CHAPTER FOUR

VIETNAM

July 28, 1968

Hannibal had expected the sealed "Confidential" folder to turn up before Peck himself. In fact, he'd expected it so much that when it didn't show up, he simply assumed it had and he'd overlooked it. So when it did arrive, in the hands of a young, green soldier who took the time to salute before racing back to the chopper for the next drop off, he was caught off guard. Tucking it under his arm without much thought, he headed for the hootch where his team was recovering from the day's training run.

An involuntary smile crept across his face at the evaluation of his team's performance. The new kid had made it to the finish only a few steps behind Cipher's near-sprint. Time off was always a hell of an incentive for the medic, and he was used to the grueling track. But Peck was not, and he'd still managed to keep up. Of course, every muscle would probably be screaming in a wide variety of tones in a few hours, once the lactic acid set in and his body realized what it had been through.

Not bothering to dodge falling raindrops damn near the size of his fist, Hannibal was dripping wet by the time he got to the hootch, but he managed to protect the folder for the most part. Cipher, toweling his hair dry, glanced up as he stepped through the doorway, but quickly glanced away again, probably trying to avoid eye contact lest Hannibal should get the idea he had the energy for a few more rounds. Luckily for him, no such plans were on the table.

"We're five miles from civilization and I want a beer," Peck declared, standing in front of the sheet of tin foil on the wall that served as a mirror. He glanced over his shoulder at Cipher. "You game?"

Cipher smiled. "Absolutely."

Hannibal dropped the folder on his cot and bent to untie his boots before kicking them off and peeling the wet socks from his feet. "Thought I saw a truck in the motor pool," Peck continued. "I'll see if anyone's using it in the next few hours."

Offering only a brief nod, the young sergeant passed by Hannibal and headed out into the pouring rain. With curiosity he couldn't quite hide, Hannibal watched him go before exchanging a quick glance with Cipher.

"What?" Cipher asked with a grin.

"Nothing," Hannibal replied, sitting down carefully on the cot. These things had been known to collapse if not approached with caution. "Just make sure he stays out of trouble."

Cipher laughed, too loudly, before he realized Hannibal was actually serious. "What, he needs a fucking babysitter?" he asked in disbelief.

Hannibal shrugged. "He's been out in the middle of nowhere for the past few months."

"Yeah, and probably needs to get laid," Cipher responded. "What's the problem?"

"No problem," Hannibal said. "As long as he stays out of trouble."

Cipher's frown deepened. "So, what, you want me to spy on him and report back to you?"

"Only if you think you can't handle him on your own," Hannibal taunted with a smirk.

Cipher's eyes narrowed. "I'll handle it," he shot back, confidently.

"Good!" Hannibal declared, lying back on the cot and grabbing the folder from underneath his legs. "In that case, have a great time, Sergeant."

Cipher left the room without another word and Hannibal grinned as he broke the seal on the folder. One of the great things about having a solid team was knowing they could and would keep an eye on each other. Although he hadn't known Cipher for long, he was confident that nothing would happen tonight that might endanger this team.

Fort Bragg

December 23, 1971

Lieutenant Templeton Peck was the perfect picture of calm. At least, that was the impression he gave anyone who hadn't been watching for long enough to realize he'd barely moved a muscle in the past four hours. It was unnatural to sit for more than two or three minutes in any one position - relaxed or otherwise - without the slightest movement to shift pressure points and stretch muscles. But the only thing that had moved were his fingers, tapping lightly on the tabletop, and his eyes, which betrayed just how alert he was to every sound from beyond the one-way-mirror. In a room with bare walls and no furniture except a table and chairs both bolted to the floor, his mind was still racing a mile a minute with no signs of wearing out anytime soon.

