CHAPTER THREE

Fort Bragg

December 22, 1971

"Do you expect me to believe that you never had any behavioral issues with members of your team?" Major Downing asked with obvious disbelief.

Hannibal lit another cigarette. This guy was a joke. Two hours of this, and they were still dancing around bullshit that made not one bit of difference in the larger scheme of things. At least, it didn't make a difference to Hannibal. Downing seemed to be scrounging for any kind of dirt he could get on them. He wouldn't get it. Hannibal knew exactly what was - and what wasn't - in all their files, right up to the final mission they'd carried out for Colonel Morrison. And he wasn't about to give this "investigative officer" anything he didn't already have.

That said, Downing probably had - or at least had access to - the information Hannibal didn't have. Like why they were here, and where the breakdown in communication was, and why Westman hadn't been notified yet. One phone call to or from him would've cleared this whole damn thing up. So why hadn't that phone call been placed? Where, exactly, did Westman think he'd disappeared to?

"As I understand it, there are a number of outside reports - unofficial - concerning your Lieutenant Peck," Downing said, with such obvious bait, Hannibal damn near rolled his eyes. "And Sergeant Harring, as well."

"Sergeant Harring has been honorably discharged," Hannibal said. "He had nothing to do with Hanoi. So you can leave him out of this."

"I intended to," Downing replied.

Hannibal looked across at him, not speaking, simply waiting for the point to be made.

After a lengthy silence, Downing continued, "I'm interested in hearing about your lieutenant." He paused, as if waiting for Hannibal to jump in and spill his heart out about all the trouble his problem child had caused over the years. When it didn't happen, Downing went on again, "I understand he received a presidential pardon for all sorts of illegal, for-profit activities in Vietnam before being assigned to your team."

"Did he?" Hannibal asked, feigning shock. "Wow, that's fascinating. I never knew."

The bait being offered by the major didn't look the least bit appetizing. More importantly, Hannibal wasn't sure what was on the other end of the line. Where the hell was Downing going with this?

"We're just curious as to whose idea it was to rob that bank," Downing finally said, showing his hand so abruptly, Hannibal had to raise a brow. "Because frankly, it doesn't seem to line up with your record or reputation. Or Sergeant Baracus, either."

Hannibal stared at him impassively, hiding his surprise well. Though he wasn't complaining, he'd expected it to take a lot longer than two hours for Downing to burn out and get to the point. Now that he'd heard the goal, Hannibal was supremely unimpressed. Leaning leaned back in his chair, paused for a long drag on his cigarette before ceremoniously tapping the ashes.

"So you want me to burn Face," he concluded, stating it point blank. They might as well stop beating around the bush.

"We're not looking to burn anyone, Colonel," Downing replied with the utmost political correctness. "We're just interested in finding out the truth of what happened. But if it was Lieutenant Peck's idea…"

"Then you'd want me to testify against him," Hannibal supplied when Downing didn't finish.

Downing hesitated. "Well, if he was responsible, then that would be the appropriate thing to do," he said with a subtle grin that suggested he had Hannibal on the line. "And I'm sure some sort of deal could be worked out regarding your involvement."

Hannibal nodded and smiled back. Then he poured a final cup of coffee, took a sip, and stared dreamily off into space as he pondered the option of turning on his team in order to secure his freedom. "Do you know what I think?" he mused, finishing his cigarette and crushing it out in the ashtray.

"What?" Downing asked expectantly.

Letting the major stew in his eager anticipation, Hannibal stared with unfocused eyes for a long moment, then slowly brought his attention back to the conversation at hand. With a smile, he leaned forward, resting folded hands on the tabletop and elbows on the edge. "I think…" Hannibal began, dangling his own bait now and watching how Downing stared at it longingly. He lowered his voice to a whisper, resting more weight forward on the table as if sharing a secret.

"I think you need to go fuck yourself," he finally said with a smile.

