He's a newsman!

You don't like newsmen? How about a fireman? Mailman? Cop! Uh, wrong.

- E. Robert Colton and Hannibal, "The Road to Hope"

Chapter 26: Cleverly Disguised

The warning over the earpiece was welcome, although not unexpected. Colonel John Hannibal Smith knew that it was likely going to be just a matter of time before Spencer decided to make his way over and inspect the Zamboni. He picked up a rag and started to gently wipe the side of the large machine. It was brand new and sparkled in the sunlight, so it really didn't need any more polishing. The busy work, however, would keep the focus on the vehicle and off of him.

After their run-ins with Spencer Jackson, especially last night, the last thing he needed was to be recognized right before the plan could be put into action . . .

In spite of the danger, a small smile crept across his face as he wiped the side of the machine. Caring for the Zamboni was comforting . . . familiar . . . especially due to his past. It had been a while since he had a chance to be up close to one, much less get an opportunity to drive it, but once one learned how to operate this engineering marvel they never forgot. It was just like riding a bike.

Ever since they were first built by the legendary Frank Zamboni, the machine that bore his name had become almost synonymous with ice rinks. From a distance, it almost looked like a rectangle on wheels, but it was much more than that. It was a very complex vehicle, and definitely an absolute thrill to drive no matter if someone was a first time driver, or a seasoned pro.

A good portion of the front of the vehicle was taken up by a large white tank that sat atop the chassis. The dump tank, as it was commonly called, was where the shaved ice would go during the ice making process so it wouldn't be left on the ice itself. The whole goal was to leave the surface as smooth as glass by the time everything was done and the Zamboni pulled off.

But once it pulled off, the tank would be raised, and the shaved ice . . . which looked a lot like snow at that point . . . dumped out, hence the reason for the name dump tank.

Below the tank itself, on the chassis, was the engine and transmission, the same rudimentary elements that one associated with a regular motor vehicle. In fact, not many people knew it but the engines on the Zamboni were actually the same as what was under the hood of a Volvo. The engines from that motor company were known to be reliable workhorses that lasted for a very long time. These components were hidden behind blue panels, which kept the inner workings out of sight.

The chassis sat upon four large tires. These weren't ordinary car tires by any means. They were much larger than a standard tire, and covered with numerous silver studs that provided traction upon an icy surface.

Behind the dump tank was the main heart of the machine. The first thing that stood out was the seat and steering wheel where the driver would sit. The person would have to climb up in order to even be able to access the controls, much less operate it. It was almost like driving a really tall car with a super long hood and no back seat or trunk.

Next to the driver's seat on the back of the Zamboni, right in the middle, were the controls that not only operated the machine itself, but also controlled the ice making process. This included the throttle, the control to lower the conditioner, to start the vertical and horizontal conveyors, the ice breaker, and valves to turn on both the wash water and the ice making water.

Next to the controls was a large square area which served as a water tank. That tank would normally be filled with hot water for the ice making process. And right behind it was the fuel stand with the two propane tanks that Hannibal had checked before.

The final item on the back of the machine was the conditioner, which was just slightly wider than the resurfacer itself. There were a couple of metal plates that rested on the top of the long component, which housed the horizontal conveyor and a 77 inch long blade. A white towel also ran along the entire length of the conditioner, about three inches long. This portion of the Zamboni did most of the work, shaving off the used layer of ice with the blade, and then putting down a fresh layer of water that was smooth out with the towel.

Overall, it was a complex piece of machinery, but for someone like Colonel John Hannibal Smith it was an absolute thrill to drive and made him feel like a teenager all over again.

With the rag still in hand, he made his way around to the back of the Zamboni. Reaching up, he tested connections to the two propane tanks to make sure that they were both secure with no chance of leaking the gaseous fuel. When the connection wasn't secure and gas escaped past the gaskets, the smell was similar to a science experiment gone wrong in a high school . . . rotten eggs.

Once he finished checking the silver connectors to make sure they were on there tight, he then did the same with the valves on the tanks. He reached up to each one and twisted them to make sure that they could both easily open and close, and then he shut down the left tank . . . the one closest to the driver's seat. The reason for that was very simple. If the right tank ran out of gas while he was driving, he could simply reach over and open up the left tank without the engine dying or melting a hole in the ice.

