CHAPTER TWO

Vietnam

July 20,1968

General Ross Westman's nerves were made of steel. Running a war tended to do that to a man - either he got hard or he got burned out. But that didn't mean there weren't occasional challenges that set the general's teeth on edge. Some, he eliminated. Others, he appreciated. Occasionally, he merely tolerated. But one particular challenge, could not be easily categorized into helpful, harmful, infuriating, or invaluable because it was quite often all of those things at the same time. That challenge had a name: Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith.

"General?"the secretary called through the cracked open door. "Colonel Smith to see you?"

Although his shoulders tightened immediately, Westman didn't look up from his paperwork as he called an authoritative, "Send him in."

He heard the footsteps, and the door closed a moment later with the man who was both the best and worst of his retinue of problem-solvers on the inside. Hannibal offered only a simple, "General," in greeting, and waited for him to look up.

Once finished with the final signature, Westman dropped his pen and straightened his posture, eyes fixed on the colonel - young, for his rank - standing by the door. "Are you kidding me?" he demanded, sure the context would be conveyed without having to spell it out.

Nevertheless, Hannibal feigned shock and surprise. "What do you mean, sir?"

"You don't know what I mean?" Westmanasked with a disbelieving laugh void of humor. He stood, and picked up the file from the corner of his desk. "You send mea file on a man with a rap sheet a half a mile long and expect me to simply sign off on him as part of your team? Is this a joke?"

"You told me to choose my men, sir," Hannibal replied, as if he couldn't understand the confusion. "From anywhere."

Westman stared. Surely, he couldn't be serious. Still waiting for the punch line, head shaking in disbelief, he dropped the folder back on the desk and leaned forward on his arms. "What am I supposed to do?" he challenged. "Make all those charges go away?"

"You did say anywhere, General," Hannibal reminded again, smiling with great amusement.

A flicker of real anger sparked at the arrogance of the man who would try to make it seem as though he was overreacting. In fact, Hannibal was well and truly out of his mind if he thought the stockade was the ideal place to start looking for his new team and they both knew it.

Refocusing his attention to give the real problem a moment to settle, the generalturned and headed to the filing cabinet, retrieving a small bottle of homebrew. "And are you confident in this one?" Westmandemanded. "Or did the fact that he's behind bars prevent him from passing your interview process?"

The mildly mocking tone clarified exactly what he thought of Hannibal's lengthy "interview" process, taking men out into the jungle to see if they could meet his standards. Out of the ten or so names that had floated across Westman's desk that kept him informed of Hannibal's whereabouts, in the end the colonel had settled on the two men Westman had picked out for him in the first place - the medic who'd pulled him out of the jungle and the volunteer who'd brazenly come all the way to the top to request reassignment - but only after he'd proven their skills. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, this boy soldier's folder had been thrown in.

"His CO vouched for him," Hannibal responded, as if that was sufficient for this kid in spite of the fact that it had meant nothing with all the others until they'd done at least a few days of low-level recon work under his direction.

Westman poured a small glass of the moonshine, shaking his head. He wanted to see Hannibal restored; the man's confidence had taken an almighty blow with the massacre of his team several months ago and quite apart from the fact that he was immensely useful as head of an off-the-books team of "fixers", the friendship fostered by years of intertwined service and camaraderie made Westman care for the young and headstrong colonel far more than he would ever be willing to admit. But this was not the way to go about it.

"You do realize he's about to be dishonorably discharged," he said, putting the bottle back and closing the cabinet drawer again.

Hannibal seemed neither surprised nor impressed. "That remains for the jury to determine, Sir."

"Oh, he's guilty," Westman laughed, without humor. "With a list that long, he's guilty of something."

The glass of alcohol remained untouched on the desk as he sat down heavily and reached for his cigarettes. This side-project of Hannibal's - a new challenge by the name of Templeton Peck - would probably double his paperwork overnight. And that was a best case scenario.

