“The snake behind me hisses

What my damage could have been

My blood before me begs me

Open up my heart again.

And I feel this coming over like a storm again.”

                        

                                    -“H.” Tool, 1996

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

Calm Before the Storm

 

 

 

 

The sun was a strange pinkish blob in the orange sky and slowly drifted downwards, casting its pink haze over the rippling gulf water.  Cool air roared through Stalker like one of his grandmother’s hugs; a little fierce, but soothing and comforting.  His mind automatically went back almost thirty years, as it always did when he was in this position, heading towards battle.  Southeast Asia, where he had become a man.  He’d spent many a pink sunset hanging out of a speeding helicopter, only back then it was a Huey, not a Tomahawk as it was now.  The throbbing of the helicopter blades was a familiar sound, one he had lived with for a solid portion of his life.  Like a soft lullaby, calming him before the chaos began.  Him and Snakes…Tommy, Dickie, Ramon.  Wade Collins.  It was a bad time, but Stalker would not have traded it for the world.  Nothing makes friends tighter than impending death.  Death, which had now claimed half of the old squad.  Dickie and Ramon in the rice patties, and Tommy just half a decade ago.  He couldn’t help but feel his brown eyes begin to mist over, and the familiar song floated into his head as if an inspiration.  It was a song many sang back in ‘Nam.  A popular song at the time, and one he and the squad often crooned on the way to the bush.  It helped calm the nerves much like the light tune of the helicopter blades.  Everyone in the squad had sung along, except for Snake Eyes.  Even before the accident, he hadn’t been much of a talker.  Always staring at his sister’s picture, clutching it tight, as if holding on to it would protect him from the atrocities all around.  And it had, until that fateful day.  Stalker’s first experience with ninja skill and mystery, seeing Tommy zipping through the tall grass, actually swerving around tracer fire and deftly avoiding bullets as if they were pesky house flies.  Stalker could barely believe it even as he saw it, but luckily the Huey pilots held it together enough to lay down cover fire and not fly away as Stalker had ordered.  He had never forgiven himself for that order.  If they had listened, he and Wade would be the only ones left.  A life without Snake Eyes, his best friend, his soul brother, was one that Stalker did not want to contemplate.  But Tommy and Snakes made it back to the Huey, Snake Eyes’ wounds giving him his ticket back home, which is where the chaos would really begin.  The Army Ranger looked down at himself sitting in a gunner’s seat behind a mounted M60 Heavy Machine Gun.  He was in the transport hold of the GI Joe Tomahawk, his clammy hands holding on to the weapon like a baby clutches his beloved blanket.  He wore his green and brown tiger stripe fatigues, going with them instead of his black BDUs and knit cap.  The green cammies and beret just fit him better.  They felt like home, and if Snake Eyes couldn’t be here, well he had to do something to remind him of the old days.  His nerves jumped slightly as the darkening sky whipped by outside the large, double bladed helicopter.  It flew close down to the water, skimming the wave tops, trying to stay indistinct.  They had flown up from the south, hoping to hit the southwestern shore, which, if everything was going to plan, should be blocked out from radar.  A leather strap was over his shoulder, a silenced M-16 with starlight scope hanging loosely from it.  He had two leather straps going down his chest, a knife attached to one, and a pair of grenades on the other.  A Colt bolt action .45 was secured in a holster on his thigh and yet another knife was on his boot.  He was “strappin’” as his brother’s friends from Detroit used to say.  Some friends they were…his brother went out with them one night, and ended up in the morgue.  Stalker cursed himself out silently.  His mind was straying way too far into negativity, and he had to calm his nerves somehow.  Quite suddenly, he thought of the perfect way, as Cobra Island still loomed quite in the distance, a great expanse of empty water out before it.  He began to sing.

“There must be some kind of way out of here

said the joker to the thief.

There’s too much confusion

I can’t get no relief

Businessman, they drink my wine

Plow men dig my Earth

None will level on the line

Nobody of it is worth,”

The singing out loud was like a warm, calming breeze washing over him, his mind once again drifting back to Vietnam.  A dangerous land of gunfire, mines and grenades, but a place where lifelong friendships were made, even with those destined to die at such a young age.  He smiled softly, when the voices broke out behind him.

“No reason to get excited

the thief he kindly spoke

There are many here among us

Who feel that life is but a joke

But you and I we’ve been through that

And this is not our fate

So let us not talk falsely now

The hour’s getting late.”

Stalker turned and saw Duke, Recondo and Beachhead singing along, faces solemn, but happy.  Stalker smiled broadly, realizing that the song was universal among vets.  No matter what squad or what capacity, it was a familiar, soothing lullaby.  Stalker joined in and the four of them recited the final verse.

“All along the watchtower

princes kept the view

While all the women came and went

Bare-foot servants too..But

Outside in the cold distance

A wild cat did growl

Two riders were approachin’

And the wind began to howl!”

Ripcord cast a confused look towards Muskrat, who then glanced at Falcon.  The lieutenant smiled, enjoying the sound of the tune, which was being carried surprisingly well with low, gruff voices.  The young men shrugged their shoulders.

“It’s a vet thing,” Falcon said, smirking.  “Might as well let them get it out of their system now.  Who knows what creatures in those woods would think it was a mating call or something!” the three younger men shared a laugh as the four veterans finished the song.

“All along the w—“ A dull thudding broke up the verse, exploding from out of nowhere, orange tracers lighting up the graying sky.  Hunks of tan camouflage Tomahawk hide blasted from the side of the helicopter in bright yellow flashes and little sprays of smoke.  The ‘copter dipped and lunged to one side, all men in the hold clutching onto to anything nailed down for dear life.

“Lift-Ticket!” Duke screamed into the cockpit.  “Sitrep NOW!”

“I am trying to avoid certain death by tracer fire, sir!” the Tomahawk pilot replied sarcastically as the Tomahawk swiftly lunged the other way.

“Where’s it coming from?” Duke asked, standing uncertainly as the Tomahawk lurched to the other side.  He slammed both hands into the walls to steady himself.  Three streaks of red tracer fire roared just by on the other edge of the personnel carrier.

“A Moray hydrofoil…I couldn’t see it coming!  Radar had to be shut off to keep us hidden.”

