The warmth, blue sky and fluffy cumulus clouds of an Indian summer afternoon in Possum Lodge had given way to a harsh, ruddy sunset under looming layers of nimbus clouds, their undersides turned the color of a fresh bruise. A few crickets sang mournful songs, and the whoo-whoo of an owl at hunt could be heard somewhere in the distance. Maples, oaks and shagbark hickories, long since bare of their leaves, towered like the skeletons of giants along the perimeter of what had probably once been a cow pasture and was now an overgrown field. The only indication of human presence was a dilapidated hay barn with a sagging, half-rotted roof. A startled flock of barn swallows took flight as Hannibal clicked on his high-beam flashlight.
"Got to get to the show early, before all the good seats are gone." He smiled to himself, looking around the deserted barn. Stray bits of straw and dried manure, a few ancient, rusted hand tools, and a pile of scrap wood littered the dirt floor.
Face, right behind him, kicked at a pile of well-gnawed small animal bones with his boot. He'd changed out of Professor Colston's tweeds into forest-colored fatigues. "Sorry to be pushy, Hannibal, but remind me again why we're using this particular plan? This is the same one that culminated in me being chased through the jungle by half a dozen angry Nicaraguan guerrillas, you running out of ammo, the two of us having to conk B.A. with a rifle butt because I dropped his beddie-bye drink while the guerrillas were trying to kill me…"
The older man spread his arms theatrically, as if he were back in Hollywood filming Aquamania V instead of backwoods Tennessee. "Yeah, Face, but just think: I've had a whole year to analyze exactly what went wrong with this plan, and work out all the kinks. It'll be great." He clapped a hand on Face's shoulder. "Plus, these guys won't have AK-47s. They'll probably be half-drunk by the time we make our big entrance. And, we've got Murdock with us armed and ready instead of circling around waiting to land."
Face rolled his eyes. "If he doesn't turn into a wolf first," he joked.
"Now, Face, why would he go and do that? He'd never abandon his unit, whether on two legs or four."
"Where is he, anyway?" Face squinted into the rapidly deepening gloom. "I thought he was kidding earlier when he was talking about chasing squirrels. Hopefully he's done by now."
Both men swung about at the sound of the barn doors creaking open, rifles raised, then quickly lowered them at the sight of B.A. "Jus' me, guys. We're all clear on the perimeter. If they got any kinda sentries or traps set up, I didn't see 'em." B.A. shouldered his own weapon. "Ain't as bad as I thought it was gonna be out here. Didn't have to fly, got some good cookin', too." He rubbed his stomach, remembering the homemade meat loaf and corn on the cob Mrs. Hawkins had packed them for lunch earlier.
"B.A., don't count your chickens too soon. Remember, we're using the plan from that Nicaragua raid last year," said Face nervously.
The big man glowered at Hannibal. "You better not be trickin' me into flyin' again."
"Now, B.A., just calm down. I assure you, this operation is strictly ground-based. We're using the best parts of that plan. Did Prescott get any more calls this afternoon?" asked Hannibal.
"No, man, jus' that one. But if he'd have found that bug, I'd know. "
"Face? Dig up anything interesting in their shed?"
"No, afraid not. I couldn't even get near it again; they were watching it like a pair of hawks. They've got some kind of industrial lock on it. I don't even have the right tools, so it'll have to wait. But there's definitely something interesting in there," said Face, dollar signs dancing in his eyes. "You want to go over or under fifty grand? Probably a lot of mayonnaise jars, for sure."
Hannibal tried not to smirk as he pulled another of Sweet Lou's finest cigars from his pocket and lit it. "Or maybe Mason jars; I hear they're big down here. Let's go over this again. We're not sure exactly when this shindig of theirs starts, but we'll give 'em plenty of time to get good and loose with whatever rotgut they drink around here. Prescott and that Indian buddy of his are the ringleaders, so they'll probably be carrying those .38s and maybe something bigger. I don't expect more than some peashooter deer rifles or shotguns from the rest of these scumbags. Face?"
"Yeah?"
"You take the right flank, just outside that clump of bushes. B.A., you'll be on the left, covered by the tree stump at nine o'clock."
"Got it, man."
"Murdock?"
A faint whimpering was audible from behind three ironclad barrels.
Taking a deep breath, Hannibal repeated himself. Murdock, an inscrutable look on his pale face, emerged from his hiding place. His hands were caked with dirt.
"What you been doin', fool? We talkin' about our strategy and you makin' an ass outta yo'self with this wolf-man rap!" B.A. shouted as loud as he dared.