Shaking his head in disbelief that Smith might even consider the young sergeant an innocent victim of misunderstanding, Westman lit his cigarette, then dropped his lighter with a bit more force than strictly necessary. "You're out of your mind, John," he warned.

Hannibal straightened a little, noting the tested tone of voice. As Westman picked up the glass in his free hand, Colonel John Smith looked him square in the eye and declared with the utmost sincerity and conviction, "I need him, sir."

Westman set the glass back down hard enough to make the alcohol slosh up over the side. "Like hell you do!" he shot back, leaning forward on the desk. "And you know it damn well. You need that sergeant like you need a hole in the head; I need that sergeant like a hole in the head!"

It was infuriatingly obvious that Hannibal was hiding a smile, but he said nothing.

Pulling a much needed drag from the cigarette, Westman shook his head and sat back again. As he calmed quickly, he took a small sip from the glass. "I got enough problems covering your ass," he pointed out with a brief glare at the young colonel. "I don't need another one like you. And at least you don't break the goddamn law."

"I wouldn't expect you to cover his ass, General," Hannibal clarified, finally letting the casual, devil-may-care smile fall away completely. "On my team, he's my problem. If he steps out of line, he's on his way back to the States to face a court martial."

Shaking his head with even more enthusiasm, Westmantook another sip before resting his forehead against the fingers of his cigarette hand. "I am not going to sweep a list of crimes this long under the rug," he said firmly. "Not to give a second chance to a renegade who never should've been here to begin with."

"Have you actually looked at his charges?" Hannibal challenged. "Or his record at all? He doesn't play by the rules; I'll give you that. But he's damn good."

"So in other words, he's like you," Westman summarized. "Which is precisely my point!"

"He does whatever gets the job done," Hannibal continued, not missing a beat. "Come hell or high water, he's got his team's back and I need men like that."

Westman stared in disbelief at the young colonel going to bat for a kid he'd never even met with a list of charges a mile long. There was no family relation between the two of them; Westman had checked, in pursuit of some logical explanation for why this one had caught Hannibal's eye. They were similarly reckless but in very different ways: Hannibal broke rules but had little interest in personal gain, and he always made sure he had an escape plan - a way to cut through red tape and worm his way around the consequences on his military career. Perhaps it was simply lack of experience that made Peck throw his career in the toilet, but he'd made the kind of bold moves - and mistakes - that Westman couldn't fix on a regular basis. He might be able to get away with it once, if he could come up with a good enough reason, but if it ever happened again, it would reflect poorly on all of them. It was a risk Westman wasn't prepared to take.

"The fact that he has a lot to lose if he messes up makes him even more valuable," Hannibal went on, like a pit bull that intended to shake Westman's resistance to death in his teeth. "He's got a second chance. That's a good reason to keep his nose perfectly clean."

Still staring, Westmantook another drag from his cigarette. He'd half expected it really was a joke, that Hannibal would come into this office, laugh at the disbelieving look on his face, and hand over the real request for his team with a broad-smiled "Gotcha!" But to Westman's concern and, frankly, horror, it seemed he was earnestly pleading for this lawless boy soldier.

"It might be a good reason," Westman granted. "But I don't know that it's a reasonable expectation to set on a man - a boy - who's had a hell of a lot of trouble living up to an acceptable standard."

Hannibal didn't waver. Staring intently at the seated general in a practiced "at ease" position, he said once again with complete conviction, "Ross, I need this one."

Westman took another drink. God, he was going to need the whole bottle in order to choke down this request. Closing his eyes to consider just how much Hannibal might be willing to fight about this and, more importantly, why, he finally looked up again and met the colonel's stare.

"You give me one good reason," he demanded. "The real reason you want this one. Because I gotta be honest, John, I'm about ready to send you for another psych eval."

When Hannibal spoke again, it was in a dead serious tone Westman wasn't used to hearing from the normally arrogant and confident man. "He's good," he said flatly, finally coming clean. "One of his teammates told me about how he walked right into a bar that the VC had locked down with one of our men inside and came right back out through the front door with the man in his arms. Never fired a single shot."

