PROLOGUE

Vietnam

July 11, 1968

Sergeant Templeton Peck looked vaguely familiar to Hannibal, as if their paths had crossed before. But that wasn't surprising; Hannibal had crossed paths with damn near every recon team in SOG at one time or another, in and out of FOBs all around South Vietnam. In any case, he wasn't here to rehash old times. And as the young soldier had been drinking steadily for the past two hours, Hannibal doubted he'd be capable of remembering much anyway.

Sitting on a stool in the Da Nang bar that catered to American soldiers, the kid's eyes drifted over each of the patrons as he finished another glass of the piss-water that passed for beer and twirled the empty glass on the dirty counter. Some of the soldiers around him had clumped together into groups. A few had found escape in the arms of the girls who made a living at places like this. Others, like him, had seemingly just come here to get away - to drink and, hopefully, be ignored.

Elbows on the bar top, he closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his too-long hair, holding his head. Hannibal wondered if he was going to have some difficulty finding the floor when it was time to move. Then again, maybe he'd just stay here and drink until he passed out. There was a sort of "Devil may care" attitude about him and it didn't seem terribly out of character for his reputation - especially considering the narrow range of his options. He could go down in any number of ways and it all ended up the same in the end so what difference did it make?

Finally, Hannibal stood from his table in the corner and walked directly toward the man he'd been watching for some time now. Setting his own empty glass on the bar top, he studied the sergeant's for a moment before asking, "What're you drinking, kid?"

Peck nearly jumped out of his skin. With a glare as convincing as he could manage while trying not to fall off his seat, he turned and stared as Hannibal sat down on the stool next to him. "What's it to you?" he demanded.

Hannibal gave a chuckle and motioned to get the attention of the overworked and underpaid bartender. "Is that your way of saying you're too drunk to remember?" he prodded.

Peck rolled his eyes and shook his head, mumbling a quiet, "Go to hell," under his breath before looking away.

"That'd be 'go to hell, sir,'" Hannibal corrected with a grin and a proffered hand. "Colonel John Smith."

Peck frowned, then took a better look at him before heaving a sigh and turning his head completely in the opposite direction. "You'll forgive me if I don't salute," he mumbled under his breath.

"I understand you're facing a court martial," Hannibal continued, dispensing with the pleasantries.

Blinking in frank shock, Peck turned back to look at him again. "If I was facing a court martial," he tested, "what the hell would I be doing off base?"

Hannibal chuckled at the wariness, and the effort put forth to maintain plausible deniability. "Bet it has something to do with that pretty lady keeping the guards busy," he suggested. "Or maybe the hash the MPs were smoking in the guard shack?"

Peck's eyes narrowed as he slid off the barstool, gripping the ledge for support. "You're barking up the wrong tree here," he said dryly before spitting out a sarcastic, "Sir."

Hannibal was pleased to find the kid could not only stand, but he could walk without tripping over his feet. He was even more pleased that the bartender still hadn't responded, making the sudden getaway nicely timed.

"You want to tell me about this court martial, kid?" he asked as he followed the boy soldier to the open door and out into the street.

"Nothing to tell," Peck answered. "Sorry."

"Are you guilty?" Hannibal demanded, point blank.

Peck gave a brief chuckle, as if he didn't have the energy to be surprised at the question. "Guilty as sin, Sir," he answered with pride. "Why? You want to be my lawyer?"

Hannibal smiled, glad the kid was at least capable of being direct. Besides, it wasn't like he could get into any more trouble than he already was. "Why'd you do it?" Hannibal pressed.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his fatigues, Peck kept his head lowered as he continued down the street, turning to dodge passersby. "Which part?" he asked dryly.

"Start with the part about how you enlisted at age sixteen," Hannibal invited. "You couldn't have even been out of high school."

Peck said nothing, only quickened his pace. But Hannibal matched his stride effortlessly. "Alright, well, care to explain any of the other charges?" he tried again.

