CHAPTER SIXTEEN

August 30, 1978

"Remember," BA instructed carefully, handing over the small transmitters, "this one right here has the longest range. This one has the shortest. Be careful where you put them or we won't get a signal."

"I got it," Face assured, slipping the palm-size boxes of wires and microphones and radio transmitters in his pocket.

"An' be careful with 'em!" BA ordered. "They'll break if you toss 'em around. Or if you land on 'em. Or if they get stepped on."

Face nodded, and shrugged out of the jacket. He handed it to Hannibal and withdrew his pistol from the back of his jeans, handing that over as well. Hannibal exchanged it for a bottle of cheap vodka and Jessica watched quietly as Face opened the bottle and filled his mouth with it. He swished it around a few times, turned, and spit it out.

"Ugh, that stuff's horrible," he winced. "How much did we pay for that bottle?"

"A dollar and a half," Hannibal answered with a grin.

"Yeah," Face muttered. "Tastes like it."

Face dribbled the foul-smelling liquor on his shirt then handed the bottle back. "Try not to attract too much attention to yourself," Hannibal warned. "I don't want to have to come in there and get you out."

Face smirked as he messed up his hair and loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt, but remained silent.

"Be careful," Jessica called after him as he turned away.

He waved over his shoulder, but he was already slipping into character - feeling the weight of his feet with every step and the numb, unresponsive feeling in his tongue. He couldn't appear too drunk or they wouldn't serve him. But he certainly wasn't sober, either.

The bar was a dive. Three carved-up tables and chairs were scattered around. A drunk man and woman - possibly a prostitute - fawned over each other in the corner. In the opposite corner was a broken jukebox - not plugged in. Three of the five light bulbs over the tables were burned out, and no windows made the room dark. The hallway off the back of the bar had an exit sign posted, and the front door was decorated by a chain with a padlock clasped to it. There was a length of chain on the doorframe, too - even better than a deadbolt. Three rows of bottles were behind the bar, three common beers on tap, and a broken mirror. Five men sat at the bar: one apparently sleeping, two of them wasted, two mostly sober and holding a hushed conversation with the bartender. None would pose a threat as long as they were unarmed. They had no guns on their belts and no jackets to hide them. The man on the end smoked Marlboro reds. Rickety stools rested by the bar, with one broken in the corner. A cockroach skittered across the floor.

It took Face only a few seconds to take everything in before walking to the bar with a minimal amount of stumbling. He sat right in the center, between the sleeper and Marlboro man. The bartender pushed himself up from where he was leaning forward on the sink and trudged toward him.

"What'll it be?" he asked, tossing a napkin on the top of the well-used bar.

"L-I-T," he ordered with a wave.

If the bartender had any qualms about serving an already-intoxicated man with one of the more potent cocktails available, he didn't voice them. Face wouldn't have expected him to, given the bar's patrons. Watching him mix the drink, Face paid closer attention than he let on, gauging just how strong it was. He could hold his liquor as well as any soldier - maybe even better than most. But more importantly, he knew his limits. Two and a half drinks like that and he'd be feeling it. Four and he'd be unable to walk. There was only about a teaspoon of Coke at the top of that tall glass of liquor.

"Thanks, man," he grumbled as he wrapped a hand around it.

Face was using one hand to lift the glass while the other hand fished for money. The liquor was strong enough to burn his throat, and he drank it fast. So fast that the bartender's eyes widened. But if he thought to warn him about the effects of chugging down a mixture of vodka, gin, tequila, and rum, he decided against it as Face dropped a ten dollar bill on the bar top and pulled himself out of the glass long enough to slur, "Keep the change."

The bartender went back to his business.

Finishing the rest of the drink in record time, Face felt in his pocket for the smallest of the three transmitters. It was still about an inch and a half in diameter, and he had some trouble wrestling it out of his pocket. Withdrawing his hand again with the device between his fingers, he leaned forward, shoving the glass.

"Hey, barkeep!" He shoved it too far, right over the edge of the bar and onto the lower counter on the other side. It bounced, then dropped to the floor and shattered, spilling ice all over. "Oh, shit!"

Leaning forward so far he almost fell over the bar, his eyes scanned the inside of the ledge. Plenty of room, and plenty dark. As the bartender grabbed his shoulders to keep him from falling headfirst, he reached down and set the transmitter gently under the lip of the bar, out of sight.

