The frigid temperatures and the wind added to the horrible conditions in the top of the mountains. The snow-suited man walked solemnly down the winding path to the lab complex.

“Hey, Snowstorm. Where the hell is the transport off this rock?” Another man shouted.

Snowstorm turned to see who yelled, it was Flint, otherwise known as John Ramirez. His sleek black hair, and beret were unmistakable.

“Beats me, John. My GPS has no signal on it from this high,” Snowstorm said softly.

“Let’s check the chopper’s transponder,” Ramirez said.

“Here it is,” Snowstorm said softly, as he held out a small transponder locator reader.

“The transponder says its close,” Ramirez said with a smile.

“Thank god, we’ve been waiting fifty cold hours,” Snowstorm remarked.

“I thought you liked the cold?” Flint replied.

“Very funny,” he said raising his eyesight from his comrade to a noise coming from the hills behind them. “What do you think that noise is?”

“Big-foot,” Ramirez replied.

“No seriously, it sounds like heavy machines,” he said. As he tried to adjust his vision of the surrounding area, he saw it coming from behind the overpass but couldn’t recognize what is was. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his shirt pocket, and looked in shock, to read the labels marking the approaching vehicles simply in one phrase, he released from his icy lips, "Cobra...."