It was very early in the "War Room" as it was now being called, however the small room of computer banks and illuminated maps was fairly busy with activity for such an early hour. It was very quiet, with little speech, but rustling papers, tapping keys and flipping photographs permeated the air, giving it the atmosphere of dramatic urgency. Dial Tone carefully monitored the communications channels, making sure everything was still kosher with the upper brass lingering a few levels above their heads. They hadn’t exactly been kicked out of the War Room, but he was certain that if The Jugglers stumbled on to what was going on that they would be in trouble. It was an oversight he was sure, but the Joes were on borrowed time, and they needed all they could squeeze. Just to his right, along the slender metal counter, computer specialist Mainframe and electronics expert Blackout were frantically going through stacks of radar images. They had been secretly taken from the archives buried many feet below the surface in the underground labyrinth of tunnels and halls that made up the Top Secret branches of The Pentagon. Just another mild felony that if the Joes were caught they could be hung for. At the luminescent map half the room away, General Hawk, Duke and Falcon triangulated positions and studied data, trying to figure out the best possible course of action should action need to be taken. Hawk’s brow was furrowed, his eyes squinting. In his heart, he was doubtful that he could get anything authorized, but he wasn’t taking any chances, especially where Cobra was concerned. The small island hung there in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico mocking them, a light green grid spread out over it with coordinates displayed evenly across the map. Hawk studied the area, keyed in a suggested path of attack, which brought up a blinking green arrow leading across the gulf to the North shore of Cobra Island.

"Too frontal," Duke said simply. "They could spot us a mile away…we’d be toast before we hit land." He cracked his neck to one side and sighed. Their necessary rush to complete planning before they were robbed of the facilities had stolen much needed sleep from the upper echelon members of GI Joe.

"Agreed," replied Hawk, looking pensive. "But, that’s the point."

"Excuse me?" Duke looked at Hawk with question in his eyes.

"Just free associating, Sergeant…don’t mind me." He lowered his blonde hared head back to the map and squinted at it. Duke was pretty sure he caught a little familiar glimmer in his superior officer’s eyes.

"Got a plan, General?" he asked, a slight grin curling his lips. He planted his elbows on the edge of the map table and stared at his commanding officer.

"Remember, Duke," Hawk replied, returning the smile, "we’re not on this mission." He lowered his head again and Duke chuckled softly. Falcon witnessed the exchange and smiled himself as he studied the map table in front of him. Hawk groaned as he stood, shoving the metal folding chair back softly. It squeaked against the hard surface of the floor. The General was not wearing his familiar leather jacket at this hour in the morning, only an olive drab tank top and his regular camouflage pants. Duke wore his tan shirt and green pants, and Falcon was dressed as always in full forest camo. Hawk walked slowly across the room twisting his neck and trying to unlock some vertebrae.

"Blackout?" he asked, his voice booming across the small room. Blackout almost jumped out of his seat and spun around quickly.

"Yes, sir?" he asked quickly. His silver helmet lay on the floor by his chair, but his red quilted shirt and black pants were on and pressed smooth as usual.

"Any luck on those films?" he asked and gestured over to the photos. A small, silver microfilm viewer sat on a small empty space on the counter, with Mainframe hunched over it. Blackout sat at a computer monitor, his new imaging software fully installed and going to work on a file.

"Not yet, sir…we still have almost a year to go according to the photos." He grimaced, uncomfortable with the bad news he was bringing to Hawk’s attention. "If the Cobras were on that island, they were either in hiding, somehow knew the satellite schedule, or both."

Hawk sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "Continue on, Trooper…good work, so far, Blackout."

"Thank you, sir," he said, beaming with pride. He turned back around and resumed tapping on the computer. Hawk turned away, and started walking back towards the table.

"General Hawk?" the voice was slightly excited and came from behind. Hawk spun, hoping it was Mainframe or Blackout with some new information. It wasn’t, though. It was Dial Tone.

"Yes, Dial Tone?" he asked, walking closer.

"Phone for you, sir…collect from Nevada." He handed over the handset and Hawk scooped it up, confusion on his face.

"Hawk. Go ahead," he said simply.

"General! I thought I’d never get through to you!" The voice was quick and frantic, and only vaguely familiar behind the crackling static.

"Stalker?" Hawk asked, his face contorting into even more confusion. "Aren’t you on Top Secret Duty at Fort—"

"I was, sir. Until about thirty-six hours ago."

