Several hours later, Doctor Bailey entered the private room where Hannibal had been moved after treatment. The gentle beeping of monitors and the hum of medical equipment filled the air. The room was more serene than the emergency department.

Doctor Bailey cast a brief, assessing glance at the three officers gathered—Colonel Decker,

General Bullen and Colonel Brian Mitchell. They had the stiff demeanor of men used to command, but their eyes showed genuine concern.

The orderlies had already settled Hannibal into the bed, ensuring every tube and wire was in the correct place. Bailey approached the bed and checked the readings on the monitors. Hannibal was sleeping peacefully, the sedatives and pain medication ensuring he felt nothing.

Clearing his throat, Bailey addressed the officers. "Gentlemen, Colonel Smith is stable. I will continue to keep him sedated for the rest of the day. He needs uninterrupted rest."

He saw the expectant looks from Decker and the others. "I understand you need to know the extent of his injuries. He cannot be moved for several days. I would appreciate it if no one, and I mean no one, antagonizes him during that time."

Bailey locked eyes with Decker, making the implication clear. Decker gave a curt nod, acknowledging the doctor's unspoken warning.

"Colonel Smith has a concussion, which is honestly the least of his concerns. He suffered a radial fracture in his left forearm, a hairline fracture of the left collarbone, three broken ribs on his left side, a hairline fracture in his left shoulder blade, and a dislocated shoulder. His left knee is also hyperextended and badly sprained. We've casted his arm, braced his collarbone, immobilized his shoulder, and strapped his ribs. Assuming no complications, it will take him six to ten weeks to recover fully."

Bailey paused, noting their sober expressions. "I saw the seat where he was sitting during the crash. It broke from the base and slammed him into the seat ahead of him. He's lucky to be alive."

General Bullen and Colonel Decker exchanged glances that Bailey couldn't quite interpret, but Mitchell seemed almost proud, as if Smith's resilience confirmed something he already believed.

Bailey continued, feeling compelled to add his perspective. "Gentlemen, I've seen my share of soldiers in pain. Most would have succumbed to injuries like these. But Colonel Smith...he didn't just survive. He commanded the situation, kept everyone calm, and even delivered a baby. I don't know how he managed it, but he did. That speaks to his willpower and leadership. I'll be keeping him heavily medicated for the next few days. He won't be going anywhere or talking coherently anytime soon."

"Doctor, would you be open to a soldier from the 1st Special Forces group sitting with him as a friend, not a guard? Smith shouldn't be alone," Colonel Mitchell said more personal than official.

Bailey considered this. It was a reasonable request and wouldn't disrupt Hannibal's care. "As long as it's someone who will respect the need for calm and rest, that's perfectly acceptable. I'd prefer it to unnecessary guards. Smith needs allies, not obstacles."

General Bullen nodded. "Agreed. The Special Forces community looks after their own."

Bailey returned to Hannibal's side as the first soldier, Master Sgt. Gary Blake, entered quietly. Blake's expression was a blend of admiration and quiet concern as he settled into a chair beside the bed, watching over his former Captain.

Bailey watched for a moment longer before stepping back. Hannibal's breathing was steady, his pain temporarily at bay thanks to the wonders of modern medicine. Bailey knew recovery would be long and grueling, but he also knew Hannibal Smith was no ordinary man. He had overcome impossible odds before, and Bailey had no doubt he'd do it again.

Bailey faced the three officers. "He's in good hands. And when he wakes up, he'll know that his brothers are watching over him."

With that, Bailey left them to their vigil, knowing that the bonds between soldiers often did more for healing than medicine ever could.

###

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the hospital room blinds, casting soft lines across the bed. Colonel Brian Mitchell sat silently in a chair by the window, the muffled beeping of the heart monitor the only sound in the morning stillness. He had taken this specific shift for a reason—he wanted Hannibal to wake up to a familiar face.

Mitchell was dressed in his uniform, his posture straight even in the uncomfortable chair. Though his outward demeanor remained stoic, his mind was restless, replaying the events of the last 48 hours. The plane crash. The frantic rescue operation. Hannibal's battered body being carried out of the wreckage. Despite everything, Hannibal had done what only he could—kept everyone alive, calm, and hopeful.

Movement drew Mitchell's attention. Hannibal stirred in the bed, his hand twitching on the blanket, and a low groan escaped his lips. His head shifted s on the pillow, eyelids fluttering as he began to emerge from the heavy sedation.

Mitchell leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Welcome back, Colonel. You had us worried."

Hannibal's blue eyes opened slowly, squinting against the daylight. His gaze was unfocused, but then recognition as he locked eyes with Mitchell. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it was clear even that small movement cost him.

"Mitchell," Hannibal rasped, his voice hoarse. "It's been a long time. Figured... you'd still be running the show."

Mitchell chuckled softly. "Someone has to keep an eye on you, sir. You've got a knack for finding trouble."

Hannibal looked around the room. "There any water around here?"

"Sure, Colonel." Mitchell poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table and held it to Hannibal's lips. Hannibal reached for the cup with his right hand, but his grip was weak and shaky. Mitchell kept the cup steady as Hannibal took a small sip. Hannibal's entire body trembled from the effort.

