The Art of Smuggling Camels
part three, Decommissioning MacGyver

Pete was chuckling softly and shaking his head. MacGyver looked at him and gave a pretty frown. "What's tickling you, Pete? That was your keister I was being sent to dig out of the sand!"

"I know! I was just thinking that if only I'd hung around that French hospital until you had come around again, I'd have saved myself a lot of sunburn and saddle-sore!"

Sam looked sharply between the two older men. "That was you? In the hospital, talking to the doctor about Dad?"

"Yep. I was brought over from the Army to assist in the second attempt to rescue those people. I was so much younger and less patient back then! And Mac...! Sam, your father looked like death-warmed-over in that infirmary bed. He was all wrapped up in bandages so that I couldn't see his face. All I learned was his name, and I was so focused on the mission that I didn't note it at the time."

"So when you met during the Murdoc incident, you didn't realize who Mac was until he told you his name?"

"To tell you the truth, Sam, I didn't even put it together then. I was focused on another problem at that time, and your father was just another troublemaker-- and a nuisance! Until he saved us from Murdoc's bazookas..."

Mac smiled. "Nice to know my work is appreciated."

"Well, I appreciated your help even when I didn't know it was you. You see, Sam, I was stuck in a sink-hole..."

"Pete! You're getting ahead of the story!"

"Sorry! As you were saying, Mac."

For someone that was usually so reluctant to talk about the past, Sam thought that Mac was really warming up to his role as storyteller. He covered his smile by taking a drink, while Mac continued his tale:

"It wasn't the first time I had been in a hospital with something broken but, this time, it was a very important turning point in my life. When that parachute failed, the fall lasted a few seconds that seemed like hours. I got an instant replay of my life before I was reintroduced to the ground. Add to that six weeks flat on my back under heavy bandages-- a guy has a lot of time to think. I decided to leave the military. I had come to know that I had to find an alternate way to accomplish peace. I could no longer do it from behind a gun..."

Two weeks later, aboard a commercial freighter in the Persian Gulf
Center for American Military Ops

A thin man knocked on the portal door, entering only after he heard a short bark of invitation. He removed his hat as he ducked inside. A short ruff of blondish hair covered the man's scalp, barely concealing a half-healed scar. He ran his fingers over his head, a rueful expression on his face. It was hot in the room, and the three electric fans that purred at different speeds did very little to give relief against the oppressive humidity.

A man was sitting at a small desk, sweating, shuffling through a huge pile of papers and folders. He glanced up at the man who had entered and directed him to go on into the inner office.

There were two stars on the door. The man knocked briefly and let himself inside, closing the door behind him. It was slightly cooler in this room. He could hear the hum of an overworked air-conditioner under the sound of a baseball game playing on the radio.

He stood at attention in front of the desk, hat tucked under his arm and eyes forward, while the man sitting at the desk read through a report. Despite the cool drafts the tall man's face became beaded with sweat. The general sighed and let the leaves of paper drift to the polished wooden surface. He looked at the young officer thoughtfully, toying with his fountain-pen.

"MacGyver. I have your request for a discharge right here." He indicated a thick folder lying on top of a pile of similar folders. Several red slips of paper stuck out of the side of the folder. "See those tags? As far as anyone knows, you're still laid up in a hospital with bandages over your face, and yet I got requests coming in from generals and colonels all over the world, asking for you to be reassigned to them. And you want to leave? Why? Because you got dropped out of a plane with a tangled 'chute and landed on your head?"

"No, sir. I want to leave because it is time for me to leave. I need to be with my mother. She is ill, and I am all that is left of the family."

"I understand. And before I make you sweat anymore, I will tell you that I have granted your request and given you a hardship discharge... with full honors. You'll be able to come back when you decide that you've been a civilian long enough." The general closed his fist and tapped it on the top of the pile of papers. "That parachuting incident would have killed anyone else. Are you sure that you want to do this? I can arrange an extended leave...and you'd be looking at a promotion to Major..."

Mac smiled slightly. "I am sure, sir. Thank you... but no, thank you. I need more than a few weeks, sir. I need a life."

"Well, you're mine for two more weeks, Captain. And there are still pieces of that rescue fiasco to pick up. Are you ready to go back to work?"

"As ready as I can be, sir."

The general slipped a smaller folder out of Mac's file. "This report gives you a clean bill of health, Captain. It had better be accurate. I don't like to think about the chance I'm taking that you might have a relapse while you're out there and risk the lives of men under my command."

"Well, sir," answered the young officer glibly, "I should think that amnesia would come in handy in this line of work, since I can't tell any secrets if I can't remember them."

"Impudence!" The older officer grinned despite his harsh words. He came around the desk and took the young officer's hand in his own. "Good to have you back, Mac, even if it is for a little while. The unit's going to miss you."

"Thank you, sir."

"I had to send the boys back to attempt the mission again, backed up by a unit from the Army that Air Force One foisted on us." The general gestured to one of the chairs set in front of his desk. MacGyver sat down, setting his hat on his knee. "God, what a disaster! They managed to rescue the soldiers and civvies that had survived, but not until after a whole lot of nastiness happened." Instead of retaking his own chair, the man walked around the office, pausing in front of one of the portholes to peer out.

Mac studied the silver wings on his hat. When the general did not speak again, he braved the question, "What were our losses, sir?"

"Three from the original team, two from ours. Murphy and Davenport." Mac closed his eyes, containing his grief at learning of his comrade's deaths. "One of the Army unit is missing and presumed dead."

The general took his chair and straightened the papers in front of him. When he raised his eyes to MacGyver's, there was steel in his stare. "Are you sure," he said, tapping on the papers, "that you are 100 recovered? Because I need you to go and find the ***s that escaped from us, before they regroup and strike again. Intel suggests that they were being fed inside information, straight from the Pentagon, and that leak has not yet been plugged. I want you to do this, Mac. You've got the training, you know the area, and you have luck like you're being followed by a flock of saints. And as far as the Pentagon is concerned, you're still racked out in an army hospital, slated to be shipped stateside.

"The remaining terrorists are hiding out in the Great Desert. Find them and find out who their spy is, Mac. Or I'm afraid that we are going to be burying a lot more boys beneath that godforsaken desert."

MacGyver stood up. "I'll find them, sir."



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