"Aw, man, I'm so sorry!" he stammered, regaining his balance again.

"Sit down," the bartender ordered impatiently. "Just sit down, okay?"

"You alright?" Marlboro man asked.

Face slid to his feet. "Yeah, I'm... Uh huh... M'jus' gonna go find the li'l boys room..." He laughed a little. "Sorry man," he gestured to the bartender. "Real sorry."

"It's down there on your left," the bartender directed, clearly annoyed by the display.

Face waved over his shoulder and shoved his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the next transmitter. He had it between his fingers as he stumbled down the short, dark hallway. He went to the left first, into the bathroom, and quickly scanned to make sure he was alone before planting the second bug on the ledge above the stalls. Then he exited, took two more steps down the hall, and heaved his weight at the door to the right, shoulder first. The frame cracked as the door busted in.

Jackpot.

Three men sat at a round table with an extra, unoccupied chair. There were pink slips and cash on the table - at least a few grand - and poker chips. Thick smoke rose from the cigarettes in the ashtray, filling the otherwise empty room with a gray haze. No windows let in light, and only one bare bulb hung from the ceiling over the table. To his right, a stunned man made of pure muscle had been guarding the door. He was dangerous and would be a threat in a few seconds time. More importantly, Face had no good place to hide the bug and no time to look for one. The only option he had was the dark edges of the room. He sincerely hoped these things weren't as delicate as BA had led him to believe.

Sprawling forward, as if off balance from his fall through the door, and caught the edge of the table as he hit the floor, turning it over. The clatter and confusion were more than enough to mask the fact that with an inconspicuous flick of the wrist on his other hand, he tossed the last receiver across the floor. His eyes followed it past the ring of dim light and out of sight. He listened for it to hit the wall, and was pleased when it didn't. Not the best way or place to plant it, but his options were limited with no furniture in the room. Hopefully BA would get a signal from it.

An instant later, he was jerked to his feet by the mammoth man at the door whose reflexes had - thankfully - not been fast enough to stop Face from falling into the table. Stumbling, reeking of alcohol, and with his eyes rolling back in his head, he slurred something only half-coherent about the bathroom.

"Get him out of here!" one of the men ordered.

His feet barely touched the floor as he was dragged out into the hall. "Wait!" he cried, glancing around with a confused and frantic look as they passed the bar's patrons. "Wait, I gotta take a leak, man! I gotta -"

The man carrying him kicked the front door open and threw him headfirst out into the street. He rolled a few times before he came to a stop. The man, still at the door, pointed after him. "Stay the fuck outta here!" he bellowed. "I catch you in here again, I'll pound your head in!"

The door clapped closed again and Face remained still for a moment before pulling himself up and glancing around. Only a few shaky steps later, his own car pulled up beside him. "You okay, kid?" Hannibal asked as he slipped into the passenger seat.

"I'm fine," Face answered, grabbing the bottle of water Hannibal offered. "I just hope he can get a signal. There was no place to hide that last one."

November 29, 1968

Saigon was a pleasant enough place to spend a few days. There was plenty of sex and booze, and compared to most places they frequented, it was positively civilized. Face enjoyed the freedom of being out from under Hannibal's thumb, and simply waited to be told where and when they were going next. He was slightly surprised to be invited to the briefing when it finally did happen.

The last time Face had stood in the same room as General Ross Westman, it had been to turn over a list of contacts that would permanently and irrevocably trash Face's reputation in the underground, all while Hannibal gloated with that sickening smile. Since then, Face had hardly noticed the disgrace of being labeled a rat, since he spent the days out in the jungle for the most part. But here in Saigon, he was more aware of it. And stepping into the same room as General Westman brought the memories crashing back.

"Colonel," Westman greeted as Hannibal and Face both saluted upon entry. "Sergeant."

"General," Hannibal acknowledged with a look of concern. "I've been waiting for you to get back. I was told you were delayed and now it's urgent. What's going on?"

Westman wasted no time. "I understand your Sergeant Peck was involved in an incident some time ago –" Face stood ramrod straight, braced for anything "- where he retrieved an American who was being held hostage from a bar controlled by the VC."

Face blinked, startled. Well, that wasn't what he'd been expecting. It took him several seconds to even find a point of reference as both men turned to him for further explanation. He wasn't in trouble, he realized. They wanted the story of one of his greatest successes. Unfortunately, it sounded like the legend had been embellished a bit.