"For your information, Baracan one, I was just putting the finishing touches on the surprise present for that constable," he replied with a huff. "Some people are sooo ungrateful. You know how long it took me to dig that hole, big guy? After I dug four gaping chasms already today?" He shot an indignant look in Face's direction, then turned to Hannibal and stood at attention. "Oh, and you were sayin', Colonel?"
Hannibal stared into his comrade's deep brown eyes, which appeared more sane than usual at the moment. "You're taking point. Out of the four of us, your night vision is the best. You OK with that?"
The brief flash of sanity was gone, replaced by Murdock's usual wild, intense gaze. "We're gonna have ourselves a real old-fashioned hoedown, huh?"
"Not if I can help it. We'll be on top of the situation pretty quick. These guys aren't even gonna know what hit 'em," Hannibal answered.
Murdock frowned, and rubbed the spot between his eyebrows where the false mustache had been before it had fallen off. "I just gotta ask one thing, though…if the moon should happen to break through that cloud cover, and I feel my body starting to change, what then?"
"I'm gonna make your body change in a whole 'nother way if you don't shut up pretty quick," B.A. said menacingly.
Face, already starting to shiver in the October chill, interrupted. "Uh, B.A. better wait until after we've got these guys under wraps, all right? Hannibal, what are you going to be doing while we're out freezing our collective tails off waiting?"
The colonel pointed upward. "There's a big oak right above us; the limbs reach just far enough for me to drop in on them from up above. I figure in the last month I've jumped out of two planes, been shot at by a homicidal gang of Sandinistas, and kicked a guy out of the driver's seat of an ice cream truck doing 70, so I'd just like to expand my horizons and climb a 40-foot tree." He blew a smoke ring, his expression serene as that of a saint in a stained-glass window.
"Jus' 'cause you're on the jazz don't mean you won't break a leg if you fall outta that roof, Hannibal," B.A. warned.
"Sergeant, there's nothing better to cushion a fall than haystacks. Didn't you ever watch any Westerns when you were growing up?"
B.A. grunted. "Not my style, man. Jus' watch yo'self; that roof's not real sound. I got your back…again."
Over the nighttime sounds, the faint rumble of a diesel engine could be heard for the first time.
"That's our cue. Guys, first positions…the curtain goes up at my signal." Hannibal pointed to his wrist, where a small laser pointer B.A. had made was attached with a Velcro strap. "Face, douse the lights. B.A., make sure our tracks are covered. And Murdock?"
"Yeah, Colonel?"
"Let's show these little pigs that the Big Bad Wolves are in town for a special one-night engagement."
His loopy smile was the last thing Hannibal saw as he clicked off his own flashlight.
An hour later, the barn teemed with a dozen locals, including Prescott and Ike Redthorn, as well as Orey Grissom and the group from the Happy Catfish. Kerosene lanterns cast an eerie glow on the proceedings, as if the devil and his minions had chosen the venue for a hellish square dance. Someone had brought a keg of moonshine, and it did not go to waste. Along with the carousing men, an assortment of snarling, scarred fighting dogs waited in wooden crates, their noses eager for the blood of separately caged chickens, rabbits, and other helpless "bait."
True to his word, Hannibal Smith had climbed the towering oak tree with the grace of a wildcat. Seated atop one of the outstretched limbs, he now peered through one of the holes in the roof. Snatches of slurred, vulgar conversations met his ears. It was always interesting to hear what men would say when their wives and girlfriends weren't around.
Or when they didn't know they were being watched.
For not the first time that hour, he reached up to his rifle's shoulder strap and to the Browning .45 at his belt. Both were freshly cleaned, oiled, and fully loaded. Ready to roll. Hannibal had wanted to bring "Baby" with him at this perfect spot, but practicality dictated that the big M-60 be left in the capable hands of B.A. instead. The other three members of the A-Team waited below, crouched in their respective hiding places. Their leader couldn't see them at the moment, but that meant neither could the men in the barn.
To himself, Hannibal smirked and thought of the time they'd dropped in on a den of Vietcong hiding out near Pleiku. Those guys had at least tried not to be found. These hillbillies couldn't hide from a blind raccoon that had had a few too many Pabst Blue Ribbons.
Almost time.
The loud conversations below had shifted from talk of football, well-endowed women, and deer hunting to pure smack talk. Prescott made his rounds, a gracious host, swapping filthy jokes and verbal jabs with his fellow dogfighters, along with wads of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills and plastic bags filled with some unknown crystals. Ike Redthorn, his dusky face half in shadow, surveyed the goings-on from a corner of the barn like a proud baron watching his subjects from a castle window. He was the only man in the place who didn't seem to be partaking of the moonshine.