Westman raised an interested brow. "How did he do it?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Hannibal continued. "He got medical supplies out of a VC hospital. Managed to requisition both a helicopter and a pilot - an NVA pilot - when his team got shot down, and then turned that enemy soldier into an asset. And he did it all without even being able to speak Vietnamese."

"Doesn't mean a damn thing if you can't control him," Westman reminded with a sigh.

"I won't have to," Hannibal said confidently. "He'll control himself if the stakes are high enough. He's not stupid."

"Could've fooled me," Westman muttered under his breath. Still not convinced, he shook his head again as he crushed out his cigarette in the half-full ashtray.

Hannibal took a step forward as he gave the effort one final shot. "Ross, his CO was the one who came to me," he said quietly, "to ask me if there was anything I could do for him after he was arrested."

The colonel's trump card was one Westman hadn't expected. Blinking in surprise, he tried to come up with one good reason why any self-respecting officer would go to such lengths for a renegade.

"He's young and he's stupid, but he's damn good," Hannibal continued, supplying the answer to the unspoken question. "And based on how his CO talks about him, I don't think he's half as self-serving as he looks on paper."

"And that's supposed to make all of this okay," Westman said dryly, gesturing at the file.

Hannibal's eyes narrowed in challenge. "Why don't you talk to him, General?" he suggested quietly. A slight smirk crossed Hannibal's lips as he considered the thought. "It might be an enlightening experience for both of you."

With a sigh, Westman finally sat forward and rubbed both hands over his tired eyes. "Fine," he relented. "I'll talk to him. And if you wear me down on this, you may well get what you want. But I can promise you one thing, John." Looking up, he fixed Hannibal in a hard stare as he finished with conviction, "That boy is going to be far more trouble than he's worth."

Fort Bragg

December 22, 1971

"Your team was initially larger than just Peck and Baracus," Major Downing pointed out, watching as Colonel Smith poured a fresh cup of coffee from the newly-filled thermos. It was frankly awe-inspiring how much bad coffee that man could drink. "Sergeant Jack Harring, Sergeant Ray Brenner,and PFC Bill Tawney were all associated with you at one point or another. Tell me about what happened to them."

"Brenner went home to be with his wife," Smith reported simply. "Sergeant Harring is currently recovering from injuries in a hospital in Japan and Tawney is deceased."

"What kind of injuries?" Downing pressed.

Smith smiled politely. "Why don't you call the hospital and ask?"

"Does that mean you don't know?" Downing challenged with a raised brow, waiting to see how Smith might try to squirm out of this one.

"No," Smith replied. "It means I'm not willing to discuss it. And unless it's part of the current investigation, I'm pretty sure it's not important."

So much for squirming. As the silence lingered uncomfortably for a moment, Downing nodded. "Perhaps we could discuss Tawney then," he suggested. "He died in a POW camp? I understand he was never recovered."

Instantly, Downing knew he'd hit a nerve. As he spoke again, Smith's tone was as icy as his stare. "Yes," he said flatly. "He was buried in the ground and decaying by the time we managed to escape so we couldn't take him with us. What's your point?"

"How did your team manage to escape from that camp?" Downing pressed.

"You've got the report," Smith shot back. "Read it."

Downing smiled. Though still maintaining calm authority, Smith was clearly reeling from the nerve the interrogation had perched on. The longer they talked, the better Downing got at finding the man's weak points. "I want to hear it from you," he invited with a smile.

"Why?" The question may as well have been a blatant refusal to cooperate.

"It says a lot about your team." Downing remained calm as he looked the defensive colonel in the eye. "When you got out of there, only one of your men went home. Sergeant -" he consulted his notes "- Ray Brenner. The other three stayed with you."

"Four stayed with me," Hannibal corrected with a glare.
"Well, technically, one went home and then came back," Downing conceded with a nod. "Which is a fascinating discussion in and of itself. How did you manage to convince Captain Murdock to rejoin your team?"

"That's irrelevant," Hannibal shot. "Murdock wasn't even involved in what happened in Hanoi."

