Rating: Mostly PG.
Disclaimer: I do not own The A-Team. All copyrights to original characters belong to S. Cannell and Lupo. Original characters belong to me. I wrote this story for fun, as a writing exercise, and as a gift for a good friend. No character deaths.
No reprinting or posting anywhere on Facebook or the internet without my permission. That means don't put any of it on your website or someone else's. Constructive criticism is welcome. Criticism because you don't like the theme of the story or it doesn't conform to your ideas of your favorite characters is not. And will be treated as such.
Again, do not copy/paste the story and place it elsewhere. It remains right here. Remember, one action, one decision, can change your life or someone else's life forever.
Hostile Decent – Flight Risk
By
Chico Casanova
Hannibal Smith sat in the back of the unmarked military transport van, hands handcuffed in front of him, ankles shackled, and a smug grin. The metal bench beneath him was hard, and the ride was even rougher as the van bounced around on an unknown road. From the potholes, it had to be an abandoned section of Route 66.
The four armed MPs seated across from him with rifles resting in the crooks of their elbows were all but vibrating with tension and a hair trigger. The one closest to the truck's rear exit kept glancing at him like he expected an escape attempt any second.
Hannibal let the silence stretch, studying each of them in turn. They were all young and fresh from training but not battle-tested. He could see it in the way they gripped their weapons too tightly and how they watched him when they thought he wasn't looking. The fear was there, hiding beneath the surface. They knew his reputation, the kind of regrettable things he'd done during the Vietnam War. In addition, the A-Team was legendary, even among the military men hunting them. And now, they thought they had finally won.
The MP directly across from him, a square-jawed sergeant with buzzed brown hair, cleared his throat. "You look awful comfortable for a man on his way to lockup."
Hannibal grinned even wider. "Oh, I love a good road trip. The scenery, the company—" He glanced at the MP to his right, who visibly tensed. "— is all top-notch."
The sergeant wasn't amused by the joke. "There won't be much scenery to look at where you're going."
Hannibal lifted an eyebrow. "Is that so? And where exactly is that?"
The MP frowned. The others looked at him, unsure if they should speak up. That was all the confirmation Hannibal needed.
Hannibal leaned back against the metal wall, making himself comfortable despite the awkward position of his bound wrists. "Let me guess, if you were taking me to a standard lockup, say, Fort Bragg or Leavenworth, we'd be in a convoy of large military vehicles with guards riding shotgun, not sneaking through the back roads in an unmarked delivery van. So, that means it's somewhere off the books. A black site, maybe? Something nice and cozy where no one asks questions?"
The sergeant clenched his jaw. "Shut up."
Hannibal chuckled. "You boys don't even know, do you?" He shook his head, feigning disappointment. "Now that's just rude. Dragging a man off in chains and not even giving him the courtesy of telling him where he's headed or if the food is any good."
The MP on Hannibal's right shifted again. He was nervous. That was good.
The truck hit a deep pothole. Hannibal rocked with the movement, keeping his balance, but he let his body go loose. He needed them to keep underestimating him.
Then, the truck slowed. It wasn't a shift in speed, more like a deliberate stop.
The four MPs stiffened at once, tightening their fingers on the triggers on their M16s.
"I guess you boys weren't taught gun safety at basic training. You never put that finger in the hole unless you're ready to destroy something," Hannibal said.
The senior MP glared at Hannibal. "Shut up, or I'll put a fist in your pie hole." He pulled back on the cocking handle of his M16, letting it slide forward with a resounding click.
Hannibal kept his expression neutral. It seems they were here. Wherever "here" was.
Outside was a loud clank as the latch on the back doors was released. Then, light flooded into the truck as the doors swung open, revealing Colonel Roderick Decker with his arms crossed.
"Well," Hannibal drawled, tilting his head. "If it isn't my biggest fan."
Decker didn't take the bait. Instead, he gripped the railing and pulled himself inside.
The MPs snapped to attention.
"At ease." Decker moved to stand in front of Hannibal. "I have to admit, I thought bringing you in would feel a lot more satisfying. Instead, I'm disappointed the chase is over."
Hannibal smiled. "There's still time to let me go. Maybe then you won't feel so disappointed."
"You're done, Smith." Decker waved to his MPs. "Get him on his feet."
Two of them moved at once, grabbing Hannibal by the arms and yanking him upright. The chain between the shackles around his ankles clanked on the metal floor.
Hannibal exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Why are you so impatient? We don't even get to have a little chat first?"
Decker stepped closer. "You're not going to prison, Smith."
Now, that was interesting.
Hannibal kept his posture relaxed despite the firm grip of the MPs. "Oh? Really? What, then? A retirement home? Or maybe a nice apartment on 5th Avenue in New York City?"
Decker ignored his questions, turned, and climbed out of the truck. An MP nudged Hannibal forward with the muzzle of his M16. He stepped out of the van carefully as the shackles made every movement more awkward than usual. The last thing he wanted was to fall on his face.