Even though he could clearly see Spencer Jackson and Mrs. Baracus approaching out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal didn't turn to greet them. Instead, he opened the compartment just below the seat on the Zamboni to check what was inside of it. He was pleased to see a first aid kit, as well as a small fire extinguisher. Safety was definitely important with driving that machine. He closed the compartment and then started wiping it down.

The Director of Exhibits and Security for the Museum of Science and Industry walked up to Hannibal, his arm draped over the shoulder of Adele Baracus as he guided her along with him. His dark brown eyes looked at the man before him who was busy working on the Zamboni in preparation for when it would need to be driven during the ceremony. There was a small amount of surprise within the tone of his voice as he asked, "Where's Marcus? Wasn't he supposed to drive today?"

Even though the African American was addressing him, the strategist never turned to face him. Normally, Hannibal relished these encounters, but if there was any possible chance that he could recognize him through the disguise, the Colonel was not going to give him that opportunity. That meant that the less he could see of his face directly, the better. It was going to be the only way to make sure that his disguise wasn't going to be blown, and the cops called over to put him back into handcuffs. No . . . he had to play it safe.

"Came down with the flu last night," the strategist responded with a thick southern drawl. It was kind of similar to the dialect that Murdock occasionally used within his inflection, but this had more of a unique twang associated with those from Louisiana. "Called me early this mornin' and asked me to fill in for him." Getting into the character of the older man, Hannibal knelt down and let out a bit of a moan due to the exertion. Once he was on his knees, he removed one of the flat metal plates that covered the top of the conditioner and peered inside. Satisfied that there wasn't any snow, he put the cover plate back and then used the rag to wipe it down.

Spencer eyed the older man curiously. Marcus did tell him that there was someone else besides himself that was trained on how to drive the Zamboni, but he didn't recall him saying if the guy was older like the person that was kneeling and cleaning off the machine. He hadn't even been aware of the last minute switch with drivers, but he did have to admit that the person before him certainly seemed to know what he was doing. He glanced over to Adele for a moment, taking notice of how she looked at the resurfacer with curiosity. With a small smirk that appeared upon his lips, he returned his focus to the older man and asked, "How's it running for you?"

"Fine, sir. Purrs like a kitten, but she's got the power of a caged tiger," the Colonel responded, still utilizing the Louisianan accent. Even though he was working on the Zamboni, he could see out of the corner of his eye how Spencer Jackson was looking him over. He was definitely suspicious, especially with the last minute driver switch. He had to also mentally remind himself not to look at BA's mother during this conversation. The last thing either of them needed was for a glance between them to give away the fact that they knew each other, which would then blow not only his cover, but ruin the plan before it even got off the ground.

"Did Marcus fill you in on what you're supposed to do today with the ceremony?" Spencer questioned, obviously not wanting there to be any glitches.

"Yes sir, he sure did," Hannibal said, a poker face hiding the enthusiasm he inwardly felt. They were certainly going to get a surprise with what he had in store, and just the thought of that excited him. The Jazz was flowing freely through his veins like adrenaline, but his expression gave away nothing. "The kiddies are gonna love seein' the Z here in action."

Spencer looked at the older man, the expression on his face indicating that he was seemingly satisfied with the answers that he received. "Good work," he complimented before moving his right hand down to gently take the left hand of Adele Baracus. They then began to walk away toward the podium.

As he watched them leave, Hannibal let out a small sigh of relief. Spencer thankfully hadn't seen through his disguise, and Mrs. B did nothing to give him away either. That, plus Spencer seemed to buy into his answers as well and didn't prod too much. One challenge down, with the biggest one yet to come.

He stuffed the rag into the storage compartment underneath the seat, and then closed and secured the small blue door. The strategist then walked around toward the front of the Zamboni and glanced out over the rink. With how the activity had picked up its pace, the ceremony was likely seconds away from beginning. He rubbed his black glove covered hands together in anticipation of what was about to happen.

As he approached the hockey boards that lined the perimeter of the rink, he could see some kids on the other side near where BA and Murdock were. There were three boys, all of them probably around six years old . . . one with blonde hair, one with black hair, and the third with reddish hair. They were bouncing up on the balls of their feet, trying to get a better look and waving at the Colonel. Everyone seemed to love the Zamboni and those who drove it, especially kids. A huge thousand megawatt smile appeared upon Hannibal's face as he found himself unable to resist the temptation. He waved back at the kids, brimming with pride.