"What do you mean, Stalker?" Hawk asked. He had stopped walking and now just sort of paced back and forth, a stern look settling over his face.

"The fort, sir…it was hit."

"Hit? More details, Stalker…define ‘hit’."

All heads turned towards the General as he spoke calmly and evenly over the phone. His tone of voice indicated a far from normal conversation.

"Raided, sir."

Hawk halted all movement, his eyes prying open. "What?" His voice was somewhat louder than he had meant, and all eyes focused even tighter on the General.

"You heard me right, sir. The base got infiltrated and robbed clean of whatever it was they had there," Stalker spoke excitedly, eager to get out the information, which he had deemed of the utmost importance.

"I thought the base was empty? A diversion wasn’t it?" Hawk’s confused look returned, fighting off the stern glare that had been there.

"Well, apparently, the brass pulled a double switch on us. But there definitely was something there, and Cobra’s got it now."

Hawk’s eyes widened with the news. Every muscle in his body stopped; the silence in the small room was deafening. "Say that again, Stalker. I don’t think I heard you right."

"You heard me right, General. The base was raided by Cobra Night-Vipers." Stalker tried to calm himself down, speaking in rough, harsh whispers. "That’s not all sir. They were led by Chrome Dome himself, Destro."

"Are you sure?" The General felt this wave of pressure wash over him suddenly. Like everything was closing in at once. He barely had time to solve one problem when eight more were springing up from nowhere.

"That metal head is pretty tough to forget, Hawk. It was him. And The Baroness. Some other whacko was with them, too. Someone I didn’t recognize."

Hawk finally moved, pacing back and forth, the curled phone cord straining against the pull. His empty hand pressed firmly against the side of his head, which had quite unsurprisingly started to ache. "This just doesn’t make sense," he said slowly.

"Why not, General? This is right up Cobra’s alley."

"Yeah, but why---oh, wait! Stalker, you don’t know, do you?"

"What? Man, cut me some slack, Hawk…I’ve been in the hospital for a couple days."

Hawk drew a breath. "You don’t know? About The President?"

"The President! That’s right…there was some breaking news on that right before the attack came. What happened?"

"He’s dead, Stalker. Assassinated."

There was stunned silence at the other end. Seconds slowly ticked by, until Stalker said the only thing he could think to say. "Oh, man."

"By Cobra."

"What?" Stalker’s eyes grew wide. Thousands of miles away in a hospital bed in Nevada, he stood bolt upright, almost screaming into the phone. "They wouldn’t…how—"

"We’re working on that part, but our mission’s been shelved by the D.O.D."

"Unbelievable." Stalker shook his head in bewilderment. Just when thought he had the D.C. beurocrats figured out, they pulled the rug out from under him.

"Your account of the raid would be helpful. Any idea what they took?" he signaled to Blackout who scooped up a small pad of paper and ran it over, swiftly handing it to the General.

"Man…what did that kid call them?" he asked to himself, putting his hand to his head. "Semi-conductors of some kind I think is what he said. It’s all Greek to me, Hawk."

"Try and remember Stalker," Hawk asked, jotting some notes down on the small pad of paper.

"I’m trying, sir…I’m pretty sure that was it. Semi-Conductors. Kid didn’t even know what they were being used for."

"He sounds pretty smart. Put him on, would you?" Hawk asked hooking his foot around the metal chair and dragging it to him. With a muffled sigh, he sat.

"No can do, Hawk…kid didn’t make it. Some other guys bought it, too." He sat back down, the realization hitting him once more. "I couldn’t do jack for them."

Hawk sighed again. "Don’t beat yourself up, Joe. One thing I’ve learned from the past thirty-six hours is you can’t possibly be everywhere at once."

"Yeah, I know…wait a minute. Did you say ‘thirty-six hours’?"

"Yeah, what about it, Stalker?" Hawk asked, his face curious.

"What time was The President taken out, General? What time exactly?"

"I’m not sure of the exact time, Stalker. In the neighborhood of twenty-one fifteen. Give or take. Why? Give me something to work with here."

"I’m just thinking…that attack was timed pretty near exactly when The President was hit. If that’s what our TV was reporting, anyway."

"Think they’re connected?" The General suddenly became very, very interested.

"Well, Destro was using Night-Vipers, so he’s obviously not out on his own again. It’s too much to be a coincidence, isn’t it? Two massive Cobra attacks, synchronized almost perfectly, a whole country apart?"

