Face: Mangling the Mission
It wasn't my fault, I told myself for the hundredth time, but the thought still wasn't much consolation as Murdock and I sat in the van, listening over the walkie-talkies while the other three carried out what should have been a four-man mission. We had planned on four, I had reminded Hannibal, and I was still capable of driving, as I stated multiple times, but to no avail. I had even argued that if we were still in the army he would have let me do it, to which Hannibal replied, "If we were still in the army, you wouldn't even be in the field right now, Lieutenant!" That's when I knew it was hopeless.
"When I'm worried, and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep."
Murdock's voice, or rather his imitation of Bing Crosby's rich baritone, sang softly from the driver's seat next to me. Last week, when I was spending the days before Christmas flat on my back and kind of high on pain meds, Murdock had taken the opportunity to pull out all the Christmas movies ever made and tasked Frankie with playing them on the VCR in a running loop so I wouldn't get bored. White Christmas was one I vaguely recalled seeing snatches of between naps and then watching again on Christmas day at Murdock's request. He seemed to enjoy all the songs and dance routines, and today his excitement about our mission had been coming out in the form of lyrics and quotes from the movie.
"And I fall asleep, counting my blessings."
If only this whole fiasco were over so I could have the luxury of falling asleep in a real bed instead of in the passenger seat. I squirmed, looking for a new position to ease the pressure in my left side. After the long drive yesterday and today, I could feel every inch of the seat frame through the inadequate padding. But I guess I should have been counting my blessings. After all, yesterday the doctor had cleared me for travel and "mild exertion," so Hannibal called Stockwell and told him we would accept the mission. Stockwell had briefed us, and here we were, halfway up a snow-carpeted mountainside in Vermont — which may have factored into Murdock's choice of which musical to channel.
On top of that, we got to take out one of the most underrated lowlifes in the North American criminal network. Stuart Lisle was one of the many names that came up in the Bancroft diary. Unlike some of the others, Lisle wasn't so much a player himself as a middle man, but he'd still accumulated enough funds to construct a miniature mansion in the side of a mountain for carrying out his deals undetected or laying low as needed. Ever since the Bancroft diary came to light, the CIA had been searching for him to bring him to justice. And just two days ago, he'd been found at last. Hidden in a virtual fortress with armed guards, security cameras, electric fencing, and the like, he could only be reached if an extraction team could find a way inside and get him out before he had a chance to escape. That's where we came in.
It was a standard extraction, like we'd done a thousand times before: acquire a Trojan horse, get inside the walls, and leave with the target. But there was one variable that was making what should have been a simple job complicated. Unfortunately, that variable was me.
"Hannibal," came BA's voice with a burst of static over the walkie-talkie, "there's a light in the basement, and I can hear a motor."
"On my way," Hannibal replied. "Frankie, keep an eye on the exit."
"Got it, Johnny."
I sighed, and Murdock paused his song to glance at me. "You okay?" he said.
"Yeah." Physically, I was as good as could be expected, and I'd done my job. Half of it, anyway.
I clamped down on another sigh. Even the reduced dosage of painkiller the doctor had authorized wasn't enough to eliminate side effects. Yesterday, I'd found out very quickly that pain meds and winding mountain roads were a bad combo. Thankfully, I could also knock myself out with Dramamine, but today that hadn't really been an option. Today, my job included driving the van away from the Lisle place once the team made it out with Lisle, but first I had to scam a delivery truck from the company that delivered groceries to Lisle's hideout. The truck was our only way to get inside fast and undetected, and hopefully get out the same way.
The delivery company's truck lot was located two hours down the road from the hotel where we'd spent the night. By the time we pulled in, I was thoroughly motion sick, but I had a job to do. The rest of the team was depending on me, and I had to prove to them that going on this mission had been the right choice, and I was capable of seeing it through to the end. So I strode into the company office, did the fastest scam of my life, got the truck keys, brought them out and handed them to Hannibal, and promptly succumbed to the effects of carsickness in the nearest bush.
Anyone who's had an abdominal injury will tell you, the worst part is that absolutely everything you do hurts. The slightest movement, even breathing, can be agonizing during those first few days, because you use your core muscles for everything, all the time. Even once the pain has lessened — say, because it's two weeks later and you've been taking pain meds — any sudden strain on the abdomen — say, your stomach deciding it's had enough of winding roads — will be, as I'm sure you can imagine, excruciating. So if I wasn't exactly ready to get behind the wheel of the van the moment after I got sick, that would seem to be understandable. But logically, it would follow that once the pain came under control, I could function again, and I could drive the van. Unfortunately, Hannibal failed to make that logical connection. He assumed since he had to help me stand up straight and then support me back to the van that I was permanently out of commission.
