A/N: This is the final chapter! I hope you will let me know what you thought of this story.

CHAPTER 13 - Sniper

The compound was wholly deserted, not a soul in sight. Frank Burns took two steps in the direction of the supply tent across the compound. He could see off in the distance dust clouds rising from the road created by a small caravan of MPs that were certainly going to be arresting him. Boy, would they be surprised when they were made aware of the snipers!

The blue-eyed surgeon took several more steps, considering. The motor pool lie to his left, the supply tent straight ahead. He squinted his eyes to make out a dusty Hunnicutt hiding under the jeep with a grease-covered Rizzo, both staring off into the brush in the direction of the snipers. Suddenly a bullet whizzed by Frank's head and he fell to the ground, scrambling along on his hands and knees. Now Hunnicutt and Rizzo were aware of his presence, and gaped at him.

"What the hell are you doing, Frank?" Hunnicutt screamed out. "Get under cover!"

"But don't you come over here," Rizzo added, a cigar flapping between his gritted teeth. "We don't got no room under here."

"We can make room!" Hunnicutt hissed. Frank crawled on his hands and knees towards the supply tent, keeping his distance from the motor pool.

"I'm not hiding," Frank told the pair. "I'm getting that morphine for Major Winchester."

"Your life is more important than his pain. He'll live," B.J. replied, shuffling around under the jeep. "Now, get over here—I'll make some room."

A bullet exploded the gravelly sand in front of Frank's face and he scrambled backwards, landing on his haunches.

"Get over here, Frank! You're going to be killed!"

"Where's Margaret?" Frank asked, ignoring Hunnicutt's warning.

"Does it really matter right now!" B.J. hissed. "If she could see you right now, she'd be worse than I am right now! Now, get over here!"

"Ah, so that explains the silence," Frank said, looking thoughtful as several bullets ricocheted off of nearby buildings. "Figures. I hope you'll tell her what I'm doing right now."

"Why don't you tell her yourself!"

Frank could only stare at B.J. with a kind of expectation, followed by a downward gaze. He was depending on B.J. to tell Margaret-that could only mean... B.J. gasped at the realization of what was going to happen here.

Suddenly, Frank leapt to his feet and raced full speed towards the supply tent, using his body as a ramrod to barrel right through the doors. A bullet struck the building but did not hit him.

"That Major Burns?" Rizzo asked B.J., gesturing at the building. He received a nod. "Woulda guessed that," the mechanic replied. "I don't know no one else stupider than him."

"I got it!" Frank announced triumphantly. B.J. looked up from his position under the jeep but could not see Frank in the supply tent.

"Don't you dare come out here!" B.J. yelled. "Just stay put! Please, Frank!"

"If I had a gun I could pick off a couple of 'em," Frank stated. "This will have to be the means to an end."

"It's not the end! Charles will be fine and you'll-"

"It really is pointless, just like you and Pierce said," Frank interrupted. "Anyway, I've gone too far to turn back now. Goodbye, Captain."

With that, Frank sped off towards the post-op ward door. A bullet came from the bushes, whizzing past the motor pool and burying itself in Frank's back.

"Frank!" B.J. screamed throatily. "Frank, dammit, no!"

As Frank had the wind knocked out of him, he felt himself falling forward in slow motion. The glass bottle of morphine in his hand would surely break upon landing, and his trip would be for naught. He decided; his face would be the body part that would catch his fall. Triumphantly he raised his arms in the air and slightly behind his head, the bottle secure in both hands. With a loud oof Frank landed face-first in the dirt and gravel, the bottle of morphine slipping out of his hands and rolling languidly across the compound.

"Man down!" Rizzo bellowed.

The compound around Frank blurred. Warmth covered his chest, and then it was gone. The pain from his nose striking the ground was gone. There was a tightness to his chest, as if someone had placed a giant over-wound clock in his ribcage. His lungs stubbornly refused to inflate and he opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish. Why was his body no longer listening to him? Why had his body mutinied on him? The world around him suddenly faded into crystal-clear images.

Margaret. He'd first spotted Margaret across the compound, her golden hair and wide toothy smile making him dizzy with desire. Louise's tightly drawn mouth and mousy spectacles faded with every heartbeat in the presence of this… army princess. His two sullen daughters, their mother's favorites, disappearing from thought. Margaret's smile aimed at him and all breathing stopped.

Just like now, he mused. Exactly like now.

"Frank!" B.J. yelled. He attempted to move out from under the jeep but when a bullet struck the ground in front of him, Rizzo yanked him backwards and wouldn't let him go. Frank shut his eyes.

Margaret. The way her pale blue eyes would light up when he would speak of God and country, of summer nights and children skipping stones across the pond. Flashlights and bullfrogs, frog-jumping contests akin to Mark Twain. Patriotism and country pride. The military, a way of life.

Gunshots rang out, and the bushes rustled with activity. MPs were now on the compound, driving off the snipers. A tank roared to life.

Margaret's naked body in the dim light of the tent, as she would invite him to her bed with her come-hither glance. Leopard-print panties strewn over a lamp, riding crop warm from activity.

Tanks smashed through the brush, gunfire erupting from the MPs as they found their targets.

Margaret. The look of hope, her utter thrill at the thought of being his wife. The hurt in her eyes when she was rejected. She belonged to him for a little while, that he knew.

Pierce and Hunnicutt laughing with him at Margaret's expense. Pierce and Hunnicutt empathizing with his most recent plight.