“How did they know we were here?” Falcon asked Duke, standing as well.  Wind whipped through the cargo hold of the Tomahawk, it being empty on both sides.  There was an M60 on each side with gunner’s seats, although all of the gunners were now standing, deeper inside, to avoid getting tossed out into the surf.

“Don’t know, Lieutenant.  This section of island has been notoriously tough to defend!  Me and the General thought this would be the perfect insert location.” The helicopter jerked as another round pounded into its thick hull.  Lift Ticket quickly corrected and got it straight again, the copter now rising high into the air.  Recondo peered out of the cargo hold and got a clear view of the red ship firing on them.  A lone Eel sat in the turret on top of the red beam that went over the driver’s seat.  The turret was swiveling wildly, the Eel desperately trying to get them back in his sights.

“We gotta wax this sorry case before he blows this insert!” Duke shouted to the pilot.

“Affirmative, Top!  I’m jamming on all freaks, and hoping that I’m not broadcasting our location to the entire island!”

“Blackout should have that covered.”  Duke dropped himself into the co-pilot’s seat next to Lift Ticket, nervous sweat rippling down his prominent cheekbones. 

“I’m taking her in,” Lift Ticket said with determination. 

Duke nodded and turned his head back.  “Everyone hold tight back there!  Anyone who loses their lunch has latrine duty when we get back to base!”

The Tomahawk plunged suddenly downward as the Eel shifted his aim.  It hurtled towards the sea and Duke’s eyes grew wide.

“Lift Ticket, that water snake’s got us right in his crosshairs!”

“Hold on!” Lift Ticket shouted just as the Eel opened fire.  The large transport ‘copter banked right viciously, turning almost sideways in the air.

“Crud!” shouted Beachhead as he was thrown across the hold, towards the precipice.  Stalker threw himself forward and hit his fellow Ranger bluntly, sending them both skidding into the rear of the hold.  Just as they cleared a barrage of tracers ripped through the open space of the hold, tearing apart the gunner’s chairs and M60’s and riddling the small area with deadly lead.

“Hit the floor!” Ripcord shouted, hugging the ground, his fingertips dug tightly into one of the seats that sat against the wall near to the cockpit.  Recondo threw himself backwards, stumbling into the small hallway that led to the cockpit, orange blasts of light whizzing close by his face.  Muskrat stumbled back as well; farther than he had anticipated and toppled out of the hold, the side that was facing up into the air.  He spun awkwardly in midair, his stomach heaving with the sudden and unexpected change in gravity. Hovering there for a moment Muskrat’s eyes grew wide, the choppy ocean beckoning him with thousands of crashing waves. He dropped quickly, but thought fast and wrapped his arms around the base of the M60, holding tightly to avoid the uncomfortable impact with the ocean below.  Falcon remained in his seat, right next to where Ripcord lay, but was far enough back so that the deadly tracer fire did not strike him.  The large helicopter veered off, corrected its axis and plunged again, swerving underneath another volley of large bore turret fire.  Muskrat whipped around, his bare arms still clutching to the gun post, his face twisted in a look of determination.  The wind from the propellers beat down upon the GI Joe swamp fighter, his dirty blonde hair whipping in the wind.  Falcon leapt from his seat and slid across the smooth, now level surface of the hold, sliding swiftly over to the Joe in dark green pants and a sleeveless green shirt, then extended his hand.  Muskrat wrapped his hand around the Lieutenant’s and Falcon quickly dragged him in, just as another rapid succession of tracer rounds tore through the air where he was hanging.

“We’re not done yet!” Lift Ticket’s voice boomed from the cockpit as the Tomahawk veered down and to the left.  The large vehicle circled around in the dim air, just zipping out of the path of the bullets pounding from the twin barrels of the turret, which was already glowing white hot under the strain.  The Eel’s arms throbbed with the repeated pressure of the gun’s recoil, but he still fired, desperately trying to lead the tracers into the approaching helicopter.

“Have you radioed HQ?” he asked the Lamprey pilot, shouting over the deafening reports of the automatic weapon.  His voice trembled almost comically as his whole body shook while the twin barrels spewed forth deadly lead.

“Comm’s down!  I think the storm front is scrambling it!”

“Blast!” the Eel shouted, swiveling quickly and roaring off another volley.  The large transport ‘copter changed directions quite suddenly and banked slightly, then plunged yet again. 

“Who is this crazy pilot?” he asked to no one in particular.  The helicopter seemed to be swerving just for the sake of swerving, but the Eel suddenly realized what the ‘crazy pilot’ was doing. 

“Lamprey!  To port!  To port!  He’s going to use his chin t—“

Lift Ticket grinned almost maniacally inside the cockpit as the Tomahawk hurtled downwards and he unleashed the powerful automatic machine gun mounted on a swivel turret just under the cockpit.  The Eel had been expecting him to head for the hills, but instead he turned and returned fire, peppering the Moray with chin turret gunfire.  With the skill only decades of flying could provide, Lift Ticket lifted the helicopter slowly, walking the path of bullets through the hydrofoil’s engine, then tore the turret and canopy to shreds, sending red shards spinning in all directions, chase by orange and yellow sparks of metal on metal.  The Eel was completely annihilated by the gunfire, but the Lamprey lunged to his left, just avoiding the spray of lead.  The Tomahawk whizzed by and the Lamprey lifted his fist, but suddenly glanced in the cargo hold and saw a camouflaged trooper with a beret behind the handle of an M60, which had been forcibly removed from its mount.  He dove for cover, but too late as the ’60 erupted and the large caliber ammunition took him down where he stood.

“That was cold, Falcon!” Muskrat shouted, standing behind the Lieutenant.

“It’s him or us…he tells his pals what he saw and this op is blown.  I think my actions were more than justified!”

“Chill, LT,” Muskrat snickered, patting the lieutenant on the back.  “Just busting your chops.”

“Lift Ticket?  Duke?” Falcon asked, turning towards the cockpit.

“What is it, troop?” Duke asked, emerging as Falcon approached.  The ride was considerably smoother now, although the shredded cargo hold gave away the fact that all was not normal.