"We're changing the plan," he announced as Frankie and Murdock made room for me to sit down right inside the van door. I avoided eye contact with them and BA. It wasn't so much that I was embarrassed about throwing up in front of them — we'd seen each other in every imaginable condition in 'Nam alone, much less in the last ten years on the run together — but I couldn't help feeling like they were all expecting me not to come through on this mission, and they were just waiting for me to fall apart and fulfill their predictions. I shook my head, pushing away what I hoped was just painkiller-induced paranoia as Hannibal continued talking.
"Murdock," he said, "you'll follow us in the van to the rendezvous point and wait there with Face while BA, Frankie, and I take the truck to the hideout and find Lisle."
That was when I started arguing, but Hannibal shut me down almost immediately. That was also when I had started shivering, which definitely didn't help my case.
I glanced out the windshield at the tire tracks on the snowy road ahead and shivered again. In the middle of a 30 degree (not counting wind chill) winter day in Vermont, the sunny beaches of L.A. had never sounded so good. Curse Stockwell and his missions, I thought. Only a few more hours, and we could be rid of him for good. All our essentials were strategically packed in the back of the van, and I and the rest of the team awaited Hannibal's decision for our next move. Yesterday, after our official meeting with Stockwell, we'd held another meeting to plan out the mission and what came afterward. If upon delivering Lisle, Stockwell gave us our pardons, we would take our leave his way. If not, we would drive across the border to Canada and go from there. Personally, I kind of hoped we'd go to Canada just so I could see my months of planning put into action. But that took L.A. out of the picture, not to mention any possibility of living normal lives. I sighed again.
Murdock turned his gaze from the road and cocked his head at me, eyebrows raised. "What's wrong?"
He wasn't going to let me off without an answer. I deliberately shrugged. "I don't know, I was just thinking . . . what's gonna happen if we don't get our pardons? I mean . . . what are we going to do?"
Murdock had just opened his mouth when the walkie-talkie exploded to life. "We've got him," came Hannibal's voice. "Get the van ready, we're coming out!"
Turning on the ignition, Murdock backed the van up against the roadblock of a couple trees we'd thrown together earlier. The plan was for BA to bring the delivery truck up to the trees, where the team would bring Lisle out and pile into the van so we could take off, leaving any pursuers from the Lisle establishment stuck behind the roadblock long enough to give us a head start. Then we'd meet Stockwell, turn over Lisle, and the rest would be history. My stomach did a little flop, which could have been from Murdock's driving, or it could have been because it was finally hitting me: the future of the A-Team was starting right now.
Out of nowhere, a black car sped around the bend in the road ahead, coming straight for us.
"Uh, Murdock?" I nudged him, but his eyes were already glued on the intruder.
"We can't move," he said, squeezing the steering wheel. "We're backed up against the roadblock."
The car came to a stop stretched diagonally across the road five feet from our front bumper. We couldn't go anywhere now without taking the vehicle with us. Murdock reached down and slid his M16 onto his lap, and I did the same. Anyone traveling on this tiny back road in the middle of the Vermont forest the day before New Year's probably wasn't here for the fireworks . . . unless they planned to set some off at the Lisle place.
Three car doors opened, and three men in military-type heavy coats got out, two from the front and one from the back, brandishing assault rifles of their own. They hurriedly crunched through the snow to take positions in front of Murdock's and my doors, one of them running around the side.
"Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up!" the one next to me shouted.
Murdock and I exchanged glances. "How are we going to let Hannibal know?" I whispered quickly.
"I don't know," Murdock replied, and opened his door. I followed suit, dropping my M16 onto the ground and carefully stepping down. My gunman grabbed my arm and jerked me forward a few steps.
"Ah ah ah, careful," I gasped, wincing. I looked up to see a fourth figure rising out of the car. His head came into view, and he flashed me a wide smile as my heart stopped. Stockwell.
"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he said, approaching. "I was expecting you, Mr. Peck, but I don't believe the original plan included your staying in the van, Mr. Murdock."
"We changed the plan," Murdock said flatly.
I blinked. Stockwell hadn't been in on our tactical strategizing. "Wait," I stammered, "how did you know what the plan was?"
The corner of Stockwell's mouth twitched. "The same way I found out about what you have in mind to do after this mission, Mr. Peck."
I swallowed as the meaning of his words sunk in. Stockwell must have left a bug in the den during our briefing, and since we hadn't thought to check for it, he'd overheard our "private" meeting. Our chances of escaping him now were slim to none. And with Stockwell's history of changing his mind on the slightest whim, our pardons could go "poof" any second. If only Hannibal were here to employ the quick thinking, blunt diplomacy he used to reason with drug lords and secret agents alike. With the walkie-talkies in the van there was no way to know how the mission was progressing, but if all went according to plan, he should be arriving any minute now.
