CHAPTER SEVEN
Fort Bragg
December 28, 1971
Following the now familiar route, Face walked between the two MPs into the building where he'd been interviewed for the last five days. He almost chuckled at the thought. Interviewed wasn't exactly the right descriptive word. In these five days, he'd simply watched an incompetent investigative officer become more and more frustrated. To her credit, she had tenacity. She appeared perfectly willing to smash her head repeatedly against every wall he erected. But he was a little surprised Lieutenant Dyer hadn't been thrown off the case by her superiors in favor of someone with more experience.
On autopilot, Face turned down the first corridor on the left, heading towards the barren room with furniture bolted to the floor. He'd sit in the goldfish bowl as Dyer's superiors watched through the two way mirror. She'd arrive. Then they'd spend a few hours dancing before he was escorted back to his cell. He was getting quite used to the routine.
"Peck?" One of the escorting MPs caught his attention before he stepped out ahead of them. To his surprise, and with a guiding hand on his upper arm, he was led deeper into the building, away from the interview rooms. Without comment, he followed into a stairwell to the second floor, where the tile floor changed to thin carpet. There, a few steps down the hallway, the lead MP knocked before pushing open a plain wooden door and stepping aside to allow Face entry.
Not sure what to think, he stepped into a typical office. Filing cabinets and a large bookcase filled with legal titles lined the walls. There were two desks, both with an assortment of files and paperwork neatly arranged on them. One desk had a couple of photos proper on the edge, showing a typical all American family. Behind the other, Lieutenant Dyer sat reading a file.
"Please, take a seat," she invited without looking up, indicating the office chair opposite her.
Face could see the chair normally belonged behind the unoccupied desk and had only recently been moved to its current location. Curious, he took the seat and waited as Dyer nodded to the two MPs. They left a moment later, closing the door as they went and without removing his handcuffs.
The young investigative officer stood up and moved over to one of the filing cabinets. A coffee thermos sat on top, and she poured herself a mug. "Would you like some?" she asked without turning to look at him.
When he didn't reply instantly, she turned and peered at him through a simple pair of glasses, patiently waiting. He hadn't seen her wearing glasses before today…
In truth, he was far more interested in the contents of the room than in the coffee, although a healthy dose of caffeine would be much appreciated. And a cigarette. The craving hit him with unexpected force as he caught a whiff of the coffee in the open thermos. Anything he could learn about her - including the family photos she'd carelessly left out - could potentially be used to his advantage. Not that he needed much of an advantage with this one. It was rather like child's play, chatting with her hour after hour.
As if suddenly realizing he'd been asked a question, he gave her a full smile and glanced back. "Coffee would be nice, thanks."
She poured a second mug. Placing it in front of him, she retook her seat the other side of the desk and self-consciously pushed the glasses up her nose. He could see her uneasiness, and wondered whether she actually needed them or if they simply served as a barrier to the eye contact she never seemed to want to make with him.
Taking a sip of her own, black coffee, she pulled out one of the files and settled back quietly to read, ignoring him. Perfectly at ease in the silence, Face raised his cup with shackled hands and took a slow sip of the scalding coffee. That was an impressive thermos; he wondered where she'd gotten it. Eyes closed, he set a calm and relaxed smile on his face and settled in for a light nap. He knew intimidation tactics well - how to use them and how to resist. Silence was a powerful tool that was all but useless against him.
"Help yourself to more," she offered getting up to retrieve some paperwork.
Face dozed. He hadn't seen Hannibal or BA since being locked up here, and the solitude was getting to him more than anything else. All in all, he was being treated quite well - especially considering what he had to compare it to. The last prison he'd been in hadn't been nearly so neat and tidy. Three square meals a day and plenty of peace and quiet wasn't a bad way to live. Except for the boredom, he could actually be quite comfortable here. Of course, that boredom would get old pretty fast. And he really, really wanted a cigarette…
Vietnam
August 10, 1968
The third day after a surgery or major injury was supposed to be when it felt noticeably better. Cipher knew this from his experience as a medic, and in the case of his own injuries, it had been remarkably accurate as well. Although he couldn't be sure whether it was the lack of pain or the sheer boredom that drove him from the sick bay just as fast as his feet could carry him, it didn't much matter. After more than a week of "taking it easy" he was more than ready to step outside the camp, even if only on a quick recon sweep of the area outside the perimeter.
He was being tested, and he knew it. This area was pretty secure. Hannibal just wanted to be sure he was at full strength before taking him back to combat and, to be fair, he was tired much more quickly than he probably should have been. Blood loss would do that, even a week after. But he'd kept up by stubborn force of will, and Hannibal actually seemed pretty impressed by the time they stopped for lunch and Pok Time.
"So how did you end up here?" Face asked as he took a drink from his canteen, resting back against a fallen tree. Seated only a short distance from where Hannibal and Boston were quietly conversing, he looked far more relaxed than either of them.
Cipher shifted and tossed the irritating stick under his leg into the small fire where they'd warmed lunch. The fact that they'd made a fire to begin with spoke to the relative safety of this area. It was quite a luxury to have a hot meal in the dense overgrowth of the jungle.
