CHAPTER NINE

November 11, 1967

Hannibal tossed the "Top Secret" folder in his hand onto the table in the center of the room for whoever wanted it as he walked around to the far side, set down the tin cup full of coffee, and grabbed a cigar out of his pocket. His team of Indigo and Breaker from SOG, Glaze and Erickson from camps in II Corps and I Corps respectively, and a highly recommended and well-known Marine sniper named Bob were all present, half dressed, and tired. None of them were strangers - to Hannibal or each other - but he still didn't have a clue what to expect from them. This was not at all how he'd planned for their first act of solid "team building" to go.

Indigo grumbled a sarcastic, "Morning, sunshine," in his direction, but he ignored the greeting as he lit his cigar. Joseph Erickson, only just beginning to adjust to the crazy schedule of recon as opposed to the fairly basic patrols in the area of A-Camp 109, silently took up residence in the corner. Eyes still blurry with sleep, the darkly tanned and impressively bulky man leaned forward, head in his hands, rifle across his lap. Adam "Glaze" Voucher, several years senior of everyone else in the room except Hannibal, was standing, dressed but for his shirt, messy black hair sticking out in every direction. Indigo and Bob - who was least known of all of them but a long-time friend of Breaker's - only gave a brief glance around before sitting sat down against the wall and leaning their rifles against the wall, well within reach.

Cigar in hand, Hannibal took another sip of coffee, and leaned forward on the table. "I just got through with the briefing on our next assignment. We've got less than three days to make it come together. That means no trial run and no room for error."

"Which means it's not recon," Erickson mumbled into his hand, his normally deep, gravelly voice mingled with a yawn.

"And it explains why you're getting us up at the crack of dawn for this," Glaze added. Of all the men present, he seemed the least impacted by the early hour. Or maybe he was just better at hiding it, after years of practice.

Ignoring the commentary from them both, Hannibal continued steadily. "Somebody, somewhere fucked up and gave a VC plant access to a whole lot of classified Agency information, including the names of two hundred fifty-some of our assets and informants."

The words settled with all the subtlety of an atomic bomb. With wide, blinking eyes, the team stared back at him. All the haze of sleepiness and awareness of the hour's inconvenience were gone as the men sat up straighter. Hands clenched more tightly around rifles, jaws tightened, and Hannibal was sure he could've heard a pin drop in the awed, horrified silence that followed.

"They need us to protect those people or, in other words, make this mistake go away," he continued seriously. "In three days, a man by the name of Anh Dung Phan has a meeting with an NVA general, during which he will hand over these names and blow their cover straight to hell. I don't have to tell you what this will mean for them, their families, and anyone they know."

The silence stretched. Breaker was the first to move, albeit silently, to the table. He reached for the folder and opened it with careful reverence, as if uncovering a dead body for identification. Bob lit a cigarette and leaned forward, head in hands. The rest of them remained stock still until Indigo finally broke the silence.

"Why three days?" he asked reverently. "Why not right the hell now? It seems like pretty important information to put on the shelf for three days."

"The Agency has used what influence they have in the north to convince said NVA general that this information is unimportant," Hannibal replied. "But he's still going to take a look and he will change his mind once he sees it."

"Uh huh," Breaker cut in with obvious cynicism. "Isn't it just as likely that we're not getting the whole story?"

He looked up, directly at Hannibal. In the limelight, but not altogether uncomfortable with that fact, Hannibal nodded slowly. "That's always a possibility with the Agency," he admitted. "But frankly, if they wanted to make up a story, they probably could've come up with one that made them look a bit less incompetent."

"Two hundred fifty people is a shitload of informants and assets," Glaze said quietly. The details that may or may not be hidden didn't seem to matter much to him, given the potential risk if the gist of the report was to be believed. "Every one of those people requires weeks or even months to turn and God knows how much money."

Erickson frowned deeply, finally finding his voice again. "Sounds like whatever asshole gave a potential VC plant access to that kind of information needs to be drug out into the street and shot."

"Oh, I'm sure the Agency's already taken care of that," Hannibal said dryly.

