CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

Storm Front

 

 

 

A misleading silence had settled over the eastern beach.  The slightest twinge of gun smoke…an acrid, metallic stench…still filled the air, but the echoes of automatic fire and the thunder of artillery shells had faded from the shore.  Not much time had passed, but already a makeshift bivouac had been erected, flanked by two tall metal spotlights, each one bathing the area in a bright glow.  The camp was set up where the mucky sand met the tall grass on a fairly dry spot.  The surrounding area looked like what it was…basically, a war zone.  The Eels had been disposed of, but the smoldering husks of three HISS Tanks were much harder to conceal.  Their position was actually beneficial to the small assault force, as the smashed and burned tank wreckage made for good cover from enemy fire.  Just to the right of the charred barricade, the Wolverine sat at a slight angle, its twin missile launchers still full and gazing longingly into the darkness.  The MBT Mauler was on the other side of the mangled HISS’s; it’s engine and weapons cooling after the heated exchange that had left the three tanks in their present conditions.  One of the small hatches near the front of the tan, streamlined tank was open and Bazooka sat on the front of the machine, glaring down at a deep black streak that ran along the side of the vehicle.  It had only been a glancing shot, but had rocked the tank just the same.  Had Zap not been right in the thick of it with his RPG, Bazooka may have been the first fatality of this particular campaign.  The tank driver held his green helmet on his lap and glanced over at his own portable rocket launcher that lay on the tank next to him.  Once again his mind wandered to the small group of fellow recruits who had joined up with him.  The small group that was now whittled down to him and Airtight.  Before that fateful mission in Benzheen, he had thought himself and all his buddies near invincible.  Sure, Joes had paid the price before then…General Flagg, whom he had never met, but had heard the legends; Mangler, a young kid…too young…died in the desert on his first op.  But this was different.  These were his boys…nothing could happen to them.  It was amazing how one week could change so much.  He hung his head, slowly stroking his thick black moustache.

“’Zooka!” came a shout, just to his right.  He turned and smiled when he saw his buddy looking up at him.

“What’s up, Alpine?” he asked, placing his green helmet firmly back over his dark tussled hair.

“Gung Ho’s starting the briefing…let’s go, m’man!”

Bazooka dropped himself from the tank to the soft ground below, scooping up his rocket launcher by its long, leather strap.  The night was dark and silent.  Eerily silent, especially since only moments before, heavy artillery and machine gunfire had torn the night apart.  Bazooka glanced over at Cover Girl, who remained in her seat.  They were taking turns at the briefing station.  There was no reason to leave them completely unguarded.  The Joe rocket specialist and tank driver walked slowly to where Gung Ho sat, studying the map in front of him with an almost frightening intensity.  Clutch was standing just to his left, glancing over his shoulder, and running a greasy palm over his ever present five o’clock shadow.  Spearhead lay in a makeshift cot at the rear of the hastily constructed structure with Lifeline doting over him.  Hie eyes were open, but they were glassy and unsure of what was happening around them.  Outback and Airtight stood a few feet away, their arms crossed and eyes intent on the Marine as he studied the best course of action.

“All right, boys,” Gung Ho said, without looking up.  “You guys are the first shift.  I’m gonna be short and sweet so you can stand watch and let the others come listen to my little speech.” He finally lifted his head and all present narrowed their gaze on the squad leader.

“Now, I’m not sure how much time we have before the snakes launch another little attack.  They obviously were unprepared for us, but don’t expect the same luxury next time.  We’ve all dealt with Cobra before…they are fast learners.  We dispatched a group of three HISS Tanks, next time, they’ll send thirty.  We must be ready for that.”

“Yes, sir,” the surrounding troops said quietly.

“All right, I just got off the horn with Dial Tone aboard the Whale.  They’ve hit a storm front, which is following them inward.  Things are gonna get windy and wet real fast, so we need to move quick.  This little squall will delay their approach by about an hour, but that does not alter our timetable.”  His eyes were narrow slits and the normally jovial Cajun was now in a serene state of dead-seriousness.  “It is our job to make sure that the beach position is held at all costs.  However, we must also create a wedge through Cobra’s defenses to allow Team Alpha a clear shot at Cobra Command Central.  Things just got a little trickier, but by no means impossible.  We’re GI Joes, gentlemen!  We’re paid to improvise.”

“Yes, sir!” came the enthusiastic, if somewhat muffled reply.

“Now, this is where the satellite photo picked up Cobra Commander.” He jabbed a thick finger at the cluster of dead buildings in the center of Cobra Island.  A large red ‘X’ was marked where the citadel stood.  “Now, gentlemen, there is a lot of land between us and them, but we have mapped a good route, just south of the volcano.” Gung Ho showed a dotted line that passed just under the large landmark almost in the dead center of the island.  “This will give us guaranteed cover to the north, only leaving us three sides to defend.  Theoretically, we’ll be leaving nothing standing behind us, so the west and south will be our only open sides, until we reach the central command area.  Once we reach that area, the two teams will merge and Hawk will assume command.  Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” came the now reflexive reply.

“All right.  We’ve got no time to waste, Joes!  Go relieve the others for briefing.  We move out smartly in fifteen!  Remember, we must put ourselves between the snakes and the beach at all costs.  If Cobra guesses what we’re up to, the whole op is up in smoke.  Everything is in nature’s hands now.”  As if to respond, a low, guttural growl bellowed deep inside the dark cloud cover overhead.  Gung Ho glanced up around the roof of the bivouac and winced as a yellow flash streaked through the sky overhead.  A few small splats of salty rainwater struck him just under the green bandana wrapped tightly around his bald head.  He shook his head slowly, wondering why everything had to go wrong at once. Before he could voice his opinion, the old team had left and Cover Girl, Hit & Run, Zap, Bullhorn and Repeater replaced them, ready to hear the bad news.