On the other side of the glass, the young officer assigned to investigating his case watched with intensity. Fresh out of OCS and full of enthusiasm for the first major career case, Lieutenant Cary Dyer drew in a deep breath before clutching the folder tighter and stepping through the door only to be met instantly with a piercing stare from those darting blue eyes. The first show of change - the slightest hint of a smile - crossed Peck's face as his eyes flicked from anxiety to relief to amusement to interest all in the span of half a second. But he said nothing, wisely keeping whatever lascivious thoughts he must have had to himself as his eyes scanned her uniform, head to toe, lingering on the expected areas.

Feeling a lot like one of her grandfather's prize cows, on display for a thorough examination at the county fair, Cary was not so much nervous as disgusted. She didn't quite meet the raking gaze of the good-looking but clearly battle-weary soldier in front of her. "Lieutenant Templeton Peck?" she greeted with a brisk salute. "Lieutenant Cary Dyer."

He tipped his head almost imperceptibly to the side and made no attempt to return the salute. "Hi," he greeted casually.

"Are you aware of the purpose of our interview?" she asked, moving to take the seat opposite him.

He didn't answer immediately, clearly in no great hurry to get to the purpose of their interview. His eyes did linger on the folder she was clutching, though. Or were they actually on her chest? She couldn't tell.

Shifting her attention away from him and onto the folder, she opened it and removed a small stack of papers. Then she took a deep breath to compose herself and looked up at the man staring at her with… was that bemusement?

"Lieutenant Peck, do you understand the charges?" she asked again.

He still hadn't moved in the slightest. Half-turned in the chair, reclined with one arm resting on the table, his fingers began to tap again, just a few times before he finally drew in a refreshing breath and turned to face her fully, folding his hands. "Charges?" he asked innocently.

Silently thanking God that the man had finally spoken, she nodded. "Yes, the charge of robbery and treason," he answered. "Which you acquired when you robbed the Bank of Hanoi."

"Oh." He reclined with a shrug. "That."

She realized she was nervously tapping a rhythm on the sheet in front of her and silently cursed the nervous habit. Pulling her hands under the desk, she sighed. "Peck, we're both here for the same reason," she said simply. "We want the truth."

He chuckled, glancing away as if that was the funniest, most naive thing he'd heard in a long while. She scowled. That sort of condescending dismissal was part and parcel from senior officers, but Peck didn't outrank her. Dryly, she continued, "This will be a whole lot easier on both of us if you cooperate."

The amount of attention he was giving made her feel like dirt under the nails. Her hands crept up again and pushed a non-existent wisp of hair back towards her tight bun. "I hold no opinions," she tried again, "and have no incentive to see you found either guilty or innocent. All I'm here to do is investigate the facts."

He let the silence linger for a long moment, let her ramble until she realized she was betraying her inexperience. By the look on his face, she'd already shown far too much. He looked fairly confident in his ability to chew her up and spit her out again, and that was decidedly irritating. Damn, she wished she'd brought a drink in. At least she'd have something to do with her hands.

Finally, he sat forward, resting weight on his elbows as he answered with a simple, "No."

Confused, she stared at him in blinking silence for a moment before asking for clarification. "No, what?"

Like a patient schoolteacher, he smiled as he explained carefully, "This will be a whole lot easier on you if I cooperate." He leaned back again before finishing, "We can skip the clichés."

She gaped for a moment. Then, clamping her mouth shut, she stood and turned so he couldn't see her expression. It was the safest way to keep him from realizing how often he was managing to catch her off guard. "It's not a cliché, Lieutenant," she defended. "It's my job."

In the reflection, she saw him nod. But he didn't speak, an insufferable smirk still in place. Clearly, he wasn't the least bit persuaded.

"If you don't want to give your version of events, that is your prerogative," she attempted. Perhaps reverse psychology was the way to go.

But his smile only widened. "Isn't it always?"

She picked up the file and pretended to search for the information she already knew was on the fourth page. Pulling it carefully free she lay it on the table and slid it towards him. The perfectly practiced smile didn't fade as his eyes shifted, but he made no move towards the document.

"Let's start by you telling me about the court martial you were called for in '68," she invited. "Maybe you can remember those charges a bit better."