Breaker dropped the folder back to the table and looked at Hannibal. "So what's the deal?" he demanded. "We find this plant and what? Kill him?"

"That's not hard," Bob said, clearly unimpressed. "Why do they need us for that?"

Hannibal hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Phan is currently hiding with the folders - and yes, he apparently waltzed right out of Agency HQ with them - in a small village of about fifty people." The sarcasm and anger drained from his voice. In its place was something emotionless and serious, just as plain as if he were reciting words from a script. "At this point, all fifty of them are a potential threat. Any and all of them have had access to that information. We have to make that threat go away or risk losing 250 of our own."

The words settled, but still didn't sink in. He could tell that much by the confused looks as the men exchanged glances. "So bomb it," Glaze finally offered with a shrug. "They do it often enough and for less of a threat."

"They can't bomb it," Hannibal replied seriously.

"Why not?" Glaze challenged.

"Because they want to keep their fuck up as quiet as possible," Breaker guessed, though it sounded as though he was completely convinced. "They have to give a reason for bombing it."

"That's true," Indigo agreed.

"And there's another reason," Hannibal added quietly, waiting until the murmur in the room quieted again before continuing. "People survive bombings. Anyone who's done BDA knows that. If even one of those people goes on to publish that information, the rest die for nothing."

The hush that settled over the room was eerie. Finally, it was Breaker who spoke. "They want us to clear a whole village?" he asked, his voice slightly shaky.

Hannibal resisted the urge to massage away the headache forming behind his eyes. He'd had a chance, over the past three weeks, to go over the personnel files of all five of his men. As a sniper, Bob had carried out assignments on Agency information; his relationship with them had been superficial and generally good. Erickson and Glaze hadn't dealt with them much and Indigo's greatest exposure had been under Hannibal's command. But Breaker had plenty of experience of his own. He'd cleared brothels full of VC women, executed the injured survivors of bombing runs, and knew more than any of them what it meant to look an enemy in the eye - with no regard for age, sex, or mercy - and pull the trigger.

"I draw the line at children," Indigo said coolly. "I've got no problem if they're shooting at me, but I won't execute them."

Hannibal's tone was calm as he continued. The anger was still there, but now wasn't the time for it. "The village is a known VC breeding ground," he explained. "And that folder has probably circulated to every person in it."

"I'm sorry," Bob interrupted, raising a hand, "are you saying they do expect us to execute children?"

"Right now, any children in that village are human shields," Hannibal replied. "At any time they can be turned into human weapons."

"You can't be serious," Glaze said with a disbelieving laugh.

"We have no idea how many copies of that list have already been made," Hannibal continued, ignoring the commentary. "We do know that if it gets into the hands of the NVA, it will mean the slaughter of a lot of people who've put everything on the line to help us. Them, their families, their villages, and anyone they care about. We all know what Charlie does to informants."

Finally the shock was really and truly starting to wear off. Erickson finally stood and paced a few steps away before turning back. "Let me make sure I understand this," he began quietly. "They want us to walk into a village and slaughter every man, woman, and child because they can't be sure a bomb would kill every one of them?" With a tense laugh, he turned back, shaking his head. "What the fuck are we supposed to do with that?"

There was no good answer to that question, no advice or suggestion for how the hell any of them were supposed to live with themselves afterward. But the thought of just letting it run its course was worse.

"I can't order you to do this," Hannibal said quietly. "And even if I could, I wouldn't. But somebody's going to have to do it."

"That kind of information leak doesn't end with one village," Indigo said, eyes narrowed into slits as he glared at Hannibal. "What's next? They gonna have us systematically go through all the people the villagers might have told?"

"I will not execute children," Breaker declared. "Not unless they're shooting at me. I ain't Charlie."

Hannibal's anger, so long suppressed and carefully contained, came out in a sudden rush he almost couldn't control. It just happened to come out in Breaker's direction. "No, we're not Charlie!" he yelled as he hit the table with both fists. "And we're not going to just stand by and watch and turn over the people who have trusted us to keep them safe to keep our own fucking moral codes intact!"