 

 

 

The hallway was like a narrow artery running shallow under the dirt and concrete skin of the island, leading directly to the heart of this large, unfeeling beast.  Stalker glanced around at his surroundings, marveling at how well crafted the hallway was.  It was cylindrical in shape; the walls formed by what seemed like poured concrete, and led off into the darkness.  Small, singular light bulbs were placed sporadically along the walls, enough to keep it lit, but not nearly enough to drive away the mysterious shadows and frightening dark figures that danced along the smooth walls.  The eight Joes walked slowly in a small group, surrounded by their captors…Zartan walked calmly at the front of the platoon of Vipers, flanked by three of the Dreadnoks, Buzzer, Ripper, and Torch.  Just behind them, two Vipers strode with confidence, their features undistinguishable underneath the silver plated masks.  Each one looked to be built like a solid brick house, shoulders broad, covered by black flack vests and the unmistakable dark blue uniforms.  Surrounding the Joes was a sampling of Cobra’s forces, the team of mixed Vipers that Destro had dispatched.  The two Frag Vipers stood at each side of the group, their claw-like grenade launchers hung loosely from their backpacks.  Instead, they carried small automatic weapons, thin and slender, with short magazines and no stocks.  A long clip extended from just behind the barrel and each gun was trained on the Joe captives.  Flanking the prisoners was a HEAT Viper on the right, his arm mounted missile launcher loaded and ready.  Even though his face was hidden by the half silver, half yellow facemask, the Joes had a good idea of what was expressed beneath.  His yellow and purple uniform stretched over his large frame, and the missiles rattled lightly against his leather boots as he stomped over the metal floor.  An Incinerator flanked the other side, the dim light reflecting and refracting off of his smooth red faceplate and silver helmet.  He wore the familiar red quilted uniform of the Cobra flamethrower, and had said flamethrower leveled at the men in chains.  Ripcord was first in line, his wrists bound tight by handcuffs, as were all of them.  Beachhead, Muskrat and Falcon were in a small group walking next, followed by Claymore and Recondo.  Duke and Stalker pulled up the rear, striding slowly next to each other.  The Army Ranger leaned over slightly and whispered at his commanding officer.

“What happened, Duke?” he asked.

“I don’t know Stalker,” Duke started, whispering quietly.  “We had taken the tower, and were spreading out to make sure we had control over it.  Suddenly, these goons were everywhere.  Appeared out of nowhere…most likely came out that secret entrance they just led us back down.”

“Do you know how to get us out of h—“ Stalker started to reply.

“Shut up, Joe, or we’ll gag you again!” shouted the HEAT Viper, poking Stalker roughly in the kidneys with the business end of his rocket launcher.  The Ranger stumbled slightly, and Duke grabbed his arm with his cuffed hands and helped him back up.  At the sound, Ripcord turned and glared at the Cobra troops behind him.  Suddenly, the concession halted, Zartan noticing the disturbance.

“Head forward, Joe!” he screamed at Ripcord, grabbing him roughly by the collar.  Zartan’s free hand still clutched the automatic pistol he had been carrying.  The master of disguise cocked his head slightly as he looked at the Joe.  “You look…familiar,” he said slowly.  Ripcord merely stared a hole in him.

“Gor, Zartan!  I remember,” said Buzzer, smiling.  He pushed himself in close, and Zartan relinquished his grasp.  “This is that lad wot impersonated you while the Joes had yeh captured at The Pit!”

Zartan smiled.  “So it is.”  He pressed the barrel of his pistol roughly into the Joe’s nostril.  “Now the tables are turned, yes?”

“Ha!  This here is the fair haired lovesick Joey, whose girlfriend I ran off with!”  Buzzer pointed out, laughing.  “Wot was her name again?” Buzzer asked, poking a finger into Ripcord’s ribs.  “I was so busy kidnapping her, I done forgot.”

“Candy,” Ripcord said through tightly clenched teeth, his eyes narrow and drilling through the blonde Dreadnok’s face.

“Oh yeh!  Candy…how could I forget that?” Buzzer was smiling widely at this Joes obvious discomfort.

“Buzzer…perhaps now is not the ti—“ Zartan said.

“Yeh know wot, Joey?” Buzzer asked in a harsh whisper, bringing his face dangerously close to the Joe captive.  The two Vipers grabbed Ripcord’s cuffed hands and held them firm behind his back.  They seemed to be enjoying this.  “I was there, yeh know…when she bought the farm.”  Buzzer’s face twisted into an obnoxious sneer, and his breath blew unpleasantly into Ripcord’s face.

Veins immediately raised along Ripcord’s neck as he strained to keep himself calm.

“That was a mighty big missile…I bet there weren’t enough left of ‘er to even bury.” He breathed heavily into the Joe HALO Jumper’s face, which was contorted into a scowl of rage.  The veins throbbed just under the skin’s surface, threatening to break free and strangle the Dreadnok themselves.  Ripcord’s breathing was ragged and pounding in his lungs, coming out in harsh, forced gasps, and his eyes were squinted almost to the point of being closed.

“Ripcord…don’t do it, buddy,” Recondo said, trying to calm the young man down.  The paratrooper cast a sideways glance to his fellow Joe and forced himself to relax, his shoulders untensing and his breath slowing back to normal.  Buzzer smirked sardonically and the Vipers loosened their grip ever so slightly.  Ripcord drew in a long, calming, deep breath, then lunged.  He moved with such sudden quickness that he slipped out of the Vipers grasp like melted butter over a metal surface.  Buzzer’s eyes grew impossibly wide underneath his dark sunglasses as the camouflage covered GI Joe slammed into him, shoulder first, driving him backwards.  Ripcord screamed loudly, nothing coherent, and drew his knee up into his chest, then drove it with great force into Buzzer’s ribs.  The Dreadnok exhaled sharply through pursed lips, and flew back against the smooth wall behind him, his sunglasses clattering to the floor.  Ripcord glanced back as the other two Dreadnoks charged.  He whipped his leg back and caught Torch in the upper chest, throwing him roughly to the ground.  Ripper wrapped his arms around the Joe, but he shifted his weight, and lurched forward, tossing the mohawked punk over his shoulder and skidding over the floor.  Buzzer had dropped to his knees and was clutching at his stomach, and breathing haggardly. 

“Piece of scum!” Ripcord shouted and whipped his foot up, slamming into Buzzer’s frowning face.  The Dreadnok was whipped back, and smacked the back of his head off of the concrete wall behind him.  His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped into unconsciousness.  But Ripcord was not done.  He charged forward, cocking his leg back and readying for another strike, until an iron grip clutched his shoulder and stopped him in mid lunge.  He felt himself being spun roughly around until he was face to pupiless, painted face with Zartan, who glared menacingly at him.