"All right, Stalker, you’ve got me interested. We need you here ASAP. What physical condition are you in?"

"I can walk and fire a weapon, if that’s what you mean."

"I’ll talk to the doctor, and get you medical clearance. When can you be here?"

"There’s an Air Force base ten miles away. Set me up a ride, and I’ll be there as soon as the fighter jock can get me there."

"All right, Stalker," Hawk said, his face a mixture of nervous anticipation and determination. Good job, troop."

"This is bad, isn’t it, Hawk?" Stalker asked just as he hung up the phone.

Hawk sighed and closed his eyes tightly. "Couldn’t be much worse, Stalker. Couldn’t be much worse."

Cobra Commander was livid. Hie eyes flared beneath the waving swath of royal blue hood and his muscles strained underneath the usually baggy cloth. His back was rigid, his fists clenched and his feet stomped loudly on the hard floor as he paced back and forth in the confines of the Meeting Room. His velvet chair was turned over and a half-full glass of wine lay shattered and spilled on the floor, the liquid slowly dripping from the wall like a purple bloodstain.

"How long has he been here?" he demanded, still pacing. Destro stood stock still, his face expressionless under the beryllium. Zartan had left the room mere moments before, after breaking the news to his Commander.

"Hard to say. It would only be an educated—"

"How LONG?" it was a shout now.

"At least twenty-four hours. Quite possibly more." His voice was even and not intimidated by his Commander’s violent outburst.

"How? How was he not detected?" he halted and turned to his second in command, his eyes boring a hole through the steel plated face.

"We are work—"

"Work harder!" he screamed, his eyes now accusing. Destro did not back down. "Who was the victim?" the Commander asked, calming down slightly.

"One of the radar operators for our Night Viper squad. They were on a routine training mission trying to ‘hunt’ Zartan. Apparently Zartan tried to uncover our intruder, but was unable to do so."

"Zartan is not the issue here!" Cobra Commander slammed an angry fist on the oak table. The room was empty except for the two men, and violent tension hang in the air like a thick, early morning fog. "I want Techno-Vipers and Cyber-Vipers combing every inch of that swamp! I want that hole in our radar found and I want it plugged!"

"I’ve already dispatched two teams, Commander. However, I wouldn’t plan on finding any. This man is a sneak-troop plain and simple. All shell casings or traces are likely produced from neutral countries." This little event has plausible deniability written all over it."

Cobra Commander was almost fully calm now and stood still, his face wrinkled into a pensive gaze.

"Should we postpone the final phase, Commander?"

"No. I think this little operation may work to our advantage, believe it or not."

Destro appeared confused. "How so, Commander? This man is most likely American. As soon as he makes his report, the island will be compromised."

"You are a brilliant man and able strategist, Destro." Cobra Commander actually smiled slightly at his comrade. "You are too honorable, though. The specifics of political wrangling escape you."

Destro cocked his head slightly and crossed his arms over his broad, leather-clad chest. "You would be surprised, Commander. Try me."

"This is an election year. I highly doubt that the Vice-President wants anything foul smelling sticking to him this close to November. I doubt he’ll even admit to sending someone in. I have a feeling that whatever happened here tonight is lost and forgotten." His eyes wandered slightly, leaving Destro to only imagine how he could be so certain of this fact.

"Are you willing to risk the entire mission on that assumption, Commander?"

The Commander crossed his arms and leaned against the thick oak table, smiling suddenly. "What was it that John F. Kennedy said, Destro? ‘There are risks and costs to action. But they are far less than the long range risks of comfortable inaction.’ The mission proceeds as planned."

"Understood, Commander."

The trees rustled just slightly, as if only a light breeze was snaking through the leaves. No footsteps were audible, just the light wind tossing tree branches back and forth, meshing right in with the regular jungle noise. But suddenly, there he was, dressed in dark forest camouflage and wearing a black flack vest. A helmet was pulled tightly over his head, leaves assorted over the top of it to mask it with the rest of the jungle. He was barely visible, as if the jungle itself were moving slightly, smoothly and skillfully. Looking around, he dropped down into a low crouch and whipped his large black backpack from his back, resting it on the soft ground in front of him. He let his Uzi machine- gun hang from a leather strap slung over his shoulder and his bare arms adjusted the pack, then plucked off the handset that was set into the top. His eyes scanned the communications device, still half convinced that it wouldn’t work. It was supposed to be directly linked to an orbiting satellite used only for this purpose. Testing the device was but one small part of the elaborate mission he was on here on Cobra Island. With dancing fingers, he keyed in the specific access code, then placed the headset to his ear, listening carefully. As the line buzzed in his ear, he stood slightly from the crouch and circled around the small clearing, making sure that he was alone. This man’s senses were honed from decades of special forces work, and he trusted them implicitly; more than he trusted the fallible technology that so many of the modern day special forces operatives now depended on. He heard no one and nothing, and if he didn’t hear it, it wasn’t there. That was how much he believed in the strength of his own senses. The line clicked in his ear and an unfamiliar voice spoke.