A moment later, a deep male voice resounded over some well-placed speakers as it announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Block 37!" Nobody was at the podium yet, which meant that it was likely pre-recorded and being played back, or the person was in another location and serving as an emcee.

The echo from the announcement had barely faded before it was replaced by a loud cheer from the large crowd, coupled with applause. Excitement filled the air, having replaced the anticipation that had hung over the gathering like a thick fog. It was very clear that many within the crowd were eager to lace up a pair of skates and use the new ice rink.

The attention of the West Point graduate was quickly drawn away from the kids to the ceremony as the Mayor of Chicago walked out onto the red carpet that was set up on the ice for the event. Harold Washington was a very historic figure in Chicago politics, especially considering the fact that he was the first African American elected to the top position in a large metropolitan city like the Windy City. Although BA never really displayed any real interest in politics, Mayor Washington was one of the few public servants he would talk about with immense pride.

The Mayor was accompanied by a beautiful woman, who looked to be in her late 20s, if not early 30s. The conservative, toned-down manner of her choice in winter clothing was obviously an effort not to distract from the Mayor himself. Hannibal guessed that she was probably an assistant or someone else important to Harold Washington. Her blonde hair seemed to blow with the radiance of the sun, and her face . . . although he was certain that he hadn't met her before, she looked very familiar. Despite trying to rack his brain, he couldn't p lace it just yet.

On the near side of the dasher boards, not too far away from his position, the A-Team's Commanding Officer could see a gentleman, who was obviously waiting for his turn to be introduced to the crowd. He stood near a door built into the hockey boards, which was open and would allow the special guests the ability to step directly onto the red carpet without having to walk on the ice. The guy was a well-dressed Caucasian with dark brown hair, and he appeared to be in his mid to late 30s. Considering where he was standing and through a process of elimination, Hannibal guessed that he had to be the director of the Chicago Park District.

Standing behind that gentleman was Spencer Jackson and Mrs. Baracus. The Director of Museum Exhibits and Security was also waiting for this turn to approach the podium. It was logical that Spencer would be introduced last among the sponsors for Block 37, especially since the Museum had purchased and donated the Zamboni for the site, whereas the Chicago Park District would actually operate it.

But, that's if the ceremony even got that far . . .

Mrs. Baracus being that close to the action was a major concern. If Kramer's aim was off, or if he became distracted as he pulled the trigger, there was a serious risk that she could be shot or even killed. He just hoped that she would remember to get to safety once everything started going down. If she was hurt, even in the slightest, BA would likely rip Spencer to shreds.

Speaking of the Sergeant, near the stage where he and Murdock were perched on the other side of the rink, Hannibal could see figure skating champion Scott Hamilton. As a special guest, he would be introduced last to help the Mayor officially declare the rink open to the public, followed by a quick demonstration of some of the skills that helped him to win the Olympic gold medal. The Colonel could see him stretching, warming up in preparation to emerge when the excitement of the gathered crowd was at its peak.

Things were going to get exciting all right . . . but probably not in the way that anyone would have anticipated.

With the ceremony already started, Templeton Peck felt much like a caged tiger himself, in spite of the fact that he was out in the open. The adrenaline within his blood was pumping wildly, and his heart was pounding. Time was running out, yet he wasn't much closer to where the assassin was located compared to when he was able to first identify him.

"Welcome, Chicago!" the con artist heard the Mayor say to the crowd, his voice projected by the microphone on the podium. "This is a great day for the city as we dedicate a valuable area within the Loop for recreation and family fun."

A resounding applause ripped through the crowd, although the Supply Officer did not take part in it. He zoned out the speech that the Mayor was starting to present, his focus still specifically on Kramer. With the crowd as packed as it was he was hardly making any progress, and he couldn't really excuse himself or ask people to move out of his way without drawing undue attention . . . attention that would likely bring the cops down on him and the rest of the A-Team.

