CHAPTER FIVE

Fort Bragg

December 23, 1971

B. was the main hope of determining what the hell had happened in Hanoi, and Captain Bob Goldman knew it very well. The rumors of Smith's ruthless unpredictability and risk-taking circulated far and wide, but few men actually knew him and fewer still had an opinion of him that was unbiased. Peck, on the other hand, was a time bomb of renegade vigilantism that may or may not be motivated by personal gain at any particular point. As far as Goldman was concerned, either one of them might have been responsible for the original idea of robbing the Bank of Hanoi. More likely, they had conspired together on both the concept and the execution. That made Baracus a fall-guy.

As a fall-guy, he was a good pick - a man with a chip on his shoulder and well-documented issues with authority. Robbing a bank didn't seem his style, but he had a reputation for forthright honesty, regardless of who he might offend in the process. His loyalty to Smith and Peck was much stronger than Goldman had been expecting, but he was still entirely hopeful about getting the whole story from the angry sergeant. It was just a case of finding the right angle. The mother was a good start. Goldman saw the way Baracus flinched when she was mentioned; he hadn't been doing this job for over a decade not to spot the signs. Now he just needed to know the best way to use that information.

"Let's talk about exactly what Colonel Smith asked you to do," he suggested with a friendly smile.

"Colonel Morrison gave us orders to rob the bank of Hanoi," BA answered, not matching his conversational tone. "Said it would help end the war."

Goldman repressed the laughter bubbling up at the insanity of the suggestion. The soldier in front of him was without a shade of humor, and wouldn't appreciate an insult to his intelligence. But quite frankly, Goldman didn't have a clue how anyone could be that stupid.

"Tell me," he invited, "exactly how did Colonel Smith explain to you that robbing a bank would stop a war?"

"He didn't give no explanation," Baracus answered. "Didn't need one."

"Did you think it was odd that you were being given orders that violated terms of warfare?" Goldman questioned as gently as he could manage.

"No."

The response caught Goldman off guard, and he blinked in surprise. "No?" he repeated.

"No," Baracus stated with complete conviction. "Agency violates terms of warfare all the time. S'why our orders all come from Westman. He knows what we did, why we did it."

Just briefly, Goldman let a glance flicker toward the one-way glass. He knew virtually nothing about the Agency himself, but rumors had circulated here and there for the past several years. Baracus was not the first to suggest they operated outside of the rules, but it changed nothing. Out of his depth on this point, Goldman focused on steering the conversation back to solid ground. Hopefully the MPs on the other side of that mirror - his superiors included - were watching how a master worked.

"And what did you do?" he pressed. "Why did you do it?"

"I told you!" Baracus snapped. "We had orders! We followed 'em."

The man's fists were clenching and releasing on the tabletop in a slow, steady way that was hopefully calming. He was agitated enough as it was and Goldman didn't want to push his him a moment of silence to regain control, Goldman was glad for the interruption when the door opened and fresh coffee was set on the table in front of him. After thanking the young private who brought it, he refilled his Styrofoam cup.

"Have there ever been any other orders that you thought sounded a bit odd?" he tried again. "Orders that may have been… embellished by Colonel Smith?"

Baracus glared daggers across the table. "Hannibal didn't make orders up."

Although it wasn't exactly what he'd said, at least Baracus was intelligent enough to see the connection. Defensive and uncooperative, he wasn't going to say anything that might be construed as an admission of guilt on behalf of his commanding officer. Perhaps it was time for a new approach.

"Sergeant," Goldman began with a quiet sigh, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "I understand the deepest bonds of loyalty are often forged on the battlefield. You owe Smith - Hannibal - your life and if I know loyal men, I'd say you would probably do anything to return the favor."

Staring straight at him, BA didn't flinch. "You talk too damn much," he declared.

Goldman almost smiled. "I want to get to the bottom of this," he replied. "Talking through it is the only way."

BA leaned forward on the table as well, but with more intent than Goldman's casual pose. His broad shoulders loomed over his forearms as he said roughly, "Hannibal didn't make our orders up. We had orders from Colonel Morrison. We did what we was supposed to do, and I don't care why. Just following orders."

"No, I think you do care," Goldman pressed with a small smile. "You're a man of honor. Your mother has told my officers what an upstanding young man she raised."

The man's calming squeeze and release turned suddenly to hard clenched fists and he pounded the table with both, so hard it shook. "Your people don't need to be talkin' to my Mama!" he yelled. "I don't want her hearing how you got me locked up for something we didn't do wrong!"

