Murdock, are you watching the road?
Well, sure, it's just laying there like a big old tongue going aaaaaaaah.
- Hannibal and Murdock, "Labor Pains"
Chapter 25: Cutting It Close
After the last several days of gloomy cloud cover and brutal winter conditions, the sun blazed overhead in the sapphire blue skies, causing the freshly-fallen snow to glimmer and sparkle as it caught the rays of light. The temperatures had risen to 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and it seemed quite warm and practically balmy compared to the bitter cold caused by the wind chills. With the presence of the sun, it just made it seem that much warmer on a day like today. Even the high winds that buffeted the tall buildings of the city, threatened to blow people off their feet, and whipped the snow around with almost hurricane-type force seemed like a thing of the past. Instead, there was just an occasional gentle breeze which was hardly strong enough to ruffle a person's well groomed hair.
Donning a pair of huge dark, wrap-around sunglasses to make his disguise complete, Colonel John Hannibal Smith grinned beneath the fake unkempt grey wig that was somewhat hidden beneath Murdock's dark blue baseball cap and bushy mustache. He wore a one piece brown jumpsuit that looked like it was insulated against the cold due to the slight bulk it added to his body. The jumpsuit was similar to what employees from the Chicago of Streets and Sanitation wore during this time of year as they went around emptying the garbage cans on various street corners.
He looked out over the rink, noting how it was different from the one they had visited a few days ago with Mrs. Baracus. The lot where they were now had once served as a site of a Wiebolt's department store along with a few other smaller shops. The building was demolished once the company had shuttered the business in the popular downtown location. If it wasn't for a few sparse, lifeless trees decorated with Christmas lights, it would have been a barren parcel of land. Concrete from the nearby buildings surrounded them, creating a coldness that chilled people more than the air. A metal squeal from the slowing elevated trains a block away filled the air, sounding much like fingernails running down a chalkboard.
To the east of the rink, across the bus laden State Street, was the unmistakable façade of Marshall Fields. Beautiful golden angels were positioned along the face of the department store, each holding long trumpets that extended well over the sidewalk and seemed to herald the joys of the season. Shoppers paused as they passed the many elegantly decorated store windows, each of which were filled with various objects that, together, told the classic tale of Frosty the Snowman. Some stopped and glanced up at the famous clock that jutted out over the sidewalk at each corner of the building, held by an ornate green frame that accented the architecture of the building.
The crowds were already starting to gather for the event. The cunning military strategist knew that this was going to be a challenge on many levels, even long before they had set up their trap. Kramer could fire the fatal shot and simply disappear into the chaos. They had to not only save the life of the Mayor, but also make sure that no innocent bystanders attending the dedication ceremony got hurt in the process. What also compounded the problem was their arrest from last night. By now, the police probably realized that the release papers that the so-called Major Stanton promised them wasn't going to be delivered by courier at all, and they had been on the wrong end of another wildly improbable A-Team escape. The boys in blue were likely conducting an all-out search for them right now.
There was considerable risk, no matter how many precautions they tried to take. The whole situation was going to be tricky, but they had to stop this demonstration . . .
"You guys in position?" Hannibal whispered into a miniature microphone BA hid within a button on the collar of the jumpsuit. The Sergeant was an electronics wizard, and had spent months working on these miniature microphones and ear pieces, treating each separate piece like his pride and joy. He had just finished with them before they left Los Angeles for Chicago, but there hadn't been time to field test them . . . not until now. The Secret Service would probably love to get their hands on and use these things due to the brilliant craftsmanship.
"He sees you when you're sleepin', he knows when you're awake. He knows when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake . . ." Murdock's melodic tenor voice sang, coming through loud and clear over the small earpiece that Hannibal wore in his left ear.
He walked around behind the Zamboni, a smirk appearing upon his lips as he heard Sergeant Baracus bark at the pilot, "Shut up, fool!" A moment later, in a more composed tone, the Ordinance Officer responded, "We're in position, Hannibal."