Kramer was currently among the news crews, reporters, and photographers near the hockey boards. He could see tall, slender notebooks in the hands of the reporters, who furiously scribbled down notes from the speech onto the lined paper. The photographers each had at least one camera, if not more than one, with a very long telephoto lens that made regular cameras pale by comparison. If he had to guess, those lenses were as long as his entire arm. The video cameras that he saw perched upon the shoulders of video journalists was different from the one that Murdock had used to record his fake wedding to Jacqueline Taylor. That one had been a camera with a separate tape deck, but these . . . these had the tape deck integrated into the camera itself, creating a single unit.

'Great . . . just great,' he thought to himself dismally. Although Murdock and Hannibal helped to pinpoint the assassin from the news media, so he wouldn't have to be like a kid playing "Duck, Duck, Goose" or "Eenie, Meenie, Meinie, Moe," he still wasn't much closer than when he stated out. Trying to navigate a crowd as packed like this one was extremely difficult and slow going, almost like trying to wade through chest deep water. He knew that Kramer was going to have to make his move while the Mayor was up on the platform delivering his speech . . . but could he get there in time?

Face continued to weave through the crowd as best as he could, his blue eyes still focused on Kramer. He was within about thirty feet from him as he noticed the mousy brown haired assassin pull a piece of paper from the right pocket of the jacket he wore. The hit man flicked his wrist sharply to force the paper to open, his dark eyes gazing at what was written on it.

He worked his way past a couple more people just as he heard the Colonel over the earpiece, "Hey, Face, Kramer's got some kind of paper on him. Can you see what it says?"

Inwardly, Templeton Peck rolled his eyes at that request. His Commanding Officer likely could see how far he was away from the assassin still, so to ask him to relay what was printed on the paper, he had to be kidding, right? What did the Colonel expect him to do with this crowd? Suddenly sprout wings and fly over it so he could get close enough to read the paper? Then again, the strategist sometimes had a tendency to ask for the impossible . . .

"You know, Hannibal, curiosity killed the cat," Face pointed out over the hidden microphone. Even though he didn't want to push his luck too much and muscle his way through the crowd, he still knew that he had a job to do. He squeezed past another couple of people. A little more, and he'd be able to read what was on that piece of paper . . .

"That's why cats have nine lives," he could hear Hannibal reply. Although he didn't look over to see the Colonel's face where he stood by the Zamboni, he could tell immediately from how his Commanding Officer had responded that he likely had a grin on his face. And it wasn't just any grin . . . it was THAT grin. He was on the Jazz . . . boy, oh boy was he on the Jazz!

As he drew closer, he could finally see what was on the paper that Kramer had pulled out of his pocket. It looked like a rundown for the ceremony today, exactly to the minute. A time had been written down on it and circled, which he found to be very unusual. Why would there be a time written and circled on the paper unless . . .

The blonde-haired Lieutenant brought his right hand up and pulled his glove back slightly, revealing the gold watch that rested around his wrist. As he looked at the time, his blue eyes widened slightly as a realization struck him. He looked up just as Kramer stuffed the paper back into his pocket and shifted the hold upon the camera that was perched on his left shoulder.

Murdock had been right. The way the assassin was holding the camera was extremely unusual. Most ENG cameras were either carried on the left shoulder, or carried by the handle, but this guy was holding it out in front of him using his shoulder as a brace similar to a rifle. He didn't even have it on a tripod, much like most of the other news videographers who were covering the ceremony. On the handle of what looked like the ENG camera, he could see the targeting scope that his best friend had previously mentioned.

That set off all of the bells and whistles. Kramer couldn't pull a gun at an event like this without having the cops swarm all over him, or causing the crowd to panic prematurely. If the crowd started to scream and panic, people could be trampled and the Mayor would be immediately ushered to safety. The weapon was concealed within the camera! Even the look on the assassin's face was enough to provide a cause for alarm with the talented con man. Kramer's lips were pursed into a thin line, and there was a steely look in his eyes as he peered into the targeting scope.

"Hannibal, he's about to fire!" Face said urgently into the concealed microphone, not caring who overheard him at this point.

Templeton Peck didn't even bother to wait for an acknowledgement from the Colonel. He pushed his way a bit more forcefully through the crowd, knowing he only had one shot at this. He had to get close enough to try and stop Kramer, even if he tried for a flying tackle, before the assassin could fire the weapon. Inwardly, he prayed that he could make it in time . . .