Snow Crash
The crisp winter air bit Hannibal's face as he handed his ticket to the stewardess. The young woman, all smiles and protocol, barely glanced at him before motioning toward the small plane.
Hannibal didn't mind. He was used to being overlooked these days, blending in as another tired traveler. Ascending the narrow stairs of the Fokker 27 turboprop at Bellingham Airport, he felt the ache of old injuries, a dull throb in his shoulder, a faint protest from his knees—a lifetime of close calls leaving its mark.
Inside the cabin, he scanned the 40-seat configuration. A gaggle of teenage boys and girls filled most of the rows, their chatter loud and vibrant despite the early hour. Scattered among them were a few adults, likely teachers or chaperones, trying—and failing—to impose some calm. Hannibal sighed tiredly, stowing his small duffel bag in the overhead bin before settling into his seat. The kids' energy grated against his sour mood.
The movie shoot he'd flown to Washington for was canceled, snowstorms blanketing the location in a suffocating white layer. It was a far cry from the California warmth he cherished. He had been cast as the titular monster in Snow Monster from Venus, a role he'd hoped to elevate beyond the schlocky script. But the director, inexplicably, wanted no real snow in his snow monster movie. The irony gnawed at him all the way to the airport. He checked his watch: 7:30 a.m. The plane was late. If they didn't take off soon, he'd miss his connection in Spokane. Another delay he couldn't afford.
Snow. The sight of it stirred unwanted memories. Korea, winter of '51—frozen foxholes, breath like smoke in the bitter air, and the constant gnaw of cold seeping into bones. He rubbed his hands together, a subconscious gesture to ward off the chill. With its endless sun, California had been his sanctuary since escaping Ft. Bragg. Snowstorms like this one were a bitter reminder of how frost could claw at a man's spirit, no matter how strong.
The engines hummed to life as the pilots secured the doors and the stewardess began the preflight safety demonstration. Hannibal half-listened. He'd heard the same lecture many times. He glanced out the frost-rimmed window at the runway, where heavy snow began to fall again.
The plane taxied into position, its turbine engines roaring louder, a sound he typically found soothing. But as the Fokker shuddered forward, Hannibal felt a prickle of unease—not fear exactly, just the nagging awareness that anything could go wrong.
And then it did.
Twenty-five minutes into the flight, the plane jolted violently, throwing passengers against their restraints. Hannibal's instincts kicked in immediately, gripping the armrest as the aircraft pitched downward into a steep nosedive. Around him, screams erupted, panic crackling through the cabin like electricity. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing as he jerked his seatbelt tighter, bracing for impact.
"Hang on!" he barked, though he wasn't sure if anyone heard him over the deafening noise.
The next moments were a blur—another sharp jolt, the world spinning beyond the window, then the brutal crunch of impact. The force wrenched his body forward, and everything went black.
When Hannibal opened his eyes, the first sensation was sharp and immediate pain radiating from his arm and shoulder. His face was pressed into the cold vinyl of the seat ahead of him, his left leg twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him. Somewhere in the cacophony of screams and sobs, he heard the crackling of broken metal and the groaning of the fuselage. Blinking against the disorientation, he forced himself to focus.
"Damn it," he muttered through gritted teeth, attempting to free himself. His left arm refused to cooperate. The unnatural angle of his forearm confirmed what he already knew—it was broken. Pain flared again as he reached across with his good hand to undo the seatbelt. The motion sent a fiery jolt through his collarbone and ribs, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
The cabin swam before his eyes as he finally managed to stand. Leaning against a seat for balance, he surveyed the scene. The interior was chaos—seats askew, luggage strewn everywhere, and passengers slumped or frantically calling out. Snow drifted in through jagged tears in the fuselage, the bitter air clawing at what little warmth remained.
Hannibal's training took over. The injuries, the cold, the screams became background noise as he assessed the situation. Four dead, he realized grimly, including the pilots. The cockpit was crushed beneath the weight of a large tree. The snowstorm outside turned the shattered windscreen into an icy sieve.
