Title: My Hero

Author: sss979

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Mildly graphic (for real this time – mild! lol) wartime violence. Drug use.

AN: This is another one of those "Oh, look, it doesn't fit in the book!" pieces about Face. Kind of surprised by how long it is. Think I'm going to split it up into two parts. I didn't realize how long it was when I wrote it (which is what made it impossible to fit into the book in the end! lol) Enjoy!

"You okay, kid?"

Face looked up, took another drag from his cigarette, and blew smoke off to the side as he studied Hannibal. They'd moved from Duc Lap to "anywhere else" per General Westman's request. It had ended up being Nui Ba Den. Nobody knew exactly why there had been such a rush to move them, but Face suspected it had something to do with that same political bullshit that had left Locke shorthanded on the eve of what would've been a battle on his own turf. The VC would probably still attack the camp. But both they and the bandits would be licking their wounds for a good long while first.

"I'm fine," Face answered quietly. "What's up?"

"I could go for a drink. How about you?"

Face chuckled. "Where?" He gestured around him, reminding Hannibal of their surroundings.

"I got a bottle of vodka from Locke, before we left." Hannibal smirked. "Captain Jussen also said there's beer here, in the lounge."

Face considered it for a moment, then pushed himself up and away from the hootch he'd been leaning against. Hannibal turned, and he followed a half-step behind, across the camp to the lounge. This was not a large camp, and Face hadn't even bothered to venture into the lounge to see what – if anything – they had to drink. As with other camps anywhere in Vietnam, Kool-Aid was the drink of choice; it masked the taste of the water, was easy to ship from home, and was easy to make. He hadn't expected much more out of this place.

The inside of the lounge was homey. The floor was lined with mismatched strips of carpet and the soldiers had constructed a few pieces of furniture from scraps of metal and wood. There were also a few plastic folding tables, a few metal folding chairs, and a refrigerator in the corner. Face smirked as he saw the tally written on the front of it.

"I remember that."

"Remember what?" Hannibal was looking through the cabinets for cups, but he turned to glance at Face.

"The tally." Face pointed over his shoulder. "You were never at a camp that did that?"

"I've been with SOG from day one since I've been in 'Nam."

"Instead of paying every time you take a beer, you keep a tally on the front of the fridge," Face explained. "Accounts get settled once a week. Anyone who's not alive to pay their tab, everyone else picks it up for them."

"Nice system," Hannibal grinned as he sat down at the plastic table in the empty room.

Face sat down across from him. "Yeah, it worked well. Whenever a team was going outside the wire, they'd drink themselves stupid before they went. It sort of took the edge off. And helped the… grieving process afterwards."

"When were you in a camp?" Hannibal asked, pouring the clear liquor into two plastic cups.

Face raised a brow. "You read my history a long time ago."

"I did." Hannibal passed one of the cups across the table. "A long time ago."

As Face took his cup, Hannibal raised his own. There were no words to the toast, and no clink of glasses, just two plastic cups that touched before both men drank. "I was at Plei Me for part of my first tour," Face finally answered. "A-255. South of Pleiku in II Corps. Before SOG."

"How the hell did you come into that switch?"

Face hesitated. "I heard a rumor that they were more… offensive. And I was tired of being on defense."

"POW snatches, right?"

Face took another drink before offering a shrug. But he was eyeing Hannibal carefully. "I was good at it."

"You still hold the record."

Something about the way he'd said that confirmed that there was a purpose to this conversation beyond friendly small talk. "Where are you going with this?" he asked with a slight smirk. No point in dancing around it when they both knew the game they were playing.

Hannibal smiled back, and leaned forward on the table, swirling the remaining liquor in his cup. But the smile fell as his eyes lowered. "Tuyen Nhon was attacked the other night."

"Where is that?"

"IV Corps. East of Moc Hoa."

Face recognized the name of the B-team station, but still couldn't picture it on a map. He'd hardly even been to IV Corps – furthest south from the DMZ – except to the camps on the border of Cambodia.

"Did they take it?" Face asked, his brow furrowed.

"No." Hannibal took another drink, and studied the table for a moment before looking up again. "Right now, it's being held by a Mike Force. The camp is in bad shape."

Face nodded. "And judging by how we got into this conversation, they also took a few POWs."

"They hit during a visit from brass."

"Who'd they take?"

"Colonel Mel Rodman. And his daughter."

Face raised a brow. "He took his daughter with him to an A-camp? How old is she?"

"Fifteen."

Face rolled his eyes and looked away, mumbling under his breath. "Shit…"

"I told them we'd head out at first light."