Hannibal nodded his thanks, and Mitchell set the cup on the bedside tray within his reach. "How are you feeling? Just so you know, you look terrible—bruised face, swollen eye."

Hannibal tried to shift in the bed, but a grimace of pain froze him in place. "Then I feel like I look. Terrible."

Mitchell rose immediately, placing a steadying hand on Hannibal's good shoulder. "Easy, Colonel. Don't push it. You've been through the wringer. Broken arm, busted shoulder, ribs… You name it, you've probably cracked it."

Hannibal let out a breathy chuckle, though it was cut short by a wince. "Guess I'm not as invincible as they say."

"Don't sell yourself short," Mitchell replied. "The stories coming out of that crash site are already legend. They're saying you saved forty lives. Delivered a baby, too, busted up like that plane. That's not just courage, sir—it's something else entirely."

Hannibal's expression softened, his eyes clouding. "Kids. Families. Had to... couldn't let them down." His voice faltered.

Mitchell nodded, understanding the unspoken emotion behind the words. "And you didn't. Thanks to you, not a single life was lost for anyone who survived the crash."

"How's the mother and the baby?"

Mitchell smiled, pleased to see that even now, Hannibal's concern was for others. "She and the baby boy are fine. They were released yesterday. She named the baby John, after you. The other lady gave birth after she got here, a little girl. Named her Mary, after your mother."

Hannibal's eyes widened, surprise on his face. "I'm honored," he said softly. "How'd she know my mother's name?" His gaze turned sharp, almost accusatory, as he looked at Mitchell. "You?"

Mitchell grinned. "Guilty. She asked when I checked on her. Wanted to honor you for what you did. They both did."

Hannibal leaned back against the pillows. "Guess I've got you to thank for that."

Mitchell shook his head. "No thanks needed. You earned it."

The room fell quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors.

Mitchell sat, studying his old commanding officer. Hannibal looked exhausted, his face pale and lined with pain, but there was still that indomitable spirit deep in the twinkle of his eyes.

"I wanted to talk to you before the others got here," Mitchell said, breaking the silence. "Decker's been...surprisingly human through all this. He's concerned about you, like the passengers. They've been talking to anyone who'll listen—press, newspapers, even their representatives in Congress. They're afraid the Army won't take care of you, and honestly, they're not wrong. Bullen chomping at the bit to get you shipped off to the stockade in LA."

Hannibal's expression darkened. "Figures." He tried to sit up but lacked the strength. His trembling hand fumbled for the call button.

Before he could reach it, Mitchell moved to his side. "Let me help." He raised the head of the bed, adjusted the pillows, and helped Hannibal sit up.

"Thanks," Hannibal said.

Mitchell returned to his chair. "Better?"

"Not much." Hannibal leaned into the pillows, closing his eyes for a moment. He appeared drained of all energy.

Mitchell clenched his jaw, frustration simmering in his gut. "I don't get it, sir. You've done more for this country than most people can even comprehend. Bullen doesn't see that. All he cares about is putting you in a cell, and I don't understand why."

Hannibal opened his eyes, a tired smile on his lips. "Politics. Doesn't matter what we did or why. Some people need a scapegoat. Someone to pin the blame on. We tried to fight this at Fort Bragg. Lynch made sure it went nowhere."

"We tried to see you then, but Lynch denied us access. Didn't want us muddying the waters."

"Lynch had it out for me from the start. I put it behind me... but now? It's coming back," Hannibal whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. "I can't go through that again. Locked up... I won't survive it."

Mitchell placed a hand on Hannibal's uninjured arm. "You won't have to. You've got people on your side. The passengers are already talking to the press, singing your praises. And the Special Forces community hasn't forgotten what you've done, not just now, but in 'Nam. We've got your back."

Hannibal's eyes softened, gratitude on his face. "Appreciate that. More than you know."

The room door creaked open, and a nurse came in, checking the monitors and IV. She gave Mitchell a polite nod before addressing Hannibal. "Good to see you awake, Colonel. Let me know if the pain gets to be too much. We can adjust the medication."

Hannibal nodded, and the nurse quietly left.

Mitchell leaned closer. "Sir, some of the men from the 1st have been sitting with you. They want you to know you're not alone. We set up a rotation—guys who served with you and know the truth about what happened. They'll be here as long as you need them."

Hannibal swallowed and gave a slight nod. "Tell them...I'm grateful. Damn grateful," he said in a rough voice.

Mitchell straightened. "I will, sir. Don't worry about Bullen. We'll handle him. You focus on healing."

As Hannibal's eyelids drooped, the sedative pulling him back toward sleep, Mitchell stayed seated by the window. He watched his old CO with quiet admiration, marveling at the sheer willpower it had taken to survive what Hannibal had been through.

At that moment, Mitchell resolved to do everything in his power to ensure Hannibal got the peace and respect he deserved—even if it meant facing off against General Bullen. A move that could end his Army career. And if the general decided to, charge him with insubordination.

He vowed to do whatever it took to keep Hannibal safe. This fight wasn't over—not by a long shot.