She settled back, satisfaction bleeding into her bland smile as his eyes lingered on the report a fraction longer than what matched his otherwise calm demeanor. But he covered it up with a grin that didn't reach his eyes this time. He was good at maintaining that calm, casual facade. But his eyes betrayed his uncertainty, even as he sat back and fixed her in his stare again.

They stared at each other for almost a full minute before he finally spoke. "Just to be clear," he said evenly, "are we here to talk about a court martial in 1968? Because I was under the impression that was old news."

It was very old news. So old, he had to be wondering where and how she'd gotten her hands on it. Buried under a mountain of bureaucracy that could almost be misconstrued for cover-up, it wasn't part of his all-access file.

"Do you have something else you'd rather discuss?" she challenged.

"How about hobbies," he returned. "Maybe over a candlelit dinner with a bottle of white wine?"

She couldn't help the slight choke that came with her surprise at the sheer audacity of a man who would proposition her under circumstances like this. "Maybe not," she said dryly.

He smiled, amused. "Ah, are you a champagne kind of girl?"

Irritated, she heaved a sigh and crossed her arms defensively. "Look, I just want some background. And this is going to come up in court, so it's in your best interest to discuss it now."

No matter how much his frankly offensive ogling was, she was determined not to leave this room until she'd gotten him to say something of significance. Anything less would be construed as failure, and she had no intention of giving her chauvinistic superiors the satisfaction.

"Those charges were dropped," he finally declared. He knew this without looking at the file, but nodded to it with confidence."Pardoned, actually. You should be able to find that bit in there, too."

She raised a brow. "You're very naïve if you don't think the persecution will bring up the fact you were accused of serious enough breeches in duty to warrant a court martial."

He shrugged. "They can bring up whatever they like," he replied nonchalantly. "It's ancient history that has nothing to do with the Hanoi bank job - for which we had orders, I might add."

In spite of the casual tone, his eyes betrayed his lack of confidence. But he was as good as covering it up as she was, and the two of them simply stared at each other for a moment before she finally offered a clipped, "Fine," and returned the report to the file. Folding her hands over top of the folder, she let the irritation at his treatment of her fuel the confidence she fed back to him on a loop. Eyes narrowed slightly, she regarded her opponent with determination before demanding, "Tell me about your relationship with Colonel Smith."

The man's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree as his smile grew, and he gave an exaggerated smile as he invited, "What do you want to know?"

"Was it a trusting relationship?" she pressed.

He chuckled, lowering his eyes to watch careful fingers trace designs on the table. With no effort spared on hiding his amusement at the question, he finally answered with a thoughtful and teasing, "You might say that."

Vietnam

July 28, 1968

Getting into towndown the muddy, potholed track in the pouring rain was half the fun. Cipher drove, with Tem in the passenger seat and three more guys from the camp in the back. Although this road was well secured and the threat from the trees minimal, their eyes stayed peeled. They were no less alert as the soldiers piled out of the Jeep and went their separate ways - the three men in the back off to god-knows-where, Cipher and Tem into the bar.

The working girls looked up as they walked in, and smiled. The owner came to greet them. Within minutes, they were at one of the rickety tables drinking warm, formaldehyde-flavored beer. Content to simply soak up the atmosphere, they were on their second glass before Tem finally spoke.

"Something tells me we would've been better off hitting the nearest base and finding a PX," he said dryly. "We'd get a lot more drunk with a lot less gagging on a good bottle of scotch. Or even cheap whiskey."

Cipher laughed as he stared at Tem. God, that name was fucking awful. And it got worse the more he drank. "The nearest PX takes a chopper to get to," he pointed out.

"I'm okay with that," Tem answered with a shrug.

Cipher eyed him for a moment. He talked like he had one in his back pocket. Did he not realize that this bar, the restaurant next door, and the whorehouse across the road were the only establishments of any interest whatsoever for miles? He couldn't be completely green. Besides, Hannibal had mentioned something about him being stationed at the backside of nowhere, in an A-camp. Surely he realized how cut off they were.