But most of the passengers were alive. Injured, scared, but alive.
"Alright," he called out firmly despite the throbbing in his ribs. "Listen up! If you're not injured, help those who are. If you are injured, stay where you are—we'll get to you."
A few of the older teenagers looked up at him, their eyes wide with fear. Hannibal gestured to two of the sturdiest boys. "You two, help me move the dead. We'll put them up front, out of sight."
Hannibal worked tirelessly over the next few hours, pain a constant companion as he organized the survivors. Under his direction, the stewardess—Candice, as he later learned—helped administer first aid. Using seatbelts and torn fabric, they fashioned makeshift splints and slings. Hannibal guided her through stabilizing his injuries, wincing as she braced his arm and collarbone.
"It's not pretty," she said apologetically, securing the last strap.
"It'll hold," he replied, giving her a faint smile. "You're doing good work, Candice."
As night fell, Hannibal turned to survival. The temperature was plummeting. The blizzard outside showed no signs of letting up. He had the teenagers remove seats from the back of the plane, creating space for the survivors to huddle together. Blankets and extra clothing were distributed, and everyone packed in tight to conserve body heat. Hannibal positioned himself on the perimeter, keeping a watchful eye and bearing the brunt of the freezing temperatures.
In the cockpit, he tried the radio, his fingers trembling from the cold. Static greeted him at first, but he persisted, switching to a military frequency he hadn't used in years.
"SOS. Emergency transmission—this is flight 206 out of Bellingham, Washington. We've crashed in the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. Does anyone copy?"
Silence. Then, a crackle and a voice on the other end.
"This is Fort Lewis Communications. Repeat your message."
Relief washed over him as he relayed their situation. The man on the other end identified himself as Sergeant Carter and asked the inevitable question.
"If you're not one of the pilots, who are you?"
Hannibal hesitated but decided honesty was his best option. "Colonel John Smith, United States Army. Friends call me Hannibal."
A beat of silence, then: "As in the Hannibal Smith? The A-Team?"
"That's right," Hannibal said wearily. "Now, get us out of here before we freeze to death."
###
By dawn, Hannibal was running on sheer willpower. One of the pregnant women had gone into labor during the night. He'd delivered the baby himself. The cries of the newborn were a strange comfort in the bitter cold. As the first rays of sunlight pierced the snowstorm, the faint thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades thundered in the distance.
"Finally," he muttered, reaching for the flare gun.
With a sharp pop, the red light arced into the sky, a beacon for the rescue teams descending on the wreckage. As soldiers swarmed the site, blankets and medical kits in hand, Hannibal leaned heavily against the doorframe, his breath a drifting plume in the icy air.
The rescue crews worked swiftly, stabilizing the remaining passengers and guiding them off the downed aircraft. Hannibal sat on the stewardess jump seat in the galley. He clutched the wool blanket tightly around his battered body. His breath came in shallow puffs, visible in the cold air. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through him.
One by one, the passengers passed him on their way out, each offering a small gesture of gratitude—a smile, a pat on his knee, a touch to his shoulder. Though Hannibal was too weary to respond, their unspoken thanks warmed him more than the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It wasn't pride that kept him upright, nor stubbornness—it was relief. Relief that they were alive, that his efforts had not been in vain.
When the last passenger had been led out, the cabin fell eerily silent. Hannibal closed his eyes briefly, the pounding in his head so loud it drowned out the sounds of activity outside. When he opened them again, a young medic had returned with a doctor in tow.
The doctor stepped closer, introducing himself with a calm, steady voice. "I'm Doctor Jacob Bailey. Let's see what we're dealing with, Colonel Smith."
Bailey pulled the blanket aside. The cold air clawed at Hannibal immediately. He flinched but said nothing as the doctor began his examination. Each touch was gentle, but it sent sharp, unrelenting pain radiating through Hannibal's body.