"This is Home Base, go ahead."

The man’s eyes glanced over to the phone with mild annoyance. "Who is this?" he demanded in a low, but harsh whisper.

"Agent Wilkens, troop. Talk to me."

"I’m calling for General Abernathy. If I wanted to talk to a spook, I’d have called Langley directly." His voice was still a whisper, but conveyed his anger perfectly.

"For your information, General Abernathy’s team has been shelved indefinitely. Anything you were going to tell him, you can tell me."

"I don’t think so." He began to hang up the phone, but the agent must have anticipated it and rose his voice.

"Wait!" he shouted, the shrill noise echoing in the jungle.

The crouching man yanked the phone back to his ear. "Listen you little twit! Do you know where I am? Another screech like that, and I could be a dead man."

"Then you would do well to tell me what you have to say." Back in Washington, Agent Wilkens leaned back in his swivel chair, a satisfied look on his face. "Look, soldier…the General is your superior officer, but my organization tells him what to do. By default that makes me your superior officer as well."

"I don’t have time for this," the man hissed. "I’ve almost been spotted once already, and had to take someone out. Before I could hide the body, a whole dang platoon of his buddies showed up, so now the whole island knows I’m here."

"Did you complete the mission?"

"Yeah, I found what you’re looking for, buddy. The SEAL team was taken out, but there may be one of them still alive and held pris—"

"Good job, soldier. Hang tight, and we’ll get you an evac."

"Hang tight? I’m a walking bullseye out here! Give me General Abernathy."

"Negative. After our little conversation here, the satellite will be monitored. You are not to try and contact the General again. He no longer has clearance for material of this sensitive a nature, understood?"

The man shook his head. Washington political crap made him want to puke. "Listen, kid," he said in his still low whisper. "If you don’t want me to call Hawk, then fine, I won’t. But if you want the info I’ve got, it’s gonna take someone with a lot more pull than you!"

"Listen here…"

"No, you listen, punk! I was on hairy ops before you were outta diapers! I’ll be damned if I’m going to take orders from a wet behind the ears kid who got his job because Daddy’s a friend of The President." The man sighed and slammed the headset back into its cradle, imbedded in the top of the pack. "Great, just great," he huffed, pulling the backpack back onto his arced back. He clutched the Uzi and stood, glaring out into the forest. "On my own again as usual." He crouched and darted, melting into the thick trees.

The day had passed, but the room seemed identical. Hawk glanced at his watch impatiently and paced about the small section of the room, just in front of the map table. The same men still inhabited the War Room, although they had come and gone throughout the day for rest and regaining of sanity.

"Waiting for something, General?" Duke asked, noticing Hawk’s frantic movements. Hawk halted for a moment.

"Just waiting for Stalker to show. Should be here soon."

"Did you tell the Joint Chiefs about Stalker’s report?" Falcon asked this time, walking over to join the conversation.

"Yeah. Circumstantial evidence according to them. Not enough to go on. We’re back to square one." The three men turned and hunched back over the map table. Numerous green dashes and red lines spread out over the electronic representation of the Gulf of Mexico, each one hitting the island at a different spot.

"No disrespect intended, General," Falcon said, turning to face his superior officer, "but if we’re on the bench, why bother with this planning session?"

Hawk stood and crossed his arms. "Lieutenant, Cobra is planning something. I have no doubt in my mind about that. We have to be ready at a moment’s notice when they strike. The D.O.D. will learn the error of their ways the hard way, and as usual, we have to be there to pick up the pieces."

"General Hawk!" Dial Tone jumped from his seat and shouted to the General. Hawk turned, nervous about the worried tone in his voice.

"I just intercepted a squawk from the brass hats. They’re sending a tech team down to the War Room to shut us down!"