"Hannibal's gonna run us again in the morning," Cipher warned. "Get too drunk and you'll pay for it."

The kid frowned and took another gulp from his glass before muttering a halfhearted, "So much for scotch."

Cipher sat back in the chair and easily swallowed half a glass of warm piss in a few gulps. "Get me a bottle of good tequila any day of the week," he sighed wistfully.

Tem eyed him for a moment. The look in his eye was almost like the look Hannibal got when he was planning something that was going to wreak havoc on anything in his path. If there was a difference, it was only that Tem seemed quite a bit more suspicious.

"Tequila, huh?" he prodded

Cipher smiled and shrugged. He wasn't picky but if he had his choice, "A bottle of Tequila and a couple of whores." He smiled wolfishly. "If you're taking orders, that is."

He watched the kid for a moment to see how he would react to that. Whores where nothing special and certainly not a new concept to anyone who'd been in county more than a week. But this kid looked so fucking wet behind the ears he may as well be a choirboy. Cipher half expected him to flinch at the suggestion.

Tem didn't have a chance to give an opinion on the whores before they were suddenly interrupted by a loud, "Son of a bitch, Peck!"

They both turned to face the man stumbling toward them, one arm over a well-used woman with a beer in his other hand. He took the arm off the girl to extend a hand to Tem. "How the hell you been?"

Tem looked up, and smiled. It was such a fucking perfect smile, and clearly fake, it was almost worthy of a laugh. "Walters," he greeted. "Nice to see you."

The man shook his hand, then turned back to the girl, pulling out a ten dollar bill. He tucked it into her bra. "You," he grabbed another girl by the arm as she passed, and put an identical bill in her shirt, "go dance with her, okay?"

He smiled and pushed them both towards each other and the juke box at the back of the bar, kissing each one first. Tem's smile and wink to them was very evident as they walked away, and it made Cipher laugh. So much for wondering how the kid felt about the whores.

"Oh, no," Walters warned drunkenly, eyes fixed on Tem. "No using your charm on her. Find your own pussy. Plenty of it here."

Tem smiled and gestured for him to sit as he continued to ramble.

"Course, none of them is as nice looking at those two you had in Saigon. But good looking hookers are hard to find in these parts." He nearly missed the chair as he tried to sit down. "Hey, let me buy you a round."

Cipher raised a brow with renewed interest as the kid's fake smile broadened into a real one. "Those girls weren't hookers," he clarified. "They were the daughters of a very polite business associate of mine."

Walters laughed. "Who you very politely fucked," he clarified. "At the same time, and probably while they were both high as a kite."

None of those details got any kind of response except a shrug. Amused, Cipher finished his beer and gestured for another round, hoping to hear more of the conversation that had suddenly taken an interesting turn.

"Only you could get fine looking pussy like that for free," the drunken man said in stupefied awe. "It's like a God given gift."

Tem sipped his beer. "Never said it was free," he clarified. "I said they weren't hookers."

Finally, Cipher extended a hand to the newcomer. "You got a name, man?"

"Ken Walters," the man said with a firm handshake. "But call me Gator."

"Gator," Cipher repeated. It didn't take him long to place it. "RT Colt?"

Gator smiled broadly, pleased to be known if not immediately recognized. "That's right. You?"

"Cannon. Cipher."

"Cannon?" Gator looked up as the impressively-coordinated bartender set down a full round of beers before rushing off to the next table. "Never heard of it."

Cipher grinned. "Newly formed."

"Who's your One-Zero?" Gator asked curiously.

"Hannibal Smith."

Gator laughed. "Aw, fuck, man. He is fuckin' badass on the ground from what I hear."
"Yeah, you and me both." Cipher glanced at Tem, who was quietly observing with nothing to add. Maybe this was a good time to get him to talk. "So, Gator, tell me. What the fuck is this schoolboy's goddamn name?"