Reaching in front of him, his black gloved hands removed the safety strap holding the two large metal tanks in position on the large ice resurfacing machine. He tried hard to keep from laughing after what he had just heard. Murdock usually had a way of pushing BA's buttons, although he knew that once the crap started hitting the fan, the pilot would be totally focused on what they needed to do. He lifted each of the tanks slightly, just to see how full of propane they were, before setting them back down on the fuel stand.
A moment later, he could hear the voice of his Lieutenant grimly complain over the earpiece, "I'm in position but I'll tell you, Colonel, we're really cutting it close with this one. After last night, you know Decker got a 2am phone call and will be breathing down our necks any second."
Unable to hide the grin on his face, Hannibal responded in a cheery and optimistic tone, "Come on, Face. You know the military doesn't move that fast."
From his vantage point in the crowd, Templeton Peck rolled his eyes after he heard the response from his Commanding Officer. One thing he knew about the Colonel . . . it wasn't that he underestimated an enemy, but he often anticipated that they'd do something or react a certain way as the plan unfolded. When they didn't do as he predicted, that's when they'd often have to get creative and invent something to deal with a situation or to escape. But, Hannibal had an incredible amount of confidence in each of their abilities to adapt to any situation and pull together to deal with whatever they were up against.
What made this situation worse, at least for the con artist, was the fact that Hannibal had been on the Jazz practically since right before they landed at Meigs Field in Chicago. The Colonel often got that familiar sparkle in his eyes when they were in trouble, or when a situation called for it, but this was the first time that the Lieutenant could recall the West Point graduate being on the Jazz almost constantly.
That meant only one thing . . . trouble.
His blue eyes darted around the various faces in the crowd, trying to spot something out of the ordinary. He had no idea what Kramer looked like. The others saw the assassin in the Museum, while he had been rooting around Spencer's office for any evidence that they could use to take him down. He was just going to have to trust them . . .
Trust . . .
As he thought about it, if he and the rest of the guys hadn't trusted Hannibal as much as they did, then they all likely would never have escaped from Fort Bragg and ended up on the run. They still trusted the adventure loving Colonel, in spite of how often his plans backfired. Since the A-Team had come together so long ago, with a bond created in the fires of war, each individual member had come to the realization that they would follow their Commanding Officer to the gates of hell if need be, Jazz or no Jazz.
He thought back to the conversation he and the Colonel had in the Museum a few days ago. With everything that happened since that talk, there hadn't been much time to contemplate his own problems, let alone what his leader told him. Waiting for all of the pieces to this elaborate puzzle to arrive, Face used the time to think about the discussion. Ever since he had revealed the truth to Hannibal, it felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Of course, the strategist had a way of making enormous problems seem solvable. Perhaps that was a very large reason why they all trusted him so much.
His gaze was soon drawn by a small group of beautiful, warmly dressed women in form hugging wool trench coats. They looked to be talking to one another, and standing close to the Mayor of Chicago, a large African American man with curly brown hair that was clearly graying and a well trimmed mustache. One of the women had long blonde hair, and her coat was a dark navy color. The other two had brown hair which wasn't quite as long or flowing, but they both wore black coats. Just the sight of these women had caused him to smile, but that smile broadened as he looked them up and down, wondering if each one had the body of a goddess beneath those coats. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he could get a chance to find out. Things were definitely looking up after all . . .
Although Templeton Peck could easily be distracted by beautiful women, that was the furthest thing from the mind of H. M. Murdock as he had something much more pressing that required his attention. As discretely and circumspectly as possible, the pilot grabbed a section of the green tights around the upper thigh and tugged down, trying to provide some relief for the pain he was feeling. "I hope they get this thing started soon. These tights are starting to bind up around my . . ." he started to complain.
"Shut up, fool. We gotta job to do," BA interrupted gruffly, trying to focus on the task at hand. He was on edge more than ever, and with good reason. His Mama was going to be out there, and with the man that they intended to bring down. But with the assassin somewhere within the crowd, she was just as much of a target as the Mayor himself.