“The night vision gear is in the drink,” he said matter-of-factly.  Change of plans?” Falcon asked, concern on his face.

“Negative, Lieutenant,” Duke said gruffly.  He glanced at his watch and grimaced.  “We now have fifteen until our rendezvous.” He dropped his arm and made a quick mental count of his men.  When he verified that everyone was present and unpunctured, he turned his head to the cockpit.  “Lift Ticket, double time!  We’re behind schedule!” The Tomahawk punched forward, sending the men in back lurching slightly, but they all maintained their footing.

“OK, Joes!” Duke shouted, quite suddenly even more determined than before.  “This mission is still green lit, understand me?”

“Yes sir, Top Sergeant!” the voices barked simultaneously.

“We will reach the drop zone in five.  Let’s lock and load, gentlemen, times a wasting!”

“Yo Joe!” The men shouted and scattered to retrieve the gear that had been strewn throughout the cabin.  The Tomahawk had raised its altitude and hummed over the green treetops that saturated the southeastern coast.  A clearing came into view, just on the edge of the water, and the cargo door swung open, revealing the seven men, standing proud, the air whipped about by the helicopter blades throwing their hair around, and ripping at their cloth uniforms.  Mission Leader Duke stood, his short blonde hair unmoved.  He wore a tan shirt and his green khaki pants, a pistol secured to one leg.  He sneered at the tall grass below as it flattened out in little circles under the punishing winds of the Tomahawk’s propellers.  A submachine gun was strapped over his left shoulder, and he grimaced, and then jumped to the grass below.  Ripcord was next, dressed as usual in full camouflage, trimmed dark for deep forest combat.  He wore a black helmet that covered his bright red hair over his rounded face.  He held a larger machine gun in his hands, the magazine and barrel almost a full foot longer than the sergeants.  With a low grunt, he dropped next, revealing Recondo just behind him.  The Joe jungle trooper was clad in his typical tan shirt and camouflage pants.  A pistol was holstered to his chest, and he frowned just underneath his thick brown moustache.  The wind roared through his boonie cap, which was tied up on one hand, and he held it down firmly.  A shotgun was cradled in the crook of his arm, attached to a strap the held his backpack securely to him.  He jumped and Beachhead walked to the opening.  The Tomahawk shook as Lift Ticket tried to hold it as steady as possible, but Beachhead skillfully held his balance.  He wore his green knit ski mask and shirt, covered by a black flack jacket with ammo clips jammed into the chest pouches.  His legs were clad in dark brown and green camouflage, which blended in perfectly as he hit the tall grass and rolled, keeping low.  His machine gun bounced against his back as he landed, but the leather strap held it fast.  Muskrat jumped next, pulling out his boonie cap from a pouch in his pants and pulling it taught over his dirty blonde hair.  Falcon hit ground next and dashed to the treeline where the others were already setting up perimeter watch.  The night was settling onto the island and light was quickly fading, which only served to help the men.  Stalker was the last to leap, landing gracefully, his M-16 held tight.  Just as he left the hold, Duke shone a penlight twice into the cockpit of the transport helicopter and Lift Ticket brought the tan aircraft up and away.  Within minutes it had vanished from sight and soon later could no longer be heard either.  Stalker shifted his aim as he approached the trees, scanning the area carefully to make sure they were not being followed or pursued.  He hit the trees silently and rejoined the other six men.  Duke signaled for them to come in close.

“From here on,” he whispered, “silent signals.  We’re meeting our tour guide in seven, one klick due east.  He’s been keeping tabs for a while, but if we’re late, he skips town.  Understood?”

The men all nodded, strange looks on their faces.  They looked at each other as they continued through the bush, all faces asking the same question.  Tour guide?  Beachhead lit out first, Recondo on his heels.  Muskrat, Falcon and Duke followed, with Stalker and Ripcord pulling up the rear.  They moved like silent wraiths through the jungle; noiseless and motionless, almost like energy rippling through the branches with no corporeal form.  The night had now fully settled and darkness shrouded them like a mother’s loving arms.

 

 

 

“Tele-Viper?  Any more word?” Destro asked, visibly annoyed.

“Still no word from the ASP squad, sir.  I do not have a good feeling.  We have dispatched a group of HISS tanks and the Eels have set up an ambush on the eastern shore.  We are prepared.”

“Has Cobra Commander been informed?”

“No, sir.” The Tele-Viper turned slightly, but thought better of it and spun back forward.  Destro became pensive for a moment.

“We have no choice, Tele-Viper.  I’ll inform the Commander, put the base on full alert.  Pull troops from all positions to set up a front line between the eastern shore and the citadel.  Understood?”

“Yes, Destro.  What about the southwest?  Still no radar coverage.”

“Wait for a short time, then scramble a mixed team to the woods, just to be safe.  First priority is a frontal assault.”

“Yes, sir.”

Destro turned and scowled at the command center before him.  Snakebite was milling around on the other side of the large round room.  Cobra Commander was in his quarters and the others were all returning from the rally.  He sighed as the numerous lights on the walls and ceilings flickered, and then changed from white light to a clear, disturbing red hue.  Loudspeakers exploded to life informing the population of impending danger and ordering everyone to report to their squad leaders.  The time had come, Destro was sure.  Of another thing he was sure; the time had come far too soon.  He spun on his heels and stormed off towards the officer’s quarters, his red cape fluttering along the smooth floor behind him.  Cobra Commander came roaring from the hallway, his two Immortals barely on his heels.

“Destro!  What is the meaning of this?” he screamed, his hood wrinkled and swaying.  Destro approached his leader and placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Come, Commander,” he said, motioning to the meeting room.  “Let’s not get everyone in an uproar, shall we?” It was too late for that, though.  Red light still saturated the command center and all surrounding areas.  Vipers of all sorts, colors, and types dashed in all directions, many heading for the motor pool, some running to the armory and still others heading far below the island, rushing towards the hidden watercraft stowed inside.  Sirens wailed their piercing mating call, beckoning all into action.

Destro and the Commander each sat at one of the chairs, as the door slid shut and the Seigies remained outside.

“Destro!  This is intolerable!” Cobra Commander shouted, standing back up.

“Please compose yourself!” Destro replied.