Gator laughed loudly at the question. Every man in SOG had a name - and not just the one they were born with. Sometimes it said a lot about them. In any case, it was more meaningful than the first and last saved for formal address. "What, Tem here hasn't told you?"

Tem's eyes shifted, but he said nothing. Clearly, he didn't like where this conversation was going. But that was obvious from the fact that he'd been so determined not to answer the question himself. Whatever the name was, he obviously was not a fan. Cipher found that even more amusing than the kid may have thought. He'd never known any soldier to be shy about his reputation, no matter what it was.

"Take a look at him," Gator continued with a grin. "Looks like they recruited him right outta grade school. But he's one of the toughest, dirtiest bastards I ever had on the ground with me."

"I was on the ground with you once," Tem clarified, his voice cold.

Cipher raised a brow, not sure why he couldn't just take the compliment. He was staring at Gator with a look meant to kill, but he didn't say a word. As the kid sipped his drink and scowled, Cipher's interest was redoubling by the second.

"Schoolboy's pretty tight lipped 'bout what he's called," Cipher said. "I'm about to start making shit up."

"Go right ahead," Tem said flatly.

Cipher smirked.

"Ah, no way." Gator snickered. "You won't get any more perfect than Babyface."

Cipher nearly choked on his drink. "Babyface! Who the fuck thought that up?"

"Like Babyface Floyd," Gator explained. "Looks so young and sweet, but in his chest beats the heart of brutal, cunning, S.O.B."

Cipher raised a brow as he looked at Schoolboy Babyface McGee, who was still glaring at Gator, unflinching. No wonder the kid didn't want it out. "What kind of fucking idiots did you get tagged up with?" Cipher snickered.

The kid nodded in Gator's direction. "That kind."

Cipher watched both of them with a mix of confusion and amusement. What the hell was this Gator guy made of, anyway? Any soldier in his right mind would know better than to slip something like that for the sake of a laugh. More importantly, what was the new kid on the block made of? If he didn't like the name - and Cipher could sure as hell see why - he should've done something about it a long ago.

"You take that shit from this bitch?" Cipher challenged, jerking his head in Gator's direction.

Babyface - fuck, that was just too stupid for Cipher to stomach - shrugged. Cipher's disbelieving laughter got the better of him and he stopped fighting it as he shook his head, then took another drink. "Fuck, man." He looked at Gator. "I'da fuckin' shot your ass."

"Hey, I didn't give him the name," Gator protested, hands raised in drunken surrender.
Face didn't look away from Gator, didn't pause in his drink. He finished, and set it down, and reclined in his chair comfortably. "You are aware that my sphere of influence may continue to affect you down the road," he said calmly.

Gator's eyes went wide as Cipher regarded the calm, heavily veiled threat with amusement. What kind of soldier talked like that? He sounded like he was negotiating a business deal in a Fortune 500 company, not sharing a drink in some shithole in Vietnam. What was he even saying?

But the meaning wasn't lost on Gator, whose act of surrender turned more intentional. "Oh, hey, I know that," he said with more sobriety than he'd shown since walking up to the table. Clearly, the threat had hit home.

Face didn't flinch, just smirked slightly. "That's the problem with you, Gator. You show your hand too early."

Cipher was pretty sure that was an insult. But it was lost on Gator, who merely smiled and lowered his voice as he leaned forward. "Hey, any chance I can score some of that horse you had last time?" He reached into his pocket for cash. Not sure he'd actually heard that right, Cipher raised a brow. What was this, some kind of a joke? This guy was looking to score off of "Babyface"?

"I mean, that was primo shit," Gator continued. "I'll take whatever you got."

Cipher couldn't decide whether he should laugh or simply be shocked as the words settled in. He took another drink as he tipped his head to see how the kid would respond. Maybe it was a case of a drunken man's mistaken identity.

"Sorry." The kid's voice was cold, and dead serious. He didn't think it was a joke. "I'm out of the business."