“Impressive, Joe,” he bellowed.  “Beating on three Dreadnoks while your hands are cuffed behind your back.  Very nice…but Buzzer has learned his lesson.  Playtime is over.”

Ripcord shouted and whipped his right leg around, but Zartan effortlessly knocked it aside.

“It would do you well to remember, Joe,” Zartan hissed, and slammed his right fist dead center into Ripcord’s face.  “We have tussled before, you and I.” He pounded his left into the camouflage ribs of the paratrooper, who dropped to his knees.  “And I beat you then as well.” He drew his large leg back, the brown cloth pants straining with the motion.  The lights reflected off of his smooth plastic chest plate and pads sewn onto each thigh.  The large black boot drilled into the Joe’s chest, knocking him back first against the hard metal floor.  “Beating three Dreadnoks and defeating me are two entirely different things.” He pounded his other leg into Ripcord’s ribs as he lay there, just for good measure.  As the young Joe groaned, Zartan turned to the other prisoners, held tightly by the Cobra team.  It was taking great force, but the group of Vipers were holding the Joes at bay.  “Anyone else want to be lying and bleeding on the floor?” he asked.

“Just try us, Zartan!” Recondo spat.  Zartan returned the challenge with a chuckle.

“I have had enough entertainment today.” He turned to the Dreadnoks.  “Ripper, Torch, get Buzzer cleaned up.  You,” he turned and pointed a finger at the Vipers, “get these Joes in one of the cells.  I am going to get Gulag.  I’m sure he would like some…words with these gentlemen.” With that said, he turned and practically vanished into the darkened corridor.  The lead Viper picked up Ripcord roughly, and dragged him to his feet.

“Move it, boys!” the HEAT Viper shouted, motioning with his launcher.  The Joes, against their very nature, acquiesced and were led to the detention area for interrogation.

 

 

 

The quiet rumble of thunder was now an almost deafening pounding.  The rain had not yet begun in earnest, but the clouds and very heavens were shaken with the force of the rolls of thunder, almost threatening to throttle the sky to thousands of dark, dull gray pieces.  A yellow streak rushed across the base of the cloud cover, illuminating the ground below briefly.  Drops of rain were falling, but at irregular intervals.  They were large, sloppy clumps of water held together by invisible forces until they struck the ground and splattered apart, leaving wet blossoms on the previously dry ground.  The large tan tank roared over the rocky ground, just southeast of the looming volcano, which sprouted from the island like a ragged, uneven growth.  The forest was just south of the little motorcade, but there was a wide path of bare land separating the volcano and the forest.  It was mostly dirt covered, with rocks large and small strewn along it.  Chunks of volcano broke away on a regular basis and caused little blockades, which made the path quite a challenge to navigate.  Just behind and to the right of the Mauler, the AWE Striker bounced along the rough ground.  It was practically killing Clutch to drive so slowly, but if they ran into another group of HISS Tanks, he definitely wanted the Mauler between him and them.  Gung Ho sat in the passenger seat of the Striker, his hand clutching the roll bar as if by reflex, simply because Clutch was driving.  He glanced back at the makeshift stretcher that was erected on the back of the dune buggy.  Spearhead was much more alert now, which was a good sign, and Lifeline continued to hunch over him, making sure he was comfortable.  The Wolverine rolled through the path off to the Striker’s right, its missile launchers aimed upwards and out towards the darkness ahead.  Zap and Airtight sat on the back of the Wolverine, their weapons placed securely over their laps.  Alpine and Outback sat on the rear of the Mauler, each one of them with an automatic slung over their shoulder.  Gung Ho plucked a walkie-talkie from the console of the buggy and spoke into it briefly.  The Mauler and the Wolverine eased to a slow stop.  Bullhorn, who was riding the RAM Motorcycle, coasted it to a stop as well.

“This the spot?” Clutch asked.

“Yeah…we give them ten minutes.” Gung Ho replied, glancing at his watch.

“No need,” a voice called out to their left.  Hit & Run and Repeater trotted towards them, evidently, exiting from the treeline about fifty feet south.  Gung Ho slipped from the seat and went out to meet them.

“Sitrep, Hit & Run…fill me in,” he said.

“Situation Report is this: Ten HISS Tanks and Five Stingers, making a beeline for our position.  They’re not far from here…we got them spotted in the goggles and ran right back.”

“Shoot!  Not even enough time to set claymores or shaped charges.” Gung Ho stated, his mind already racing.  He had to shout lightly to be heard above the falling rain.  Storming over to the Striker, he scooped up the communicator again.  “Bazooka, Cover Girl!  Back those babies up and around the corner of the volcano.  We’ve got company coming!” The two tracked vehicles immediately complied and went into reverse, smoothly rounding the corner of the volcano and leaving the path clear. 

“Hop on, boys!” Gung Ho said, and motioned to the buggy.  The engine revved and the two Joes just barely jumped on before Clutch floored it and sped off.  “Clutch,” Gung Ho said to the driver, “I want you to turn off that way.” He pointed to the treeline.  “See that clearing there?” There indeed was a small clearing nestled in the trees.  There wasn’t much cover, but it would be very hard to see the green, wheeled vehicle against the trees.  Bullhorn was hot on their heels in the motorcycle and within seconds, they were hidden from view, and the dirt path was clear.  The rain started to fall.

 

 

 

 

“Well, Destro?” Cobra Commander asked, walking up to his second in command.  “Status?”

Destro glanced over at his commander, hiding the look of annoyance well behind the steel mask.  “We’ve got a group of HISS’s and Stingers trying to flush them out.  No contact so far.”

“And?”

“And what, Commander?” he asked, turning from the radar screen.

“Shouldn’t something be happening?  We’ve got intruders on my island!”

“We have to tread carefully, sir.  This could be a rush attack, or it could be a well coordinated and planned assault.  We have to be ready for any eventuality.”

“Destro,” the Tele Viper manning the controls said softly.

“Yes?”

“You have a call from Zartan in the detention area…line four.” He held up a receiver and Destro rolled his eyes.

“What is it, Zartan?” he asked, a hand on his hip.  He listened intently for a few seconds.  “Are you certain?  Yes, yes…of course.”  Destro was entirely focused on the call now, his body standing at rigid attention.  “Now, don’t do anything rash…yes, keep them there and return to the command center.  They can hold them for now.” He set the receiver down with a click and shook his head slowly.  He held his weight up with one rigid arm, supporting him against the control panel.