“I am among the last to know of an attack on my own island, and you tell me to compose myself?  How dare you!”

“I admit I was wrong, Commander.  I thought it was an isolated problem.  Evidently it is not.  I apologize.  Steps are being taken to assure that if it is an attack, they will not make it past the three mile limit.” Destro’s voice was stern, yet calming.  A deep baritone boom, a light Scottish twinge floating in his speech as it always did when he was enraged.

 Cobra Commander sat back down.  “Close…so close,” he muttered, already sounding defeated.  “We projected thirty-six hours for a coordinated attack!  How could the United States government move so quickly?”

“They got lucky, Commander, that is all.  Remember, we have the upper hand here.  Against HISS tanks, Stingers, Rattlers and Morays, conventional U.S. armament is less than nothing.”

“But we have shipped most of our weapons to the Amazo—“

“No matter, Commander!  If we didn’t see this attack coming, it has to be small in scale.  As soon as they hit land, they will be vaporized.  Have some faith in your troops, Commander.  Have some faith in me.”

Cobra Commander seemed to stiffen immediately, as if realization was sinking in.  “Yes…of course.  We have the upper hand.  We can still win the day!” He stood proudly, his hood shaking with his laughter.  “YES!  We will hold our ground!  Annihilate the counter attack, then launch our own.  We were going to wait for the perfect time, Destro.  That time is now!” his eyes were glazed over with wild, ambitious fury. He placed his opened palm against the thick oak table.  “Just as we are smashing this pitiful counter attack on the island, America itself will burn!  The combination of these two events will launch us into position…to clutch the United States in our fist…” he lifted his arm, and clenched the blue gloved hand into a tight fist.  “…and crush them!” he screamed the last words, slamming his fist onto the oak table with shocking force.  Destro himself took an uneasy step back.  Cobra Commander drew his head up and around, cocking it strangely to the left.  “This is a blessing in disguise, noble Destro.  Our rule begins today.” He finished the sentence with calm certainty and left the room, the automatic door hissing shut behind him, leaving Destro alone with his thoughts.  Behind the thick beryllium mask, a cocky smile formed.

“Welcome back, Cobra Commander.” He turned and followed his august leader out into the fray.

 

 

 

The thick curtain of night had been drawn closed over the wide window of the sky.  The whole world was now bathed in a certain inky blackness, mushy gray clouds blocking out any trace of the moon or stars.  A deep rumbling shook the heavens and an abrupt flash roared through the clouds, illuminating the churning sea for a brief second.  Had any Cobra troopers been staring out in the sea at that split second, they would have seen a large pointed watercraft slicing cleanly through the slamming surf and rising waves.  A sharp, frigid breeze was tearing through the night, whipping up water and slapping it down against the metal hull of the Landing Craft Tank with violent authority.  There was no rain falling yet, but it would…and soon.  A lone figure stood perched at the bow of the ship, his knees buckled slightly, and his back hunched.  He lowered the night vision goggles from his eyes, letting them adjust to the dim light of early nighttime.  They were well-trained eyes and soon after they were exposed, the shore of the island began to blur into vague recognition.  The man was dressed for a night operation, wearing a dark brown flack vest with an ammo belt running form shoulder to hip.  The jacket underneath was a deep, dark gray, which matched the thick, wrinkled pants he wore as well.  A matching gray helmet was pulled tightly over his red/brown hair, with small patches of darker gray camouflage spattered about it.  Clutched tightly in his fists was an obscenely large assault rifle, a large round barrel at the end and a jagged, sharp bayonet jutting out just below.  A leather strap dangled from it and brushed against the soldier’s tensed muscles of his large legs.  His heart pounded a steady, determined rhythm, as it always did just before battle.  This man was the point man.  First man to hit the beach, enter the jungle or burst through a door.  He was Spearhead, and that was his job.  He often wondered why he was chosen for this unenviable duty, but before self-pity moved too far, he told himself that he actually enjoyed it.  There was nothing like the thrill of battle, bullets whizzing by your head as you were the first man to hit enemy territory, clearing a path for the men to follow.  His job was vital to the team, and Spearhead would have it no other way.  This troopers other capacity was that of an animal trainer for the team.  He often brought along his trained bobcat, Max to use as an early warning system.  He and Max had a good rapport together.  Max would sniff out the bad guys and Spearhead would take them out.  Max was getting old, though; this op was going to be hairy and Spearhead knew it.  He had left his orange companion at home, and now, as the jagged rocks and the muddy shore of the island rushed closer, the point man knew he had made the right decision.  He glanced back at the L.C.T. behind him, and could barely make out the bundle of troops and armament crammed into a tight space.  Everyone was still and silent, all lights blacked out along the large, narrow ship.  He could vaguely make out the long barrel of the Mauler, and the round cannon atop the AWE Striker.  The missile racks on the Wolverine were pointed up into the air and he could make those out rather clearly as well.  The troops themselves were another story, as they were all huddled around the vehicles, crouched and silent, almost willing themselves to be invisible.  Spearhead turned back around just as the L.C.T. bore down on the eastern shore.  With a series of muffled crunches, the bow of the large boat slammed into the shoreline, digging a ragged trench through the soft muddy beach and smashing numerous rocks and pebbles under the thick hull.  The boat lurched with the sudden halt in momentum, but Spearhead kept his balance, his fingers twitching with anticipation against the cold steel of his assault rifle.  His muscles tensed as the L.C.T. came to a shuddering halt against the rigid shoreline.  The craft finally came to a rest and Spearhead went into action, throwing himself gracefully from the bow of the ship.  He hit the beach in a low crouch, his combat boots sinking into the mucky beach sand.  There were no white, sandy beaches here, only rocks and mud…no umbrellas, crystal clear waters or beachfront resorts.  Only gun emplacements, lumpy dunes and terrorists.  Spearhead squinted at the misformed sand dunes in front of him; they blocked the beach from the wet grass beyond, but seemed to be uninhabited.  Spearhead had expected resistance.  Torpedo and Topside hadn’t been quiet about wiping out the ASP emplacements, so he knew Cobra knew that an attack was coming.