Face finished the rest of the vodka in his cup. "How long have they had them?" he asked quietly.

"Since 0400 this morning."

Hannibal poured another drink. Face shook his head. "Unless we know where they're taking them, there's no way in hell." He looked back up and met Hannibal's eyes. "What's the colonel's security clearance?"

The look that answered him confirmed Face's fears. Hannibal didn't have to say a word. The colonel knew a lot. And with his daughter's pain to use as an instrument of torture, any man would crack after so long.

"Do they know where Charlie's operating from?"

"No. They haven't had any major problems with them since they established the camp. It was a puppet camp. Nice and shiny for the press and brass. No one was prepared for this."

"What are we supposed to do?" Face asked. "Canvas the whole jungle in pairs, looking for them?"

"That's for you to decide."

"Me?" Face was caught off guard. "Why me?"

"Because I want you to be One-Zero on this."

Face studied him, cautious and skeptical. Sure, Face's record reflected his experience with POW snatches. He was damn good at it, and he knew it. But he'd be good at it without assuming the lead. He'd learned well how to work within his own role – providing his advice and expertise on matters he knew about without usurping Hannibal. Their arrangement had worked remarkably well; why change it now?

"This isn't one of those stupid ass 'when I'm gone' things, is it?" he checked. "About how I'm going to have to fill your shoes?"

Hannibal shook his head and took another drink. "No, it's not that."

"Then why?"

"Because Mel is a close personal friend of mine," Hannibal answered quietly. "I know when to trust my own judgment and what I can't. And this is one I can't do."

Face studied him for a moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Alright," he agreed. He lifted his glass in Hannibal's direction. "Then here's to old friends… and successful POW snatches."

Hannibal forced a smile as he raised his cup and touched it to Face's before finishing the rest of the liquor in it with several full gulps.

***

Murdock had passengers other than Face and Cruiser: three privates who'd begged a ride to Saigon. It didn't really matter what route they took from I Corps all the way to the southeast corner of the country; a stop in Saigon wasn't out of the way. They would probably pick up more passengers along the way, when they refueled. Hitching a ride on a chopper was the best – sometimes the only – way to get around. Most everyone had done it at some time or another and most pilots were sympathetic.

It was several hours of travel –with stops - before they finally touched down in the broken and battered LZ of Tuyen Nhon. Murdock whistled low as he looked around at the remains of the camp. More than half of the buildings lie in ruins. As the three of them climbed to the ground, they all took notice of a man in torn and bloody jungle fatigues who approached carrying an M-16 over his shoulder.

"Can I help you?" he called as he came close.

"Lieutenant Templeton Peck," Face greeted, shaking his hand. "This is Captain HM Murdock, Sergeant James Harrison. We're here on behalf of Hannibal Smith."

The man's eyes lit up instantly. "First Sergeant Josh Pollen, Mike Force. We've been expecting you."

"Who's in charge of this camp?" Face asked as Pollen shook hands with Murdock and Cruiser.

"That'd be Lieutenant Sam Gerrad," Pollen answered.

"Is he from the team that was stationed here?"

"No, sir, he's the ranking officer from the Mike Force."

"Where can I find him?"

"I'll take you."

Face walked briskly toward one of the standing buildings, keeping pace with the other man. "Anyone left from the A-Team?"

"A few CIDG –"

"Yards?"

"Yes, sir. Also a few civilians."

"What civilians?"

"Wives of three of the soldiers and two children, sir. Yards. Everyone else is dead. We couldn't get them out in time."

"No other Americans?"

"No, sir."

"What kind of shape are the Yards in?"

"Sir, nobody here has slept in 48 hours. Some of us longer."

"Take any volunteers to go on recon and tell them to go lay down for a few hours. I'll need at least two Yards who know this area and know it well to go lay down. Preferrably four or five. And I need another one to report to me right away."

"Yes, sir."

The building that they stepped into was not the TOC. It was a barracks. Half of it was being used as a medical center. Cruiser clapped Face's shoulder before heading off in the direction of the most seriously wounded. In the other direction, there were three men asleep, sitting against the wall with their weapons in hand. A fourth man was actually standing, but was just as much asleep as the others, leaning forward on his arm.

"Sam?"

No response. Pollen took a step further into the hot, stuffy room. It reeked of body odor and sickness. Face could almost smell the blood from every direction.

"Lieutenant!"

Face jumped, instantly and instinctively turning in Pollen's direction and snapping to attention. The man Pollen had actually been addressing did the same. As Face relaxed, Lieutenant Sam Gerrad looked around, confused and startled.

"Sam, Hannibal Smith's team is here," Pollen said, much more softly.