"What?" Hawk shouted and stormed over to the computer banks. "Of all the—what terrible timing!" He whipped his head over to Mainframe and Blackout. "Please tell me you’ve got something!"

"Nothing yet, sir. We’re down to the last few weeks. If there’s anything here, we’ll find it within the hour," Mainframe was almost pleading.

"We don’t have an hour!" Hawk spun back around just as the door slid open. "Keep working! I’ll delay them," he whispered over to the technological team of GI Joe. Agent Wilkens stormed into the room first, closely followed by numerous men in full camouflage and a scattering of other men in black.

"Play time’s over, General," he said simply. "You won’t be needing usage of this room any more." He cast a look towards the men walking in behind him. "Shut it down boys. All of it."

"Hold on just one minute, Agent!" Hawk shouted stomping up towards the man dressed in the suit.

"You don’t have the authorization to order me to do anything! Stand aside…"

"GI Joe or not I still have two stars on my shoulder, Wilkens! What rank do you have? Or did daddy pull some strings to get you your job?" Hawk was face to face with the Agent now, their breath almost mingling together.

"Arrest this man!" Wilkens shouted to the men behind him. They started to advance.

"You’re going to let this paper-pusher tell you what to do?" Hawk demanded, now turning his attention to the advancing guards. "I am a Brigadier General! I am pulling rank and ordering you all to stand down!" The guards immediately halted.

"No, you fools! You answer to me or no one, understood?" Wilkens turned around and suddenly found himself face to barrel with a pair of automatic weapons. Duke and Falcon stood rigid, machineguns in their hands, confiscated from the two men in the rear.

"I don’t think these guys are arresting anyone, Agent Wilkens," Falcon sneered, the M-16 solid and foreboding in his grasp. The agent practically trembled with rage.

"There will be Court Martials for this!" He spun back to Hawk. "Call off your little p—"

"Uhhh…I hate to interrupt—" the voice came from behind Hawk, and he turned, Wilkens glaring over his shoulder. Mainframe and Blackout stood in front of the computer monitor, unsure looks on their faces.

"What is it, Mainframe?" Hawk asked eagerly and stepped forward. Wilkens attempted to follow.

"Bad idea, secret agent man," Duke said and motioned with his rifle. The man in black halted, but watched intently. Hawk stood in front of the monitor and looked, his arms crossed over his large chest. The satellite photo was loaded on the screen; the date read approximately one week ago. It was near dawn, so the clouds were parting and the light was clear. It was a simple shot, a little bit low on the angle, but it was a clear crisp picture of the central area of Cobra Island. The ravaged buildings that once made up the Cobra Command Headquarters still lay broken and smashed on the dirt. The sand was unmarked, and the island appeared, as it always did, empty.

"I hope there’s more than this," Hawk said, growing slightly perturbed.

"There had better be much more, Abernathy! Or you’ll be seeing Leavenworth from the inside!" Wilkens growled menacingly. Hawk made no motion and appeared to be deaf to the Agent’s threats.

"Well, the angle on the satellite here is lower than usual. There was an orbital malfunction and it drooped a little bit on its rotation. The error was corrected, so this is the only pass it made at this height." Mainframe spoke with simple intelligence, every eye in the room pasted to him. "See here?" he asked, pointing a thin baton to the upper quadrant of the picture. It was a building that looked tiny from space, but loomed far above the rest of the dilapidated edifices. It was the relatively newly built Cobra Citadel. Mainframe pressed a key and the photo zoomed in, the imaging program swiftly compensating and bringing everything back into focus. Now the building was more clearly presented; a tall concrete bunker like structure, the large grinning face of the Cobra engraved flawlessly into its cement hide. There was a tiny square near the top of the building, apparently a window. Mainframe swiftly tapped the key again, and again the photo zoomed even closer, then garbled the screen briefly, adjusted, and faded into clarity. The small square was definitely a window, the new morning sun glimmering gracefully from the glass surface, obscuring any outside view from this distance. Small rivers of cracks and missing chunks of concrete were visible at this distance, but Hawk could still not see the point here.

"What are you getting at, Mainframe?" he asked, leaning in closer. Mainframe smiled and pressed the key one more time. The irritated look on Hawk’s face melted into a satisfied grin. Almost a happy smirk. He might have laughed out loud had so much not been riding on this. The screen showed the window, a shot appearing to be only feet away, sun still glimmering off of the glass. But it was not the glass that interested General Hawk. Just behind the glass a figure was clearly standing, arms crossed, looking over his kingdom. The royal blue uniform, the wide-grinned red snake’s face on the chest; the ever present sash of blue hood dropping just below the chin. It was him. Hawk stood and smiled wider, satisfaction finally setting in.