So where is everyone? Spearhead thought to himself.  He waved the large rifle in a slight arc in front of him, covering the entire vacant beach on which he had landed.  A cool stream of liquid suddenly slid down the back of his neck.  He wondered if it was sweat or the first lone raindrop, testing the waters for it’s numerous brothers.  The similarity between him and the raindrop was too obvious to miss and he cast an eye slightly upward to see if the storm had begun.  He only saw the muzzle flash out of the corner of his eye, and the silenced shot was like a whisper in the cool night.  He tensed, but could do nothing as the shot plowed into his chest, sending the ammo belt scattering apart and dropping to the wet sand below.  Spearhead was thrown backwards with the force of the shot, his eyes wide and confused, pain roaring through every fiber of his being.  He looked in confusion at the dunes ahead, realizing that the shot had come from the dune itself.  No wonder there were no troops on the beach or the dunes…they were inside them.

“Man down!  Man down!” the voices echoed as his back bounced roughly against the beach sand, splattering dirty mud all around.  Boots struck the beach all around him as the Joes departed from the boat and began the Cobra Island assault.  Hit & Run was the first to drop to the ground, his small AR-15 gripped in his green camouflaged fists.  He brought the weapon to his eye and rattled off a quick barrage towards the dunes.  Outback followed close behind in a dark gray t-shirt and equally dark khaki pants.  He held a small submachine gun in his hands as well and immediately sprayed the dunes with small arms fire.  With a shout, a large group of Eels blasted from the dunes, their gray, black and red uniforms barely visible in the dim light.  Half of them carried silenced machine guns, the other half large bore assault rifles, and each group began opening fire as soon as they escaped their sandy bunkers.  Hit & Run and Outback hit the dirt as gunfire tore towards them, peppering the thick hull of the L.C.T. behind them.  Bullets twanged and pounded off the metal hide of the ship, keeping the rest of the troops inside.  Hit & Run made a quick count of twelve, and Outback confirmed that.  The two men looked over at Spearhead who lay prone, his brown vest now soaking with dark crimson.  They hugged the wet ground, bullets whipping just above their heads and slapping into the thick beach around them.  Hit & Run brought his AR-15 around, squinting through the two sights perched on top of the weapon.  The vague shadow of a standing figure filled the triangular sight picture and he hauled back on the trigger, keeping the throttling weapon under tight control as he riddled the figure with 5.56-millimeter gunfire.  Outback rolled to his left and sprang up on one knee as his cover was annihilated by gunfire, and returned the favor by dropping two Eels with a sporadic, but well aimed burst.  Suddenly a figure dropped down to the muck next to the Joes, and was greeted by a blast, but it was off the mark.

“Lifeline!” shouted Bullhorn, who was perched on the bow just above.  “This is a free fire zone!”

Lifeline crouched down next to the fallen Joe.  “I’ll remember that when you’re bleeding in the sand, Bullhorn!” the medic replied, ducking down as gunfire ricocheted off of the skin of the L.C.T.  Bullhorn shouted something incoherent and rose up, drawing the fire.  A long, slender German made machine gun was tucked firmly under his arm, the long scope pressed to his open eye.  Bullets collided with the boat and hurtled past the Joe, but his brown camouflage face remained unfazed as he roared off a well-directed path of cover fire.  Two more Eels were thrown carelessly to the wet ground, and the return fire slowed dramatically.  Bullhorn dropped down as gunfire pounded the bow of the boat and tore up the metal rail where he had just been standing.

“They’re keeping us pinned!” Bullhorn shouted.  “Just keeping us here until reinforcements show up.”

“Then we need to end this pronto!” Gung Ho said, coming up from the cockpit in a low crouch.

“You’re the team leader, Gung Ho.  What do you say?” asked Zap, his bazooka cradled in his arm.

“I say you better be saving that for the heavy stuff,” Gung Ho said, motioning to the rocket launcher.  More gunfire blasted from the darkness, returned by frantic fire from the Joes on the beach.

“We got men pinned down out there!” Bullhorn shouted.

“Relax, mon ami…” Gung Ho said with certainty.  “He’ll take care of it,” he motioned to the man who followed the Marine, also in a low crouch.  His hat was pulled tight over his black hair, and his round face was twisted in a scowl of anger.  Bullhorn and Zap smiled.  The Joe stood and confidently strode to the front of the boat, seemingly undisturbed by the return fire.  Standing confidently at the bow, he lifted his large stedi-cam machine gun, which was attached firmly to his hip by a mechanical contraption.  His fingers flexed around the angular handle as his other hand wrapped around the second handle, about halfway up the long gun’s magazine.  Sparks flew as small caliber arms fire rained down at the Army Ranger who stood there.  A smile flashed over his round face as he yanked back the trigger, unloading a deafening blast of large bore fire.  Yellow sparks erupted in an immense blast of flame as the weapon roared with the anger felt by its operator.  Large bullets ripped through the ground and pounded the group of Eels, who were crouched by the dunes.  Five of them jerked and were thrown to the ground, and the remaining two stood suddenly and ran, barely escaping the fury of the heavy machine gun.

“Nice shooting, Repeater!” Zap shouted, pounding his comrade on the shoulder, which was padded by a thick bulletproof vest, light green in color.  It blended fairly well with the tan and brown camo scheme on the rest of the uniform.

“Like shooting ducks in a barrel,” the machine gunner said, smiling.

“Congratulations can wait!  Lifeline!” Gung Ho shouted, leaning over the edge.  “How’s Spearhead?”

Lifeline looked up as he finished dressing the wound.  “Bullet was armor piercing.  Could have been a lot worse though.  He’s breathing, anyway.”

“That’s good enough for me.  Can he hold out until we can get transport to the Flagg?”

“I think so, yes.  I will have to monitor his condition.”

“All right.  Hit & Run, Outback!  You guys and Lifeline rig up a stretcher for our boy.  The rest of you maggots!” he shouted, turning to the other Joes still in the L.C.T.  “Let’s get this stuff unloaded!  Move it!  Move it!” his face was beet red and his mouth formed into a snarl under his thick brown moustache.

“Yes, sir!” the return shout cried and the Joes sprang into action.  The first main conflict had been a small one, but the beach was theirs and the campaign was starting on a good note.

 

 

The two Eels ran swiftly through the wet grass, their breath coming in hurried gasps, and legs pumping furiously.

