On The Jazz
On The Jazz Newsletter: Volume 2 Issue N°12

Date: March 11, 1996
Author: Nicole Pellegrini
Download: otjv02i12.zip

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The totally unofficial A-Team electronic mail newsletter
***** Now in it's second year of publication !! *****

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Administrivia: Nicole Pellegrini
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**Home of the On the Jazz Newsletter Archives**
DATE:   March 11, 1996
ISSUE:  12
Howdy folks,

Well, it's that time again. First a brief mention of some...

I still haven't heard back from AOL about getting LISTSERV for this group, so it's time to start seriously looking at other alternatives (as mentioned about 2 months back, our current umich list administrator will be leaving in a few months, therefore we need to find a new administrator and/or site to carry the message reflector.) Now, I know at least 2 people also at umich contacted me about possibly taking over the management of the site. If those people could contact [email protected], you can find out more of the details as far as what would be involved in managing the list.

Okay everyone, this is the final and official announcement that the 2nd semi-frequent A-Team Philly Fest will be held on Saturday, April 6th, all-day-until-you-can't-take-anymore-A-Team. This location is my apartment in Center City Philadelphia which I can provide instructions to if anyone needs them. Plenty of food, drink, fun, and mind-numbing entertainment. I'll have a bunch of unedited episodes from the original NBC broadcasts of the show that we can check out (along with those great 80s commercials!) Please RSVP with me as soon as you can.

Looks like if everything goes smoothly, next issue I should be able to officially announce the release of "Plans Scams & Vans 2," full of some great original A-Team adventures from fellow Onthejazz members.

That means, with all contributions in for Issue 2, it's time to start thinking about material for Issue 3...also, based on several people I know who are actively working on A-Team/X-Files crossover stories, we're going to try to do a special *all* AT/XF zine to be called (drumroll, please...)

"The A-Files"!!!

Yes, I know, I'm crazy. Completely crazy. But it's too cool an idea to pass up. So, if you have any story ideas/artwork/etc. that might fit in with this theme, let me know and I can provide more info on the project.

In other 'zine-related news, I recently heard from Rita Ractliffe, who wrote/published the A-Team 'zine "Nightmare" which I reviewed a while back here. A few people had contacted her about purchasing the 'zine, but 1) she can't accept personal checks, ONLY money orders, and 2) to the person in Australia who wrote her, she has to check on the overseas postage and then she will get back to you on it. If you are in the U.S. and would like to order it from her, the 'zine cost is $10 plus postage - $3 would cover priority mail postage. She wanted to apologize to anyone who may have written her and never heard back, as certain personal and work-related problems were keeping her preoccupied until recently.
And now, time for the 3rd and final part of...

by Michele Lellouche
Originally printed in "Closed for Remodeling #1," 1986

B.A. rode rear guard, wearily watching the dawn rise, rocking in the saddle when they went back to a lope as the trees thinned. They had been in the saddle almost the whole night, and he knew their run had drained almost all of their reserves; he could feel fatigue weighting him down just as his rifle was. He had nearly dropped off as they had been forced to a walk in the heavier forest. Now, the pounding was at least keeping him awake, but being awake was not exactly terrific. He was convinced they had not lost their persuers, and although Hannibal said otherwise, he knew the colonel was not convinced either. So B.A. listened as closely as he could behind him, but he stared more closely ahead. As he watched, he worried.

He was the one who had gotten them into this, dragging them to see his aunt and uncle in Tallahassee's Frenchtown. Someone there must have recognized them and alerted Fulbright. But as much as he blamed himself, he had to admit that the rest had been good, even if it were only one day's worth. He looked at them now and knew even the respite had been no help. He saw Hannibal losing weight, adding lines, going white over gray, and he worried. He saw Face and Murdock losing weight neither could afford, and he worried some more. They were his family. The other three had grown up independently, but he had had a family and missed it. He considered himself their protector, and he was concerned now for them. They might not get out, and even if they did, in a few more days they might be stretched too tight to recover fully. "We're old...
older than Nam."/ He snapped out of his musing when the others came to a halt.
The other three were turned back the way they had come when B.A.'s horse brought him up. Absently, he noticed the dawn submerging in the storm clouds above them. Both Peck and Murdock were standing in their stirrups, staring into the woods.

"Hear somethin'?" B.A. grunted, more for show than actual curiosity. He had seen those looks before, too many times.

"Yes...," they said as one. Hannibal said nothing, trusting his men as they did him.

"They're behind us," Face said softly, resigned, dropping back into his saddle. Murdock shook his head.

"No...they're over us." As he said it, they all heard the chopper blades, then turned their heads as one to see open ground -- a flat two hundred yards of sawgrass and baby pines they had to cross. Hannibal knew instinctively, with the same uncanny knowing that had saved them countless times before, that both Face and Murdock were right. Their pursuit was on land as well as in the air.

"Let's go," he said simply, expecting the usual joking protest, but there was none. They were too near the edge to summon the extra energy. Rifles were unslung and checked, reins entangled with manes in chilled fingers. Then the horses were turned as the blades came closer and the four-wheel drives could be heard.

"Get his tail rotor -- it'll bring him down faster," Murdock said quietly, looking at Face, the only one of the four secure enough in the saddle to use his rifle accurately, with both hands. Peck nodded, then kicked his mount, with Hannibal alongside him.
                       *     *     *
Fulbright ordered the chopper lower as they reached the edge of the forest, barking an order to his ground commander. He was grinning, alive with the possibility of finally capturing his quarry, especially after the scene last night. They were practically skimming the trees as the forest ended -- and four horsemen broke from it.

