Oh, how I wish BA were here to shut you up.

- Face, "The Taxicab Wars"

Chapter 7: Snowballs

A black Suburban eased into a spot in the expansive parking lot. The driver looked at the time displayed on the new digital tuner on the dash board and noted that it was 8:55am. Looking out the windshield, he spotted a virtual sea of cars, trucks, and vans, crowding the lot on what would likely prove to be a very busy day. Families exited their vehicles, and quickly walked across the large area toward the marble steps that led to the entrance of the Museum of Science and Industry, wanting to take advantage of the one day in the week when the Museum waived the admission fee. The line to get in was already long and snaked down the light gray steps.

The wind kicked up, rocking the Suburban where it sat in the lot as a blast of cold permeated through the windows. Bosco Baracus reached for the ignition and twisted the key, shutting off the engine of their rental vehicle. The melodic purr gave way to nothing but silence . . . silence, and the sound of the wind howling around outside of the car. He opened the driver's side door and was the first to step out, drawing in a deep breath of the crisp, cold air. By doing so, he noted the moisture that seemed to cover the atmosphere like a wet blanket. Combine that with the blasts of wind, and it created what meteorologists called a wind chill. Essentially the additional moisture within the air, once it touched one's bare skin, would make it seem colder than it really was.

Chicago could get damned cold during the winter, as he recalled a few times where there were sub-zero temperatures, but the wind chill . . . now that could sometimes make conditions deadly with prolonged exposure without some kind of shelter. His dark eyes glanced to the gloomy, cloud-covered sky as he muttered, "Looks like snow."

A groan could be heard from Templeton Peck as he exited the vehicle from the door behind where BA had gotten out. He obviously had overheard the Sergeant's comment, which made things even more dismal for him. He was a warm-blooded California boy. He'd prefer the sun, surf, and sand of the beaches of Malibu over these conditions any day. Even that sprint from the plane to the terminal at Meigs Field, with his first real taste of Chicago's winter cold, was more than enough for him to last a lifetime. The sooner they could get back to sunnier and warmer climates, the better. "Please don't say snow, BA. I can hardly handle the cold as it is," he whined.

Murdock slid out from the middle seat within the back and got out through the same door that Face had just used, and then closed the door behind him. He bounded over to the snow-filled curb with a wicked grin on his face that made him look like he had been given a massive overdose of the Jazz. His warm, brown eyes settled on the sight of the Museum building, as the anticipation built within him. No amount of cold could extinguish the fires of excitement that welled up inside. "Is this the place, BA? It looks like drove to Rome or Greece!" he pointed out.

"It sure is, crazy man," BA responded warmly, as his own eyes caught site of the familiar building that inspired his love for cars, engines, and machinery.

The door on the passenger side opened, opposite of where Face and Murdock had exited the vehicle, and Colonel John Hannibal Smith stepped out. A light wind teased his silver-white hair, which seemed to compliment the snow that lay on the ground. Closing the door behind him, he took a step forward and opened the front passenger door. The constant and perfect gentleman, he extended his gloved hand to Mrs. Adele Baracus to help her exit the vehicle. After she stepped out into the cold morning air, he closed the door and took a precursory glance over the parking lot to be on the safe side. No sign of MP vehicles or even cop cars . . . at least marked ones that he'd be able to obviously see. If any of them were around, even in unmarked cars, the size of the crowd that was building could play to their advantage if it became necessary.

Satisfied that they'd be fine for now, and they didn't have to worry about a confrontation in the parking lot, his ice blue eyes appraised the vast marble façade and massive colonnades of the Museum. "Impressive," he commented.

Hearing the Colonel's remark, Mrs. B gave a gentle but knowing smile. Her heart surged with pride at the fact that her son and the other A-Team members were finally going to not only have a chance to see the city, but also see where she had volunteered her time and worked. Chicago had a lot of amazing sights to see, and a lot of things to do, and even those who visited from time to time found something new that they could walk away from with admiration. "Just wait 'till you get inside, Hannibal," she noted, her voice clearly indicating how much she was looking forward to this. "This ain't nothin' compared to some of the exhibits the museum has. I used to take Scooter here once a week when he was younger. There was always something new to explore . . . although he always wanted to spend hours in the car exhibit and the chick hatchery."