Breaker took a step towards Hannibal, fury in his eyes. "No kids!" he yelled back. "I will not fucking do it. Discharge me right the fuck now or put a bullet in my head. I will not kill children!"

The angry threat of violence from the much shorter man standing toe to toe with Hannibal was a thing of beauty. If he cared that he was yelling in his CO's face, he didn't show it. After a long stare down, Breaker moved until he was on the other side of the table, grabbing it tight.

"I'm with Breaker," Indigo agreed. "I won't do it. I don't care what it costs."

"Kids are going to die," Hannibal whispered, head dropped between his shoulders as he leaned forward on the table. He hated the words coming out of his own mouth. He hated them with a deep and burning passion. They gave his men an excuse, if they wanted to believe them. But they did nothing to ease his own conscience, and that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he considered the fact that there was no outcome to this scenario that wasn't horrific.

"Kids are going to die and that's going to be on your conscience for the rest of your life," Hannibal growled. "Because now you know about it, and you can't un-know it. More than that, you have to make the choice about which kids are going to die. You get to play God and decide whether it's going to be the kids whose families trust us to protect them or the kids who will shoot at us when their hands are big enough to wrap around the grip of a gun."

"That's fucking bullshit and you know it!" Breaker yelled, his eyes flashing with anger. Even Erickson, easily twice his size, took a step back from the display of fury. "You wanna find a way to convince yourself it's okay, that's fine. But I'm not buying it. I told you from the start I would not do this bullshit for the Agency!"

Hannibal looked at him, eyes dead and cold. "And I told you, I won't force you," he said low. He glanced around at the rest of the team. "I won't force any of you. But this is a legitimate problem. Whoever fucked up to make this problem and whatever could've, should've, or would've been done to it from happening, that all means nothing. It's happened. And I'll fix it on my own if that's what it takes."

"What is this," Glaze demanded, "some fucking guilt trip?"

Hannibal shook his head. "Just the facts. It's a tough call. You have to live with your decision and I have to live with mine."

After a long moment, Indigo finally tore his eyes away from Hannibal and ran his hands over his head. "This is fucked up, man." He spoke to no one in particular, but the anger was gone from his voice. Acceptance and resignation was slowly setting in. This was really happening. The fact that they were unfortunate enough to witness it was almost inconsequential. The events had been set in motion. One way or another, innocent people were going to die. Lots of them.

October 17, 1982

"You massacred every man, woman, and child in that village," Suzanne accused, staring across the picnic table at Hannibal. "You had no orders, no authority. What was it, some personal vendetta?"

With a slow nod, Hannibal lowered his eyes and processed the words. They weren't entirely unexpected - he'd already known the topic of her interest - but they stung just the same with the bitter taste of long-buried resentment. "Is that what they told you?" Hannibal asked, all of the light-hearted banter gone from his tone. "We went rogue and decided to slaughter a village just for the hell of it?"

"There was plenty of speculation as to why you did it," Suzanne answered dryly. "Frankly, I don't think your reasons matter. I've seen the photographs and they're definitely worth a thousand words."

He nodded slowly as the silence hung thickly in the air. Looking away, he drew in a deep, slow breath. Where the Agency was involved - hell, even where they weren't - orders had a tendency to go missing where Hannibal and his team were concerned. It was no surprise, especially since Hannibal had been fully expecting it from the start.

Glancing again at the professionally-dressed woman looming over him, he took a moment to try and see things from her point of view. She had an employer - maybe one who'd recruited her, or possibly just contracted her for one particular job - whom she was inclined to trust. Even if she'd had no other exposure, Hollywood had been producing CIA movies for the past decade, much to the general population's delight. Secret agents and spies fascinated America, and heroes in feel-good movies never had to deal with the kind of ethical dilemmas that existed in the real world.

Maybe Suzanne had actually been recruited by the Agency, and jumped at the opportunity with an expectation of glamour and excitement. If that was the case, she had yet to be disillusioned by the facts. But it would come. He didn't need to hurry it along and frankly, he didn't want to. She was young and idealistic and he had a certain reverence for her innocence. It was something he hadn't experienced for himself in a long, long time.