"Vietnam, you mean?" Cipher asked noncommittally.
"Most people would go home after sustaining injuries like you just had," Face prodded. "Or at least they'd ask to. But you came voluntarily and dropped out of college to do it. Med school, no less. And you came as a private. Doesn't make sense."
Cipher's jaw ticked. Actually, it had been pre-med, and how Face knew any of that, Cipher wasn't entirely sure. He had very good reasons for keeping his past under wraps, and he kept a close eye on anyone who knew bits and pieces of it. That he'd chosen to come to Vietnam - and as a private rather than a much-needed officer - was a fact, but not one he ever given any indication he wanted to discuss. He was pretty sure of that. Even Hannibal hadn't asked. Looking away again, Cipher didn't answer.
"Alright, so how 'bout this," Face pressed. "How'd you hook up with Hannibal?"
That one, Cipher could answer. Everybody had a story about Hannibal and how they came to be on this team. "Saw him in action," he replied.
"Yeah?" Face asked with interest.
Cipher shrugged slightly, ignoring any feeling associated with the memories of dragging Hannibal, bleeding and protesting, into the chopper. He hadn't wanted a rescue. With his team slaughtered in front of him, all he'd wanted was to kill every one of the enemy that he could before he gave up his last breath.
Face looked across at Hannibal for a long moment, but kept his voice down. "I still don't think I know him," he said. "But they say he's out of his fucking mind."
An involuntary smile crossed Cipher's lips. It wasn't even an insult, just an observation. And it was a valid one. "I'll take 'out of his mind' over a dough head paper pusher any day of the week."
"Yeah," Face muttered. "I guess that's what gets me about it. I mean, what's a Colonel doing in the field?"
Cipher almost laughed. It didn't take much to see that Hannibal would never sit behind a desk. It'd be the end of the man. Even Cipher could see that and he didn't pride himself on analysis to any degree.
"I couldn't care less about the man's rank," Cipher said firmly. "I saw what I needed to a while ago."
"What was that?" Face asked with more enthusiasm than Cipher had been expecting.
For a moment, Cipher eyed him. If he had doubts about Hannibal, that was normal. But it was also dangerous if he didn't figure out pretty quick where he stood. If those doubts made him hesitate at the wrong moment, it could mean their lives.
"Look," Cipher said seriously. "Whatever you gotta do to make peace with it, do it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe he's a damn good One-Zero. That's the bottom line."
Face looked steadily at Cipher, and smirked slightly. "Bottom line for me is I'm here to kill and probably be killed. I don't much care who orders me to pull the trigger." He glanced away. "I'm just a little curious about this team. What it is, why it is -"
"Doesn't matter," Cipher interrupted. "It just is."
Face's eyes were somehow cold when he looked back at Cipher. "I don't need to know the gory details of everybody's story to guess that every one of us on this team has one."
Involuntarily, Cipher's eyes narrowed as he evaluated whether or not Face meant for that to sound like a threat.
"There's something about all of us that keeps us from being status quo," Face continued with conviction. "I'm just wondering if Hannibal's part of that or if he feeds on it. Makes a big difference."
"He's a Colonel in the field," Cipher pointed out. "That in and of itself should answeryour question."
Face looked away. "Thing is, I had a choice between joining this team and spending a hell of a long time behind bars."
"Hard decision?" Cipher taunted.
"No." Face looked back towards Hannibal. "But I wanna know what the hell his choice was. Because like you said, he's a colonel in the field."
Cipher chuckled at that. It didn't matter to him in the least what Hannibal's choice had been. But if Face really needed to know, "Go ask him." Cipher smiled widely. "If you ask him nicely enough, he might even tell you. But in the end, what the fuck difference does any of it make?"
Face watched him for a moment, then looked at Hannibal again. "It doesn't." He sighed deeply as he shifted and put his head back on the tree. "In the end, we're all here for the same thing and waiting for the same end. And there's no fucking glory in any of it."
FORT BRAGG
DECEMBER 28, 1971
Lieutenant Dyer knew full well why she'd been given the job of questioning Peck. She was just waiting for the other boot to drop. Peck had been second in command and he'd been so keen to stay with his unit he'd returned to 'Nam even after getting a free pass. None of the investigative team actually believed he'd burn Smith. Baracus- now he offered a chance at getting the true story. Their finest negotiator had been sent in to talk to him. Accordingly, Major Downing hadn't even bothered to hide his disgust at being assigned a female investigative officer for Peck. He accepted it with the knowledge that he would soon have an excuse to ship her to the outback of beyond. Her failure to get a simple statement from Peck only made her fate more certain.
At the very least she could get on with other paperwork. This wasn't her only case, after all, and she wasn't getting anywhere with Peck. Maybe an altogether different approach would actually accomplish something. As she watched the man sleep, wondering if he'd start drooling or more likely snoring, she reconsidered her optimism.
He didn't look comfortable in that position, and he couldn't possibly be sleeping deeply. She cleared her throat to wake but not startle him. It was unwise to wake a soldier suddenly, especially one who'd been in active combat.