The moment of shock on the major's face was brief, but satisfying. Hannibal sat back comfortably again, and reached for his coffee before continuing. "Then you need to get a lawyer in here," he said firmly, "and put in a call to General Westman so we can all find out what the hell went wrong with the orders Morrison was supposed to file. And, if you want to get on my good side, you'll let me see my team."

Downing was not impressed. "You seem very confident that your young lieutenant will feel the same way about testifying against you," he answered with a scowl. "If it was his idea, what makes you so sure he wouldn't plan from the very beginning for you to take the fall?"

Hannibal chuckled, not the least bit intimidated by the suggestion, and took another sip of coffee. "If that's your plan, Major, you're welcome to try," he said with a shrug. "But for what it's worth, I can guarantee you Lieutenant Peck won't be any more cooperative than I am."

Vietnam

July 28, 1968

There were many things Templeton Peck did not trust about his new team. The speed and apparent ease with which his reassignment had gone through had both shocked and worried him. He'd known Hannibal Smith's reputation the same as any other SOG soldier, but the fact that he'd simply put in a request that led General Westman to snap his fingers and the President of the United States to sign a pardon was frankly awe-inspiring. Tem's new commanding officer was powerful, and although he didn't act like he knew it, he would've been a fool not to realize just how intimidating his connections were.

Under strict orders to cut all ties with his past associates and say nothing about his now-pardoned crimes from this point forward, Tem had arrived at Hannibal Smith's doorstep with a completely blank slate before he'd even fully processed the idea that his future once again held more than a prison cell and three square meals a day. There were still a hundred and one problems he hadn't worked through yet - loose ends he needed to tie up in order to keep those past crimes from scribbling graffiti all over his blank slate from now until forever - but there was no time for damage control. By Hannibal's decree, he hit the ground running - literally - at 0400 the first morning of his reassignment.

"Jesus, is he always like this?" Tem gasped, bending at the waist with his hands on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. Eight minute miles were one thing when running on a track, but through the mud? Drenched by the hot, monsoon rain, Tem was sure he was carrying at least ten pounds of warm, sloshing mud in his boots and on the bottom half of his fatigues.

Sergeant Jack "Cipher" Harringonly laughed before sucking in more desperately-needed air. He was not in poor shape - not by any stretch of the imagination. Neither was Tem. But it was a hundred and two fucking degrees and they were just about drowning in the rainwater that weighed down their BDUs and ran in rivers through the mud. Whatever the team had done to make Hannibal prescribe this jog around the perimeter of the camp, Tem was pretty sure he'd not been a part of it. He would remember if he'd pissed someone off that bad.

"What did you do to get this?" he asked, genuinely curious as he stood again and glanced over his shoulder to see Hannibal watching them. He started again, not wanting to give any opportunity for a reprimand for the thirty second break.

"This?" Cipher asked, matching his pace. Every footfall sunk an inch down and it was frankly amazing that nobody had slipped yet. "This is for you, if I had to guess."

Startled, Tem wiped away the sweat and rainwater from his eyes before glancing at the man running beside him again. "Me?" he asked warily.

"He wants… to see if you… can take it," Cipher explained in between full breaths in.

Tem winced. He'd been distinctly hoping not to hear something like that, but at the same time, he'd more or less expected it. Before he had a chance to respond, Hannibal was suddenly running alongside them. "Tired, kid?" he taunted. He was breathing just as hard as they were, but he was doing it with a smile.

"No," Tem answered defiantly. "I could do this all day."

He hoped to God that sounded more convincing than it felt. He knew how easy it would be for Hannibal to call him out. Even as he said it, he realized it was a very stupid thing to say unless he actually wanted to do it all day. But if Hannibal had a mind to break him, they might as well get it over with right from the start.

Instead, Hannibal looked pleased with the response. He turned his attention briefly to Cipher and asked, "Sergeant?"