"Not all of us," Face corrected, stepping forward. He extended a hand. "I'm Lieutenant Templeton Peck, this is Captain HM Murdock." As they shook hands, Face used his other to point over his shoulder. "We brought Sergeant James Harrison to help with some of your wounded."

"Sam Gerrad." He looked like he was having a difficult time keeping his eyes focused.

"Please tell me some of your men are sleeping," Face said. "Everyone I've seen so far is really strung out."

"The shelling just stopped not more than an hour ago," Gerrad answered. "Most of us haven't slept since Wednesday morning."

"How many men are unwounded?"

Gerrad stared at him blankly. "Unwounded?" he repeated after a moment of silence. "I could probably count them on one hand."

That was exactly what Face had been afraid of. "I'm going to need to take a few of your men," he informed. "The Yards who know the territory, and any Americans you can spare who are good on the ground."

"Take them where?" Gerrad frowned. "Forgive me for sounding like a complete idiot but… why are you here, anyways? We got word you were coming, but I'm still not sure how you're planning on helping us here. We need manpower, not a recon team."

"Your manpower is on the way," Face assured. "I talked to General Westman this morning and he's arranging for another force to be sent from Nha Trang. They should get here in a few hours. In the meantime, I need you to let anyone with recon experience rest. Tell them to report here in three hours and have a few men get their supplies ready for them. I want them to be able to pick up and go."

Gerrad looked skeptical, but he was too tired to argue. He just nodded.

"Lieutenant Peck?"

The sound of his name made him turn. In the doorway stood a Vietnamese man, bleeding from a large cut on the side of his face and with his arm hanging limply at his side – clearly dislocated. His look was dazed, but his grip was firm on the M-16 in his other hand.

"iTruong Si /iPollen tell me come to you."

Face stared at him blankly for a minute, then shook his head quickly to clear it. "I'll go fuel up the chopper," Murdock informed, heading for the door with his hands in his pockets.

"Cruiser!" Face called.

He didn't see him, but he heard him yell back. Face took a few steps forward and put a hand on the Yard's unhurt shoulder. "You're getting your arm set and then you're coming with me," he informed. Cruiser saw the problem the moment Face stepped into his line of sight, and Face pointed him out to the injured soldier.

"Cruiser, make it quick, huh?"

Ever calm and collected, Cruiser smiled back. "I'll do my best, Faceman. But it'd really help if you could get me some supplies before you take off."

"Make me a list and I'll put in some calls."

***

Murdock was flying so low, the skids were skimming the tops of the trees. "Over there, we find overnight camp once," the Yard informed Face, pointing to a spot on the side of a hill. "But they come no closer."

"Well, apparently they did," Face corrected. "They came a lot closer last night."

The Yard's sleep-slurred voice continued, monotone. "There a road somewhere over there," he pointed. "It covered over with trees."

"Murdock, take us over there."

Murdock keyed the mic and changed direction, following Face's guide. The Yard was scanning for familiar landmarks, cradling his injured arm against him. "It look very different from up here," he said, casting an apologetic look toward Face.

"It's alright." Face braced on the pilot's seat and leaned forward to look out the cockpit. "Murdock, we're looking for a canopy over a road."

"Roger, Faceman."

Murdock slowed, and Face scanned every inch of the ground below, the way the leaves swayed and which ones didn't move like the others and why. Out of the corner of his eye, Face could see the Yard trying his best to keep his eyes open, but he was swaying, unsteady. Face frowned, and crossed the floor of the Huey to where the man was sitting.

"Hey."

The Yard's eyes snapped open, and he looked around frantically before remembering where he was and how he'd gotten there. "Sorry, sorry."

"I just need you to hang in there for another hour or two. Can you do that?"

The man nodded, but the look in his eyes was anything but sure. Face studied him for a moment, the way his eyes rolled back even while he was saying that he could stay awake. After only a brief debate, Face reached into his pack and pulled out a bag of white powder. He pinched it between his fingers and grabbed the man's head with his other hand, tipping it back. The Yard's eyes opened and shut again.

"Just an hour or two, man," Face repeated. "Here. Take this."

Without waiting for a response, Face put his finger to the man's nose. As he inhaled, his eyes opened wide and he blinked a few times in surprise as he reached up and rubbed his nose. "What is that?"

"Medicine," Face answered smoothly, tucking the bag back into his pocket.

"Hey, Faceman, one o'clock."

Face moved away from the Yard to look again out the front of the chopper. It took him a moment to see it – the subtle difference in the way that the branches moved. Under the top few layers, they were tied together.

"How steady can you keep this chopper?"