Fulbright could fix their order from the air -- Murdock in the lead (had to be -- he was the only one Fulbright did not know from the photographs), Smith and Peck stirrup to stirrup, Baracus in the rear. All were firing randomly at the chopper with no deliberate aim because it was impossible to aim a rifle with one hand.

"Lower, dammit, get in ahead of them. Cut 'em off." The pilot began to comply when the fire became deliberate and aimed.

One of the few things Fulbright rememebred from military history at the Point was the Parthian shot -- the famous archer-horsemen of Afghanistan and their shots, riding the horse while turning completely around to shoot. He had only seen photographs, of course -- never the moving, live picture he saw now. Peck dropped the reins and turned, aiming upward with the Ruger rifle and opening up with deadly fire. The pilot pulled up as quickly as he could, but it only presented a better target.

Face took aim on the chopper, ignoring the perfect target of the belly and concentrating on the tail rotor. No matter the pursuit, he would not kill to protect them unless there were no other choice. Still, the primitive adrenalin he had been running on hungered for a permanent end to the chase. Angry with himself, he shook the feeling and fired a three-round volley to bracket the craft and determine his line of fire as his mount plunged through the grass. His second three-shot crippled the tail rotor and sent a plume of dark smoke to join the rapidly darkening clouds.

Fulbright felt the sickening lurch and gritted his teeth as he watched Peck turn back to his riding. As the chopped went down, Fulbright scowled at their escape and at the knowledge that Peck did not make the obvious shot. He knew his only hope to catch them was to meet up with his ground force. Then the cold rain began, sheeting from a blue-black sky. Fulbright stared into it, wondering if the Fates were permanently in the A-Team's side, and watched them ride away into the rain.
                       *     *     *
"Good evening. This is the CBS Evening News, Dan Rather reporting. Rain, an intense deluge, blanketed northern Florida, raising the Suwannee River to its highest level in recorded history and ending the manhunt for the legendary fugitive A-Team, a hunt that was ended by a storm from above and gunfire from below. Bruce Hall has the report."

"The fourth day of the search for the A-Team was also the last. Late today, rain-soaked Florida National Guardsmen and Army MP's arrived back at their base in the Osceola National Forest, unsuccessful once more. The commander of the search, Army General Harlan Fulbright, returned earlier from a helicopter flight ended by gunfire from the fugitives as they disappeared into the Pinhook Swamp notheast of the national forest. Fulbright himself called off the search as rain intensified into thunderstorms throughout the day and rising water made further searching difficult and dangerous.

"By afternoon, Governor Bob Graham summoned the remaining National Guardsmen back to the Suwannee River to aid flood victims, and by nightfall, the A-Team had once again disappeared without a trace. Bruce Hall, CBS News, in the Osceola National Forest, Florida."
                       *     *     *
Sunset again, although they could not see it as they rode out into another sawgrass clearing. Face led them, urging his mount through soaked underbrush, rain roaring in their ears and beating down on them. He halted, standing in his stirrups and raking a hand through his hair. He felt weariness drag him down harder than his sodden duster; he was beginning to believe he had been born in this saddle. He shook the thought and focused his attention on the nature of the clearing. He was trying to see through the rain and decide why the clearing was long and straight when a black pickup truck flashed by, plowing a huge backwash. Face's mount jumped and Face almost turned him back, but he was tired of this game. He dug his heels into his horse's ragged flanks and rode onto the "...road...it's a road."/ He drew rein again, the shod hooves slipping on the wet asphalt. Beyond the road he could make out a gravel bed which had to mean railroad tracks. He turned his horse back as the rest of the team emerged from the trees. He trotted toward them, smiling, his first real smile in days, maybe weeks -- he couldn't remember.

"A road...railroad tracks beyond!" he yelled hoarsely over the roar of the rain. He saw B.A.'s and Murdock's relief, then looked into Hannibal's skepticism.

"Could be abandoned," Smith shouted back. As he did, they all heard a haunting whistle echoing over the rain. Smith sighed. "I love it when a plan comes together," he grinned as rakishly as he could manage. He expected their laughter but was still relieved to hear it. He joined it, silently thanking God for the return of his team.
                       *     *     *
"Today, the intensive manhunt for the fugitive A-Team ended, but the search is still going on. Tonight in his commentary, Bill Moyers examines what has become the longest chase in American history."

"For Americans, the Vietnam War ended in 1973 -- 'peace with honor' for a nation tired of fighting. But there was no peace for the country we left and no honor for the men who came home. One year ago, we established a memorial to some of those men, a memorial to the dead, to help atone for using them and the survivors as scapegoats for a war gone somehow terribly wrong.

"There are those who are still paying for that war, perhaps chief among them three men whose only crime was to fight the war too well. Under orders, they robbed the Bank of Hanoi, returning days after the war ended only to be imprisoned -- the price of a peace that was only a holding action. When Andrew Jackson won the Battle of New Orleans after the official end of the War of 1812, he became a national hero. The men on the A-Team have become national heroes of the fugitive variety. Many feel they are modern-day Robin Hoods, persecuted by a government single-mindedly pursuing them even as the veterans are honored and the draft evaders come home.

"For the A-Team, however, there have been no honors, only the acclaim of the people and the relentless chase of the Army.

"I'm Bill Moyers."

The end.
That's all for this issue, folks. Would have some more for y'all but my wrist is acting up...Next time, part 1 of another great story from Laura Michaels that's a MacGuyver/A-Team crossover (yeah, just had to do that one next considering the recent debate on the mailing list!)

Until next time...
Quote of the week:

Hannibal (to Face): "Sometimes your sense of larceny is
your most attractive trait."
                                  (from "Cowboy George")

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