"Dial Tone," he said simply, "get the Secretary of Defense on the phone please."

"You will do no such thing!" Wilkens shouted and lunged at the communications officer, fists clenched and mouth twisted into a hateful frown. His temper had apparently finally boiled over. Hawk stepped smoothly in the way, and wrapped a large arm around the width of the charging man’s chest, and shifted his weight seamlessly. The Agent sprawled over backward in a clumsy flop and struck the metal floor.

"You assaulted me!" he shouted, unbelieving. His sunglasses hung crooked from one ear, revealing his shocked, bulging eyes. Hawk grinned.

"Wilkens, we have almost ten men in here who saw you try to attack a communications officer. Just stay down and shut up or I’ll be forced to gag you." The men in camouflage couldn’t help but chuckle a little, secretly enjoying seeing this man in black getting pushed around. A mere moment passed and Dial Tone handed the phone to Hawk.

"Secretary of Defense, General," he said, quite pleased with himself for tracking him down so quickly.

"Mr. Secretary…General Abern—of course, sir…of course you know who it is. I just have some tidbits of information I would like to share with you, sir." Hawk walked over and extended a friendly hand to Wilkens, who took it and groaned as he was pulled to his feet.

"I know, sir…you are a very busy man. Yes, sir this is quite important. We have some further evidence of Cobra’s involvement in our little domestic problem. Yes, sir, I’m sure. Got the photograph right here in front of me." Hawk was smiling and walked over to the monitor, smiling even wider once he reached it. "I’m sorry to hear that, sir." Hawk said, sounding sincere. The look on his face told a different story. "Are you sure the Vice President won’t change his mind?" Even though taking the bad news, Hawk’s grin did not fade. "Well, sir…it’s just that I would hate for the press to get wind of this whole thing, you know?" He hesitated for a moment and stopped his walking. "I think the media would have a field day if they knew that the President’s killers were sitting pretty and we did nothing about it. Could be damaging to a presidential campaign, Mr. Secretary." Hawk smirked and began his walk again. "Blackmail? No, sir…that would be illegal. I’m just free-associating. Stating the facts, as unpleasant as they might be." He stopped, the smile broadening, his arms crossing over his chest. "You know, though…a thought does come to mind, sir. If we sent a small force in there…say about forty men? You know, a highly trained special missions group?" His face was now stern and serious, but his voice carried the slightest hint of sarcasm. "Maybe if we sent one in and drove them off the island…you know, that could help someone’s presidential campaign out immensely. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Secretary?" He winced slightly at the obvious rebuttal he was receiving on the other end. Yet, he continued. "I’m sure the Vice President would agree. Should I talk to him?" Hawk drew his head from the phone as the raised voice echoed from the earpiece. "No, sir…I know the Vice President is a busy, busy man. No, we really shouldn’t trouble him with this." He leaned on the bank of computers a pleasing, victorious look drifting over him. "What a great idea, sir. Yes, you really should be commended for coming up with that. I’m glad we had this little chat. Who, sir? Agent Wilkens? Why, yes, sir, he just happens to be here." Hawk smiled broadly and handed the phone to the well-dressed man. "Why, Mr. Wilkens…it’s for you."

"Yes, Mr. Secretary?" Wilkens asked kindly, flashing Hawk a look that would kill lesser men. "I’m not sure if that’s wise, sir…yes, sir. You do, sir." He hung his head slightly with every passing second. "Understood sir. Full reign, yes, sir." He dropped the phone from his ear and chuckled softly to himself. "Well done, General Abernathy. I hope you’re pleased." He walked over to the empty slot and set the phone back in its home. "Maybe you’ll rethink this little strategy when your neck deep in hostile fire on that island you plan on infiltrating. I hope your men succeed, General, because if you fail with the world watching, you might as well kiss your little group good-bye." He hissed the final words and spun quickly on his heels, then in a flash he was gone. Falcon and Duke returned the weapons to their owners, and after promises of no hard feelings, only Joes remained. Wilkens’ little outburst hadn’t dampened Hawk’s mood a bit.

"Blackout?" Hawk asked, turning to the new recruit.