Then Hannibal saw his ride to wherever he was going. An Air Force gray C-141B Starlifter sat on the tarmac a hundred yards away with the engines idling attached to a ground power unit. Armed guards flanked both sides of the open rear cargo ramp. A handful of men in prisoner jumpsuits stood at the bottom of the ramp, also shackled hand and foot. More were being led toward the plane by military personnel.
Hannibal looked at Decker. "A plane? Just for me? You shouldn't have."
"Don't flatter yourself. You're cargo, just like the rest of them," Decker spat.
Hannibal glanced at the other prisoners. "I don't know, Decker. You might hurt my feelings, lumping me in with this mangy crowd."
"Spare me. Move him out." Decker turned, striding toward the plane.
The MPs shoved Hannibal forward, guiding him to the aircraft. Hannibal walked with them, keeping his pace steady. He wasn't worried yet. But he was curious as to why all the secrecy. It couldn't be for him. If Decker wasn't sending him to prison, where was he sending him? And why did this whole operation feel too quiet for a standard prisoner transport?
"Colonel Smith?" a male voice said near the ramp.
Hannibal turned his head to look at the soldier standing near the ramp, Sgt. First Class Jake "Ironman" Keller. They'd met once in Vietnam when Keller was a corporal with the 101st. He got the nickname "Ironman" because nothing could bring him down. He was younger than Decker but carried himself with the same rigid authority. Unlike the MPs, Keller wasn't nervous but extremely confident. That was interesting.
Keller eyed him up and down, then looked at Decker. "Is this a joke, sir? We're putting him on this flight?"
"You have your orders, Sergeant," Decker commanded.
Hannibal laughed. "Aw, you're not happy to see me, Ironman?"
Keller's eyes narrowed. He didn't take the bait.
Good. That meant he was smart.
Hannibal allowed himself to be led up the ramp, past Keller, and into the dimly lit belly of the aircraft. Inside, the seating was nothing like a civilian flight. There were no rows of comfortable chairs, only cold, hard benches with restraints bolted to the bulkheads.
More prisoners were already inside, seated, and waiting for the flight. Some were quiet, and some weren't.
Hannibal was shoved into a seat, and a chain was clipped to his handcuffs. The MPs locked the chain on the leg irons to a hook on the floor. They double-checked their work and stepped back.
"Enjoy the ride, Smith," Decker said, standing over him.
Hannibal met his gaze, still smiling. Whatever was about to happen, Decker thought he had won. And that meant Hannibal was about to prove him very, very wrong.
###
The dull hum of the C-141B Starlifter's engines vibrated through the cold metal benches bolted along the aircraft bulkheads. Oil and old sweat lingered in the air, mixing with the tang of adrenaline. The plane had been in the air for less than an hour, but the tension inside was high, with a cargo area full of alpha males.
Hannibal relaxed despite the heavy restraints securing him to his seat. He'd been through much worse in the North Vietnamese POW camp. Compared to having his arms tied behind the back with a rope, then the interrogator rotated his arms upward until they popped from their sockets, beaten, and hung from the ceiling, this was nothing. The ropes were so tight they cut off circulation, causing numbness and muscle spasms. The prisoners called it the rope trick. And it certainly wasn't a trick because it hurt like hell itself.
If anything, he was more curious than concerned about his final destination. He glanced around the cabin, cataloging every detail.
The other prisoners, shackled like him, were a mix of hardened ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and disgraced intelligence operatives. A few sat in silence. Others, however, were too aware and confident. Hannibal recognized the type. Men who weren't worried about reaching their destination because they had no intention of getting there. Those men were doing exactly the same as him, looking for an escape route. That meant one thing. This flight was already compromised.
Hannibal saw Jonas "Red" Holloway, a rugged man with deep-set eyes and the coiled energy of someone used to leading men into hell and walking out the other side. The notorious leader of the Freedom Brigade, who killed indiscriminately, uncaring about collateral damage. He was seated a few rows away, calm, collected, and utterly in control of himself. The other prisoners gave him space. Even in chains, he commanded a presence that others felt obligated to obey his orders.
Interesting. Hannibal kept his expression neutral, watching Sgt. First Class Jake Keller walk the aisle, scanning each prisoner. The man had good instincts with an upright posture, and his right hand rested near the sidearm strapped to his thigh, not out of fear but readiness.
Keller stopped in front of Hannibal's seat. "Enjoying the ride?"
Hannibal shrugged. "It's so-so. I would've preferred first-class, but the in-flight entertainment's promising." He jerked his chin at Holloway, who hadn't moved but was clearly listening to the conversations around him.
Keller glanced over his shoulder. "He's not your concern."
"Oh, but he is," Hannibal countered. "See, I have a habit of paying attention when someone's planning to crash the party."
Keller leaned forward slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Easy. You and I both know something's off. That's why you're making extra rounds instead of sitting up front with the rest of the guards. And you're right. There's a storm coming."
Keller didn't flinch, but Hannibal saw something in his expression, maybe a moment of uncertainty.
"You're too good at your job not to have seen it," Hannibal whispered. "So, the question is, are you going to do something about it before the party starts or after?"
Keller exhaled through his nose, stepping back. "You don't know anything, Colonel Smith."
