CHAPTER SEVEN

October 14, 1968

Face looked around the camp before he jumped out of the back of the Huey. It was the home of A-346, just outside of Da Nang. For once, they actually were operating in South Vietnam, and far from the border of Cambodia. It was as good a place as any to rack up their next team injury, now that Hannibal was nearly full strength again after only three weeks. Or maybe, just maybe, they could operate with a bit less stupidity and manage to make it through an entire drop without killing or injuring anyone on the team.

Although he'd never been to this camp before, Face had already been warned that the camp commander might not be too terribly thrilled to see them. As the blades wound down, he dropped out of the back of the chopper and slung his CAR-15 over his shoulder before opening the front for the pilot. "Doesn't look too hostile," Cipher said, still optimistic.

"Don't be too sure," Hannibal warned, reaching into his pocket for a cigar.

"You know this guy?" Boston asked, watching as Cipher jumped to the ground.

The smirk on Hannibal's face made his answer clear. "You might say that."

Face rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Cavorting with a hostile old "friend" of Hannibal's was just what they needed.

"No welcoming party at all, huh?" Cipher observed, eyes scanning their surroundings - mapping the camp in his mind. It was a habit.

"Here comes a guy," Boston pointed. With his other hand, he was reaching for his cigarettes. He passed one into Face's outstretched hand before lighting his own.

Hannibal led the way as they met the shirtless American soldier halfway. "Colonel Smith?" the young man greeted.

"That's me."

"First Sergeant Tim Candelstein." They shook hands. "We've been expecting you."

The rest of the team hung back, weapons and packs over their shoulders, wary of the camp and its occupants. Hannibal had been a little too eager to come out here, and if he had to guess, Face would figure it had something to do with why the camp commander wouldn't be thrilled to see them.

"Where's the warm welcome?" Hannibal grinned, apparently enjoying the opportunity to antagonize the young soldier. "Don't tell me the colonel was too busy to come out and say hello."

Face and Cipher exchanged glances. A mouthed, "Colonel?" from Cipher received a shrug. Face hadn't heard much about this camp or its occupants. It was unusual, for sure, to find a colonel at an A-camp. But stranger things had happened. Hell, Hannibal was living proof.

"We had another patrol disappear last night," Candelstein explained. "He's organizing a team to go find them."

"I thought that's what we were here for," Hannibal pointed out, feigning offense.

"You'll have to excuse his... impatience." They followed a few steps behind the sergeant. "We're down thirty men and expecting an attack. He doesn't want to be caught off guard."

"Thirty men," Face repeated. "That's six teams. You've lost six teams in the past week?"

"You'd think he would've learned after the first two," Hannibal smirked.

His team exchanged glances amongst themselves, shocked by the lighthearted treatment of that news. But all of them opted to stay quiet, following without a word through the camp and past a few of the CIDG soldiers before reaching the door of the TOC. Candelstein stepped inside first. "Colonel? General Westman's team is here."

The voice that answered was rough and gravelly. And hostile. "Show them where to put their stuff. I'll deal with them when I'm done here."

Hannibal didn't wait for the Sergeant to answer. He stepped forward, pushing the door open further. "Oh, come on now," he greeted. "That's no way to treat an old friend."

Realizing that Hannibal - and the entire team behind him - was within earshot helped to take some of the edge out of the camp commander's voice. When he spoke, it was with the reserved, formal politeness that any soldier could manage. "Colonel Smith."

Hannibal did not mimic the tone. He walked into the TOC as if he owned it, and greeted the other man with a smile. "I hear you got a problem."

"Nothing I can't handle."

Hannibal paused. "Well, that's not the impression the general gave us."

Noting that no one else seemed in any hurry to get into the small building, Face passed through a gap between Boston and BA and stepped inside, immediately locating the camp commander at the map wall. He was about as old as Hannibal, maybe a little older. But he was thinner and lanky where Hannibal's frame - from miles and miles of trekking through the jungle - was lined with muscle. Which was not to say that the other man was out of shape.

"Sergeant Templeton Peck," Face introduced as he stepped forward to shake hands with the older man. "Any idea what we're dealing with here? Where they're operating out of?"

The colonel's eyes narrowed as he looked Face up and down in a blatant, scrutinizing appraisal. Face waited several full seconds before he realized that he wasn't going to shake the hand that was extended to him. Instead, he addressed Hannibal.

"Let's get one thing straight, Smith," he shot. "I didn't ask for you to be here. This is my camp and while you're here, you'll do things my way. Do I make myself clear?"

Face took a step back, glancing at Hannibal to see his smile firmly in place. "Clear as mud. Now." He looked back at the Sergeant in the doorway. "Where can we set up shop?"

As Face followed them out of the room and across the camp, he took a few extra strides to catch up with Hannibal. "What the hell is his problem?" he asked. Then he quickly thought better of it. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Cipher had a better question. "What the hell is his name?"

"Colonel Roderick Decker," Hannibal explained with a grin. "We went to West Point together. And we've been playing tag ever since."

"Oh. Great." Face couldn't quite muster up enthusiasm to match Hannibal's.

Cipher's response was very different. "I've heard of him," he said warily. "He's in demo, isn't he?"

"Large scale," Hannibal nodded, still smiling.

Boston chuckled, and clapped a hand over Face's shoulder. "And here you thought you were going to be bored out here."