"I understand," Goldman said smoothly. It was not the turn of events he had expected, but years of experience allowed him to roll with it. "If it will make you feel better, I'll put a hold on your mother's arrival but first let's talk about -"

He didn't have a chance to finish the sentence. BA was up and out of the chair in a flash, gripping the side of the table as if to turn it over. When he discovered it was bolted, he reached for the chair. The guards were through the door and on top of him before he found out it was fixed to the floor as well. Bum leg and all, Goldman was almost as fast on his feet, backing away from the violent man so quickly he almost toppled backwards.

In the flurry of hands and arms and shouts and confusion that followed the introduction of a half-dozen MPs into the room, Goldman felt a flash of adrenaline he hadn't experienced since leaving Korea. Funny how these sterile rooms and white walls could make a man forget what went on out there in Southeast Asia. Sergeant Baracus clearly hadn't forgotten; he hadn't had enough time to forget. He was just as dangerous and unstable as any man ripped off the battlefield and thrown back into normal society - perhaps even more so. There was no telling what this man had endured - or done - that could make it seem okay to rob a bank at the orders of a commanding officer. Most soldiers had a general idea of right and wrong in spite of their service. Robbing a bank was a had lost his grip on the fundamentals of right and wrong, and there was no telling what he was capable of.

"You okay, sir?" the nearest MP asked with a steadying hand on Goldman's shoulder.

Swallowing hard and pushing back the instinctive fight or flight adrenaline, Goldman nodded. "Yeah," he struggled. Then he cleared his cracking voice and said again with more conviction, "Yes, I'm fine." So much for making a good impression on his superiors…

But the setback was not Goldman's biggest concern at the moment. As four MPs dragged the kicking and screaming soldier out of the room and back to his cell, Goldman felt a wave of genuine sympathy for the man. He was probably innocent - or close to it. But his inability to play the system made it likely he would never see the outside of this prison again. The saddest thing about it was, if he was as damaged as he appeared, maybe a military prison was the best place for him. At least he'd be taken care of and that violence he'd brought back with him from Southeast Asia wouldn't hurt anyone back home.

Vietnam

July 28, 1968

Cipher hadn't expected Hannibal to be awake when they returned from their night out. He certainly hadn't expected him to look like he'd just been hit by a truck. Though it had only been a few hours, the rings under his eyes were noticeably darker and the stubble on his chin distinctly rougher. It was the way he usually looked coming off of assignment, back to the base, not the way he was supposed to look two days before he went out on the ground. And as far as Cipher knew, that was still the plan. Westman already had their next assignment lined up for them.

"Colonel, you look like shit," Cipher announced. It was as close to asking as he would ever come.

Hannibal looked up from the hastily constructed desk and the folder that was lying in front of him beside a tin of coffee and the cigar that had burned itself out long ago. If he had to guess, Cipher would've assumed that coffee to be ice cold. Why the hell was he still awake at nearly two in the morning when he'd been lying down the last time Cipher had seen him.

"Where's Sergeant Peck?" the exhausted colonel asked.

Cipher shrugged. "He's around. Shouldn't be too long before he passes out."

Hannibal didn't answer. Frowning deeply, Cipher watched him closely. He'd never seen his CO worried before, about anything. Even when he should be worried, it just didn't happen. Something about it seemed very wrong.

As if sensing the attention on him, Hannibal sighed deeply. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Cipher answered, more casually than he felt.

"What do you think about this kid?" Hannibal looked up and stared him straight in the eye. "Honestly."

Frowning, Cipher hesitated, trying to get a read on where this was going. "Well, I haven't seen him on the ground, but I'm gonna take your word for it that his CO said he was good."

"I mean personally," Hannibal clarified. "You went out with him tonight. What do you think?"

Cipher blinked in surprise. "You're asking if I like him?"

"Personally," Hannibal clarified with a nod.

Shit, what kind of a question was that? With a shrug, Cipher pulled over a chair and turned it so he could cross his arm over the back of it. "Sure," he answered lightly. "But that's irrelevant. He's here because he's solid. That trumps whether I like him any day of the week"

Hannibal sighed, and glanced back at the folder on the desk. "He's got one hell of a record, Cipher."

Cipher sobered a little at that. "The drugs?"

The suspicion in Hannibal's gaze was evident. "He told you about that?"

"Not exactly," Cipher clarified. "A guy came up to us looking to score. Face turned him down."

"Face?"

Cipher grinned. "Kid's got a name after all."

Hannibal sighed, not terribly interested, and leaned forward, head in his hand. "He's good at what he does." The resigned tone seemed so out of place coming from the colonel. "But I honestly don't know ifit's worth it."