Stockwell must have been thinking along the same lines, because he said, "Now we will situate ourselves and wait. It wouldn't do for Colonel Smith to find us unprepared. Abel 3, Abel 9, bring them over here."
The Abels pulled Murdock and me away from the van to where Stockwell stood. Then one of the Abels took hold of Murdock about the same time the general came up behind me and grabbed my left arm, pulling me close to him as I felt ice-cold metal press into my right temple. A click I'd heard more times than I could count, but almost never this close to my ear, sent an involuntary shudder through my entire body. Under a layer of rising panic, I realized my worst nightmare was about to come true: I was going to be used as a hostage to force the A-Team to do whatever Stockwell wanted.
All was quiet… the deep quiet of a snowy Vermont forest in the heart of which six men, three with assault rifles, one with a pistol, stood incongruously, waiting. The snow surrounding my shoes was starting to freeze my toes, and the wind ripped at my face, but in the present circumstances I was noticing less and less. I couldn't see Murdock. He was somewhere on my right, and I couldn't turn my head to see him. I wanted to call out, wanted desperately to hear his voice, to know he was still there and he hadn't left me all alone…
Stop it, I told myself. You're letting fear control you. Everything will be okay. Murdock is still there, and Hannibal and BA and Frankie are coming. We've been in worse situations. Hannibal will know what to do. Stockwell would never actually kill me... would he?
Our discussion about Stockwell's motives earlier this week came to mind. I could hear Murdock's words repeating like a broken record in my mind: All he wanted was the plutonium. All he wanted was the plutonium. All he wanted was the plutonium.
The mouth of the pistol pushed relentlessly into my head, continually frustrating all my attempts to distract myself. I had my share of battle scars, but two weeks ago was the first time I'd ever been gut shot, not to mention almost bleeding to death. Every sudden move I made triggered a reminder of the most excruciating pain I'd ever experienced, and now as my left side throbbed from the tension of holding still, I couldn't help wondering if a bullet to the head would feel the same way. I'd seen men die from head wounds. The bullet would shatter my skull and leave a messy trail right through the middle of my brain, followed by an explosion of pain beyond imagination... I knew exactly how it was going to feel. And I didn't know if I could face that kind of pain all over again — if I could die courageously at the hands of Stockwell in the middle of the forest, knowing that white-hot burn was the last feeling I would ever feel.
Stockwell suddenly tightened his grip on my arm and shoved the pistol harder into my skull. I shuddered again, my stomach twisting into an even tighter knot. Noise in the distance gradually came to my attention, and I realized a vehicle was speeding down the road ahead towards the back of BA's van. It was a large white delivery truck. It stopped behind the van and stayed there for a minute. Then the passenger door opened, and a man got out and walked towards us, holding an AR15 pointed at the ground. It was Hannibal.
"Drop the gun and come forward," called Stockwell.
Hannibal obeyed, and came closer until Stockwell told him to stop. He met my gaze and held it as if he could tell I was suffocating, and as I looked into the eyes of the commander who had led me through hell and back, I started to breathe a little easier. Then his gaze shifted to Murdock for a few seconds before returning to my captor.
"What's going on, Stockwell?" he said in the tone he uses when he's on a very short fuse.
Stockwell gave a brief, humorless laugh. "I told you at the beginning that I was going to take care of my investment, but apparently you gentlemen underestimated my security. Full of holes, indeed."
"What do you mean?" said Hannibal.
"You certainly didn't think you'd be leaving the country without my knowledge, did you, Colonel Smith?"
Hannibal's hands balled into fists. "Leaving was only our second option, in case you didn't come through on your deal."
Stockwell laughed again. "Oh, Colonel, I think you know me better than that. My word is good; yours, apparently, is not. And I think you know what I do with anyone who tries to break a deal with me."
That was definitely a death threat.
"We did not break the deal," said Hannibal. "We completed the mission and got your man."
"Where is he?"
Hannibal pointed to the delivery truck. "He's in there with BA and Frankie. We suspected trouble when Murdock and Face didn't answer on the walkie-talkies, so we decided I'd come out alone."
"Go tell your men to bring him out, and remember, no weapons . . ." he pushed the pistol even harder into my head ". . . or Peck is the first to go."