August 27, 1978

Face opened his eyes slowly. Disoriented and confused, he stared up at leaves and intersecting branches of the trees above him. His head was pounding, and he heard fire cackling loudly, somewhere nearby. Sirens screamed in the distance as his memories returned in a muddled mess. Explosion...

He pushed himself up and looked around the front yard of an unfamiliar house in a nice neighborhood. The bottom floor was engulfed in flames. They poured from the windows and out of the open front door, which looked as though it had been blown off of its hinges. Confused and dazed, he tried to identify anything familiar. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up concussed with a burning building nearby, but it was never really something he got used to.

As he looked around, he saw a woman sprawled on lawn a few meters away. The sight of her brought recent memory flooding back. Jessica was unconscious, or worse. Acting on instinct, he dragged himself up. Although he wasn't sure how he'd gotten out on the front lawn, the deep gash on his arm and the shards of glass still embedded in his flesh seemed to suggest he'd gone out the window. Blood was dripping into his eyes. Whether he'd jumped out or been catapulted by the explosion, he didn't quite remember.

Neighbors poured into the street as he stumbled across the grass and grabbed Jessica by the arm. She moaned, only half conscious as he dragged her up and stumbled to regain his footing, choking on the thick smoke. He made it three steps before another man from one of the surrounding houses ducked under her other arm, taking her weight. A teenage boy stopped a few feet in front of him, eyes wild with adrenaline.

"Is anyone still inside?"

Face shook his head and almost fell over, dizzy. He was glad for the other man carrying Jessica because he almost collapsed himself. The boy slipped under his arm, helping to steady him and muttering a steady stream of, "It's okay. You're okay, man. Come on."

His eyes slid closed.

When they opened again, he was staring into a bright light. Disoriented again, he immediately tried to sit up. But a hand pushed him back down. "Just relax."

Ambulance. He was in the back of an ambulance. But it wasn't moving. "Where's Jessica?" It was the first thought that came to mind.

"She's alright," the paramedic answered. "She's right over there. Do you know where you are?"

He looked around for where "over there" was, but didn't see her. "I'm in an ambulance," he said dismissively. "Is she okay?"

He tried again to sit up and this time, the hands moved to steady him instead of pushing him down again. Almost immediately, he saw Jessica, sitting in the back corner of a second ambulance with an oxygen mask to her face. She was conscious, and staring in his direction.

He wanted to call out to her, ask if she was okay. But his throat burned with every breath and she was simply too far away. With eyes full of confusion and fear, face and arms bright red as if sunburned, she lowered the mask just enough to give him a weak smile before the paramedic raised it again. Not deterred, she lifted a hand weakly and offered a shaky thumbs up.

Relieved, Face let the hands pushing on his chest guide him. "Sir? I need you to lie back down, please."

"Hey, buddy," a second paramedic interjected, waving to get his attention. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Face tried focus his eyes, but he couldn't quite manage it. "Three," he guessed.

"And now?"

Another brief attempt ended when he simply shut his eyes and shook his head. It hurt to try and focus. God, his head was pounding.

"Alright, we're gonna take you to the hospital and get you stitched up," the man informed. "Just relax, okay?"

Fairly certain he didn't have much of a choice, Face drew in a deep breath and coughed violently before dropping his head to the side and letting his mind wander over to the darkness.

October 15, 1968

Two minutes from the camp, Face had already noticed a problem with Roderick Decker's latest team. Every time they took a step, leaves rustled and twigs broke under their feet. They also seemed to have no idea how to pace themselves out, and walked in a huddled group. Ahead of them by a few meters, Face and Cipher exchanged worried looks. Then Face turned back. "Hey, guys?"

The three CIDG and two Americans paused, eyes on him.

"You wanna keep it down?" he hissed. "You're gonna get us shot."

Bewildered looks and whispered apologies, and Face shook his head as he turned back. "Tell me again," Cipher mumbled under his breath, "why did we have to take them with us?"

"Because they know the area," Face whispered back. "At least, they should."

A clicking sound ahead made both Face and Cipher's head snap up. A signal for danger. Scanning the trees, Face saw nothing. That didn't mean there was nothing. He gestured to the line behind him, a signal to disperse and hide, and shut his eyes in anger and disgust at the loud rustling sound they made as they ducked off the path.

"Who the fuck trained these idiots?" Cipher hissed.

Cipher and Face parted ways, but stayed close enough to signal audibly over the rattling sound of the insects. Pressed low against the ground, Face scanned the shadows of the thick foliage around him. Nothing moved. At least they knew how to hide.

Minutes passed. Face breathed slow. It was a waiting game. Until he heard otherwise from Hannibal or Boston - who'd called back the original signal - he stayed put. Finally, a rustling sound, muffled voices. Face pressed lower to the ground, training his weapon in the direction of the sound. Five VC, walking right toward him.

A shrill sound made the men stop suddenly and scan their surroundings. It could've been a bird, or a screeching insect. Face knew better. He waited for the men to lower their guns before answering with the same whistle, and two clicks.

The men were nervous, on edge. But they walked forward, scanning the trees. As they moved within feet of where Face was lying flat, he set his gun carefully beside him, put his hands underneath him, and signaled again.

The sound of gunshots was instantaneous. So was Face's movement. Almost before their fingers had found the triggers of their AKs, four of them were lying bleeding and Face stood behind the fifth with a blade against his throat.

"Here's an English lesson for you," he hissed, pressing the knife harder against the man's skin until he felt hot, sticky blood trickle down onto his fingers. "Make one move and you're breathing through your neck. Comprende?"