"Yes, sir?" the young man stammered, jumping to his feet.

"Your software, right?" he asked, jamming a finger towards the computer screen.

"Yes, sir," Blackout replied, trying not to sound too proud.

Hawk smiled broadly. "Excellent job, soldier! Glad to have you on the team." Hawk extended his hand and Blackout took it eagerly and shook it.

"Thank you, sir! The pleasure is mine!"

Hawk pulled free and turned towards Dial Tone. "Operation: Mongoose is a go, men! Dial-Tone, you send out the signal…Mainframe, I want you and Blackout to do something for me."

"Whatever you say, sir," Mainframe replied.

"I want you two to scope out the national newspapers…Stalker ran into something funky in Nevada, and I want you guys to check it out."

"All right. What are we looking for?" Mainframe asked.

"Search for army bases…any strange break ins or thefts in the past week. Be thorough…no matter how small or inconsequential it might be, print out a report, all right?"

"You got it, General," Blackout said this time, and he and Mainframe sat down before respective computer screens.

One level below the War Room was a top-secret training area for the use of only the choicest group of soldiers. An indoor multi-purpose training center used to hone the skills of the Secret Service, and various black ops groups that the government didn’t want to have train in the open where they could possibly be sighted. The room was large, but not open, instead divided into numerous smaller rooms, each one with a specific branch of training. The door opened onto the shooting range, simply because that was the room used most often by the men, to improve and sharpen their firing skills. A hallway branched off to the right, which led to the close quarters combat area, one room for weapons training, and another room for hand to hand. A hallway even branched off from that one, and led to various vehicle simulations, from army jeeps to tanks, and airplanes and helicopters. It was truly an all-inclusive training center, and at the moment was being taken over by GI Joe. There was currently only one Joe in the facility, a man of average height and build. Slim, but with the required musculature to make it as a highly trained military operative. He was perhaps slimmer and even more conditioned than many of his teammates by necessity. He was the Light Infantryman; running and being in shape was not just optional, it was a must for his survival. He wore a deep forest green uniform with well placed blotches of black camouflage, creating a convincing forest pattern. He wore a leather harness over his slim chest, although at the moment, it lacked the usual hand grenades and other unpleasantness that would adorn it in combat. The harness crossed over his chest, then wrapped around both thighs, and connected in back, with a thick belt wrapped around the waist and a metal hook for rappelling jutting out just below the belly button. He wasn’t wearing his helmet or usual face paint, but he felt that wearing all of his gear was necessary, because he would be wearing it in actual combat. For now, he let his short cropped dirty blonde hair free, but once he entered the close quarters combat simulator, he would put it back on. For the firing range, he did not find the helmet a necessary addition. He had just arrived, and strolled over to the window on the right side of the room to requisition his weapon of choice, the AR-15, a short, but more than capable version of the popular M-16. It was capable of the same rate of fire and carried the same amount of ammo, but the AR-15 was a more compact weapon, and the soldier was willing to sacrifice a little stopping power for more ease in movement. The man behind the window looked at the soldier’s identification, and supplied him with the weapon and a clip of blanks. The firing range here was, like every other room, a simulation. Blanks were loaded in the gun to simulate the noise and kickback of the weapon, but instead of bullets, the rifle fired an invisible laser, which reacted with what was being shown on the full size view screen some meters away. Sometimes it was a hostage situation, sometimes an all out shootout, or sometimes, simply a shooting range with a bulls eye target two hundred meters away. It changed randomly, or it could be fixed depending on the user’s preference. The light infantryman was feeling frisky today, so he set it to random and placed the butt of the weapon firmly in his shoulder.

"Hit & Run!" the voice shouted from just behind the soldier. He froze, and turned slightly just as a thunderous BANG! Echoed throughout the room.

"You are dead. Please try again," an eerie computer voice said from the end of the room. Hit & Run shook his head and lowered the weapon.

"What’s up, Clutch?" he asked the familiar face who stood in the doorway. As always, the scraggly New Jersey native wore a permanent five o’clock shadow, and his thick black hair was unkempt and slightly messy.

"Me and the boys are going to O’Brien’s, my man! Wanna come?" he asked, jerking his head towards the door. Hit & Run peered around the corner at the two Joes who accompanied him. Leatherneck was just behind him dressed in green khakis and a black shirt with USMC proudly displayed on the chest. A camouflage jacket was tossed haphazardly over his right shoulder, and his mouth smirked underneath his moustache. Gung Ho stood just next to his fellow Marine, his shiny bald head reflecting comically under the bright florescent lights. He wore black khakis similar to Leatherneck’s and a black sweatshirt, which proudly proclaimed ‘Semper Fi’. Hit & Run smirked.