"Uh... if that's how the story goes, General, it wasn't told by me."

Westman tapped the ashes off of his cigarette into an ashtray on his desk. "You have sixty seconds to give me your version."

Without a clue where the general was going with this, Face simply gave him his best memory of the truth. "When I first got into SOG, Sergeant Will Dysart and I went to Da Nang on stand down. We were at a bar; I left and he stayed. As I was walking out, two Vietnamese were walking in and trying to conceal AK-47s. The bar had a rule - I knew they knew it - so I knew they were there to start trouble. I turned around and walked back in. About the time they pulled their weapons out, I had a pistol on both their necks." He shook his head slightly. "How that turned into hostage negotiations, I have no idea."

Westman stared at him, gaze steady, unwavering. It was a long, tense moment before he took one last drag on his cigarette and leaned forward to put it out in the ashtray. "Would you like to try your hand at hostage negotiations, Sergeant?"

Again, Face was caught off guard. He glanced quickly at Hannibal's emotionless expression. "I'd be willing to," he finally answered, hesitantly, "if you have a hostage readily available. But I can't promise anything. I've never been trained for it."

Another tense moment of silence. But this time, Hannibal broke it before it extended too long. "What's going on, Ross?"

Westman paused for a moment. "Sounds like a similar situation only this time there was nobody there to stop them from opening fire." He paused and folded his hands on the desk. "We don't know how many people are still alive. We don't even know how many Americans are in there. We do know that Chief SOG General Sandgone is one of them."

Hannibal frowned deeply. "Do they know that?"

"We don't think so," Westman offered hopefully. "He wasn't in uniform."

"And they're treating it like a hostage situation?" Hannibal shook his head in confusion. "That's a little odd for the VC."

"We're treating it like a hostage situation," Westman corrected. "They're shooting at anyone who comes within range."

"How many are there?" Face asked, trying to form a picture in his mind. The VC didn't take hostages. What were they playing at?

"We don't know," Westman admitted. "Enough to cover all the entrances to the building. We had six men shot outside before we even realized what was going on." Westman sighed and leaned back. "We could storm it. We would take it. But everyone inside would be as good as dead. We could wait it out. But the result would probably be the same. And anyone alive in there is quite possibly bleeding out as we speak."

"But we don't know for a fact that there is anybody still alive," Hannibal pointed out.

Westman shook his head slightly. "No. We don't."

Face leaned back slightly, contemplating the scenario. "Who's in charge out there right now?" he asked.
"Military police," Westman replied. "Major Steven Wren."

"Does he know who's in there?"

Westman nodded.

Hannibal lowered his eyes, losing himself in quiet thought for a few minutes. The other two men let him think. Finally, he looked up. "Face?"

Face had been waiting for it. "You do know that I don't speak Vietnamese, right?"

With a knowing smile, Hannibal shrugged. "That's never stopped you before."

"No..." Face was very hesitant to agree with him, even with qualification. "But I've never had to negotiate a hostage situation with the VC before. At least not with words."

"Take a translator with you."

Face winced. "Wouldn't it maybe be better to get somebody who's been trained for this? Maybe even someone who speaks the language? Doesn't the Agency have anyone who might be a little better suited?"

"There's no time," Westman said. "Getting the Agency's cooperation on anything requires a hell of a lot of paperwork. And if anyone's still alive in there..."

"Face, if you can keep them busy for a few minutes, I'll take the rest of the team in," Hannibal said confidently. "If they think we're trying to negotiate, it may be the distraction we need."

Face frowned. "I don't know that it'll take them a few minutes to shoot me. It usually just takes a few seconds."

Hannibal's gaze didn't waver. Face stared back at him, saying nothing. After a long hesitation, Hannibal looked back across the desk at Westman. "I want three of the best snipers we have on hand."

"You have four," Westman answered, almost flippantly, "and they're already out there."

"Good." Hannibal rose to his feet. "Where is this bar?"

Westman stood as well. "I'll go with you."

Hannibal raised a brow at the incentive. "Are you sure that's wise, General?"

Westman laughed briefly. "You're the one about to send your XO into a bar full of VC to negotiate in a language he can neither speak nor understand. You're askin' about me?"

Face's jaw was set. Westman had a damn good point, but Face didn't bother to protest. Besides, using him as a negotiator had been the general's idea to begin with. Face didn't know which of them he should thank with his dying breath.