Now that's interesting, Cipher thought as he set his beer down again and glanced back and forth between the two. He'd known the kid had some trouble with the military police; Hannibal had said as much. He'd also mentioned something about fraudulent enlistment. That didn't mean much to Cipher. Regardless of how he'd gotten here, he was here now and that was what mattered. But drugs were a whole different matter.

"Aw come on." Gator's eyes shifted briefly to Cipher, as if evaluating whether he was the reason for Face's reluctance to deal. "Everyone knows you're the man to go to if you wanna ride the dragon." He reached in his pocket for more money. "But if you need more cash, that's cool. Your shit's worth it."

"I don't fucking have it," Face said firmly. He set his beer down hard. "Did you miss the whole part about how I got busted and set up for a court martial for that shit? I'm out."

It was slowly dawning on Gator that he wasn't getting any heroin from Face. Eyes narrowed, the man put his money away before pushing back from the table. "You got busted, but you're not in the stockade," he pointed out.

Face watched him passively, sipping his beer. He didn't look like he had any inclination to answer, and Gator never gave him the chance anyway.

"That's fuckin' strange," Gator continued, "because the shit you were into should get you twenty years. What'd you do? Turn rat and sell out your contacts?"

Face was over the table - not around it - almost before Gator had a chance to finish speaking. Cipher barely had a chance to grab his beer and pull it out of the way. He stayed seated, watching with a smile as Gator pulled a fist back. He was glad - relieved, really - that Face wasn't taking this daisy's shit. Maybe the kid had some balls after all.

Gator's blow landed as Face grabbed the front of his shirt. The kid's grip kept him from stumbling from the much larger man's blow. The next several were all delivered by Face. Gator's drunken fists continued to flail as they stumbled together, into one of the tables, cracking it under their weight and crashing to the floor. It attracted the attention of the entire bar, and around them, men began laughing and cheering, enjoying the bit of entertainment.

Gator was drunk, but he was big. Using his weight and momentum, he managed to roll Face onto his back. Sitting on his chest, he pulled back for a punch to the jaw with all his two hundred pounds behind it. Face reached up, but instead of an attempt to block, he twisted his arm around Gator's and grabbed his shirt again. As the blow landed across Face's mouth, he turned his head with it and immediately used his other hand to grab Gator's wrist. Whatever he did, it was fast. Gator rolled the way Face pushed him, probably to avoid a broken wrist, and they tumbled one over the other until they hit another table.

The bar manager was out now, begging and pleading for the damage to stop. His frantic cries could barely be heard over the cheers and shouts. Cipher watched the whole production like an instructor watching a pupil while calmly sipping his beer. The kid wasn't half bad. He seemed to have it under control, without any help. He didn't let anything distract him as one final, decisive blow bounced Gator's head off the floor, and the fight was suddenly over.

Face released his grip on the man's shirt and slowly stood, wiping the blood from his mouth. The bar manager was upon him immediately. "What you do! What you do? You no do this in my bar!"

A pathetic round of applause went up from the few soldiers who'd been watching, but they lost interest quickly. Face calmed the bar manager with a small wad of cash, and cast another, lingering look at Gator before walking back to the table. Cipher was grinning like the Cheshire cat by the time he got there.

Face didn't bother to sit down as he finished the last of his beer, and didn't look at Cipher as he gave an offhanded, "I'm getting out of here."

Cipher laughed freely at the tone, "Play well with others, Face?"

Face glared briefly at him and gave a cold, "Fuck you," before turning away and heading for the door.

Cipher laughed as he stood up and followed with a half-full mug of beer in hand.

When it came down to it, the kid had Hannibal's seal of approval. Until that got revoked - and knowing Hannibal, it would take a hell of a lot - Cipher had his back. If the schoolboy hadn't jumped this asshole, Cipher sure as hell would have. Nice to know he didn't have to. If the kid could take care of himself, all the better.