situation. 'Jim, there's nothing you can do to save them.' Kirk
started to protest but he ignored him and continued on. 'Even if
there was Jim, you couldn't, you know it HAS to happen this way. We
can't change history Jim--it's them or us.' He swallowed, hating
himself for what he was about to say, 'Just like it was last time...'
Kirk fell silent, staring at the floor for long moments. Just as
McCoy thought he should say something, he spoke up. 'How does it
happen?' he demanded. 'This is a hospital, these people are SAVING
lives not taking them. Why kill them?' McCoy paled slightly and
stood, turning away, hoping his reaction would remain unseen, but
they knew each other too well for Kirk to miss it. 'Bones, WHY?'
McCoy sighted heavily. He had hoped against hope that Jim
wouldn't ask, but hadn't really expected him not to. He took the
chair and sat down again and began to explain. 'Jim, while you were
sick, do you ever remember talking to yourself, thinking that someone
was there, me perhaps,' he looked up into the hazel eyes, 'or Spock?'
Kirk looked down, 'No, but Margaret said I'd been talking in my
sleep.' His gaze returned to McCoy, 'She knows about Spock.'
The doctor caught himself before he asked what else she had
found out. After all, it didn't really matter either way any more. He
choose his next words carefully, 'It seems, Jim, that she isn't the
only one that knows...' The blood drained away from the admiral's
face as McCoy continued, 'The patient in the next bed was a North
Korean, Jim. If he overheard you talking about your command and this
mission, who knows what he might have thought'
Kirk looked across at him, knowing what came next and dreading
the hearing of it. 'He stole out of camp, Jim. It all fits. This, us,
tomorrow unprovoked attack by the North Koreans.' Kirk's heart fell
even further. Tomorrow. There was so little time left to do anything,
to say something. But say what? What was there he could say, or do?
'They must have listened to him, Jim. Listened and believed
there was a United States Admiral of some sort, here on some
mission.' McCoy swore silently. How come he always got to break the
bad news to people?
'Bones they wouldn't destroy the entire camp for one man!' Kirk
groped desperately, knowing damn well that they would. 'They know the
Americans would retaliate, and hard, it's against all the rules of
war to destroy a hospital.'
'I don't know, Jim. Maybe it just happens to tie in with some
other intelligence they had and the whole things a mistake. One big
mistake.'
Kirk's voice dropped to a whisper, his face ashen, as he
realised what he had done, and what would happen because of it. 'My
God, Bones, a mistake. All these people... and it's just a mistake.'
His head fell into his hands, 'What have I done, Bones? What have I
done?'
McCoy grabbed him by the shoulders and looked at him
determinedly. 'Jim, you haven't done ANYTHING, this whole blasted
war's a mistake. It's not your fault!' he insisted. But Jim Kirk
wasn't listening. They talked for a while longer, McCoy trying vainly
to convince him that there was nothing he could have done, or could
do now.
Leonard McCoy left feeling useless and bitter. In some sense Jim
was right, their presence had precipitated these events, so if they
hadn't been there then it couldn't have happened this way. He
consoled himself that history demanded they were here, it was
inevitable he told himself, but he didn't feel any better for it.
* * *
Six a.m. the next morning brought with it a new day for the 4077
MASH, and all over the camp it's people were starting to plan their
activities. Some grumbled about the amount of work they had allotted
to them, some about the war in general, and all of them grumbled
about the food they were expected to eat.
James Kirk, though, sat alone in his darkened tent, his head in
his hands, his thoughts torn between two sets of actions. Those his
mind insisted he must do, and had done before, and those that his
heart told him were right. He had lost too much already to risk
losing it again, it argued. And, if he chose to accept what his mind
told him he must do, how could he live with the knowledge that it was
him who was responsible for the deaths of all these people. For her
death.
Long into the day he fought the age old battle of duty versus
desire. And then, suddenly, with the confidence of a man who has
finally made the unmakeable decision, he arose, his jaw
characteristically firm, and strode out of the door towards Potter's
office, his decision in hand.
* * *
--
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------- | Dept Computer Engineering, Curtin University of Technology
/ o ---- | Perth. Western Australia. Phone: +61 9 351 7908
/ / / / / | Internet: North_TJ@cc.curtin.edu.au
| Bitnet: North_TJ%cc.curtin.edu.au@cunyvm.bitnet
_--_|\ | UUCP: uunet!munnari.oz!cc.curtin.edu.au!North_TJ
/ \ |-------------------------------------------------------------
-->\_.--._/ |I don't want to achieve immortality through my work...
v |I want to achieve it through not dying! -- Woody Allen.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------