"Lieutenant Peck, I'm going to order up some lunch," she declared. The way he distinctly didn't startle was a dead giveaway that he'd either woken up at the slightest sound or hadn't been actually asleep. "What would you like me to request for you?"
Her hand hovered over the telephone on her desk as his eyes opened and the familiar smile was in place again. "Filet mignon would be nice," he returned pleasantly. "With a red wine? I believe it's red wine that goes with red meat. Medium rare with a baked potato on the side."
His smile never faltered, as if he completely expected that it was the type of answer she was looking couldn't help herself and smiled at the ludicrous request. "I'll see what I can do, but I think it will probably be more along the lines of red Kool Aid and a steak sandwich with fries."
"Sounds good to me," he lied. If he was like any other soldier freshly back from Vietnam, he would probably rather die of thirst than drink another glass of Kool Aid. Luckily for him, cans of Coke were usually readily available at the takeout sandwich shop down the road.
After placing her order, she returned to her files. His eyes bored into her, and she was acutely aware of the way she kept pushing the glasses up her nose and just how hard it was to avoid fidgeting under his watchful stare. She felt awkward and her hands needed a job. But hell would freeze over before she started nervously twisting her hair in front of the suspect.
"So how did you land this job?" he finally asked with dull curiosity.
"Your guess is as good as mine," she said with a slightly nervous laugh, glad that he'd finally broken the silence. "I thought I'd be writing your statement for hours. Instead I seem to have a tremendous amount of time to catch up on old paperwork."
"Glad I could assist in lightening your workload," he offered with a grin.
She sighed heavily, leaned back, and folded her hands as she regarded him calmly from her side of the desk. "LT, this is pretty simple," she informed. "Either I'm going to document the facts from your perspective - because that's my job, y'know, to write it all up - or I'm not. If you don't have anything to say, then I have nothing to write and the court has nothing to take into account. If there's anything you want to say on your behalf, now is the time."
But the man only shrugged. "I've already given the facts," he said lightly. "We were all debriefed when we returned from Hanoi and I'm pretty sure you've got those records."
"I've got lots of records." She tapped the largest folder on the side of her desk and met his gaze with as much confidence as she could muster. "And, as you've already pointed out, I'm sure there is another file out there somewhere with your name on it, which my security level doesn't allow me access to."
He chuckled. "And you think I would just divulge all of that information which your security level doesn't allow you access to?" His smile turned to a smirk. "Why Lieutenant, that would be grounds for a court martial."
"All I'm here to do is take your statement," she clarified. Propping her elbows on the desk she cradled her head in her hands, peering over the glasses. "I don't actually care what you did in Southeast Asia. But clearly the people who sent me in here thought you would be able to tell me enough - without classified information - to make our conversations worthwhile."
Rolling his eyes, he heaved a sigh. "And I don't actually care what your superiors thought," he admitted. "We're wasting each other's time."
"You are one of only a handful of men to escape a VC prison camp -" she glanced at the folder as he tensed just slightly "- all on your own, and make it to safety. Now I know about the enemy's interrogation methods - how they get POWs to sign fake confessions. Can I ask you why you are treating this investigation like I'm doing the same thing?"
He had no answer ready, and she hardly paused for breath before continuing. "I have been employed by the army to record your personal statement," she reminded him, "and that is all I want to do. I don't care what that statement entails. Whether you're released or lined up in front of a firing squad, I go home tonight and eat pizza on my living room sofa. So either give me a statement or I will simply record that you had nothing to say for yourself.
Proud of herself for finally getting all that out, she picked up her coffee mug and tried not to look stupid as she drank from an empty cup.
"Look," he sighed, "I'm hearing you. But I'm also under no delusions about the military justice system."
"Delusions?" she repeated, confused. Where the hell was he going with this?
"We're all part of a whole," he clarified, though it seemed no clearer to her. "And if it's for the good of the whole that the guilty go free or the innocent get locked away, that's precisely what will happen. I've seen it. Hell, I've lived it."
Her jaw dropped. "So you think, what?" she challenged in disbelief. "The army is framing you for the greater good?"
"For us to be here in the first place tells me how this is supposed to go," he continued without flinching. "So while I do sympathize, helping you do your job is not real high on my list of priorities. We both know I'm not walking out of this prison, no matter what I tell you or what I don't."
Still staring at him in frank shock, she shook her head. My God, had he been in the jungle so long it had scrambled his brain? It was the only explanation she could come to. He was so suspicious, he wouldn't even follow due process, let alone allow her to help him.
Finally, she composed herself and gave him a halfhearted smile. "Well, if your choice is silence I hope you don't think I'm being rude getting on with paperwork until lunch arrives."
He nodded his understanding. "I don't mind." With a sigh, he settled back again, eyes closed for another nap. "Though after lunch, while you're so graciously taking requests, there is one thing that might make me substantially more cooperative."
Her head snapped up and she cursed herself instantly for her overeager response. "Um, yeah, what is it?" Damn it, now she was stumbling over her words! She cleared her throat. "What is your request?"
Opening his eyes again, he stared straight at her with the too-familiar piercing look that shot right through her. His smile was cordial, but it didn't reach those ice cold eyes as he spoke plainly and clearly. "I want to see my team."