From his perch, Hannibal resisted the urge to unsling his rifle. The timing had to be just right; otherwise they might wind up having to deal with enraged, bloodthirsty pit bulls as well as their owners. He used the leverage of the limb to slide down onto the barn's roof. With cat-light feet, he tested it again. It held his weight, and he slid down closer to his enemies. Trey Prescott's voice, only slightly slurred by the moonshine, spoke up over the murmurs of anticipation from the crowd.
"We had a little change of plans tonight, y'all. We're gonna have ourselves a helluva good time, whether it's Friday, or Thursday, or…"
"Git on with it, Trey! Let's go!" hollered someone from the back. The others whooped and shouted, raising plastic cups filled with shine and sloshing most of it onto the dirt floor.
Atop the barn, Hannibal clicked the laser pointer at his wrist to the "on" position and aimed it at a sugar maple at twelve o'clock. Curtains up. He took the rifle from his shoulder.
"We're gonna kick it off tonight with an undercard special…Tru Blu goin' at it with Diablo…"
"Hey there, guys. Hope you don't mind an extra spectator." Hannibal smiled mischievously, his weapon pointed squarely at Prescott. "Considering I couldn't get tickets to the Possum Lodge Ladies' Auxiliary production of The Sound of Music and all."
Orey Grissom gasped, pointing one trembling finger towards the roof. "Th…that's him, Trey! That's the city guy from the Catfish!"
"Shuddup!" A flush had crept into Prescott's cheeks. "What the hell you doin' here, mister? This here's private property, and it's especially off-limits for guys like you," he said with a measure of false courage. One hand reached for his .38 Special.
Hannibal's index finger wagged in the air reproachingly. "Nope, Constable, I wouldn't do that. If you do, this party's going to turn into a tap-dancing recital pretty quick. If any of you slimeballs are armed, you better drop 'em now. That goes for you, too, pal," he shouted down to Redthorn, whose expression had gone from haughty indifference to cold fury.
The locals did so grudgingly, tossing a handful of revolvers, hunting knives, and a battered-looking slingshot onto the ground. Redthorn and Prescott, relieved of their lawmen's guns, fixated Hannibal with furious twin gazes.
"Hands on heads. Don't even think about trying anything," said Hannibal.
"What now?" spat Redthorn. "Sheriff and judge in this county are on our side, wise guy. If you run us in, they'll just throw out the charges. Revolving-door justice at its finest."
"Good one, Ike!" Grissom offered, slurring his words.
"I said, shuddup, Orey!" roared Prescott. "So what are you gonna do, anyway? Leave us to the coyotes?" He tried to sound stoic like Redthorn, but his voice faltered and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
Hannibal paused, rubbing his chin as if considering what to order at a five-star restaurant. "You know, I like that idea. Maybe even wolves." Keeping his rifle barrel pointed at its target with one hand, he swung from the rafters with the other to the haystack below, and then to the ladder leading downward. "Let's take it outside and see what we find. March," he ordered as his feet hit the dirt floor.
He herded them like a border collie behind a flock of sheep through the barn doors. Some of them muttered to themselves, others seemed merely stunned. Ike Redthorn, despite having his hands behind his head, kept his proud bearing, while Trey Prescott walked beside him, scowling.
Outside, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, and the wind had begun to moan through the bare trees. With his free hand, Hannibal pulled the flashlight from his belt and clicked it on twice short, then three times long. It was the signal they'd agreed on earlier to mean "all clear." Like camouflage-colored ghosts, Face, B.A. and Murdock emerged from their respective hiding places, grim-faced, with rifles raised.
"You really think the four of you gonna keep us all here all night long?" asked Prescott with a derisive laugh.
Hannibal chortled back. "I don't think so. In fact, I know so. Keep walking; you haven't even gotten to the good part yet."
They hadn't gone very far when Redthorn raised his head high and emitted a quick, high-pitched cry that put Murdock's recent wolf-calls to shame. In the next instant, a ring of torches were lit in the woods surrounding them. It was one of Hannibal's favorite tricks…only this time, he appeared to be on the receiving end.
Redthorn's lips skimmed back in a human approximation of a carnivore's snarl. "Still think you're gonna keep us here, wise guys? Those guys out there are with me. They're the Brotherhood of the Black Fox, and they aren't a bunch of stupid rubes. Every one of 'em has a sniper rifle and knows how to use it. So I'll make a suggestion that you throw down your weapons, and we might only cut off one of your hands." His voice was low and dangerous.
"What's the plan now?" Face hissed at Hannibal, his knuckles white against the rifle stock.
"Yeah, sucka, this was supposed to get them caught!" snapped B.A.