Cipher grinned like the devil, and Tem almost smiled. As long as Hannibal could keep dishing it out, Cipher could take it, even if it ran him straight into the ground right alongside Tem. "Bring it on, Colonel," Cipher challenged.

"Let's go then," Hannibal pressed. "Eight more laps and if you can do it faster than I can, I'll let you guys have the rest of the night off."

"Really?" Cipher laughed. "Now that's a fucking incentive."

He was off like a shot, his pace doubled instantly. This time, Tem couldn't help but smile. Sheer determination and stubborn defiance were one hell of a boost. Competition was another one. Not about to be outdone by the older sergeant, Tem increased his pace and passed both Hannibal and Cipher within a hundred yards. Maybe he didn't have to trust them to enjoy the benefits they had to offer. Besides, when it came right down to the bottom line, Tem could bullshit with the best of them.

Fort Bragg

December 23, 1971

BA had never had much patience for bullshit. It was ingrained in him from the time he was young; a man should say what he means and mean what he says. That standard had not made him popular with the REMFs in Southeast Asia - let alone the Agency - who didn't much care what BA had to say. The fact that he had rather strong opinions about things like moral code and justice had further complicated the tense relationship he'd shared with most officers. Hannibal had been a rarity - a colonel who spoke his mind just as readily as BA did when the situation called for it. Face was… well, he was Face. Lieutanant or not, he would say anything to anyone if it meant he'd get something out of it. But the men who had put BA in this room for "fact finding" reeked of the smokescreen and superiority BA had come to expect of military officers and he was feeling less than cooperative.

The man who limped into the room, using a cane for support, was a captain according to the patches on his BDUs. Laboriously, he made his way around the table and with a slight grimace took the seat opposite BA. "Captain Goldman," he introduced without formality. "But just call me Bob. Can't be doing with all the bull."

BA knew this game before the captain said another word. "Bob" wasn't a friend, no matter how he tried to talk like one, and BA didn't trust him any more than he trusted anyone else in this place. He wasn't going to pretend otherwise. Having surely read the file, "Bad Leg" Bob didn't want to see where "Bad Attitude" Baracus had gotten his nickname. He'd try anything to buddy up rather than to try and force BA to cooperate. Only an idiot would think a show of force might intimidate him into going along with whatever stupid procedures they wanted him to follow. It was why the higher ups had sent Bad Leg Bob in the first place - he was less intimidating and more informal than anyone else around. BA was simple and forthright, but he wasn't stupid. He knew this tactic.

The captain leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table beside the closed folder. "So Sergeant Baracus, how are they treating you?"

BA's eyes narrowed at the man. "Like a prisoner," he answered flatly. His record would speak for itself as to how he felt about his current treatment, and he wasn't here for small talk.

Bad Leg Bob chuckled and rested back in his seat. "You've got a bit of history with authority," he mentioned casually, as if it was a new revelation BA had never heard before. Or maybe it was a new tactic to befriend him. "I know the feeling."

So it was a tactic, then - something they had in common that could make them work toward the same goal. Saying nothing, BA let the man continue his game. Sooner or later, he'd realize there was only one of them playing.

The captain twisted in his seat so his legs poked past the desk. He then rolled up one pant leg to reveal a false leg. "The brass were mighty pissed when I got that in Korea just weeks after they gave me a battlefield commission," he explained. "I was a grunt like you. So I know how hard it is when the 'management' don't understand the reality of war."

BA didn't have to conceal interest in the man's story; he had none. Tired of the repoire-building, he demanded, "Hey man, when am I gonna see a lawyer?"

"What, you haven't seen him yet?" Bad Leg Bob asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as if this was news to him. "I'll get right on it after our chat."

He wouldn't. BA knew it. This officer was no friend.

"Now, can I get you a coffee?" he asked. "How about a smoke?"

"Don't smoke," BA answered gruffly. "Don't need no coffee. Just need a lawyer."