Downing raised a brow, amused. "Are you sure about that?"

Smith's eyes narrowed into slits. After a long pause, he leaned forward, weight on his arms. "He was a fucking pilot, nothing more. He wasn't even briefed on the mission."

"A pilot permanently assigned to your team," Downing clarified.

"Yes, but he didn't know a damn thing about what happened on the ground," Smith continued roughly. "If you want to go pull him out of the hospital and ask him yourself, you be my guest."

Downing stared for a long moment, watching as Smith held his gaze steady. They both knew Captain Murdock was in no position to be answering questions. Not breaking eye contact, the colonel slowly sat back and again reached for the pack of cigarettes. With a nod, Downing returned to his notes. It had taken far longer than expected to get the colonel riled, and it certainly wasn't with the obvious approach. This pilot, whoever he was, was clearly a point of vulnerability that might come in handy later.

"Did your men work well together?" Downing continued simply.

Smith eyed him warily, as if expecting some kind of barb in that question. But when none came, he answered just as simply. "We got the job done."

Downing sat back. "Some of your men had a bit of a reputation for violence."

"Every man in Southeast Asia has a reputation for violence," Smith pointed out. "It comes with the territory - bloody war, assault rifles, dead soldiers, violence. Surely you've at least heard about how it works out there."

Ignoring the thinly-veiledinsult, Downing buried himself in the paperwork he had long ago memorized, giving Smith plenty of time to calm back down. It wasn't until the colonel poured yet another cup of coffee that Downing continued. "Tell me about Lieutenant Templeton Peck," he invited, regaining the conversational tone.

Pausing for a sip from the steaming cup, Smith seemed in no great hurry to answer. "What about him?" he replied flatly.

Downing flipped to a blank sheet, set the folder down, and readied his pen for notes. "How did you come to know him?"

"He was recommended to me by his commanding officer," Smith said simply. "I put in the paperwork - which I'm sure you have copies of - and he joined my team."

Downing stared, waiting for more. Smith hadn't told him anything he hadn't already known, and they were both aware of it. But he offered nothing more. Eyes locked, Smith leaned back again and took another careful sip.

"And it was that simple," Downing summarized in obvious disbelief.

Smith nodded. "That simple."

"Had you ever met him before then?" Downing asked curiously.

"Before I got the recommendation?" Smith clarified. "No."

Downing cleared his throat, and scribbled a few words on his pad of paper. "Are you aware of any history of misconduct that Lieutenant Peck may have had before joining your team?"

With a patronizing smile, Smith shook his head. "None whatsoever," he said with confidence. "As I understand it, he was a model soldier."

Vietnam

July 22, 1968

Sergeant Templeton Peck knew his greeting was textbook perfect. The most influential man on this side of the war deserved that much. Standing near the door at attention, he gave the required salute, announced his name and rank, and waited for further instructions. They came with a stare meant to pierce right through his soul as the general ordered, "Close the door."

Taking one step forward, Tem obeyed, then stood at attention again. General Ross Westman, whom he was watching out of the corner of his eye, sized him up from the chair on the other side of the desk. After a long, appraising look, Westman gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit your ass down, boy."

Although his tone was anything but friendly, Tem didn't flinch. He obeyed, fixing his attention on the blank wall beyond where the general was seated. There was an open file on his desk and Tem's picture was in it, but he didn't take the bait. He didn't know or particularly care what was in that file. Suffice to say it wasn't going to redeem him from the impending court martial.

"You know why you're here?" the general asked, with a thick southern accent.

"No, sir," Tem replied simply and safely.

The answer wasn't sufficient. "Take a guess."

If he didn't want textbook, blatant honesty was the next approach. "Either Colonel Hannibal Smith asked you to talk to me," Tem said flatly, "or you just want the opportunity to chew my ass like everybody else."

"Oh, you're funny," Westman growled, not appreciating the honesty much either. "Real fuckin' comedian."

"Wasn't trying to be funny, sir," Tem clarified.