"Awww, Mama," BA murmured, clearly embarrassed by her revelation. It was bad enough during the last visit when she had not only called him Scooter, but also shared with the guys how he earned that nickname. They kept ribbing him about it for a couple of weeks afterward, especially Murdock. And now she had just shared this little piece of his past. What was next? Showing the others his baby pictures? He'd never hear the end of it if it ever got to that level.

"Chick hatchery?" Face inquired, raising an eyebrow. What in the heck was a chick hatchery? Was it a place where they took women that were ugly and made them look beautiful or something? Or a boutique where women could buy very skimpy clothes? If it was anything like what he was thinking about, he knew that he was going to enjoy it. All he'd have to do is stop by, turn on a bit of the charm, and they'd be eating right out of the palm of his hand.

"It ain't the kind of chicks you're thinkin' 'bout, Faceman," BA clarified with a grin. Being around the young con man all of these years, he could almost tell what he was thinking about anytime he heard certain words . . . especially words like chick.

Women.

Every time Face was with a woman, whether it was someone he saw on the side, or even a female client, it got the blood of the master mechanic boiling. Although the Lieutenant tried to wine and dine them, eventually their hearts would be broken when their mission was complete or he moved on to see someone else. Either way, BA didn't agree with that. He firmly believed that women should be treated with the utmost respect, and not used in the way that Face used them.

Templeton Peck was about to reply when he was hit with a gust of wind that whipped his well-groomed hair around. The sheer force of it caught him by surprise, causing him to stagger in order just to remain on his feet. He had never experienced a gust of wind that strong before, not even from the famed California Santa Ana winds. He glanced toward BA, Mrs. B, and Hannibal, who all looked to be unfazed by the blast of air current.

The wind was more than strong enough to cause the dark blue baseball cap to fly off of Murdock's head. His receding brown hair was also whipped around The wry Texan quickly made a wild grab for it, thankful that Hannibal had actually seen to making sure to include gloves in the pockets of the coats . . . something they hadn't known about when they had first put the winter jackets on the day before . . . as it kept his hands warm, allowing him to deftly snag the prized hat before it could be totally whisked away by the stiff breeze, never to be seen again.

He returned the cap to his head and pulled it down a bit harder as if to try and prevent it from flying off again. He didn't want to lose it here in Chicago. Once he was sure that it was secured on his head, and the wind had died down a bit, he glanced over to the con man, who was still trying to straighten his hair. "Hey, Face! I gotta joke for you. Wanna hear it?" the pilot asked innocently.

The Lieutenant let out a long sigh as he struggled to make his hair return to a state of semi-normalcy. It was bad enough that he had to put up with all of the yuletide joy and junk like that this time of year, and now Murdock wanted to tell him a joke? Especially out here in the freezing cold? Why couldn't he have waited until they were within the warmth of the Museum? He warily eyed the pilot, knowing that he was up to something and he probably wasn't going to like the results. "Since you probably won't stop asking me until you've told me, go ahead, Murdock," he said, sounding a bit disgusted almost like he did when Murdock was starting to adopt the Captain Cab persona.

Face's dismal attitude didn't serve as a put-off for the Texan. As his best friend even he had noted how, every year around this time, he was always in the dumps and it was growing progressively worse every single year. He had to try and do something to cheer the con artist up, so he thought a joke would help. "What's the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?" he asked with his usual bright enthusiasm.

"I have no clue. What?" Face asked, his mind clearly pre-occupied and focused on his own problems to even make a connection and come up with some logical response.

"Snowballs!" Murdock jovially exclaimed. Before the con man could react, the Texan scooped up a bunch of snow into his gloves hands and shaped it into a ball. Once it was packed well, he hurled it at the unsuspecting Lieutenant. The orb of crystallized water soared through the air, and hit Face squarely on his left temple, showering him with snow.