“Well?  What is it, Destro?” Cobra Commander asked.

Destro glanced around uncomfortably.  “Follow me, sir,” he said and walked away, towards the center of the command room.  Vipers, Tele Vipers, Techno Vipers and many other random Cobra soldiers ran frantically from one end of the command center to the other.  “We have a problem,” he said finally as they neared the Commander’s large, ornate throne.

“What?”

“We’re not being attacked by the ordinary U.S. Military.”

“Don’t keep me guessing.  Who are we dealing with?”

“GI Joe.”

Cobra Commander’s eyes grew wide behind his flowing, royal blue hood.  “Meeting room, Destro.  Now.” They stomped off towards the private meeting room.  The Baroness looked up from her command post and squinted at them.  She told her personal Vipers she’d be right back and walked over to the room.  She slipped in the door just as Destro and Cobra Commander went in.  They noticed her entrance, but said nothing.

“How can you be sure?” Cobra Commander asked, almost frantic.

“We’ve…or I should say Zartan has captured a small team of them.  They all match the files we have with just one exception.”

“This is intolerable!” The Commander screamed.  “We were so close!”

“Cobra Commander, there is no need for pessimism.  For us not to know of this, it must be a small-scale attack.  No matter who they are, we will stop them.”

“Why weren’t you told of this?  Don’t you have an inside source?” Cobra Commander demanded.

“He is merely a lackey for the right organization.  He cannot possibly know about everything!” Destro found himself shouting, and paused for a second to catch his breath.  “But do not worry, sir.  We still outnumber them…even if they are at their original strength, which they most definitely are not, we outnumber them ten to one.  This will merely make our victory all the more…satisfying.”

The Commander chuckled.  “You know what, Destro?  You are right.  How many have we captured?”

“I believe Zartan said eight of them.”

The Commander laughed out loud.  “Excellent.  Very well, we shall proceed.”

“Good.  Now, perhaps, you should make arrangements for your personal hydrofoil, sir?” Destro asked.  “We don’t want to take any chances.”

“Hogwash!” Cobra Commander shouted.  “What would that do to troop morale?  Their august leader turns tail and runs at the slightest hint of trouble?  Nonsense!” his eyes flared and his body language became agitated.  “As a matter of fact, I think it’s time we took a more hands on approach!  Destro, I want a group of HISS Tanks set up along the cluster’s eastern perimeter.  Just to make sure no one gets through.  And I want you and The Baroness in the lead tank.”

The silence in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“What?” The Baroness asked finally.

“Is that wise?” Destro demanded.

“I think I can handle things at this end, Destro.”  Cobra Commander sat confidently in his red, velvet chair.

“Very well, Commander,” Destro hissed.

“And where is Scrap Iron?”  The Commander demanded as if he were ordering around a mere Viper.

“I believe he is in the motor pool, sir,” Destro replied.

“Good.  Tell him I want him and his best driver in the command center immediately.  We have a counter attack to propose!”

“As you wish.” Destro turned with The Baroness and departed, leaving the Commander alone.  The two Immortals cast sideways glances at them as they left the room.

“You agree with this plan?” The Baroness asked harshly.

Destro merely smiled under his mask.  “Do not worry, Baroness…the Joes won’t even make it past the volcano.” He chuckled as they turned towards the motor pool to get their tanks and give Scrap Iron his message.

 

 

 

Gung Ho pressed the goggles tightly to his eyes, desperately trying to see through the rain, which was now whipping down in a torrential downpour.  Rainwater and wind thrashed through the buggy, so strong that it was almost rocked on its loose suspension.  Thunder roared through the dark clouds above, followed almost immediately by jagged white-hot forks of electricity.  The lightning struck with almost audible force, a slight crackling ripping the sky apart milliseconds before the flash illuminated the area down below.  The Marine adjusted the magnification and finally brought the first HISS into view.  It was a jet-black blur against the grayish-black background of night.  A Viper sat in the turret and Gung Ho made out the vague features of the red and blue clad Track Viper sitting in the control seat.  Formerly called merely a HISS Driver, these highly skilled tank pilots all adopted the Track Viper moniker when Cobra reformed itself.  Two more HISS’s emerged, flanking the first on both sides and the Marine squad leader’s heart thudded in his chest.  A combination of the storm and common ground clutter had most likely kept their current location hidden from Cobra central, so hopefully they had the benefit of surprise going here.  He pressed the radio to his lips and pressed the talk button.

“Hold it…hold it,” he said calmly, waiting for the maximum number of tanks in the ‘kill zone’.  Two more tanks appeared to bring the number to five, which was half of the group.  Gung Ho decided that the time was now.

“NOW!  Go!  Go!  Go!” He shouted into the radio and the treaded vehicles happily complied.