Hannibal leaned back against the wall. "We'll see."
Keller lingered for a second longer, then moved on, continuing his patrol.
###
The moment happened so fast that even Hannibal, watching for the slightest mistake, barely caught it. A prisoner lunged at one of the guards near the cockpit, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him into the bulkhead. The soldier's weapon fell, skidding across the floor, but it was already too late for the guards to regroup. The attack had begun.
A soldier near the rear of the aircraft tried to raise his rifle, but a prisoner was in his face, wrenching the weapon from his grasp, then used a butt strike to the head to take him down. Another man, dressed as flight crew, reached under his jacket and produced a pistol, firing two shots into the chest of another guard who collapsed, caught in the cargo netting, hanging like a grotesque scarecrow.
The plane banked hard left, the sudden movement signaling that whoever was at the controls had been forced to alter their flight path.
Hannibal, still restrained to the bulkhead, couldn't move, only watch the carnage. The one thing he knew was that this wasn't an opportunistic riot. It was coordinated and precise. And he already knew who was behind it. Jonas "Red" Holloway.
The man sat calmly unshackled on his bench. He was waiting, letting his men do their work, watching as the remaining resistance was methodically stamped out.
Hannibal turned his attention to Sgt. First Class Jake Keller. Unlike the others, Keller hadn't frozen in shock. He reacted to what was happening around him. The guy had great instincts and reflexes.
When the first shot was fired, Keller had drawn his sidearm, pivoting and scanning for the highest threat over his gunsights. He fired once, twice, dropping a hijacker who had taken a rifle from a fallen guard. Before he could adjust for the next target, another man rushed him, knocking the pistol from his grip and sending it clattering across the floor.
Keller twisted into the guy's momentum, driving an elbow into the attacker's face. Free-flowing blood spurted on him. But Keller had no time to recover. Another man was already on him. The second man tackled him low, around the legs, slamming him into the bulkhead. Before Keller could land a blow, another man bashed him in the ribs with a rifle stock, sending him down on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath. Keller was tough, but he was outnumbered.
A nearby prisoner raised his rifle, aiming for Keller's head.
Hannibal shifted his weight on the bench and threw himself sideways enough to hit the MP beside him. The guard jerked in surprise, striking the hijacker's arm with his hand, sending the bullet wide into one of the forward seats.
Keller didn't waste the opening. He lunged forward, knocking the pistol from the man's grasp, but before he could regain control, two more hijackers tackled him to the floor.
One of the prisoners shoved Hannibal back on the bench, leveling a rifle at his chest. "Don't fucking move."
The plane belonged to Holloway now.
###
The battle had lasted no more than fifteen to twenty seconds. And yet, everything on the aircraft had changed.
Holloway's men settled into their positions, taking control of the cargo area with professional ease.
Hannibal watched Holloway rise from his seat, shaking out his arms like a man preparing for a long, comfortable stretch. His manner was calm, measured, and entirely in control. He wasn't celebrating, having known from the start that this moment would belong to him. He straightened his jacket, nodding at one of his men. The response was instant.
A former prisoner moved through the cargo area, checking the still-restrained prisoners by jerking on the chains locking them to the benches. He was looking for anyone who might decide to side with the guards. Soon, the guards were secured, their weapons confiscated, and their wrists shackled to the bulkhead. The hierarchy of power in the aircraft had flipped completely.
Holloway turned to Hannibal and smiled. "Colonel Smith, I wasn't expecting you on this flight."
Hannibal shrugged. "Must be my lucky day."
Holloway chuckled. He stepped forward with absolute confidence, filling the space between them like a predator deciding what to do with its prey. "Oh, I don't know about that." He waved two of his men to him.
Hannibal knew exactly what was happening. Holloway hadn't needed to give a command. His men already understood the game.
The two men grabbed Hannibal's arms and forced him forward until his head lay on his knees.
Holloway studied him for a moment, then looked at Keller, still on the floor, breathing heavily with blood trailing from his lip. He crouched next to Keller. "You put up a good fight, Sergeant. Too bad it didn't matter."
Keller didn't respond. His eyes remained locked on Holloway in defiance.
Holloway waited for a beat, then gave a slight shrug and stood. "Now, I know you all have a lot of questions. Here's the short version. I'm taking this plane, and all of you with me to Cuba, where the sand is warm and the women even hotter. Anyone who gets in my way dies. I hope that is clear because I won't repeat it."
Hannibal exhaled slowly through his nose, observing Holloway.
Then, Holloway turned to face Hannibal. "But you? You're different."
Hannibal arched an eyebrow. "I do like to stand out."
Holloway chuckled. "That you do." He nodded.
His men unlocked the cuffs, then yanked Hannibal's arms behind his back and tied his wrist together with rope tighter than necessary. Now, this was more like the POW camp. And Holloway was crazy enough to try some of their brutal techniques.
"See, I know all about you, Smith," Holloway said. "I know you help the little guy. The lost causes. The hopeless cases. I also know men like you don't change."
Hannibal didn't move. But the pieces of the puzzle were already falling into place. Holloway had made a mistake because he had left Hannibal Smith alive.