Subject: MASH/Trek story: Again No More Angels.
From: [email-masked] (Tim North)
Date: 29 Jul 91 03:42:38 GMT
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative

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
([email-masked])
----------------------------------------------------------------------

	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.

			* * *
-- 
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