“Eel Nine!” shouted the Eel who was lagging slightly behind.  The lead Eel slowed and turned to face the other.

“Yes, sir?” he asked Eel One, the squad leader for the first group of Eels.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, motioning back to the beach.  “We agreed on a coordinated ambush!  You fired early and blew the whole plan!” he got in his subordinate’s face, his breath hot and distasteful against the other man’s face.

“I had him in my sights!” Nine shouted angrily.

“Your desire to get a kill got ten men taken out!  You had NO right to fire early!” he jabbed a finger into the Nine’s chest.  Number One stormed off ahead.  “The Commander will punish you for this,” he hissed as he passed.

“And who’s going to tell him, Eel One?” Eel Nine asked.  Number One turned as Eel Nine presented a nine-millimeter automatic.  The squad leader’s eyes grew wide as the pistol erupted point blank into his forehead.  Eel Nine chuckled and ran off towards the Citadel.

 

 

The jungle was nearly silent underneath the moist air, the only noises made by insects and small wildlife.  Recondo pushed aside a thin branch and ducked underneath another as he led the group on a winding path through the thick brush.  They had been walking for almost half an hour, and still had no sign of the person they were supposed to meet.  Recondo flashed a silent signal, which got passed down the line to Falcon, Duke, Beachhead, Muskrat, Ripcord and Stalker, who was bringing up the rear.  Each man stopped and crouched low, taking a few minutes to be quiet and scan the area to make sure there was no one following.  Stalker twisted his head left and right, and lifted his arm to peel back a black glove and check the time.  Suddenly a hand clamped over his mouth and pulled tight, the other hand forcing his dark arm back down.  Stalker felt his head being turned around until he was face to face with a man he had never seen.  A deadly serious, mustached man, his face shrouded in camouflage paint, a Fritz helmet pulled over his head, covered by masking foliage.  He removed a hand from Stalker’s arm and placed a single finger to his tight lips, signaling silence.  Slowly, his other hand drew back from Stalker’s confused face and changed into an index finger directing his vision into the jungle, not ten feet away.  The Army Ranger turned and looked in that direction, and could just barely make out the shadows of a small team of Night-Vipers slithering through the jungle like the snakes that they were.  He tapped Ripcord on the shoulder, who had heard none of this, then directed him to the group, telling him to pass the message on.  It went on down the line and everyone stayed stock still in a low crouch, just waiting for the men to pass on by.  The ten minutes seemed like an eternity but the Night-Vipers continued their patrol and the Joes stood again, huddling in a small group.

“We’re clear,” the man in the moustache said to the confused group.  “They’ve beefed up security in the past hour.  We’ve got to be careful,” he said simply and very softly.  He began to walk, brushing past the Joes, but Duke wrapped a firm grip around his shoulder.

“Hey, bucko,” he whispered.  “Before we follow you through the gates of hell, you want to tell us who you are?” The man turned slightly.

“I’m a Joe and I’ve been living off bugs and leaves for over a week here.  That’s all you have to know.” The man continued to walk, almost becoming invisible against the green and brown surroundings.  He wore a dark vest over camouflage fatigues.  A simple enough uniform, but very effective for its purpose.  Duke shook his head and quickened his pace to catch up.

“In case no one informed you, pal, I’m the Top for this little operation.”

“I know who you are, Duke,” the man said quietly as they walked, flanked single file by the other six Joes.  “I’ve been living in this stinkhole for too long.  Got dropped off here before this whole thing got really messy.  I know this jungle by now.  Want to get to the snakes alive, I’m in the lead.”

Duke scowled, but remembered Hawk’s orders.  Whatever this man said, take as fact.  He knew his stuff and was super qualified.  Duke wasn’t too sure about this guy, but he was sure about his Commanding Officer.  If Hawk had this much faith in this guy, then that was good enough for him.

“You want it, you got it, Joe.  Wanna at least give me a name?” Duke asked quietly, walking up just behind the mystery man.

“You can call me Claymore, Sergeant.  That’s all you need to know.”

Duke nodded and fell into line behind the mysterious trooper.  A few more minutes passed and Claymore flashed a silent signal ordering everyone to halt.  He pointed to Duke and waved him forward.  Duke followed and found himself at the end of the thick jungle.  Just ahead, two large structures sat.  At one point they were hangers on the Cobra Airfield, but now they were dilapidated husks, more holes than surface, all broken down and pretty much useless.  The cracked and smashed runway ran along behind the hangers, and Duke could make out a one-time control tower that loomed over the other buildings.  The tower was cracked in half and toppled over, but the half that was standing still stood tall and proud, even at half height.  The glass windows were shattered out and sprinkled the ground, but the lower half of the tower seemed intact and solid.  The perfect spot for cover.  Duke signaled to Falcon who trotted up to join them.

“You were down here during the Cobra Civil War, Lieutenant.  Any advice?” he asked, jerking his head towards the airfield.

“Yeah.  The control tower is a great recon spot.  Even at half height, we should be able to get a good glance of the island and troop placement.”  Low gunfire echoed over the cool air of the island, coming from the eastern shoreline.  Falcon and Duke exchanged glances.  It had begun.

“Orders, Top?” Claymore asked, shifting his Uzi to his firing hand.

“You’re the lead, Claymore,” Duke said smugly.

“Only in the jungle, Top.  We’re in your land now.” He didn’t smile at Duke’s little attempt at humor.

“All right.  You know the guard’s routine…what’s our timeline, trooper?” he asked the grim man in camouflage.  The mustached man glanced at his watch quickly.

“Under normal security parameters, we’d have about twenty minutes before the next pass.”

Duke squinted at the ruined hangers not twenty feet away.  There was a pair of them at the end of the runway, and the control tower was about a hundred yards beyond that.  Making it to the hangers was not a problem.  But the path to the tower was relatively long and open.  Not much cover. 

“What have you observed tonight?” Duke asked in a low whisper.

“Well, the security teams have all been doubled.  Safe to assume their routes are altered as well.  Still, even with double coverage, we should have about ten minutes.”