The Texan's face started to look like he was slightly pouting, but his warm brown eyes were soon drawn by something within the crowd. He turned his gaze to get a better look, catching a glimpse of a bright glint . . . a reflection of sunlight off an object within the crowd. His eyes locked onto whatever it was, and he brought his right hand up to shade his eyes to try and see if he could see it better without the glare. Turning to the Sergeant in the Santa suit, he tried to seek confirmation as he asked, "BA, did you see that?"
"Man, leave me alone," the muscular mechanic huffed, looking out over the crowd. He was thankful they had temporarily paused the visits with Santa in preparation for the ceremony itself, otherwise the kids would have heard him and Murdock go at it . . . and that was the last thing that he needed, was for kids to hear Santa Claus verbally berating his elf.
Murdock continued looking in the direction of where he had seen that glint, his eyes adjusting to the light. He saw several men and women gathered, some looking very well groomed while others looked just as casual as he preferred to dress. He immediately spotted several television news cameras, which were perched on the shoulders of those that were more casually dressed. That meant that the others that were with them were likely the reporters that worked at the various different news stations. A few of the guys that had the cameras were already getting them mounted on the tripods they had set up, in preparation for the speech that Mayor Harold Washington was about to deliver.
What stood out to the pilot was one of the men, and how he held the news camera. He didn't seem to be making an effort to put the camera that he held up on a tripod. In fact, it seemed as if there was one tripod short compared to the number of news cameras. The camera was pressed in the hollow between the left shoulder joint and the collar bone, much in the way that one would position the butt of a rifle. To the observant pilot, that in and of itself was enough to sound all of the alarm bells and raise all of the red flags.
"C'mon, big guy, take a look at your eleven with how that one guy is holdin' the camera. I think we've found our hit man," Murdock persisted, not about to give up so easily . . . especially not when he was so convinced with what he saw.
Glancing slightly to the southeast, BA also spotted a glint . . . more than one, actually. All he saw were lens flares from the various news cameras present. With the sun popping in and out from the clouds that dotted the brilliant blue sky, the reflection could have even come from a pair of glasses on someone's nose, or a watch, or another piece of jewelry as well. That wasn't at all unusual with the angle of the winter sun. The burly Sergeant shook his head in annoyance as he countered gruffly, "It's just in your head, fool."
Now Murdock was starting to get frustrated with the Ordinance Officer. Why couldn't he see what he saw? Although the way that the camera was being held blocked the view of the face of the person holding it, there were just too many things that told him that it was Kramer holding it. And the glint . . . it wasn't coming from the lens of the camera. It came from above it, like where the viewfinder should have been. But, what he saw wasn't a viewfinder. It was something else. "I know what I saw, BA! It was the glint off a targeting scope," he insisted darkly, even to the point where his tone was deathly serious.
Hannibal lifted his head from where he stood next to the Zamboni, the argument between his Sergeant and Captain drawing his attention. He had full faith and confidence in Murdock's ability to keep focused when a situation was dire, despite the crazed tendencies and playfulness. But, he had also known the pilot long enough to understand that, when his tone became dangerously dark and insistent about something, he was usually right . . . especially when it came to noticing something that the rest of the Team may have missed.
It was this uncanny, almost natural ability that had saved the Team from being captured several times by the MPs, including at the outdoor and sporting goods store where they had first met Tawnia Baker.
"Murdock, where did you spot that glint?" Hannibal questioned into the microphone hidden on his jumpsuit.
"It would be 'bout at your two o'clock, Colonel," the Texan responded, his drawl very apparent over the earpiece.
John Smith casually glanced over to the spot that the pilot had indicated. At first, he couldn't see a glint from the angle that he was standing at, which was on the opposite side of the rink from where BA and Murdock were positioned. His ice blue eyes spotted several news videographers . . . the same group that the Captain had spotted. As he continued to look at the group, a familiar face stood out . . .
Kramer . . .