"Colonel, I think we're in some kimchi here," Murdock added.
Hannibal merely smiled one of his thoughtful smiles, eyeing Redthorn and Prescott. "So, the way I see it we have two options. Either we surrender to you guys, in which case you'll definitely torture us and probably kill us. Or, we don't surrender to you, in which case you only might torture or kill us. I'd have to go with an option that allows for some flexibility," he said, still clutching his rifle.
"Shut up and drop 'em, otherwise I give them the order to fire," Redthorn said, pointing to the shadows holding torches.
"This guy has the same flaw as Decker. Always gives me just enough time to think," said Hannibal under his breath, just loud enough for his teammates to hear. "Head back toward where we left the van, and we'll regroup. Split up if you have to, and keep 'em entertained on the way."
"Right, Hannibal…"
"Stop talking! I said shu…"
Before Redthorn could finish, Hannibal swung the butt of his weapon hard, while Face and B.A. did the same. The deputy, expecting the blow, nimbly dodged and threw a punch of his own, just clipping Hannibal under the jaw. Murdock, yowling at the top of his lungs, head-butted the man closest to him, losing his baseball cap in the process.
"Open fire!" Hannibal and Redthorn shouted almost as one.
Ike Redthorn hadn't been lying about his men's skill. Rounds zinged past, scattering bits of bark and dirt everywhere. Face, B.A. and Murdock returned the volley, their automatics making a distinct chatter. Most of the locals from the barn fled screaming in terror or else dashed around aimlessly like freshly decapitated chickens.
"Guys, let's go!" bellowed Hannibal, trading shots with a sniper in the low-hanging branches of a tree. The four of them, running hard, burst through an opening in the circle of torchlight. Right behind them came the whoops and war cries of the Brotherhood of the Black Fox and its enraged leader. With only the faint glow of torches, the woods were as forbidding and dark as the worst kind of fairy tale. As his team surged blindly ahead, Hannibal turned every few steps to scatter his pursuers with a burst of firepower.
Face loped beside him like a greyhound, firing off a few shots in stride. "We saw a pond about two hundred yards from here when we were hiding the van. Might be our only chance to lose these guys," he panted. A round found its mark in a sugar maple trunk just over his shoulder, and he flinched.
With a brief burst of speed, Hannibal took the lead and silently signaled for the others to follow him. At Face's urging, the A-Team ducked behind a cluster of tall black oaks covered in lichens. There was a pond, although it was almost impossible to make out under a cover of fallen leaves and algae.
"Gentlemen, shall we?" Hannibal said, quickly removing his utility belt and rifle strap. "Table for four…" The others didn't have time to complain; they too removed their weapons and took their places in the cold, brackish water.
Over a fallen log, they could make out the shapes of several Black Foxes holding their torches and rifles. Like their namesakes, they slunk here and there, sniffing the air tentatively and peering through the gloaming with sharp eyes. One got close enough for Hannibal to see the scuffed tops of his hiking boots. After a few agonizing minutes, the pursuers convened, exchanged words in the same language Ike Redthorn had spoken earlier, then vanished once again into the forest.
"Goddamn that's cold!" B.A. whispered hoarsely, not wanting to alert the enemy to his position. He crawled from the pond as quickly as he could, trailing mud and algae, looking like some prehistoric behemoth rudely pulled from its aquatic habitat onto land.
"Yeah, I'm sure this was all p-part of your plan, right, Hannibal?" Face followed him, teeth clacking together.
Murdock didn't seem quite as bothered. He pulled himself from his hiding place, then, on all fours, violently shook himself off. "I dunno, guys, I think it worked pretty good. We lost 'em, right, Colonel?"
"For now." Hannibal was re-attaching his belt and weapons as the others did the same. "Guys, as cold goes, this is nothing. You should have been there for the Spawn of the Stingray shoot. Now that was cold, and in a rubber suit, no less…"
Face fixed him with a look somewhere between disbelief and loathing. "Hannibal, would you stop talking about bad monster movies and give us some suggestion as to what to do when one is lost, being chased by a crazed and heavily armed Indian cult, wet and freezing cold, in the middle of Redneck America?"
"That's the easy part, Face. You get yourself warm and dry next to a roaring fire, have some beef stew and cornbread, then regroup." Hannibal grinned, wiping a bit of algae from his silver hair.
"A roarin' fire? Cornbread? Where we gonna find that?" B.A. asked sarcastically.
Hannibal turned to Murdock, who seemed to be looking around for the baseball cap he'd lost earlier. "Captain, you up for a scouting assignment? There's got to be a hunting cabin or a ranger station around here somewhere; we're right on the edge of a national forest. And if we find that," he nodded to B.A. and Face, "we find all the comforts of home. Right?"