I would have tensed up if I could have possibly gotten any more tense. As it was, every muscle in my body was as taut as the strings of a new guitar, and even then I was shaking — which could have also been from cold, since I had just noticed my teeth were chattering too. It was like I was feeling everything from a great distance away, as if I wasn't part of my own body anymore. So while my body shook and ached and panicked, I watched the doors to the delivery truck open and BA and Frankie climb out, keeping hold of a wiry, gray-haired man who I assumed was Lisle.
"Take him," Stockwell ordered the two unoccupied Abels. One grabbed Lisle while the other covered him, and they walked back behind us. A car door opened and shut. I wondered why they didn't see the need to cover BA, Frankie, and Hannibal as they approached Stockwell . . . but then I remembered. I groaned internally. The A-Team was under Stockwell's thumb more than ever before, and all because of me.
"There," said Hannibal. "We did what you asked. We delivered your man, and we completed the mission. What more do you want?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Stockwell. "Perhaps a guarantee that you won't ever reveal my operations to outsiders will suffice."
"We can do that, can't we guys?" Hannibal looked at Frankie and BA, who nodded vigorously. "See?" he said sardonically. "We won't tell. Can we please go now?"
"Not quite. You have failed to honor our agreement, and I remain unconvinced that, were I to release the five of you back into the world, someday one of you won't arbitrarily discuss our dealings, whether in an exclusive press release or in a psychiatrist's office."
He tightened his grip on my arm. "But how much simpler, if I were to eliminate that possibility entirely here and now. I'm sure a convincing story could be arranged."
My distant sense of self told me my breathing was coming fast . . . too fast. I looked at Hannibal, the fear flickering on his face for an instant before being replaced by determination. I looked at BA, his mouth screwed up in a defiant scowl. I looked at Frankie, standing as stiff as a mannequin on Main Street. I thought of Murdock, standing under a gun a few feet away. And I knew that today was just like any other day with my team. We had all accepted death a long time ago, and if it was our day to die, we would go out together. But whatever happened, we would go out fighting.
"Well, that might just be the biggest mistake you ever made, General."
Hannibal, BA, and Frankie registered surprise as they turned to look at the speaker: Murdock.
"And why is that, Captain Murdock?" Stockwell replied. I couldn't tell if he sounded slightly amused or slightly annoyed.
"Because the A-Team has done more for the common people of America than you or any of your goons ever did," said Murdock.
"My 'goons,' as you call them, and I save these common people from living in a country full of crime and rampant corruption."
"That may be partly true, but I've been around, and the one thing I've learned is there'll always be crime and corruption. The question is whether the good people can stand up to it. And the A-Team helps them to do just that. You may have gotten rid of some of the high-profile threats, but the A-Team has saved the lives and homes and businesses and families of countless people across the nation and around the world. If you really want to do something good for this country, let these men go back to doing what they were doing before you came in and tried to turn it all to profit yourself."
The silence stretched on for days. . . months. . . years. I wanted nothing more than to see Stockwell's expression, but all I could do was watch Hannibal, BA, and Frankie, whose faces were frozen in barely masked anticipation. How would Stockwell's ego respond to the blunt statements of a man currently held at gunpoint, with no power on his side?
"As I said before, Captain Murdock," came Stockwell's voice, startling me, "whoever declared you insane should have his license lifted."
His grip on me loosened slightly, sending a wave of relief through my whole being.
"Under the circumstances," he continued, "I will choose to overlook the tone of the remarks in favor of recognizing their validity. I think I know you gentlemen well enough to trust that you will refrain from sharing. . . unnecessary information regarding our time together, just as you know me well enough to know how I will deal with any such violation of trust. Our agreement is as follows: upon receiving your guarantee of complete secrecy, I will release you all and make the necessary arrangements for your pardons. Do I have your word?"
"I give you my word," said Hannibal immediately.
"And mine," BA and Frankie added simultaneously.
"You have my word, General," said Murdock.
"Me too," I said, once I could get my mouth working around my chattering teeth.
"Excellent. The deal is done. You are free to go, and you will receive a call shortly when your pardons have been guaranteed."
At last, the cold muzzle and gut-wrenching threat of death were gone. I focused on breathing just deeply enough to calm down without aggravating the ache in my side. It was only when Murdock came up to me and started talking that I realized Stockwell had walked off and was conversing with Hannibal several feet away.
"Face, are you okay?" He moved directly in front of me. "Face? Talk to me."
"I'm okay," I said, teeth still chattering.
"You're shaking. Here." He took off his coat and laid it on top of mine. "Come on, let's get you back to the van."
With an effort I took a step, but my foot was almost numb, and I would have fallen if Murdock hadn't caught me.
"Take it easy, buddy, I got you." He slipped an arm around me. "Now we'll take it nice and slow."