Eyes darting with practiced awareness, Peck watched everything and everyone on the street as he headed in the opposite direction from the base. Hannibal had no idea where he was heading and didn't particularly care. Nor did he really expect to get an answer, though he had sincerely been hoping for that same defiant lack of bullshit to carry throughout the conversation.

"You know," he prodded, "you're going to have a difficult time at trial if you don't learn how to talk about these things."

Peck stopped suddenly and spun. The movement was a little too fast, and he nearly lost his balance, but stubborn pride kept him upright and glaring in Hannibal's direction. "What the hell do you want?" he demanded angrily.

Careful to keep his tone entirely neutral - with just the right amount of seriousness and authority - Hannibal lowered his head a fraction. "I want to help you."

Peck studied him carefully, eyes narrowed. "Why the hell would you want to help me?" he demanded. Two decades worth of cynicism was bottled up in that simple question.

"You tell me," Hannibal replied lightly, gesturing in invitation. "You're pretty good at selling yourself, kid. Convince me that I want to make your problems go away."

Eyeing him warily, Peck took a small step back as if to gain a safe distance. The silence lingered for a moment before he shook his head firmly. "No, I don't think so," he finally refused. "Sorry, but I don't work like that."

Hannibal laughed. He didn't expect the kid to know him and what kind of connections he had, but to refuse help on any level was a testimony to the stubbornness of a soldier facing a life sentence in a military prison. "Why not?" Hannibal asked, curious. "You may be surprised what I can do."

"Doubt it," Peck answered simply, turning and starting again down the broken pavement. "But either way, I don't trust you as far as I could throw you. I'll take my chances with the court martial."

Curious, Hannibal followed a step behind. "Why?" he asked. Maybe his reputation preceded him after all.

With a heavy, tired sigh, Peck stopped again at the mouth of an empty alleyway and turned to face him. "Look, I don't know what you want from me," he said abruptly. "But if you've seen my file, you know they pulled up a list of charges a mile long just as soon as they started looking for dirt in my record."

It was then that Peck seemed to notice Hannibal had the file in his hand. He flipped it open and read from it. "Fraudulent enlistment, failure to obey orders, wrongful possession of a controlled substance," Hannibal recounted. "Fourteen counts of failure to report captured property?" He paused and glanced up with a raised brow. "Fourteen? Really?"

Peck stared back at him, not amused.

"Ten counts of dealing in captured property," Hannibal went on. "Impersonating a commissioned officer."

The long list of charges was beginning to irritate the younger man. "That was a long time ago."

"Altering public records," Hannibal continued. "Pandering?"

"That was a misunderstanding," Peck defended, pointing a finger at Hannibal.

"And all of that is not to mention the more recent resisting and - if they find you out here - breaking arrest." He tipped his head a little. "How did you get off that base, if you don't mind me asking?"

"You asked if I was guilty," Peck shot, losing whatever calm he had managed to hold on to this far. "I told you I am. I'm not a fucking charity case."

"Glad to hear it," Hannibal replied with a grin.

"And I'm pulling 6-to-forever in the stockade before I let you stand here and hold this shit over my head like you're going to use it to push me into something I'm not interested in." His eyes narrowed into slits. "If you've got something to say, then say it. And when you're done, you can march your ass right back to camp and file another Article 89. My goal is to accumulate another ten before I actually stand trial."

Hannibal watched him, amused by the fiery anger in his eyes. The kid was like a powder keg, and in his current situation, was almost ready to ignite. But even when blinded by the stress of a court martial and a list of charges he would never escape, two things about Templeton Peck stood out. The first was that he'd managed to waltz out of the base while under arrest. The second was that he hadn't gone far. He wasn't running, even when he probably should have been. The best he could hope for if he went to trial was a few years in prison and a dishonorable discharge. The worst would see him put away for life. Still, he felt no need to try and escape.

"Why'd you come to Vietnam, kid?" Hannibal asked, genuinely curious.

Peck turned away with an angry growl. "Fuck you."