Bad Leg Bob grabbed the folder as he rested back. "Yes, I'll look into it," he dismissed. But before BA could say it again with enough force to actually be heard this time, the officer was continuing. "You're a Chicago kid? Had a chance to follow the Bears while you've been in country?"

BA glowered at the intrusive questioning. "Don't watch baseball," he answered as simply as his limited patience would allow."Too busy being locked up since I been in country."

"Your mom's still living in Chicago," Bad Leg Bob continued, although BA was pretty sure he hadn't missed the part about being kept in a cage since arriving stateside. "I understand you grew up in the projects. Is your mom still there?"

BA couldn't quite hide the reaction to Bob's mention of Mama. It grabbed his attention and heightened his defenses, it made him even more wary. The man had no business bringing Mama into this stuff. BA wasn't even entirely sure what all this was about, but he damn sure didn't want to bring Mama into it. No mother should ever have to see her son behind bars, even - or maybe especially - for something he didn't do.

Bad Leg Bob sighed when he realized he wasn't getting a response. "Look, Baracus, I'm not the most popular member of the team." He stopped to chuckle. "Grunt to officer doesn't go down well with some."

Biting back the urge to tell Bob just how much he didn't care about the plight of a field commissioned officer, BA glared silently at his interrogator.

"But I can tell you one thing," Bob offered, his tone changing ever-so-subtly into the conversational voice of a friend, "if you and me get through these few questions, I can have your mom on the next flight down here."

BA frowned deeply. While seeing Mama would be nice, there was a reason he hadn't done so since going over to Vietnam and it wasn't because he hadn't accumulated enough R&R. There were some things in his life he had always - would always - protect with a fierce passion, and she was one of them. That meant not only protecting her from people who might want to hurt her, but also from the image of what he'd become. She didn't need to see the soldier he'd turned into on the other side of the ocean. And she definitely didn't need to see him here, in a military prison.

The thought of her visiting hit with more force than he'd been expecting. What would Mama think about the charges raised against him? Robbery and treason… The latter, he wasn't guilty of in any way, shape, or form. But he had robbed the Bank of Hanoi. What would Mama think of that - orders or no? Maybe more importantly, what would she think of the fact that he had done it - for all intents and purposes - successfully? He'd gotten pretty good at robbing banks and killing people in Vietnam. It was a hell of an achievement to put on his resume. It suddenly occurred to him that Mama, and probably everyone else he'd ever known, would be more appalled than proud of how good a soldier he'd become.

"I thought you might want to see her," Bad Leg Bob continued. "So I've got a couple guys waiting to escort her here."

BA's eyes widened slightly, not sure if that was a friendly - if misguided - gesture or a veiled threat. The sudden adrenaline burst made his fists tighten hard on the tabletop. "Don't want no guys talking to my Mama," he said low, making sure there was no veil over his own threat.

"Well, that's fine," Bob replied with a casual shrug. "Perfectly understandable."

With a smug confidence that made a growl rise up inside of BA, Bad Leg Bob settled back, tenting his fingers in front of him. "Now, let's get on with those questions," he said abruptly, transitioning right into what he was really interested about discussing. "When did Colonel Smith inform you of his plan to rob the bank of Hanoi? I completely understand you were following his direct orders."

BA didn't like the sound of that. It sounded an awful lot like a frame job, that it had been Hannibal's idea to rob the bank in the first place. But if he was going to answer simply and honestly, the way that was best when he didn't do anything wrong, he knew it wouldn't come out right. "Hannibal told us the plan when we was briefed," he explained. Then he added quickly, "We got the orders from Colonel Morrison."

Bad Leg Bob nodded his understanding. "It's been a while since I was in the field," he admitted. "But I remember enough to know you didn't get any orders from Colonel Morrison. It would've been Smith or Peck, is that right?"

With a deep frown, BA nodded. This seemed to please Bad Leg Bob, who took a moment to scribble some notes before continuing, "So who gave you the orders to rob the bank of Hanoi?"