"Left collarbone's broken, and the shoulder's dislocated," Bailey observed quietly as his hands moved methodically. He probed Hannibal's forearm, his expression becoming grimmer. "This arm's fractured. It'll need proper setting at the hospital."
"Good to know," Hannibal muttered.
Bailey didn't pause, his hands moving to Hannibal's side. As he examined the ribs, Hannibal drew a sharp breath through gritted teeth.
The doctor leaned back, assessing. "Three broken ribs, maybe more. You're lucky they didn't puncture a lung."
Hannibal gave a faint, humorless laugh. "Luck's not exactly my strong suit."
Bailey glanced at him briefly before crouching to examine Hannibal's swollen knee. His fingers probed the joint. Any movement was excruciating. The doctor sighed as he stood. "The knee's badly swollen. Could be a sprain or something worse. We'll need an MRI to know for sure."
He retrieved a small penlight from his pocket, clicking it on. "I'm going to check your eyes. This might be a bit bright. You said you've got a headache. Were you unconscious at all after the crash?"
"A few minutes," Hannibal admitted.
The light cut across his vision, sharp and blinding. Hannibal hissed, jerking his head back. The doctor clicked the light off and returned it to his pocket.
"Your pupils are sluggish," Bailey said grimly. "You've got a concussion. Between that and your other injuries, you're in rough shape."
"No kidding," Hannibal muttered. He rested his head against the galley wall. "What's the plan, Doc?"
Bailey re-wrapped the blanket around him tightly. "To get you onto one of those helicopters. You're going to a hospital—no arguments."
"Fine," Hannibal murmured. His voice was barely audible now, each word a struggle between breaths. "But the others—they come first."
Bailey nodded. "They're being taken care of. Now it's your turn."
As the doctor and medic prepared to move him, Hannibal glanced up. Colonel Decker was standing nearby, watching. For once, Decker said nothing. He met Hannibal's gaze, his expression unreadable.
Hannibal held Decker's gaze momentarily before letting his head drop back against the wall, closing his eyes. The voices around him grew fainter as exhaustion dragged him under. His job was done. Now, it was someone else's turn to carry the load.
###
Dr. Jacob Bailey turned to the nearby medic and issued a firm order. "Get a stretcher. He's not walking."
The medic nodded sharply and disappeared into the snowy landscape beyond the plane. Bailey shifted his gaze back to the man seated in the galley. Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith was a formidable figure, a legend. But right now, he was battered and broken. His breath was labored, his left arm cradled awkwardly against his chest, and a faint, pained grimace ghosted across his face despite his stoic demeanor. Bailey knew he was pushing past exhaustion through sheer willpower.
The medic returned a few minutes later, stretcher in hand. With Decker's help, Bailey and the medic eased Smith down from the flight attendant's seat. Smith barely murmured a protest, though his sharp intake of breath at each movement betrayed the pain it caused him.
Once Smith was settled on the stretcher, the medic tucked the wool blanket Decker had brought snugly around his body, adding another layer of warmth against the biting cold.
"We've got you, Colonel," Bailey said as he adjusted the blankets. He briefly nodded at Decker before gripping one end of the stretcher. The medic took the other, and together, they maneuvered Hannibal carefully out of the wrecked plane into the expanse of snow.
The helicopter stood ready, its rotors cutting through the frigid air. As they approached, Bailey stole a glance at Smith's pale face. He was fading fast, his eyes fluttering shut for longer intervals.
"Stay with me," Bailey said as they loaded him into the helicopter. "You've got to keep those eyes open."
"Easier said than done." Smith's voice was barely audible.
Bailey didn't respond. He adjusted the blankets again and took his place beside Smith. As the helicopter lifted into the air, Bailey watched his patient closely. Every few minutes, he gave Smith a nudge, calling his name or asking a question to ensure he remained awake.
"You've handled worse than this," Bailey reminded him.