But that didn't mean he was willing to be counted as a murderer for the sake of her naiveté. So, with a sigh, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He noticed the way her hand gravitated toward her gun, but he wasn't reaching for a weapon and she realized that before any overt threats were made. Fumbling for only a few seconds through business cards and loose bills, he finally found what he was looking for and unfolded the photograph, holding it up.

"Ever seen that one?" he asked coolly.

She hesitated, but finally stepped forward to get a better look at the faded, deeply creased black and white picture. He didn't need to look at it; he'd memorized all the features years ago. Nine Vietnamese children, the oldest no more than ten and the youngest only an infant in the arms of the tired-looking woman on the end, stared back with slightly glazed looks. There were no smiles, but the children were not only dressed, but shoed - a luxury in their culture, and an inexplicable anomaly in their obvious poverty.

Suzanne took it in quickly, then looked back up. "What, Smith, you carry pictures of your victims, so you can relive the thrill of murdering them?" Her hand tightened on the gun.

Hannibal sighed at her unwarranted aggression. "Look again, Suzanne," he said coldly. "That building they're standing in front of is an orphanage - one my team built with every spare minute we had. You see those shoes on their feet? The toys they're holding? We boughtthose."

"That's very noble of you," she answered, unimpressed. "But putting shoes on one kid's feet doesn't make up for the fact that you murdered another."

He shook his head at her complete inability to grasp the obvious. "You know, Suzy -"

"Suzanne!"

"- sometimes you're really dense." He snatched the photo back and returned it to his wallet, where it belonged. "Those children are alive because we disobeyed the orders we received directly from the people who told you I never had any."

He could tell, by the look of shock on her face, the thought had never even occurred to her. Not giving her a chance to process, he continued with the same authoritative, determined tone.

"The thing is, we made sure they never found out. We never reported that we spared the children - those we could - because if we had, the next thing the Agency would've done is kill everyone in the damn orphanage, and probably us, too. In fact, if the war wasn't long over, I would've said you being here suggests they found out."

Closing her eyes, she shook her head as if to clear it as he rose to his feet. Instantly standing on the opposite side of the table, she fixed him in a pointed glare. "Except the war is long over," she stammered. "And your paranoia is unfounded. All they want is to talk to you!"

He shook his head again in disbelief and chuckled low. "You play a dangerous game, Ms. Davids," he warned, "with dangerous people. I don't know what they want and I don't care because I'm not interested in working for, meeting with, or talking to anyone involved with Agency affairs. I left all that behind me, and I couldn't go back to it if I wanted to."

As he spun on his heel, she followed. Still struggling to regain her composure, she stumbled over a few false starts before coming out with words. "Even if - and I do say if - you didn't kill those kids," she managed, catching up and skipping alongside him, "you still killed the others. How can you even pretend that was anything but murder?"

He raised a brow, challengingly. "Are you going to stand there and tell me you've had a good moral reason to take down every target they've sent you after?"

Her glare was penetrating and full of conviction that didn't match her ungraceful struggle to match his step. Giving up on the attempt to pace alongside him, she took a large step into his path and faced him, hands on hips. "There's no record of any orders sending you to kill civilians," she said firmly.

"Or rob the Bank of Hanoi," he added, again amused by her naiveté. "Funny how paperwork gets lost."

Not waiting for her response, he stepped around her and headed in the general direction of the street, away from her car. He hadn't really given much thought as to how he would get home, but he considered it now.

"Can you prove it?" she asked from behind him, a last ditch effort to stop his retreat.

He laughed before turning back to find her standing in the same exact spot, staring after him with a look of confusion mixed with lingering anger.

"If I could," he replied, "do you really think I'd choose to be a fugitive?"

"I don't mean Hanoi," she snapped back, setting fisted hands on her hips. "I mean Linh Hu Nao."

His eyes narrowed at her. "Alright, Suzy," he said as patiently as he could manage. "Maybe you really are just a go-fer. How many years have you had out in the field, anyways?"

She stiffened at the jab that hit just a little too close to home. "I have enough experience that they sent me after you, Smith."