“Plenty of time,” Duke said.  The moon was peeking out from behind the rolling clouds and the airfield was temporally illuminated.  “Claymore, you’ve got the lead.  Everyone else, fall in behind us,” Duke continued, gesturing towards the other Joes.  “Silent signals until we’ve taken the tower, understood?”

The remaining team members nodded affirmative and tensed their muscles for movement.  Duke held up a hand, kept it still for a few moments, then jabbed it forward briskly, and Claymore darted for the hanger.  The sergeant followed close behind with each other Joe hot on his heels.  The slowed to a shuffle once they reached the hangers and moved swiftly, but silently, their feet brushing past each other and carrying them along at an angle facing the southern treeline.  The hanger behind them was nothing more than a shell.  The foundation was present and by some miracle a majority of the roof was held on by thin shards of wall, but a large portion of the surrounding walls were jagged chunks, and not solid.  There was a good deal more empty space then wall, which worked well for visibility but was not good if they needed cover.  Claymore approached the end of the hanger, and then stopped suddenly, holding a halt sign up with his right hand.  Duke cast him a confused glance, but stopped as well, and each man came to a rest in line.  The First Sergeant studied the man in front of him who remained standing completely still and unmoving, almost like an amazingly well crafted statue of a modern day soldier.  His muscles were all tensed, but stayed still, and his eyes squinted almost shut as if he was willing his vision to pierce through the thick blackness of night.  Duke’s heart raced in his chest as his eyes darted around, searching for the source of this strange man’s worried appearance.  He saw none.  A thin bead of sweat formed from nowhere on Claymore’s temple, just under his helmet, then melted into a more liquid form and rippled down his solid jawbone, then clung to his chin as if holding for dear life.  Its hold was not strong and it plummeted and spattered like a tiny salty raindrop on the grassy ground below.  His body did not move.  Duke’s eyes focused and re-focused as he stood there, the seconds ticking by like hours.  Time had frozen still except for his heart, which continued its frantic marathon just underneath his skin.  His vision became well accustomed to the dark surroundings even as the moon crawled back underneath its cloudy blanket.  Had he not been focusing so intently on the surrounding areas, he would not have noticed them.  They were hanging there, suspended in the air as if my magical force, and were clearly what had Claymore so concerned.  Duke stood at just the right angle to see them clearly and cleanly…they were dimly translucent and arrow-straight.  They pierced the air, and yet were held there as if wrapped up in the very air’s warm embrace.  The low brightness appeared from nowhere, just beginning from about ten feet from the treeline, and stopping when it struck the wall of the hanger, leaving an ever so tiny red mark…the mark a career soldier and long time military person learned to recognize and even fear.  There wasn’t only one, but a small group of them…eight or nine, Duke wasn’t sure, but they were there and it was bad news.  He could not tell where they originated from, but he could clearly see where they ended, only mere feet from the front of the line.  And they were moving.  There was someone in the trees, Duke finally realized.  Someone…with laser sights.

 

 

 

“Status report, Tele-Viper!” Destro shouted as he stormed towards the radar screen.  His more regal uniform had been traded in for his normal black leather and silver mask, with no cape, gold trim or extravagant sword.  He was adjusting the launcher on his right wrist and scowled underneath the metal mask.

“The Eel ambush failed miserably, Lord Destro,” he said quickly.  “We have one survivor who reported in, but he reports heavy fire on the beach.”

“Blast!”

“We dispatched a small group of three HISS Tanks to counter, but have not heard a status report.”

“Very well.  Follow up that group with another armored column.  I want ten HISSes, five Stingers and some Ferrets.  We must nip this in the bud before it escalates!”

“Might I suggest an air strike, sir?”

“Our Air Force is still severely depleted, Tele-Viper…let’s leave that as a trump card, shall we?”

“As you wish.”

“With that armored column send in a small recon team…Night-Vipers.  I want to know who we’re dealing with here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Destro hunched over and glared at the radar.  Hot spots were blinking in a bright green blob.  “Anything from the southwest yet?”

“Negative.  The Techno-Vipers found nothing wrong with the radar.  It is now functioning normally.”

“Scramble that team of mixed Vipers.  I want two Vipers, a HEAT Viper, two Frag Vipers and an Incinerator.”

“Already done, sir.  They are dispatching through our secret exit at the airfield.”

“Excellent.” Destro stood again and crossed his arms, his mind racing.  As the minutes passed he grew more uncertain of their plan of action, and more certain of whom they were dealing with.  Neither revelation left him the least bit pleased.  However, things were still progressing well, and with any luck twenty-four hours from now, he’d be in the Amazon and the East Coast would be in ruin.  Then the real excitement would begin.

 

 

 

“Our cover is blown!” Claymore shouted emphatically.  “Move move move!” he spun to his right just as sparks danced along the surface of the hanger wall, throwing small chunks of debris into the night air.  The muffled rattles of silenced weapons ripped through the treeline and the other Joes dove for cover.  Claymore threw himself backwards, slipping through a large hole in the side of the hanger and rolling to the floor inside, as bullets peppered the wall where he had been standing.  He brought himself up onto one knee and lifted his Uzi, squinting carefully through the sight picture, and aiming through a gaping hole in the wall just in front of him.  Around him he heard the other Joes following his actions and diving for cover inside the skeletal remains of the airplane hanger.  The man in the moustache hauled back on the trigger, spraying machine gun fire into the trees.  Silence descended, but only for a moment as the other troops reestablished their positions and began return fire.

“Stalker!” Duke demanded and the Army Ranger ran in a low crouch to where his sergeant was ducked down behind minimal cover.  Bullets zipped through the cracks and holes in the walls and skimmed over the man in the beret as he shuffled over the floor.

“Yes, sir?” he asked over the din of gunfire which now surrounded them.  Duke was amazed at how quickly the silent and serene night could be transformed into a blazing, deafening war zone.

“I want you, Beachhead and Recondo to start laying down some cover fire.  The rest of you guys,” he shouted motioning to the other Joes, “are coming with me to the tower.”   More ricochets drove the Joes to the floor as little pieces of hanger wall rained down upon them.  “If we slip through the other side of the hanger and stick to the long grass we should be all right.” The Joes nodded, but waited for further instruction.  “Once we have the tower,” Duke continued, “then we can rain on their parade from there and cover your escape,” he said this last fact motioning to Stalker and the other two.  Claymore slapped another clip into his Uzi and began firing again.  A rather decent collection of spent shell casings was already building up near his right knee.