"So bag him," Cipher answered with a shrug. It seemed like an easy solution. "What's the problem?"

Hannibal was quiet for a minute, then stood up and took a few steps, pacing. "He's good," he justified. "He's damn good. His commanding officers have said it, his teams have said it... His list of -" He cut off shaking his head. "He's got thirty-two POW snatches, Cipher."

At that, Cipher raised a brow. "Good" was a general statement, and it depended on the reputation of the person saying it. Cipher didn't know Face's commanding officers or teams, and could only assume they were reliable. But quantifying "good" with such a large number of POW snatches made the definition far more substantial.

"And most of those, he wasn't even the One-Zero," Hannibal continued. "The One-Zero deferred to him, in the field. There's no way in hell he should even be alive, much less..."

He trailed off, shaking his head, pacing the dirt floor. Cipher watched, his smile growing as Hannibal made his own counterargument. He didn't have to say a word.

"Everyone who's ever worked with him says I'm lucky to have him," Hannibal rambled. "But this shit he was doing - it was right under their noses and they didn't know about it. And I sure as helldon't like what he's been doing on the side. I don't need that kind of trouble on my team."

"You knew he was trouble before you ever met the guy," Cipher reminded him. "Or didn't his CO tell you what he'd been arrested for? He should've at least known that much."

Hannibal's look was conflicted. "Yes," he admitted. "But hearing it in his own words is different."

"His own words?" Cipher asked with interest.

"He wrote and signed a confession for Westman."

Cipher blinked, startled. A signed confession was nothing short of a death warrant if his crimes were that bad. "Why?" he asked, confused. Who in their right mind would do that?

"To get it all cleared off of his record," Hannibal explained. "He's got a list of charges a mile long - everything from impersonating a commissioned officer to pandering - and those were the ones I knew about. Then there's stuff in there I didn't know about that under any other circumstances, I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole."

"Like what?" Cipher wasn't prying. Really, he didn't care what was in that file. But Hannibal clearly did.

"Like the drugs."

Cipher frowned, confused. Still amazed at the level of dedication involved in that kind of confession, especially if he'd admitted to things nobody even knew about, Cipher wasn't sure what the problem was. Clearly the kid was turning over a new lead. Maybe he'd considered himself optionless, but he'd still handed over a smoking gun and nobody in their right mind would do something like that if they weren't counting on making a serious commitment.

"Alright, so pandering is bad enough," Cipher said with a shrug. "And you knew about that and still wanted him. What makes the drugs different? Past is past."

Hannibal's look was cold. "Tell it to the guy who wanted the heroin tonight."

"Yeah, but he didn't get any," Cipher pointed out.

"And you don't think that was just because you were with him?" Hannibal challenged.

Cipher frowned. That was a bit too speculative for his taste. "Who knows what he would've done if he was alone," he answered noncommittally. "But I can tell you he lost a client tonight - told him he was out of the business in no uncertain terms. And the way people talk, even if he wanted to go back, what's he gonna do? Pretend like he didn'tcut a deal to keep his ass out of jail? Even the guy tonight assumed he was a rat."

"That may complicate the problem as much as solve it," Hannibal said, massaging his forehead. "Do you know what kind of trouble we could potentially have with his contacts if they think he could expose them?"

Cipher laughed. "Oh, come on, Hannibal. That's the least of our problems in the jungle."

"Yeah, but I can't keep him in the jungle," the colonel responded quickly. "And he didn't name anybody but he's probably got contacts all over the country."

They were back to speculation, which Cipher was neither good at nor did he enjoy. "Alright, so what?" he said, a bit impatient. "Some pissed off supplier gets the drop on him in Saigon or some VC shoots him in the head in the jungle; one way or another, he's got a short life expectancy. We all do."

"It's an unnecessary risk," Hannibal sighed.

Cipher laughed. "Look who's talking!"

He meant no disrespect with that, and Hannibal knew it. Still, he glared. "If he runs back to the drugs, it will go public. That's going to come back on Westman. And who do you think is going to take the fall for it? Because it sure as fucking hell won't be a four star general."

"So this is about safeguarding your rank?" Cipher challenged. That made no sense, based on what he knew of Hannibal so far.

"This is about safeguarding my team," Hannibal clarified. "We aren't exactly on the books, Cipher. When there's more risk of scandal than there is benefit to keeping us around, we lose all those special privileges we've got."

Cipher studied him for a moment, considering that. "So it's not really a question of whether or not he survives his decision, it's a matter of whether he sticks to it."