"All clear!" MPs shouted onto the compound. Margaret leapt from her position behind the Swamp and spotted Frank's still body.

Margaret. Stepping onto a helicopter, her face as bright as the sun. Flying into the sky with her husband. He'd lost her.

"Frank!" The name erupted from her throat like the scream of a wild animal. "Frank! Are you alright!"

B.J. climbed out from under the jeep and made his way towards the still man. Margaret had already fallen to her knees beside him. She began to flip him over and saw the blood.

"What happened?" she screamed at B.J. "What the hell is he doing out here in the open?"

"He wanted to get Charles morphine. Charles woke up in pain."

"Oh my God," Margaret said with a gasp. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Frank's eyes were closed and it seemed as if the blood was not so much pumping out as seeping out. It was not a good sign. She put her fingers to his carotid artery.

"What is it, Margaret?" B.J. queried.

"No pulse," she murmured very quietly. "No pulse." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh my God. It's my fault. Frank's dead! Frank's dead and it's my fault!"

"How could this possibly be your fault? A sniper shot him," B.J. indicated.

"I forgot," she clarified. "I forgot to set up the IV for Charles. I know better than that. How could I have—"

"It was chaos, Margaret," B.J. refuted. "First, it was Charles, and then all the other wounded…. Frank operating again. There was too much going on. It's not your fault."

"We should try to revive him. We can't know how long he's been without a pulse," Margaret indicated. "Maybe there's hope…."

A shadow fell over the pair of medical personnel busily attempting chest compressions and breaths. Rizzo had been instructed to fetch someone to fetch an Ambu-Bag, which had not yet been delivered. B.J. and Margaret looked up to expect Rizzo in all his grease-covered glory to deliver the life-saving device. The shadow was too long to be Rizzo, however. It spoke in a familiar voice.

"What the hell happened to him?"

B.J. and Margaret peered up to see Hawkeye standing above them, deep concern on his face.

"Sniper," B.J. indicated helplessly. Margaret began to cry.

"Is he alive?"

Margaret shook her head and then buried her head in her hands.

"Attention all personnel: the compound is clear," the P.A. announced. "Please proceed carefully."

"How long's it been since he was shot?" Hawkeye asked them, largely ignoring the announcement. The MPs had made it quite clear several minutes ago that the snipers were gone.

"Five minutes, maybe?" B.J. answered. "We sent Rizzo for the Ambu-Bag. I've been doing chest compressions to no avail." Hawkeye squatted down by the lifeless body and put his fingers on Frank's neck. He felt for a pulse and found nothing. He lifted an eyelid to see that Frank's eye was already becoming cloudy. It was hopeless.

"He's gone," Hawkeye murmured gravely. "Frank Burns is dead."

Hawkeye picked up the morphine bottle, turning it around quizzically in his hands.

"Morphine," Margaret sniffled, explaining the medicine. "For Charles. He went to the supply tent to get it."

Hawkeye looked confused.

"Wait—why the hell did he come out here for it? I always stow a couple extra bottles in Klinger's office. I was in the scrub room during the attack—I could have easily brought them over…"

Margaret began sobbing once again.

"It's just pointless. Totally pointless," B.J. moaned, throwing up his hands.

"Yes, it is," Hawkeye muttered.

"Well, look at it this way—he's guaranteed himself a full military burial," B.J. indicated. "Maybe a posthumous medal. But it's still pointless. Think of his wife! Think of his daughters! Oh, the horror…."

Hawkeye could only stare at Frank's face, at his most-likely broken nose—apparently he hadn't had enough time to break his fall with his hands.

Suddenly the doors to the post-op burst forth to expose Charles, clad in his hospital robes, panting with exertion and dripping with sweat. His eyes moved from Frank to the bottle of morphine.

"Oh, God," he muttered. "Is he… alright?"

Hawkeye shook his head.

"I told him it was stupid! I told him!" Charles insisted. "I couldn't stop him! He just opened that damn door and…"

His voice trailed off. Margaret stroked Frank's hair, brushing the dust out of it.

"You've ruined me, Frank," she muttered, running her fingers along his mouth, his thin lips. "You barely escaped death once—why in God's name would you do it again?" Her tears spilled onto his face, leaving little trails of dust along his skin. "Why didn't you come to my tent?" she sobbed. "What could be more important than our last couple of hours together?"

"Redemption," Hawkeye answered with a sigh. He was met with incredulous gazes. "I mean, think about it—he's been through hell – first the divorce, losing the kids, the house, his job, his money… his respect."

B.J.'s voice broke as he spoke.

"That's really all he ever wanted from anyone—respect. Well, he earned my respect with the way he handled his impending arrest with such… grace. I wish I could have told him that. Maybe his death could have been prevented."

"I was willing to talk to him," Margaret muttered, insistence in her voice. "His behavior intrigued me. Really, I thought that I could have, um, brightened his last couple hours here, even. Dammit, I was even willing to forgive him for not divorcing his wife for me! I can see now why he avoided doing it! It… destroyed him…"

"I just can't believe it," Hawkeye muttered, shaking his head. "We just talked to him. For once, we talked with him. We may have even gotten to bid him a proper goodbye this time, I was thinking. He was civil with us. We were civil with him…. I was civil, even. For once, I was starting to understand where he was coming from, you know?"

B.J.'s voice was barely discernible. Gently he laid a hand on Frank's shoulder.

"Huh. Redemption, forgiveness, respect. Maybe Frank had a proper goodbye, after all."

Finis