"Look sharp, guys. Rubber ducky has been confirmed at the North Pole," Hannibal told his men over the microphone. If the assassin was here, then that meant that it wouldn't be long before he'd try to make his move and try to kill the Mayor.
Neither Spencer nor Kramer expected the A-Team to show up at the Museum and learn of their plans . . . and he was very certain that Spencer had no idea that they escaped from jail last night and were about to throw a major monkey wrench into his well thought out plan. They had the advantage, and Colonel John Smith knew it. He couldn't ask for a better situation, even if it had been handed to him on a silver platter and wrapped up with a pretty bow.
After a moment, he continued so he could prepare his men, "Be ready to move once we spot the head elf. Remember, force them both over to Santa's chair so others can see just how naughty these guys have been, and drop a bit of coal down their pants."
A bright grin appeared on Hannibal's face once more before he added, "And be sure you protect Mrs. Claus." Even though he hadn't discussed the last code name with the rest of the guys, he knew that it'd be very obvious to the others who he was referring to.
Hearing the code through the earpiece, Templeton Peck attempted to weave his way through the gathering throng. "Where is he, Hannibal?" he asked into his own hidden microphone, hoping to get some kind of direction since he still had no clue what Kramer looked like. He had to try and get as close as possible so he could have a chance to stop the assassin from getting the shot off.
Honestly, when the Colonel had first given out the assignments, Face had briefly considered asking Murdock to switch because of the disadvantage. One glance over to his best friend made him quickly reconsider as he tried hard not to crack up at the obvious discomfort his friend was in. That made him reconsider and decide that he liked the job he was given just fine. There was no way he would have been caught dead in those tights.
"He's by the news crews. Look for the guy who is holding one of the big news cameras like a rifle," he heard his Commanding Officer inform him over the earpiece.
His blue eyes immediately darted over to look at the news crew, which was set up not too far away from the podium where the speeches would be delivered. That's when he saw him . . . ordinary looking guy with mousy brown hair. No features that'd make him stand out and easily identifiable, outside of how he was holding the video camera. Changing direction, he started heading closer to where the crews were set up.
Even as he kept his gaze focused on Kramer, he continued to look around him just in case any MPs decided to show up before they could pull this off. As he did so, that's when he spotted the all too familiar individual whose arrival they had been anticipating. The microphone that BA had given him was actually hidden within a small pin that looked like the US flag, which he had affixed to the collar of the parka he wore. He leaned his head slightly in the direction of it and announced, "Head elf has just arrived with Mrs. Claus in tow. How soon before we make our move?"
After a moment, he heard the Colonel's reassuring tone in the earpiece, "Relax, Lieutenant. If we act now, then they'll get off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. They'll be free to attempt this again once we leave town. We've got to wait until the right moment, so Spencer will be caught red-handed."
For a brief moment, as he listened to the response from the strategist, Face made eye contact with Mrs. Baracus. Although her facial expression was stoic and didn't betray the feelings she was experiencing, her eyes did. He could see just how worried she was based on the look within the depths of her gaze. He nodded to her and tried to give her a reassuring look, inwardly praying that she would remember the agreement and get to safety once everything started to go down so she wouldn't become a target herself.
Honestly, the Supply Officer was anxious to get this over with as soon as possible, and get out of the area before the cops wised up as to who they were, or Decker dropped in. Sure, the pieces of this elaborate puzzle were falling into place, but could they put it all together before the authorities moved in on them? He knew that his Commanding Officer thrived on cutting it close, as it was like a game of cat and mouse with both the cops and the MPs. Hopefully, it wouldn't backfire on them this time around.
As he continued to draw closer to the news crews, he still kept track of where Spencer and Mrs. B were. He watched as they navigated the area, and a light bulb in his head clicked on once he realized where they were heading. "Oh boy . . ." he muttered to himself. With a sense of urgency in his tone, he then spoke into the microphone, "Heads up, Hannibal. Head elf and Mrs. Claus are heading your way."