The general stared at him for a long moment, then rose to his feet, slowly parading around to the front of the desk where he could stand just a few looming feet away. It was an intimidation tactic, but Tem was too damn tired of playing the army game to even give a halfhearted effort at giving the appropriate feedback.

"This war is fuckin' hell, Sergeant," Westmandeclared loudly. His authoritative voice rang off the empty walls. "Been in this country six goddamn years and it just keeps gettin' worse. Seen a lot of clowns come through here - clowns just like you. Seen a lot of 'em go home in body bags, too."

Tem blinked slowly, but kept his eyes straight ahead, perfect posture, not flinching as the four star general leaned over him and asked, "So how come you're still alive?"

For a moment, he debated the safest answer to that question. Simplicity wouldn't work, he was pretty sure, and honesty would sound dangerously like arrogance. The general certainly didn't want to hear that from a young sergeant. Finally, Tem spoke, his voice low and steady. "I've had a good team, sir. And I had good training."

"You've had one hell of a good training," Westman agreed quickly, grabbing onto the statement like a dog that had just found a big, juicy bone. "One hell of an expensive training. Feedin' you, clothin' you, payin' the best men we have to walk you though it step by step, teach you how to stay alive out there."

Tem didn't flinch. His training had cost nothing compared to the fighter pilots in the Air Force and Navy. Or even the Army chopper pilots. In the end, despite all that "expensive" training, he was far more expendable than any of them. He knew it, but kept his thoughts to himself. Westman was going somewhere with this, he was sure.

"Now we gotta pay even more money out so that we can have ourselves a court martial. We gotta pay your prosecution attorney, and then we gotta pay your defense attorney, and then we gotta feed and clothe your worthless ass in a military prison for the next twenty years."

Tem could think of a simple solution to that.

"And what have we gotten out of you?" Westman demanded. "Finer men than you have died out there. Why not you? How come you're still alive?"

Jaw set against a personal attack that was hitting far below the belt, Tem stared straight ahead. Every man out there asked that question, and Westman knew it. Anyone who'd ever had a friend or teammate die in his arms asked, "Why him and not me?" Tem could hear the flicker of anger in his voice as he said decisively, "I don't dwell on things like that, sir."

"Why the hell not?"Westman challenged.

Tem'seyes narrowed, and he glared daggers at the wall. "Because I'm a soldier," he growled back. "Sir."

Westman snorted with laughter. "Not for much longer." There was that dog with the bone again, twisting his words to use them for his own purposes. "You're goin' to jail for a long time, boy."

"Then so be it," Tem replied. "I'm not exactly sure what you want me to say. Sir."

Westman leaned back on the desk with his arms across his on the intimidation tactics - ineffective as they ultimately were -Tem wondered if he might've been a drill sergeant once a very long time ago. The thought was amusing, but he knew better than to smile.

"You ain't even sorry for what you did, are you?"Westmanbaited.

Tem didn't answer, just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

"Look at me, boy!" Westman snapped suddenly. "I'm talkin' to you!"

Slowly, deliberately, Tem shifted his gaze, staring the general straight in the eye. But still, he didn't speak until the general snarled, "I asked you a question."

Tem glared at the senior officer who outranked him by so much, he could probably shoot him and put him in the ground and nobody would ask questions. He'd had enough. The game was not difficult, but it was never-ending and the prize for winning was useless. Why shouldn't he laugh? Or, better, why shouldn't he give this pompous ass a healthy dose of insubordination just to remind him that not everyone gave a damn about his medals and stars? Tem saw no reason to lie, to apologize, to admit wrong. One way or another, it would end up the same: The general would do what he'd purposed to do before Tem ever set foot in the room. What was said didn't make a damn bit of difference.

"I'm not sorry," Tem declared proudly.

Westman was good at hiding his surprise, but Tem saw it in his eyes, just for an instant, before he abruptly challenged, "Why the hell not?"