"But not enough to understand covert ops," he concluded, "least of all in a war that was brewing before you were even born. The only way anyone proves anything about Vietnam is if the government wants it proven. Whether or not it's true doesn't seem to matter half as much. In another forty years, when the classification rating expires on all the documents, you might find anything that wasn't tossed in a bonfire. But don't hold your breath. I'm certainly not."

"Then that snapshot doesn't change a damn thing," she replied. "Whether your story is true, whether it's not, I have my orders. You don't want to work for them, fine. You can tell them that yourself, because I am going to bring you in for the meeting."

"I understand," he nodded. "Though you will, of course, understand that I'm not going to go quietly."

Suzanne gave her own vicious little smile. "Trust me, Mr. Smith, I don't care if you go quietly, screaming, or feet first. But mark my words, you will be going."

"We'll see." He smiled, and turned away again. "Shall we call this a neutral meeting just this once?" he called over his shoulder. "Since it would be a shame to disappoint your friends at the police department by arresting me without their help after all."

He could feel her glare boring into the back of his skull as he headed toward the nearest pay phone to call a cab.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Mr. Smith!" she called after him, an empty threat that echoed in the otherwise still afternoon.

"I look forward to it," he answered. "Almost as much as I look forward to the conversation we'll have when you finally get your story straight."

November 12, 1967

Hannibal didn't knock. He didn't acknowledge the secretary who stood to greet him, or the warnings that he couldn't go into the office unannounced. He didn't care that he was covered in blood spatter, hands stained a dull brown with dried blood. It was more than skin deep. He could feel that stain on the very core of his being. And he knew in that moment it would never be gone.

He shoved the door open, and ignored the startled look of the man behind the desk. "What is this?"

It took a moment longer - after his immediate and instinctive response - for Richard Ekhart to realize that the man who'd just barged into his office was covered in blood and carrying a loaded rifle. His eyes widened noticeably as the sight registered, and Hannibal took three quick steps to his desk before heaving the small pack he was carrying onto the desk, ripping it open, and spilling the contents in front of the man. A dozen blood-soaked, handmade dolls and toys dropped onto his paperwork and overflowed into his lap. He jumped back so far and so fast he tipped his chair over backwards.

"A few souvenirs," Hannibal growled through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing hatred. "From the mission you just sent me on."

He reached deeper into the bag, for the folder that had gotten caught. It too was covered in fresh, still-sticky blood. As he threw it on the desk, the contents scattered everywhere. "And if you didn't learn anything from this about letting the VC into your classified files, then next time don't call me. Because once I walk out of this office, if I ever see your face again, I will shoot you dead."

The man stood gaping at him, eyes wide, unable to speak. With pure hate in his tone and every movement he made, Hannibal grabbed one of the dolls with string hair and button eyes and threw it as hard as he could at the man's chest. "This is on you!" he yelled. "These are the children whose lives your mistake cost!"

Throwing the pack on the floor, he leaned on the desk with both arms. "And I hope you never sleep another night without knowing that in spite of your three piece suit and your manicured nails, you're a fucking cold blooded murderer. You just don't have the balls to pull your own goddamn trigger."

Still, the man said nothing. Staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, he was too dumbfounded to react at all. Furious, and not adequately vindicated, Hannibal swept his arm across the desk, dumping the contents onto the floor. Then he spun and walked to the door where the secretary was standing with a similarly shocked expression. Almost out of the room, Hannibal turned back.

"By the way," he snarled. "We used AK-47s so that no one would trace it back to you. And I expect that you will have a team of men on their way within the hour to bury those bodies. Don't disappoint me!"

He turned away again, and this time made it to the door before a shaky voice stopped him. "Colonel Smith?"

He spun quickly, and his eyes locked hard on the man - as if he could kill him with that glare alone. "What?"

A long hesitation, then Ekhart finally cleared his throat. "Thank you."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed into slits. "Fuck you. I'm a soldier, I don't do this for gratitude. And I'm not a goddamn murderer for hire. Don't you ever forget that!"

Without another word, he turned and walked away, pushing his way out of the door, and out of the office.