"Oh, don't get me wrong." Hannibal laughed cynically. "Last thing I want is to invest a shitload of time and energy into him so he can get killed by 'friendly fire' in a bar somewhere."

"Right," Cipher responded. "But that's not exclusively his problem. We all face that."

Hannibal sighed. He had to know full well there was risk involved any time he signed a pass for his team. Terrorists attacked places filled with Americans on a semi-regular basis. There was no place in Vietnam that was "safe." Sitting down again, head in hands, Hannibal didn't answer. Cipher sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. He wasn't good at this shit. The debate was pointless; make a decision and deal with it. It was so much simpler that way.

"Look, you've got a confession right?" he said. "The kid knows his ass is in a sling - especially if he admitted to things you didn't already have on him." Which made no sense at all. "So he's playing ball. And more importantly, he's playing in your court. You can sideline him any time you want - which is the whole point of the confession, right?" He shrugged. "So use it."

"The confession is not leverage," Hannibal replied. "He's got a presidential pardon for those crimes. And it's not the point anyway."

Silent, Cipher sat and waited for Hannibal to clarify what, exactly, the point was. The whole thing sounded overly complicated, emotional, and speculative. If he was useful, keep him. If he was a threat, get rid of him. There was no middle ground.

"I don't know if I can trust him, Cipher," Hannibal said quietly.

"And that's different now because it was drugs he was trading and not skin?" Cipher asked.

"It's different because he did all of that stuff while all of his commanding officers didn't know a goddamn thing." Hannibal sighed again and fixed Cipher in a long, worried stare. "He's good. In more ways than one. And I'll be damned if I want someone who's that good of a liar on my team."

Cipher sat there for a long moment. He really didn't know what to say to that. His own tolerance for lies and games was notoriously nonexistent. He dropped his eyes to the floor trying to figure out what Hannibal wanted to hear. "None of his CO's knew about what was going on?" he finally asked.

"If they did, they chose not to tell me."

"Right." They both knew that wasn't the case. Cipher sighed. This wasn't his call to make, but Hannibal had just about run out of ways to subtly ask for his opinion. Finally, he sighed deep and looked up again, meeting his CO's stare. "Bottom line, Hannibal, if the guy signed his life over to you on that paper, he's looking for help out of it. He's not going to fuck you over."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. "Westman says he'll discharge him if I don't want him. Honorably, but forcibly. Which is a hell of a lot better offer than the kid had before."

Cipher shrugged. Jesus, did he want to be convinced? Cipher hated playing devil's advocate. "So do it," he replied with a shrug. "I don't know what to tell you, Hannibal. Everyone's got a past. Only difference is you know his."

Hannibal studied him for a long moment. "You'd keep him," he finally said.

"Yeah, I'd keep him," Cipher answered. "But I'm not you. If you can't trust him, he's not worth shit on this team. Do whatever you want. You know I'll back you up."

Hannibal covered his eyes with his hand, rubbing his temples. "I swear to God, Cipher, if we're wrong? If he pulls something with this team, or does any of those things in that file ever again? I will shoot his sorry ass myself."

His tone suggested he was only partly exaggerating. Cipher smirked, glad that this discussion finally seemed to be coming to a close. "That going in your confession?"

Hannibal offered a tired smile, and flipped the folder closed on the desk.

Fort Bragg

December 23, 1971

Lieutenant Dyer prided herself on patience. But there was only so much feigned innocence and diversion tactics she could stomach before calling bullshit. She could count on one hand the number of things Lieutenant Peck had told her in the past hour that were likely true, and none of them were of any significance. What was worse, he didn't seem to care if she knew full well he was lying. The way he carelessly wove the story of complete trust and devotion to his team, rambling about the greater good and the importance of honesty until it made her ears damn near bleed, in no way gelled with the smooth-talking liar his reputation had led her to expect. It was as if he simply found amusement in toying with her, and was completely incapable of giving this very serious situation the reverence it was due.

Settling on a pile of handwritten reports, she placed them on the table between them and fixed him in a glare. "I'm pleased to hear that you got along so well with Colonel Smith," she said dryly. "Perhaps your healthy relationship was the means by which you were able to contain your otherwise detrimental habits."

"Perhaps so," Peck answered with a smile.

"Or perhaps he was just better at covering it up?" she suggested.

Peck shrugged. "I don't follow," he lied.

"You see," she said with a sigh, "I've had a lot of men come through this room and there's one thing that seems pretty consistent."

Brows raised, he waited for her to continue with apparent interest.

"Addicts are addicts," she declared. "What they're addicted to, well, that might change from person to person and situation to situation but it doesn't just go away."

"And you think I'm an addict?" he asked with amusement.