"You got it. These eyes of mine, they're fully equipped for the nocturnal…" With his cap gone, somehow his pale face seemed more lupine.
Hannibal nodded. "There's a logging road somewhere around here; I saw it when we were coming in. Follow it, stay hidden, and if you don't find anything in an hour or so, we'll rendezvous by the van and try for Plan B."
With a yelp, the lanky captain turned and trotted off, leaves crunching under his feet.
"Crazy fool gonna get himself killed by them snipers," B.A. muttered, trying to dry himself in futility.
"He won't. But if he does, B.A., you'll just get more stew to yourself, right?"
Face held one of his combat boots upside down, letting a stream of muddy water trickle out. "How far are we from the van, anyway?" he asked, shivering and trying not to think of dry clothes and hot coffee.
"Hard to say, maybe half a mile or so, Faceman. Them Black Foxes probably got it covered like a blanket, so we better lie low fo' a while" B.A. confessed.
"You had to mention blankets…" Between shivers, Face let out a sigh.
Hannibal pulled the last few cigars from his pocket, which the water had rendered quite useless. He flung them into the pond, where they rapidly sank. "Not my brand, anyway," he said to himself. Then, to the others, "You guys notice anything strange about this spot?"
"Other than the fact that it's almost pitch-dark, smells pretty bad, and is home to more than a few species of predators?"
"No, Face, something else."
B.A. was the first to say something. "It's quiet, man. Way too quiet. Like them spots where the VC nests were," he said.
Hand on his rifle, Face pivoted. "You don't think there's more of those Black Fox guys out here, do you?"
"No, it's not that. Listen: no crickets, no nightbirds, nothing. We better secure the perimeter, just to be sure," said Hannibal, drawing his .45 pistol.
In near-silence, the three men, Hannibal in the lead with Face and B.A. at either side, walked on the balls of their feet through the tangle of trees and underbrush, occasionally pushing aside a vine or other piece of foliage. Face swore lightly as he tripped over a jutting stump, then righted himself.
"You'd think we were in a graveyard, it's so quiet," he admitted under his breath.
"Man, I think we are." B.A. pointed with his rifle. They stood in a clearing, where a number of weathered stones jutted from the ground. Upon closer inspection, the markers weren't inscribed with names or dates of birth and death, but instead vaguely familiar markings like matchsticks.
Hannibal circled around the tallest of the monuments, peering at its symbols. "You think this is their cemetery? The Cherokee?" he mused.
B.A. shook his head. "No, man, these ain't Indian markings. They look kinda familiar, though, like Viking runes or somethin' else like that."
"How old do you think these are?" Face reached out to touch the stone closest to him, which bore a pictograph of a raven along with the alien script.
There was a loud tunnng! sound from the surrounding trees just as Face felt Hannibal tackle him like a member of the Los Angeles Rams. For a moment, he couldn't move with the wind knocked out of him. When he opened his eyes, he saw B.A. with one hand outstretched, concern in his dark eyes.
"You okay, Faceman?"
"Yeah." He took the offered hand and righted himself. "Still damp, but no harm done. Hannibal?"
The colonel, still on the ground, made a sound he had only rarely made since his days in Vietnam. It was a low groan of pain.
"Booby-trapped. Clever." Hannibal sat up, then immediately winced. Looking down, he noticed the crossbow bolt blooming from his left thigh like a metal flower. "Hey, at least it isn't shrapnel," he joked, but his face was already drawn in agony.
"Hannibal, we gotta get you up and outta here before them crazies come back," B.A. said in a harsh rasp. "Can you walk?"
Hannibal probed the wound with two gloved fingers, then winced again. "I'm gonna need a little help, guys. Pick me up, on three…" They did, and he stood with his uninjured leg on the ground, one arm around each of his men's shoulders.
Through the patch of sky that was visible, a column of silver light poured down into the clearing, a full moon now hovering over the tops of the trees. And somewhere in the distance, a sound could be heard; not the hooting of owls, or a nighthawk, or even the war whoops of the pursuing Brotherhood of the Black Fox.
It was unmistakably the plaintive howl of a wolf.
"All part of your plan, right, Hannibal?" Face asked nervously, scanning the trees as if expecting certain doom.
"Almost makes me wish I were in a plane instead of out here wit' you and your fool plan," B.A. groused.
"Hey, guys, I never said there wasn't room for improvement. Third time will be a charm." Through his pain, Hannibal managed a faint grin. "Come on, maybe Murdock found us the Four Seasons…"