Smith cracked a faint smile. "Maybe... but it's close."
The medic and Decker sprang into action when the helicopter touched down on the hospital's helipad. Bailey stepped aside as they lifted the stretcher and transferred Smith onto a waiting gurney. He moved quickly to the side, touching the colonel's uninjured shoulder. "We're almost there."
The hospital entrance loomed ahead. The emergency room was alive with movement as staff prepared to triage the passengers from the crash. Bailey strode alongside the gurney as the orderlies rushed it inside, barking orders to nurses as they passed through the double doors.
"Get radiology prepped and ready," he instructed. "We've got possible fractures—collarbone, forearm, ribs—and a concussion. Make sure they know he's a priority."
The organized chaos of the emergency room swirled around him, but Bailey stayed focused, ensuring the colonel received immediate attention. He could hear the distant sounds of other patients being treated—fragments of conversation, the clatter of equipment. Still, his attention remained locked on the stretcher being wheeled through the bustling corridors.
Colonel Smith's eyes flickered open briefly, meeting Bailey's gaze. For a moment, the exhaustion and pain were gone, replaced by the faintest glimmer of gratitude.
Bailey gave him a small, reassuring nod. "You're in good hands now. Let us take it from here."
As the gurney disappeared into a treatment room, Bailey released a slow breath. The colonel was far from out of the woods.
###
The orderlies wheeled Hannibal into a treatment room, their voices blending into the steady hum of the hospital. He stared at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust to the bright fluorescent lights above. They moved him carefully onto the bed, and though every jostle sent waves of pain through his battered body, Hannibal gritted his teeth and remained silent.
A nurse stepped forward, raising the bed to prop him up. The small adjustment helped ease the strain on his ribs. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt the faintest hint of relief.
"Let's make you more comfortable," the nurse said, cutting off his tattered shirt. Hannibal didn't flinch, but he felt a pang of vulnerability as the remnants of his clothing fell away.
Dr. Bailey entered the room and gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment before leaning in to examine his shoulder and arm. His touch was gentle.
When he confirmed his earlier findings—radial fracture, dislocated shoulder, and fractured collarbone, Hannibal nodded.
"We'll get you some relief now," Bailey said, motioning to the nurse to start an IV.
When the nurse inserted the needle into his good arm and administered the pain medication, Hannibal felt his knotted muscles loosen. The sharp, unrelenting pain dulled, replaced by a haze of blessed relief.
"Thank you," Hannibal murmured.
A shadow fell across the bed. He glanced up at Decker. His expression was unreadable. The squeeze he gave Hannibal's good shoulder spoke volumes.
Hannibal met his gaze and nodded, acknowledging the silent support.
Decker returned the nod before stepping out of the room, leaving Hannibal in the medical team's care.
As the nurse continued her work, removing the rest of his clothing, Hannibal felt uncomfortable. Being stripped while still conscious wasn't exactly ideal. Everything was visible. While not normally modest in front of men, a woman was another story.
The nurse was efficient and professional, covering him with a warm blanket as soon as she was done. He let out a slow breath, focusing on the warmth of the blanket rather than his lingering discomfort and embarrassment when the nurse inserted a Foley catheter in his penis for a urine sample.
When the portable X-ray machine arrived, Hannibal steeled himself for the process. The technician moved quickly, positioning the machine to capture images of his injuries before stepping out to develop the film.
Hannibal closed his eyes and let his mind wander, the hum of the room and the distant hospital sounds filling the silence.
"Your pupils are still sluggish." Bailey rechecked Hannibal's eyes. "But you've been awake long enough. Let's get you some relief so we can take care of these injuries without putting you through more pain."
Hannibal opened his eyes. "You're the boss."
The nurse returned with the sedative.
Hannibal felt the first hints of drowsiness as it took effect. The pain receded further, replaced by a heavy, welcome numbness. As the world around him started to fade, Hannibal let himself relax. His job was done. Someone else could take the reins.