“Where do you want me, Top?” he asked as he roared nine-millimeter bullets into the trees ahead.

“You’re with us,” he replied.  “I want you to bring up the flank.”

“Yes, sir,” Claymore said, lowering his weapon as he drained another clip.

“What are you boys waiting for?” Stalker screamed, glaring at Recondo and Beachhead.  “Let’s give them some cover fire!”

“Yes, sir!” they replied and spun around to face out into the trees from the sparse cover of the broken down structure.  Duke waved his hand and he and the other Joes took off, swiftly engulfed by the dark night.  Stalker pressed his starlight scope to his open eye, and switched it over to thermal mode, smiling as green, human shaped blobs floated into focus. 

“We’ve got five of ‘em boys!” he shouted as he scanned the trees.  “Look like Night-Vipers.  An extra patrol…bad luck for them.”  He pumped the trigger twice and was satisfied by one of the green blobs jerking, then falling to the mossy forest floor.

“That’s gonna take too long, sir!” Beachhead shouted, grinning menacingly behind his knit mask.  “We don’t want backup coming.” He plucked a grenade from his black vest, which held numerous supplies of extra ammunition for his assault rifle.  Yanking the pin, he stood for a moment, and then hurled the small round object through a hole in the wall, towards the trees beyond.  Gunfire erupted suddenly and Beachhead dropped, the hurling bullets skimming just above.

“Not too smart, Beach,” Recondo said laughing.  “I guess the Rangers aren’t sticklers on intelligence, huh?” he laughed.  He pumped his shotgun to load a shell into the chamber, then lifted it and blasted off a loud shot.

“Watch your mouth, jungle-boy!” Stalker shouted, squeezing off another small burst.  “You’re outnumbered here.”

The grenade went off with a muffled boom and several startled shouts echoed from the forest.  Stalker peered through his sight and frowned.

“Still four left.  You scared ‘em, Beachhead, but that’s all.”

“Dang,” Recondo growled.  “We’re gonna be here all night.  There’s no time for this!” he jumped to his feet and darted off as the gunshots plowed through the wall and ripped apart the air where he was standing.

“Recondo!” Stalker shouted as the man in tan and green camouflage disappeared into the woods just beyond the hangers.

Beachhead shook his head slowly.  “And he called me stupid, huh?” With a huff he ejected the spent clip, slipped one from his vest and slammed it home.  “Anyway, didn’t Recondo go to Ranger school at Benning?” he asked, lifting the assault rifle and firing into the trees.  His words trembled slightly as the kickback from the weapon shook his whole body.  There was now a thick haze in the air from the gun-smoke and steaming shell casings, which littered the floor of the hanger.

“Conserve the ammo, Beachhead,” Stalker said lowly.  “They’ve dug in behind the trees.”

“All right…now where’s our cover?” Beachhead asked, glancing over towards the tower.  “They should be there by now.”

“After all this time in this man’s army, and you haven’t learned yet?  Man, Beachhead, only person you can rely on out here is you.  Your buddies may save your skin, but always be ready to save your own.  Hold up,” he said suddenly.

“What’s up?” Beachhead asked, drawing closer.  Stalker moved his starlight scope slightly.

“We’ve got another one out there.  Joining his buddies behind the trees.” A fifth green blob slipped skillfully through the trees as it approached the group of Night Vipers.  As Stalker watched, the blob moved swiftly and charged in, something in its hand.  “What the—“ Stalker asked as the figure darted towards the others.  The first man stood quickly, but the fifth man’s arm lashed out and dropped him quick.  The splash of blood was a bizarre bright streak in the thermal scope Stalker peered through.  He could make out the object in his hand now as a machete…and whoever this was was good with it.  A second Night Viper jumped to his feet, but was cut down before even fully standing.  As he hit the ground, the mystery man spun and lifted a weapon that had been hanging by his side.  Before the last two Night Vipers could even draw weapons, a pair of shotgun blasts echoed through the jungle and as Stalker looked on, the two Cobra soldiers were thrown viciously back by the shots.  Mere seconds had passed, and the whole team of night fighters had been wiped out.

“Clear!” came the familiar voice from the treeline.

Stalker and Beachhead faced each other and chuckled.

“Recondo!” Stalker shouted, exiting the hanger with Beachhead close behind.  “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“Believe me, Stalker,” Recondo replied, wiping the blade of his machete with the bottom edge of his tan shirt.  “Some of the places I’ve lived make the most nasty jungles look downright civilized.” They all shared a laugh, but Stalker’s face turned serious.

“Let’s head to the tower, boys…things are taking a little too long.” The other two nodded and fell in behind their squad leader in a brisk run towards the half-tower that sat at the north edge of the airfield.  Stalker noticed immediately that the main set of double doors was closed.  He used silent signals to direct Beachhead and Recondo to one side of them, and he quickly moved in and pressed his back firmly against the wall on the other side.  He drew in a breath, lifted his rifle and held up three fingers.  He dropped the fingers to two, then one, and held it, then clenched his fist and pumped it once.  Recondo moved in first, pulling his knee tight into his chest.  He thrust his thick combat boot forward, which collided with the door with a loud thud, sending the double doors flying open.  The GI Joe jungle trooper immediately dropped to one knee, his shotgun firmly grasped, and his eyes stern.  Beachhead and Stalker whipped themselves around into the opening, their weapons trained and ready to open fire.  Duke looked sternly at them as they burst in, and they immediately knew something else had gone wrong.  The whole team was there, all five of them, looking to be in good health.  Only problem was, their hands were tied behind their backs and thick black cloths were stuffed in each one of their mouths.  Stalker’s mouth dropped open to ask if they were all right when the unmistakable cold steel pressed firmly against the side of his neck.  His eyes darted around as Cobra Vipers appeared from all directions, seemingly from out of nowhere.  The last place his eyes wandered was directly to his left where he immediately recognized the holder of the weapon.

“Welcome to Cobra Island, GI Joe,” Zartan hissed through clenched teeth.  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your very long stay.”