The Mauler roared from behind the volcano with a thunderous growl, spitting up wet dirt and mud behind its massive tank treads.  It slid sideways on the wet ground slightly, but then suddenly caught and jerked forward, spraying the air with wet, goopy ground.  Almost immediately, it’s main cannon thundered across the open area, a huge orange bloom and belch of smoke exploding from the barrel.  The first HISS slammed on the brakes, and the treads locked, sending it sliding at a slight angle over the wet ground.  It spun slightly before the Mauler’s massive shell struck it broadside and blasted a hole in the thick, black armor.  The shell strike was followed almost immediately by an explosion as the first HISS crumpled, then burst into flames, showering the other tanks with black armor shards and fiery debris.  The two flanking HISS’s were forced to turn to avoid the deadly shrapnel, which halted them from returning fire.  The Mauler continued it’s forward momentum and its automated reloading system slid another shell into place.  Another shot pounded from the barrel and whistled smoothly through the air, striking a second HISS directly in the canopy section.  This tank dipped forward, spun in the mud, then flipped clumsily to the ground, tossing the Viper from his turret, and sending him skidding.  Another HISS, following too closely, rammed into this one and spun out also, forcing his turret to aim into the trees.  The Viper in the turret quickly swiveled and his arms shook as the double barrels launched the first retaliatory strike of this little skirmish.  A plume of mud sprayed into the air as the return shot slammed harmlessly into the ground next to the Mauler, which was altering course slightly.  The remaining HISS’s had now all picked up speed and bore down on this small open area between the forest and the volcano, their guns blazing fire and raining artillery down on the lone tank.  With a lurch, the tan tank whipped backwards, just as a shower of HISS shells poured down towards it, blowing chunks in the soft ground and blasting an intimidating row of craters just ahead of the massive armored vehicle.  Just as the Mauler spun out backwards, the Wolverine whipped around it, slipping across the muck, but then digging in and charging forward.  Immediately, a barrage of missiles hurtled from the twin square rocket launchers mounted on the smaller tank and crashed into the first row of HISS Tanks.  Two missiles were wasted as they exploded against the two burning tanks, but the second three drilled another pair of HISS’s and left them burning.  Fires now illuminated the night as almost half of the rushing horde of HISS Tanks were smashed and consumed by flame.  More tanks charged forward, plowing straight through the flaming wreckage, knocking it aside or crushing it like it was cardboard and tissue paper instead of glass and cold, hard armor plate.  The Wolverine whipped to the left as a barrage of return fire roared towards it.  Cover Girl ducked her head in the open cockpit, then spun the tank back around and launched two more missiles.  The HISS leading the charge was struck head on and reduced to scrap in a blast of orange/red and cloud of smoke.  Suddenly, the low meaty growl of the HISS’s was covered up by the high pitched whine and squeal of smaller and quicker engines, becoming more audible as they drew closer.  A black Stinger Jeep zipped around one side of the row of tanks, it’s large, four capacity missile launcher quickly emptying towards the tanks.  The Mauler spun around quickly, and the missiles whipped by, smashing into the volcano in a large blast of yellow, throwing dark chunks of rock formation in all directions.  With a deafening BOOM The Mauler launched a shell, but the Stinger was too agile and swerved quickly, unharmed.  It skidded to a halt, and a gray suited Cobra trooper lunged out, assault rifle in hand, firing sporadically towards the open cockpit of the Wolverine.  Cover Girl ducked yet again, wincing as 5.56-millimeter slugs pounded against the thick metal plating.  Two more Stingers swerved around the tanks, but they were more conservative with their missiles, and only fired once each.  The first whipped between the two tanks and hurtled out into the darkness, and the second struck the ground just in front of the Wolverine, blasting rock and wet mud up into the underside of the tank.  The front of the vehicle jumped into the air with the force, but slammed back down with little harm done.  Cover Girl squinted out into the pouring rain, her hair already matted to her smooth, unblemished face.  She scowled, but pressed onwards, barely avoiding another shelling from the HISS’s.  The Mauler moved in to cover her back, but stopped abruptly as a red missile pounded into the side of it, near the rear end.  The tank lurched and slid with the shock of the hit, but managed to launch a shell in the right direction.  The Stinger that fired the missile was annihilated with the tank shot, and left a black burning hulk.  Two more Stingers appeared from behind the HISS Tanks, roared by quickly, and before the two Joe tanks could do anything, had spun around behind them, their missiles primed and ready.  A cannon blast tore from the treeline and slammed into the back of one of the Stingers, striking the missile rack.  The jeep shook and exploded, taking the Stinger next to it with him.  With a triumphant shout, Clutch floored the AWE Striker into the fray, its twenty-millimeter cannon blasting away.  He effortlessly wove through the burning jeeps, flame licking at the roll bar, and following in a little trail behind them as he sped into the battlefield.  Outback stood on the rear of the buggy, one hand tightly gripping the roll bar, and the other hand wrapped around his assault rifle.  The gray clad Stinger Driver repositioned himself and rattled off some shots at the Striker.  Outback ducked away and hauled back on the trigger of his own weapon, tattooing the driver and dropping him in his tracks.  With a spray of mud, the AWE Striker whipped to the right, its cannon roaring at the row of HISS’s.  One shot struck the canopy of one of them, and slammed through it, leaving the tank without a driver.  The large black tanks spun their turrets to get a bead on the Striker, but two of them were plastered by the Wolverine’s five remaining missiles and exploded into rippling fireballs.  The Mauler spun its treads, hoping to move in on the tanks, but Bazooka soon found out that the missile shot had torn apart his left track, leaving him motionless.  He swore under his breath, and fired from his current position, wiping out a HISS that was trying to take out the buggy.  Tank shells whistled above Outback’s head as he ducked down and he winced as the Striker was showered by small chunks of rock and debris from the volcano, which was being pounded by the HISS tanks.  Clutch hit the brakes and whipped the wheel to the left, spinning the buggy around.  Rain continued to pelt the ground and everyone on it, as a shimmering gray curtain of rainfall covered the land.  The tires didn’t grip well in the wet mud and the buggy slid, slamming sideways into the base of the volcano.  Outback’s arm strained as he struggled to stay on the back of the vehicle.  The rear tires finally gripped and launched the Striker forward, digging small, tire-sized trenches in the mushy ground behind them.  The roof mounted cannon blasted to life and plowed into another HISS, but it hit the sloped armor and pretty much bounced off, only rocking the tank instead of destroying it.  With a blast of smoke and flame, the HISS cannon roared itself and struck the front left wheel of the Striker.  The buggy jerked and dipped forward, digging into the soft earth, and throwing its inhabitants roughly to the ground.  Momentum continued to carry the small Joe vehicle forward and it flipped clumsily, bouncing from its roll bar, and rolling to a stop, stuck in a small ditch that it’s own force dug in the moist ground.  The Vipers in the remaining turrets almost seemed to smile with their very body language as they turned the guns on the three Joes sprawled in the wet mud, rain thrashing their prone bodies.  The roar of a gatling gun broke the tension as the RAM Motorcycle zoomed into the midst of battle, its “sidecar” firing full bore, spitting out an endless shower of orange sparks.  The gun fired with rapid, sequential thuds, however most of them merely bounced off of the thick tanks’ hides.  One Viper snarled and spun the turret around, taking twisted satisfaction in the apparent overkill.  Gung Ho jumped to his feet and lunged, pulling his M203 grenade launcher out from under his mud covered body as he did so.  He pumped it quick and fired, then hit the ground as another shell from the HISS zipped over his head and reduced the Striker to shrapnel and smoky ruin.  The grenade hit its mark exceptionally well and dropped into the turret of the Viper who was bearing down on Bullhorn, who was riding the motorcycle.  The Cobra trooper looked confused, uncertain of exactly what had dropped in his lap.  Before realization hit him, the grenade detonated in a muffled blast, tearing through the gunner and tossing his limp body onto the wet ground. 