"How steady do you need it?"

"I need to get down to the ground."

Murdock gave him a worried look. "You'd better make it quick. If they just left the camp two hours ago, they're probably still in the area."

Face clapped his shoulder, then ducked back into the cargo area, pulling off his helmet. In a matter of seconds, he'd attached a rope to the harness he wore, clasped the other end to the chopper, and dove out of the side of the helicopter, rappelling down into the trees. As soon as the branches could support his weight, he unlatched the harness and scaled down the tree.

The canopy was beautifully constructed, and it ran all the way along the road, twenty feet up in the air, majestic and yet ominous. Face didn't think he'd ever completely overcome the feelings of awe that came over him when he saw constructions like this. Human hands had done this – without machines, without anything that would qualify as a formal education by American standards. The ingenuity and hard work was something to be admired – even if it was the enemy's.

Face didn't need to reach the ground to see that the road had been recently travelled. He went down to the ground to check the blood that had dripped along the path. At least two different groups had passed through here; some of the blood was dried and some of it had fallen recently. As Face scanned the area, a glitter in the dirt caught his eye. Shouldering his rifle, he approached slowly, and knelt down. It was a silver ring. A mood ring, he realized as it changed color in his hand. He slipped it on his finger before turning back and heading back up the tree he'd scaled down.

Climbing back up was more difficult than coming down – particularly once he reached the rope. Holding his weight with his arms, he weaved through the branches until he was above the canopy, then pulled himself up the rest of the way. As he reached the cargo area, the Yard reached out to help him, pulling him into the chopper. Immediately, Face held up the ring.

"Do you recognize this?" he asked.

He shook his head, much more alert now than he'd been just fifteen minutes prior. But even so, Face could guess that there weren't many Vietnamese soldiers who wore a size 5 mood ring. Regaining his footing, Face picked up his helmet and leaned into the cockpit again. "Mark this spot, Murdock," he said into the headset attached to the helmet. "This is where I want you to drop us when we come back."

***

No one asked how they were supposed to get back. Armed to the teeth and with enough supplies for five days, Face, Boston, BA, and Hannibal rappelled into the trees. A second wave consisting of four Yards was finally followed by four Americans from the Mike Force. Once on the ground, they split to either side of the road – two groups of six, in the brush but watching the road for any more bread crumbs.

They moved quickly – three miles in as many hours, recovering another ring, two hoop earrings, and a several links of a man's wristwatch. They were running out of daylight by the time they came to a fork in the road. "Where do they go?" Face asked the Yard behind him quietly.

"I not know," the man answered with a deep frown. "This not here when we walk before."

Two quick snaps from Hannibal made Face turn abruptly. Even though he knew what to look for – and right where to look – it still took several moments of scanning to find Hannibal. Covered in camouflage and grease paint, he was difficult to spot in the quickly dimming light. Face looked in the direction that Hannibal's gun was aimed and saw the one thing out of place almost immediately.

Where there was one VC in the trees, there would be more. Hannibal had a clear shot, but the sound would alert any and all enemies within a half mile radius. With a quick gesture, Face vetoed the shot and communicated orders both across the street and behind him. As they started forward again, they moved slowly – an inch at a time. Charlie neither saw nor heard them as they slipped past.

Two more miles and six hours later, twigs were starting to crack beneath the careless feet of the overtired soldiers. It was pitch black – no moonlight penetrated the thick canopy all the way to the ground. Staying low to the ground, Hannibal led his five across the street one at a time until they were all together on the left side of the road. Crouched in the thick darkness, they spoke in hushed whispers.

"We should stop," BA said. "These guys are tired. And I don't blame 'em."

"Besides," one of the Mike Force soldiers hissed. "None of us know this territory well enough to travel it at night."

"We're blind out here," Cruiser agreed.

"So are they," Face pointed out.

"You want to walk on the road?" Hannibal inferred.

"That still don't solve the problem," BA reminded. "They too tired. They gettin' careless."

"He's right," Cruiser whispered. "Even I'm feeling it and I haven't been up half as long. You either need to let them sleep or wake them up, one of the two. And I don't think the caffeine pills are gonna help a whole hell of a lot at this point so you'd better have something stronger."

The silence lingered as Face considered that option. He didn't like it, but the alternative – making camp for the night and falling further behind their targets – seemed even worse. "Hannibal?" Face questioned.

"Your call, Lieutenant," Hannibal whispered back. "You already know what I'd do."

"We keep going," Face declared, reaching into his pocket for the little white bag. "We can't afford to let them get any further ahead if we're hoping to catch them before they get to a locked down camp."