BA still didn't quite understand where the breakdown was in this entire scenario, and how these charges had been concocted. Didn't these guys know how their team worked? "Colonel Morrison gave the orders to Hannibal," BA explained. "Same as always. Hannibal gave the orders to us. Same as always."

Bob smiled, even more pleased as he continued to write as though BA had just openly admitted to treason. "You're a good man Baracus, following your CO's orders," Bob declared. "And what can you tell me about Lieutenant Peck's involvement?"

BA glowered at the man sitting across from him, scribbling notes like he'd said something new. But this was what he'd been saying all along and it was the truth. Still, BA had this sinking - no, infuriating - feeling that it was about to get twisted around and covered up in bullshit and used against them.

"Face followed Colonel Morrison's orders same as we all did," he said, clearly and forcefully.

"Yes, good," Bob muttered without looking up from his notes. "So Lieutenant Peck told you he saw the 'orders'?"

There was no opportunity to answer, even if BA had been inclined to do so. Like an eager kid in a candy shop, Bad Leg Bob continued, "Do Colonel Smith and Lieutenant Peck come to you with combined orders from another officeroften, or was this a first?"

BA growled audibly. "He didn't come with no combined orders," he said, agitated. The man wasn't listening. "He got orders like we all did. Same as we all do, every time. Nothing strange about this time. Nothing any more wrong about following orders this time than any other time."

"Except this time, those orders involved committing a crime," Bob clarified.

Gritting his teeth, BA suddenly felt remarkably trapped by the man's ignorance. Clearly, he had absolutely no idea what they had been doing over there, or why. In fact, chances were pretty good that his classification level was low enough to get BA court marshaled for real if he should let anything slip about why it hadn't seemed the least bit strange to be sent on a mission to rob the Bank of Hanoi. There was a reason mind-altering drugs - like morphine - couldn't be administered to an SOG soldier without his commanding officer present. Until BA had a chance to talk to Hannibal or - even better - General Westman, he had no permission to defend himself with the truth. He simply had to trust that Westman, who knew the whole story, would sort it out when he heard what was going on.

"I can tell you're a man who goes by gut instinct," Bad Leg Bob tried again. "Your record proves what a good soldier you are."

Actually, BA knew for a fact that his record held more than a few instances of insubordination and altercations with senior officers. But he let the comment pass.

"What was your gut telling you when Colonel Smith ordered you to rob a bank?" Bob asked, as if he was truly interested in hearing the story. "I mean, that's not typical warfare. It's illegal for one."

As Bob glanced up from his paperwork and smiled encouragingly, BA stared back, not flinching. None of what he'd done in the last few years was typical warfare. The only way he knew what was in his file was by reading it. The record of his countless missions across the border of Laos and Cambodia wouldn't be in Bad Leg Bob's folder. He'd carried out those assignments knowing full well that if he died, his body wouldn't even be identifiable in sterile fatigues, much less would the US government ask for it back. Out there, he didn't exist. If he died, they would make up a story to tell his mother, and that would be the official record among the files Bad Leg Bob had access to.

"Nothing in Vietnam was typical," BA answered safely.

Bad Leg Bob smiled sadly, knowingly. "No," he agreed. "It wasn't."

He didn't wait for a reply before turning to wave at the one-way window. A moment later, one of the MPs stationed outside stepped through the door. "Private, can we get some coffee in here?" Bob requested. "And none of that instant crap, please. Make a fresh pot."

As the soldier left, Bob smiled again. BA wasn't entirely sure what he'd said or done to give the impression that they were being friendly now. The last time he'd checked, he was a prisoner here along with his team and this man was part of the military police holding him here.

"Now, where were we?" Bob asked with great expectation that only made BA frown. It made him far less inclined to speak when he wasn't sure whether what he said would be construed as cooperation. One thing was for damn sure - he had no intention whatsoever of cooperating with an investigation meant to railroad Hannibal, or Face, or the team as a whole.