"Because when my team needed supplies, I got them," Tem answered low, angrily. "I got them from the Vietnamese, I got them from the Yards, and I got them from other Americans. I stole them if I had to. I traded with the NVA, the VC, the Cambodians and the Chinese. I traded drugs, I traded sex, and I traded any information I had that wasn't classified, dangerous, or this war is hell and I made it more bearable."

Westman turned his back, walking around the desk again. But Tem didn't stop. He'd opened his mouth now and he wouldn't stop until he'd said his peace. "A lot of times, I traded things that I didn't own," he continued, glaring hard at the man who slowly walked to the window. "Things that I took from burned out villages with bloody and mangled women and children lying in the streets. I stole from them. You bet your ass I stole from them. And because of it my unit has never lackedanything. I'm not sorry for that. I'm fucking proud of it."

"That's not the way we do things here, Sergeant," Westman said firmly.

Tem bit back every snide remark that almost made its way to his mouth. His contempt for the way things were done in the Army - when people died from lack of hope just as easily as from a bullet - would be saved for another time.

"The Army says I was wrong for what I did," he growled. "So I'll be more than happy to go to jail for it. But if you're asking me to be sorry, you've got another thing coming. Because I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. My people come first. If I would die for them, kill for them, why the hell wouldn't I steal for them?"

"Because that's not the way the war is won," the general answered, staring out the window.

Tem continued to burn holes into the back of Westman's head. "I didn't come here to win a goddamn war. I came here to help the guys that people like you don't give a damn about. To help them live and help them have a reason for living." He expected to be interrupted. When he wasn't, he finished quickly, in a jumbled rush he wasn't sure really conveyed how strongly he felt about all of this. "Go ahead and send me to jail. But don't tell me to be sorry because I'll never apologize for what I did."

The general was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he sighed deeply, as if the game had ended and there was no more reason to act like he had such a stick up his ass. "I can see why he likes you," he declared.

Tem's eyes narrowed, not trusting the sudden change in demeanor. "Why who likes me?" he demanded.

Westman glanced back at him. The rough, authoritative attitude had dropped from both his voice and his stare. "Colonel Smith."

The name elicited an instant glare from Tem, but he quickly turned his eyes back to the wall. "Colonel Smith and I didn't talk about any of that," he said coolly.

"Well, then he has good instincts," Westman replied, sounding almost impressed. "Because you're certainly his type."

"His type?" Tem repeated with contempt. He looked back at the general who was once again staring out the window.

Westman was quiet for a moment. Then, finally, he turned back. "You know the charges against you?" he asked, almost casually.

Tem watched him, wary of the question and the change in tone. When officers talked so freely, they were usually trying to elicit feelings of camaraderie that would give them grounds to make requests beyond the call of duty. "I do," Tem finally answered flatly.

"I want a detailed explanation in writing of every one of them." Westman stopped at his desk and flipped the folder closed. "Leave nothing out. You're giving this to me, not to the court."

Tem stared in blinking silence for a long moment. What the hell kind of request was that? "And what will you do with it?" he demanded.

Westman stared him straight in the eye. "I'll rewrite it for you," he answered dryly, completely void of emotion. "And help you turn it into something that I can present to the Pentagon. For a pardon."

Tem flinched. He couldn't help it.

"Conditional, of course, upon your ability to keep your record clean from this point forward." Westman leaned forward on the desk. "Whether or not I agree with you, Sergeant, I cannot condone your illegal actions - not now or in the future."

Tem was staring at him, not sure he'd really heard what he thought he heard. He didn't think he was doing a very good job of hiding his surprise, but he was too flabbergasted to even try.

"Now get the hell out of my office," Westman ordered, offhandedly gesturing to the door. "And don't come back without that explanation."

Still blinking in stunned confusion, Tem obeyed on autopilot - rising, saluting, and marching out of the room. It wasn't until he was halfway down the hallway to the building's main doors that he realized the military police escort had already left and it suddenly dawned on him that in the span of two minutes, his entire life had done a sudden U-turn from prison to voluntary indefinite status in MACV-SOG.