"Murdock!" Face protested, trying to brush the snow out of his hair. He wasn't sure how the Texan was able to acclimate himself to the colder weather so quickly, but the handsome con artist was certain he was never going to get used to it . . . especially not the extreme cold and all of the snow.

"Bet you can't get me! You probably can't hit the broad side of a barn with a snowball!" the lanky pilot challenged with his normal exuberance. He let out a laugh and ran across the parking lot, weaving his way between cars to get to the marble stairs leading up to the massive copper doors of the museum.

Face shook his head in annoyance at the pilot's antics, still brushing snow off his face. As he looked at the others, he heard Hannibal's hearty chuckle, and even Mrs. B was laughing too. BA shook his head, as the con artist knew how much the Sergeant regarded the Texan as a fool, as well as how much Murdock could make a fool of himself. It was nice to know that they were finding humor in his misery.

"Come on . . . let's catch up with him before he tears the place apart," Hannibal remarked in a jovial tone, still chuckling. He hated seeing Face this miserable, but he couldn't help but to get a kick out of Murdock's almost infectious enthusiasm. There were times when the Colonel wondered who was on the Jazz more . . . him, or Murdock.

"Once we get inside, you boys can put your coats in my office," Mrs. B suggested with a warm tone of a loving mother to all of them, and a smile that seemed to melt through the cold. She considered all of them as her boys, not just Scooter. She even thought of Hannibal in that way, even though he was pretty close in age to herself, and likely old enough to be a dad to any of the other boys. She gently walked up to face and looped her arm around that of the young Lieutenant and began to lead him toward the entrance.

"Sounds good, Mama," BA chimed in. In spite of everything that was going on, he was actually looking forward this visit to the Museum . . . the first one in a long time, since before he had enlisted into the Army and was shipped off to Vietnam.

As the Sergeant started to follow is mother, Hannibal reached forward and gently touched the arm of his coat. The two of them locked eyes for a moment before the Colonel lightly jerked his head in a wordless signal for his Ordinance Officer. BA nodded in understanding, and while they continued to walk toward the front entrance, they allowed the distance between themselves and the pair in front of them to lengthen. Once they were far enough back, Hannibal kept his voice low as he asked, "Did you check the apartment for bugs?"

BA gave a slight nod. "Yeah, man. I did it when she went to pick up the mail. The only bug was in the phone . . . Army Intelligence issue," he pointed out in hushed tones, noting how Hannibal was trying to keep others from overhearing them and also doing the same with his responses.

The strategist nodded thoughtfully, stuffing his gloved hands into his pockets as he again took the time to scan the people around them, who were all milling toward the ornate copper doors of the Museum. They had talked about this in the past, even before the visit to see Mrs. B over the summer, which made any calls to her brief at best. "We've suspected her phone has been bugged for a long time," he noted somberly.

BA remained silent for a moment as he drew in a breath of the icy cold air. "I disabled it so they can't listen in to her calls anymore. I didn't find anythin' else. Her place is clean, Hannibal," he pointed out, satisfied that the military wouldn't be able to spy upon his mother's private calls. That just made his blood boil that they went that far to try and find them as to bug her phone, and potentially overheard her discussions with others.

He looked at his Mama, with her hair done up in a tight bun atop her head. She was chattering away, slowly but surely drawing the reluctant con man into a conversation with her. No one could resist his mother for long. He smiled tenderly for a moment, but then his expression grew worried as he recalled the visitor to her apartment while they were there the day before. "Hannibal, what if we're wrong, man?" he asked out of concern. As much as he didn't want to see his Mama get hurt by anyone else, he didn't want them doing anything that would ultimately hurt her as well.

"What if we're right?" the Colonel answered him with a question of his own. His gaze became serious as he fixed it on the figure of the woman his entire Team had come to love and considered almost like an adoptive mother. Inwardly, he vowed that they'd get to the bottom of this. They owed that much to her . . .