“Nice shot!” Clutch shouted as he charge forward next to his squad leader, firing his automatic pistol.

“Thanks,” Gung Ho said as he dropped again and reloaded the launcher.  “But I was aiming for the canopy.”

“Still…”

“Of the other HISS.”

Clutch laughed as he fired jacketed lead at the last gunner to keep his head down.  “I won’t tell, if you don’t tell about me crashing the Striker.”

“Deal!” An explosion shortened the conversation and sent the two men sprawling forward as a blast of mud erupted into the air from the last HISS’s shelling.  Bullhorn directed the RAM over to his fallen buddies, and once again tried to draw the HISS’s fire.  The HISS suddenly spun its launcher and brought it towards the men, but two streaks honed in at it at once.  The first yellow streak was followed closely by a winding trail of smoke and hit the HISS in the side, rocking it back and blasting black shrapnel into the air.  The second streak was more orange in color, although it, too was followed closely by a smoke trail and struck the large tank between the turret and the canopy blasting the front of it into burnt shards of armor plate.  It lay still and smoldering.

“Nice shooting hombre!” shouted Zap who lay crouched by the treeline.

“You too, amigo!” Bazooka called back from the front of the Mauler where he stood, his portable rocket launcher in hand.  The night was once again drenched in silence, with only the roaring flames of burnt out vehicles supplying the ambience.  The Joes converged together, and Zap ran up to Gung Ho.

“I know you said to stay under cover, but I thought that was a suitable reason for disobeying orders.”

“Good decision, Zap,” Gung Ho said happily, clapping his buddy on the shoulder.  Cover Girl pulled herself out of the Wolverine and joined her comrades.

“Don’t know how much help I’ll be now.  My racks are dry,” she said nodding towards the tank.

“Hawk should be bringing some crates of ammo when he gets here.  We’ll have to hold this spot for now.”

“With an immobile tank and no missiles?” Bazooka asked.  “How—?” his sentence was interrupted by a low roar and whistle coming from behind the burning tanks.

“Incoming!” shouted Gung Ho and they all hit the ground as the red streak flew over them and disappeared into the dark.  A Stinger suddenly struck the burning hulks and launched into the air, just over the flames, and landed with a splatter in the wed mud and pouring rain.  Two Vipers clutched the bar on the back as the jeep hurtled towards the Joes and let off another rocket.  This one sped into the treeline and exploded harmlessly, but the jeep bore down closer.  The Joes stood stock still as the jeep plowed through the thick mud, its yellow headlights bearing down on them.  A loud, long growl erupted from behind the Mauler and red tracer fire lit the sky, tearing into the black jeep.  The two Vipers grunted and were thrown off as the Stinger lurched one way, then turned again too quick and rolled, bouncing end over end, until it finally came to a rest, smoke drifting slowly from its underside and hood.  Repeater exited from behind the Mauler.

“Come on, Joes!” he shouted.  “Don’t count the chickens before they hatch…Hit & Run said five Stingers, remember?”

Gung Ho frowned.  “Sorry, troops…guess it’s been too long since we’ve all been in the field.” His grim face did not stay grim for long.  “But believe me, Joes, that is the last mistake we’re making tonight!  We are taking Cobra Island tonight, even if we’re the only ones to do it!  Do you get me?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Good.” Gung Ho motioned to Bullhorn, who came over.  He grabbed the radio from his belt and pressed the talk button.  “This is bald eagle to mountain lion.  Come in, mountain lion.”

“This is mountain lion…go ahead.” It was Alpine’s voice.

“You boys are our eye in the sky.  Tell me what you see.”

“We are on the volcano’s western face, pointing towards Cobra Command.  We have some troop and HISS movement.  It looks like they’re setting up a defensive perimeter around the citadel.”

“All right.  Anything else coming our way?”

“Negative,” replied Hit & Run this time, “everything seems quiet.  We have lots of troop and vehicle movement throughout the rest of the island, but our path is looking cle—what the--?”

“Hit & Run?” Gung Ho asked, his concern raising.  There was no response.  Hie eyes darted around nervously.

“What’s going on?” asked Lifeline, who was walking from the trees.

“Lifeline!  Get back to cover now!” Gung Ho shouted just before the noise began.  The Joe medic ran for the trees where he had left Spearhead just as fire began raining down along with the large drops of water.  The Joes dashed in all directions as explosions began ripping apart the dirt path where they stood, blowing pieces of ground and clumps of earth in all directions.  The formerly quiet night was now once again almost deafening with the large, loud reports of heavy artillery.  Bazooka immediately ran for the Mauler.

“Everyone scatter!  Bullhorn!  What do you see?” he asked to the young man who had binoculars pressed to his face.

“ASP Emplacements, sir!  On the face of the volcano!”

“What?  Our radar would have picked that up!”

Explosions ripped apart the night and showered down upon them.  An orange streak struck the Mauler and the roof caved slightly before the entire tank exploded in a brilliant yellow flash, swallowing Bazooka who was mere feet from it.

“I don’t think now is the time to argue semantics!”  Bullhorn dove to his right as more yellow streaks dove down, plastering the wet ground.  The rain now picked up as well, almost as if accepting the challenge from the gunners on the cliff face.  It had been silent, but now…it was as if the very gates of hell were open and the world was being swallowed by fire.

 

 

 

 Deep under the earth, the smooth concrete walls of the tunnel had given way to a disturbing dark red brick that made up the walls of the cell.  The eight Joes were left cuffed and standing in the large room.  It was square…cubical, really, and the walls were dark red brick, although the red was not uniform.  It appeared in streaks and swaths, which told the unwilling inhabitants that it was most likely not paint that created the disturbing color.  A trio of cots spread along the back wall, with no blankets or mattresses for that matter.  Ripcord sat on one of these cots, clutching his stomach and rubbing his purple, puffy face.  Stalker knelt down and checked him out to make sure nothing was broken, and nothing appeared to be, but it sure did look messy.

“Sorry guys,” Ripcord said through clenched teeth.  “I screwed up…”

“Stow it, troop,” Duke said, a slight grin on his face.  “I kinda liked the way you beat Zartan’s feet with your face.  Took guts, kid.”