"Oh, I'm fairly certain of that," she chuckled. "The question is what you're addicted to."
He was studying her with interest. For a moment, she thought she might actually be getting somewhere. Almost involuntarily, she sat forward on her seat.

"Did you know your eyes change from blue to green when you get excited?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

With a sigh, he sat back again. "I hate to disappoint you, Cary - may I call you Cary? - but I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree."

The urge to slap him was growing with every passing minute. But instead of letting him see her frustration, she continued her point with even greater determination. "Stealing for necessity and stealing for fun are two different things," she said. "The person who does the former is a survivor. The latter is an addict - someone who gets a thrill out of doing it. And if they can't get their fix in familiar ways, they'll find a new way."

He shrugged. "It's an interesting theory."

"There are enough reports here - from previous COs and other senior officers you've crossed paths with - to convince me there is some form of addiction fueling your behavior." She picked up the first sheet and started reading. "May 13, '68 - three girls removed from the guard station claim to have been paid to be there by Sergeant Templeton Peck." She picked up the next sheet. "October 7, '68, prostitute removed from camp with supply of heroin she claims came from you. Shall I go on?"

He smiled and nodded. "Please do. I love a trip down memory lane every now and then."

Sighing, she set the papers down. "You know what I think?"

Again, he raised an interested brow.

"I think when you found Colonel Smith, he taught you a new way to feed that thing inside that makes it impossible for you to just do your part and be a soldier like everyone else," she suggested. "The thing that makes you need to bend the rules, or break them, just to see what you can get away with. And you certainly managed to get away with it a lot cleaner after you joined Smith's team."

Peck smiled again. "You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you?"

"I want to know why you did what you did," she answered flatly. "I want to know how much of it was your idea and how much of it was Smith's. And then I want to know how on God's green earth you thought you would actually get away with it."

With a deep sigh, Peck rolled his eyes, as if bored with this discussion. "Look," he said simply, the teasing tone gone from his voice. "It's not as complicated as you're making it out to be. I did what I did in Hanoi because I had orders. It wasn't my idea or Hannibal's; it was Colonel Morrison's. And as for how we thought we'd get away with it, we actually did. We made it back in one piece despite everything that went wrong. I'd call that success."

"And you really expect me to believe… what? That the United States military is framing you?"

For the first time, she could actually see the gears turning in his head as he turned that possibility over a few times. When he finally spoke again, it was with an even more serious tone. "God help the US military if this war ends and any one of us come back with stories to tell," he finally said in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine. "I've outlived not only my life expectancy but every fucking suicide mission they sent me on. I was never supposed to come home and I know it."

"You sound like you take that very personally," she pressed, watching him carefully. With that dark tone and look in his eyes, she half expected him to suddenly snap. Could this be the first glimpse she was getting at the man who would commit war crimes without the slightest hint of remorse?

"Personally?" he repeated. Leaning back, he seemed to ponder it before concluding, "No, it's not personal. It's just the way war works. I do think we were supposed to die in Hanoi. Having us arrested was a desperate move."

"You're suggesting a conspiracy theory?" she asked with obvious disbelief.

"Let me put it this way," he answered with brutal honesty in his cold, unfeeling tone. "You can look for those orders, but I doubt they ever got filed. I know something about paper trails - how to leave them and when not to. Whoever wanted us put down, they're not going to give us a way out."

She stared at him in quiet consideration. Whether or not there was any truth to it, she was starting to think he really did believe he'd been framed somehow.

"Which means, incidentally," he gave her a calm, pleasant smile, "that it's a pretty open and shut case for you. The word of three soldiers accused of treason against the powers that be. Kind of hard to be impartial under those circumstances."

"I am impartial," she said defensively.

He chuckled. "Sure you are."

"Did you see the orders?" she demanded.

He raised a brow. For a moment, he looked like she'd actually managed to throw a curve ball. "Are you kidding?" he asked in disbelief.

"Why would I be kidding?" she replied.

Brow still raised, he gave her a disbelieving look. "Look, if you expect me to believe Hannibal made those orders up - or even if he did…" He hesitated a beat, and she watched with interest to see where he was going now that he was so eager to talk. "It makes no difference," he finally concluded. "If you think I'm going to turn on Hannibal, you're either kidding or high on something."

"So is that a yes?" she pressed.

Staring intently at her, he didn't answer. After a long pause, she nodded and scribbled a few notes just to buy time to form her next questions. He wasn't a fool, openly admitting to anything that could incriminate him or any member of his team. But at least he wasn't lying through his teeth, either. At least, not about the important bits.