Hannibal made the instantaneous decision to take a very calculated risk, just to see what would happen: he grabbed Peck's shoulder. The response was quick, and exactly what he'd expected. But Peck's fist never connected with his jaw. With one arm, Hannibal blocked it and the other arm went to the younger, drunken man's neck, driving him off the street and into the alley beside them before he could regain his balance. His back hit the wall hard and before he had a chance to counter, there was a pistol against his lower ribs. He froze.

"I'll ask you again," Hannibal said calmly. "Do you have a death wish?"

The wide-eyed look of shock and horror was priceless. Hannibal relished it for a moment, then stepped back, taking his arm from Peck's throat and placing his weapon back in its holster. He could almost see the gears turning in the younger man's head as he comprehended the number of articles that had just been violated in the span of five seconds - by both of them. But he'd been shocked into silence, and it was exactly the effect that Hannibal had been looking for.

"I'm going to make this simple," Hannibal started, pulling a half-finished cigar out of his breast pocket and a lighter from the pocket in his pants. Then he glanced back up at Peck. The look of surprise still hadn't faded. He hadn't expected it to.

"I'm recruiting for a special recon team," Hannibal explained. "You've come highly recommended."

"I'm not interested," Peck said again, finally recovering his voice.

Hannibal studied him with interest. "Rather spend the rest of your life in prison?"

"Probably," Peck shot back.

Hannibal grinned. "Probably" was not "yes". Through the haze of anger, the boy was actually considering it. Pausing for a long moment, Hannibal lit the cigar. "Look, kid, you come with me, I'll make you no promises. You'll never see home again. You probably won't even live 'til the end of the month. But you'll stay out of prison. And maybe whatever it is you're looking for, you might find it."

Peck snorted with laughter. "If you're trying to sell me something, you're doin' a piss poor job of it."

"Oh, I think it sells itself," Hannibal grinned, putting the situation back into perspective. "You came here for a reason. I don't know what that reason was, but it not only took you into the army at sixteen years old, it took you into Special Forces, then onto CCN. You went all the way to Cambodia and Laos looking for it. So you can either keep looking or you can give up and go to prison. Your choice."

Peck glared back. "You think I've got nothing to lose," he realized. "That's why you're here, why you've come to me."

"No," Hannibal answered instantly, simply.

"You must be pretty desperate, huh?" Peck smirked, not buying the colonel's confidence.

Hannibal laughed and shook his head. "Look, kid. It's going to take an awful lot of string-pulling to get you reassigned to me and with a clean slate. I can think of quite a few soldiers who are more available, and less insubordinate. So why do you think I'm talking to you?"

"I dunno," Peck shot back. "Everyone else too fucking scared of you?"

"No," Hannibal said with confidence. At least he knew for certain now that Peck had heard the rumors about how dangerous it was to be an associate of Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith. That was fine. In fact, it was probably better than Hannibal could've hoped for. Finally, he leaned forward, ready to show his hand.

"I'm talking to you because you hold the record on POW snatches and every man I've asked says you're good on the ground," he informed quietly. "Because I've talked to your CO, and your team, and I've heard their version of your captured property charges. Because they tell me you have a way with people, although I certainly wouldn't guess it from looking at you right now, and you can get things - materials, equipment, medical supplies - things that nobody else can find. Because your test scores are eye catching. Because you're 21 - or is it 18? - years old and you've already done a full rotation in 'Nam and extended it to join SOG because you didn't want to go home. And because when I came to pull you out of the stockade -" he smiled broadly "- I found you in a bar. So tell me, kid. What is it you're looking for? What is it you want so badly you're prepared to die for it? The thrill of success? Or is it just a reason for living?"

Peck stared at him, eyes narrowed, clearly cautious and more than a little skeptical. "First, you tell me," he finally demanded, leaning back against the brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest. But in spite of the defensive posture, Hannibal could tell by the look in the kid's eyes that he'd already won him over. "Why do they call you Hannibal?"

Smith grinned around the cigar. "Come with me and find out."

The look in the kid's eyes was an odd mix of fear, distrust, and fury. But Hannibal knew he wasn't wrong. There was a reason he'd chosen this one. He didn't figure there was a chance in hell Peck wouldn't choose him.