"Aren’t we on call, boys?" he asked, recognizing the name of the popular Irish bar where his teammates were heading.

"Yeah," said Leatherneck, stepping up slightly. "We’re just gonna chug some Yo Joe Cola and shoot some pool. C’mon, man…Clutch knows the owner, he’ll set us up good!"

"Thanks, but no thanks, guys. Bars…aren’t my scene," his voice lowered slightly and he turned back around.

"All right, man, your choice," Clutch said. "More pretty ladies for us!" He laughed at his own joke and the men walked off.

"Only pretty lady you’re going home to is momma, you grease monkey!" Gung-Ho chortled as they vanished slowly down the corridor. Hit & Run chuckled, but not a full laugh. His eyes turned deadly serious as the screen flicked on and two masked men popped into view, a poor innocent looking little girl trapped between them. The infantryman whipped his rifle into firing position and hauled back on the trigger, his grasp keeping the thrashing weapon well under control. A short burst plowed through the first man’s upper chest, and then he shifted and took the second one’s head off. He lowered the weapon and released his breath, satisfied with the result.

"Nice shooting, kid," the gruff whispery voice said behind him, and Hit & Run spun around.

"Man! What is this, ‘scare the guy with the weapon’ day?" Once he saw who stood there, though, he softened. "Beachhead. What’s up, bud?" he extended a hand and the Army Ranger grasped it and shook.

"Just checking up on you. How are you doing, kid?"

Hit & Run dropped the AR-15 against the wall. "Man, Beachhead…I’m over twenty-five now…I’m not a kid anymore." He rested his back against the wall.

"Hey, man…I still remember you as that youngblood assigned to me for his first mission. I remember thinking you were damn good for a new kid." Beachhead smiled, his face exposed with his green knit mask stuffed in his back pocket. He wore his black flack jacket with four spare clips fastened securely on his chest and his green and brown camouflage pants. His green sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

"Thanks," Hit & Run said, lowering his head. "After that, you kinda took me under your wing. That meant a lot to me, man. First time in my life that’s happened."

"Yeah, I know."

"You know? I didn’t think any of the guys knew."

"Hey, most of them don’t. Me, I check up on my boys." He smiled, which was unusual for Beachhead, usually the gruff, take no nonsense Army Ranger. Beachhead had become somewhat of a mentor to Hit & run, who joined the team at the tender age of nineteen. He was somewhat of a father figure to him, although he was not his senior by much more than ten or fifteen years. His gray hair made him appear far older than he was. "You think the guys would’ve asked you to a bar if they’d known about your parents?"

Hit & Run lowered his head, letting the uncomfortable silence sit for a minute. "No, probably not. Old news, though and it’s not a big deal, anyway." He shrugged his shoulders and stood up from the wall.

"Sure it is…hey, what’ve you been doing with your leave time, anyway?" Beachhead could sense the younger man’s uneasiness, and decided to change the subject.

"Not too much, really. Went back home, to Iowa…caught up with some friends. I started racing again." His face lightened up with that last comment.

"What do you race, kid?"

"Motocross mostly. It’s a big deal where I’m from. Probably because it’s the only thing to do in Sioux City."

"You good?"

"Yeah, pretty good. Got best times on the simulator," he said somewhat proudly, gesturing to the other room.

"Great."

"So what have you been doing, Beachhead?"

"Sorry, kid…I’m still working for Uncle Sugar…all ‘need to know’ basis kind of stuff." He slapped a firm hand on Hit & Run’s shoulder, brightening the mood somewhat.

"Hey, I understand."

"What’s say you and me go one on one in the hand to hand room, huh? I could use a tackling dummy."

Hit & Run laughed. "You’re on, old man! Let’s g—" their cheerful outbursts were cut silent by a brisk, shrill buzzing coming from both of their belts. Each man stopped fast and plucked a small square object from the belt and glared at it as the buzzing permeated the air. Their faces turned deadly serious and all laughter stopped.

"This is it," Hit & Run said, looking at his pager.

"This is the real deal, kid. You ready?" Beachhead asked, pulling the knit mask from his back pocket.

"Always." The two men dashed from the room and headed back up one level.