Ripcord chuckled, but winced, obviously going with the cliché that it only hurt when he laughed.  Each man was still cuffed, some behind their backs, but most in front.  There was no furniture, no tables, nothing which could possible be taken and used to their advantage.  Claymore studied the room carefully, almost willing himself to find a way out.  The only entrance or exit was a thick metal door with a small slit in it…not even bars, only a thin slot to look out of.  He walked slowly over to do just that, but before he could reach the door, it swung quickly open.  Claymore stepped back, but not enough to admit any kind of fear of his captor.  Two men entered.  One clad in the familiar garb of a Cobra Trooper.  He wore the deep blue uniform with black web gear, had black boots, gloves and a cloth mask wrapped tightly over the lower half of his face.  A matching blue helmet was pulled tight above his stern face, and he glared at the Joes with unhindered, complete animosity.  The glare was not dissimilar to the vicious toothy grin of the Cobra emblazoned on his chest.  A shotgun was slung over his shoulder, and his black-gloved hand rested casually on it, although was tensed and could obviously react at a moment’s notice.  Following the young trooper was another, taller, broader man.  His uniform was that of an Interrogator, Cobra’s little known, but much feared interrogation expert and torturer.  The uniform was mostly gray, with some blue highlights, and covered with many different disturbing instruments and tools of unpleasantness.  This Interrogator, however, did not wear the usual helmet associated with the legions of faceless torture experts and wicked prison guards.  He displayed his visage proudly, even with the jagged scar over his left eye, which was covered by a black patch.  Covering his head was a captain’s hat, gray with a dark front brim.  The symbol on the front was not one that any of the Joes recognized.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” the man said calmly, in a thick Russian accent.  The Cobra Trooper slid the door shut behind them and locked it.  “My name is Gulag.  I understand you are my guests for the night, yes?”

No one spoke or moved, they all merely stared at the two men who had just entered.  Gulag glanced around, taking in the crowd of prisoners.  They looked tough and hard…just the way the former Russian prison commandant liked them.  They were the ones that lasted the longest, and supplied the most enjoyment.

“Your names please?” he asked, almost too kindly.  He first looked at Duke, who did not speak.  His eyes moved all around the room, soaking in every last bit of information from these men.  “Ah yes, you are silent now.  But before the night is over, you will be begging me to let you speak.  Begging!  Do you understand me?” He sighed restlessly and turned, then was gone, followed shortly by his Cobra companion who slammed the door behind them.  The lock closed with a click.  A solid and very final sound.

“Who the heck is he supposed to be?” Stalker asked angrily.

“Colonel Klink,” said Beachhead, chuckling softly.

Claymore immediately went to the door.  “Okay, we’ve got to get out of here and now,” he said, pressing his face against the door and squinting through the eye slit.

“Easy, Claymore,” Duke said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.  Claymore flinched.

“Look, Duke…I know what you’re thinking,” he said, turning away from the door.  “Play it cool and wait until we have the advantage.”

“Exactly.”

A stream of sweat ran slickly down Claymore’s face.  “I don’t know if that’s going to work, Top,” he said calmly, but with the slightest twinge of panic.

“We’re all professionals, pal,” Recondo piped in, walking over to the older man, who still stood rigid by the door.

“Yeah, but you weren’t all in the ‘Hanoi Hilton” for two years, bucko,” he said sternly.

Duke stepped towards the Joe operative and extended his hand.  “P.O.W.?” he asked quietly.

Claymore nodded.  “Out in the jungles, I’m like magic, Top…but locked up…trapped…I don’t do so hot.”

“Understandable.  Take a seat on one of the cots, buddy.  We’re getting out of this, don’t worry.” Duke motioned to the middle cot next to where Ripcord sat.  Claymore obliged and strode to the wooden slab and sat down.  Falcon walked over to the other Joes to get in on the gossip.

“Plans, Top?” he asked Duke simply.

“Nope.  We need some intel, man…see what we’re dealing with.”

“Our little escort party’s out in the hallway,” Claymore said from the cot where he sat.  “They’re standing guard…a rocket launcher, flame thrower…some grenades and a couple whackos with machine guns.”  He laid his head down and actually started to relax slightly.  “Whatever we do, we have to be quick about it, or it’s going to be over before it begins.”

“I hear you,” Duke replied.  He glanced at his watch.  “Dang.  Our timetable is flushed.  We have fifteen until the deadline for radar cancellation.  Time to improvise.”

“That’s what we do best,” Beachhead piped in. 

Muskrat smirked.  “So, what’s the plan, fearless leader?” he asked, adjusting his boonie hat with his cuffed hands.

“Take a load off.  Sit and wait is about all we can do, Joes.”  The plan didn’t go over well, but in all actuality it was their only option, and they all knew it.

 

 

 

Cobra Commander sat back in his large throne at the center of the command area and cast his eyes at the numerous monitors on the wall in front of him.  Scrap Iron’s boots clanked along the metal floor as he approached from behind, causing the Crimson Guard Immortals to tense just slightly.  A female Viper was with him, clad in a more form fitting uniform, and instead of the blue and silver helmet, wore a gray facemask.

“You called, Commander?” the explosives expert asked as he approached the throne.  The Commander turned and smiled when he saw them.

“I certainly did, Scrap Iron.  And who is this?” he asked, bending down slightly to get a better look at the slim female.

“This is Viper Conda, sir.  She is my best driver.  The one you asked for.”

“Conda, hmm?” Cobra Commander asked.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.  “Ann A. Conda,” she said with a smile.  “I had my name changed so it would be more…appropriate.”

Cobra Commander laughed like a rabid hyena, throwing his head back and cackling.  “Excellent, my dear, excellent!  You will fit in well here.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“Scrap Iron, I want you two to lead a team of Stingers.  She will be the driver, and you the missile operator.  I have formed a line of defense along the eastern side of the cluster, and you shall be the strike force.”  He leaned further down, and talked more softly.  “Destro will hold them off, my dear, and you two will wipe them out.”

The young lady smiled.  “Happily, sire.”

“Good…Viper Conda, though…that’s kind of a mouthful.  How about simply…Vypra?” The Commander tilted his head and the woman smiled broadly.

“With pride, my lord!  I will not fail you!”