I was only vaguely aware of what happened after that. At some point BA came up and supported me on the other side, and then I threw up again, and then I was in the van, wrapped in coats and blankets with what felt like a huge burning hole in my side. Then BA produced a mug of hot chicken broth from out of nowhere, and Murdock helped me drink it since my hands were shaking so much. After that I started feeling a little better, and soon Hannibal and Frankie appeared.
"It's done," said Hannibal. "We've got our pardons."
Cheers erupted from everyone, and I managed a small smile. At last. The day we'd been waiting for for almost fifteen years. We were free.
"How'd we get them so fast?" asked Murdock.
"Apparently Miss Allen's petition was already being processed, and I managed to persuade Stockwell to make the call right away from his car phone. I think he's getting a little soft."
"Soft?!" Frankie exclaimed. "You call what just happened soft?"
Hannibal came over and put a hand on my shoulder. "How you doing, kid?"
"Fine," I said, still having to make an effort to talk. Now that the blankets and chicken broth had warmed me up a bit, I could feel the familiar exhaustion and trembling from coming off adrenaline, on top of the stabbing pain in my side that didn't seem to want to go away. And my enthusiasm about our pardons died as I remembered we had almost bought the farm instead, because of me.
"He was so cold he could hardly walk, Colonel," said Murdock.
"And he got sick again," BA put in.
I suppressed a sigh just before it got painful. It wasn't my imagination: all they noticed was how I couldn't do the mission right. No matter how hard I tried, my body wouldn't cooperate, and I not only ruined the mission, but I'd put my closest friends' lives in danger in the process. Hannibal was right about Stockwell using me as collateral, and he was right that we shouldn't have gone on the mission. But I had insisted.
All things considered, I wasn't really surprised when Hannibal looked at me closely and said I was still shaking and he wanted to keep an eye on me, so we would stop at the next town for the night. At that point, I was too tired to argue, so everyone piled in the van and we headed out.
By the time we pulled into the parking lot of an ice-capped Vermontian motel, I was back to being barely cognizant as a cloud of weariness, nausea, and pain overwhelmed what little brainpower I had left. Hannibal led me from the van to a room and helped me slide out of my clothes and into bed. I conked out immediately, but sleep didn't come peacefully. As a soldier, one of the first things you learn is that sometimes, your worst enemy is your own mind. And when the nightmares come, your best friend is the person who sticks by you and brings you back to the real world. Hannibal stuck by me, waking me from the bad dreams of capture and dying and watching everyone else die and then talking me out of disorientation time and time again.
Somewhere around the hundred-and-seventy-sixth time I awoke, I asked what time it was.
"It's almost midnight," said Hannibal. "They'll drop the ball in Times Square soon."
I had to think about this for a few seconds. "Tomorrow's New Year's Day," I said slowly. "I forgot about that."
Hannibal laughed a little. "Not the best New Year's Eve we've ever had, is it? But we did get our pardons."
"So maybe it has been our best New Year's Eve," I said.
"Maybe so." He smiled. "You want to watch the ball drop?"
"Sure." Watching the ball drop was a New Year's tradition for the team, but somehow, it didn't seem right to do it with only half the team in the room. "Do you think the other guys are still up?"
"I can check." He left and came back with BA, Murdock, and Frankie. Murdock immediately sat down beside me on the bed, lifting an eyebrow significantly and giving me a deep Italian "Hello, beautiful," before turning to the TV. BA carried in a bag of potato chips, and Frankie brought drinks. Hannibal turned on the TV, and once everyone got comfortable on the beds with their food, all was quiet as the reporters bantered with each other and the camera panned over the crowds and the lights and the ticker tape of Times Square, New York City. The only sound was rustling and crunching as BA's chips were passed around. I decided I could handle a couple myself, and I was just beginning to savor a mouthful of salty, grease-saturated potatoes in one of their best forms when the countdown began at 11:59. The five-foot-diameter ball of lights, mostly red except for a green stem to resemble a "big apple," descended the flagpole atop the skyscraper One Times Square for sixty seconds to reach the bottom at exactly 12:00 a.m.
As the crowd in Times Square celebrated with yelling and cheering and noisemakers and hugging and kissing, the members of the A-Team in a tiny Vermont motel celebrated with cheers of "Happy New Year!" and shoulder-punching and back-slapping and Murdock's expert two-fingered whistle. Even though the festivities were not the most elaborate we'd ever had, a sense of warmth and gratitude pervaded the atmosphere more deeply than past New Years celebrations. No one had to say what we were all thinking: that today marked the beginning of a not only a new year, but a new era. Today, we were the A-Team, and we were free.