“See that you don’t.”

“As you wish, Commander,” Scrap Iron piped in, and left with his protege, back towards the motor pool.  Just as they vanished from sight, Zartan appeared from the main hallway, walking sternly, his cowl washing down over his broad shoulders.

“Cobra Commander,” Zartan said simply, as he approached.

The Commander stepped down and joined his confidant.  “Zartan…I understand we have some guests I should thank you for.”

“My pleasure, Commander.” The both walked to the entrance to the command center, the Immortals hot on their heels.

“What is being done about them?” he asked.

“I sent in Gulag to have a word with them.”

“Good…good.  Make sure our Interrogator gets all of the necessary information, all right?  I want their files supplied, everything.  You may want to debrief him on the…questions I would like him to ask.”

“Very well.  The interrogation may take a little while.  Gulag likes to let them stir—“

“Absolutely not, Zartan!  We are under attack as we speak!” The Commander halted and spoke with energy, talking with his hands as well as his mouth.  “I need this information, and I need it now!”

“Understood.” Zartan spun on his heels.

“Oh, and Zartan?”

“Yes?” he asked, not turning.

“After this…I’m going to need you…we are formulating a counter attack and I want you to be a part of my security team.”

“As you command,” He said simply and continued down the hallway.  Cobra Commander sighed and turned, finding his vision blocked by the sudden appearance of Overlord.

“Good heavens!” Cobra Commander shouted.  “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I was under the impression that you needed every spare man you could get, Commander.”

“Well, yes, true.”  The Commander smiled broadly.  “How about a HISS patrol, Overlord?  Ever ridden shotgun on a HIgh Speed Sentry?”

“Err…no, Commander…I was thinking more of an inside job…at one of the terminals, maybe?”

“Very well,” the Commander said roughly.  He gestured off towards the computer banks that saturated the walls.  “Go…make yourself useful!”  Overlord wandered off and Cobra Commander strode confidently to his throne. 

“Aahhh…I just love it when a plan comes together.”

 

 

 

Not much time had passed before the scarred and patch-wearing Interrogator stormed back inside.  His previous calm demeanor had been completely replaced by an acidic scowl and vicious scorn.  The two men entered again, and the thick metal door shut with a huge bang, reverberating against the walls of the small, confining cell.

“Well, gentlemen,” he spat.  “I have returned.” He looked more than slightly annoyed, and also looked ready to take it out on everybody present.  “Apparently our little time table has been…altered, shall we say?  So, I have to speed things up a little bit.”  He cracked his knuckles slowly and methodically, and worked some cricks in his neck.  “I apologize for the…brutality I may have to exhibit, but time is of the essence,” he said it with a thin smirk that told all in the room that he was not one bit sorry for anything he had done, or would do in the next few hours.  The Trooper smirked right along with him, almost caressing his smooth, metal shotgun.

Duke almost laughed out loud.  The Interrogator’s right eye squinted and his lips curled.

“You find something funny, comrade?” he asked, slowly flexing his fingers.  “Please, share with me, the source of your amusement.”

Duke stood stock-still and did not move, speak or flinch.  Gulag stepped closer.

“I see…” he turned around and drew in a breath, then whipped around suddenly, a thin baton in his hand.  The metal wand whacked Duke in the side of his face, and he dropped like a stone, not expecting the crushing blow.

“Not so funny now, is it?” Gulag demanded.  The Joes rushed to Duke’s aid and helped him to his feet.  “Now that that…unpleasantness is behind us…we can get on to the question and answer session, yes?”

No one spoke.

“Well, this will prove interesting.” Gulag tossed his baton to the floor where it rattled to a stop next to the wall.  “You there,” he said, pointing to Duke again.  Duke scowled, a red mark already fading into view on his chiseled cheekbone.

“Sergeant, yes?”

“Yeah,” Duke finally responded.

“Duke…leader of this little band of rabble.”

“Big deal.  You know my name.  I don’t know you from Adam, so give me one reason why I should say squat to you.”

Gulag paced calmly back and forth on the concrete floor.  He halted, cocked his head as if to think, looked directly at the First Sergeant. “Believe me, big man,” Gulag said, once again stepping closer to the sergeant, then lowered his voice to a dim, rough whisper.  “By the time we’re done, we will know each other very, very well.”  He stepped back and raised his voice again. 

“How many in your force?” he asked, slipping his hand into his right hand pocket.

“Can’t count?  We’re all right here, boss,” Duke snarled.

Gulag sighed.  “You will be making this difficult.”  His face twisted into a distasteful, angry snarl.  “Well, you are not the only one who can make this difficult, my friend.”

“I am not your friend.”

“Hmmm,” Gulag said, smirking, “I wonder how long your defiance will last?  Once I get down to business, not too long, I’d wager.”  The Interrogator crossed his arms over his broad leather covered chest and smirked again.  With a sigh, the hands went back in the pockets and he shook his head sadly.

“Why don’t you try me?” Duke stepped up this time, coming face to face with his captor.  Gulag laughed and walked away, but then stopped and turned.

“How many in your force, Sergeant?” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and flexed his fingers underneath the shiny brass knuckles that curved over the contours of his fist.

“Do anything you want, Patch.  Only words you’re getting out of me is kiss my—“

The fist struck him with the force of a sledgehammer, crashing into the side of his face.  He spun clumsily, spraying blood in a sharp arc all over the walls, which were already a dark crimson hue.  Duke stumbled, but refused to fall, slamming with all of his weight on one shoulder into the brick.  His knees buckled slightly, but he managed to remain standing.

“You were saying, Sergeant?” Gulag stomped towards the Joe, stopping mere inches from his face.  His breath was hot and sour against Duke’s skin.  “Now, Swine!  Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“Y..yeah,” Duke gurgled, pulling himself upright.  “I…I’ve had kisses from Grandma that hurt more than that.” He smirked wickedly seeing the fierce hatred in the other man’s eyes.  Gulag cocked his arm back, baring his shiny white teeth.  Duke anticipated and backpedaled, but not quickly enough and the back fist caught him with shattering impact across the bridge of his nose.  He went stumbling backwards, his arms flailing inside the cuffs, but caught his balance with his compatriots helping him remain standing.

Gulag snarled, his teeth bared again.  He clutched Duke away with his empty hand and threw him to the floor. The Trooper stepped between the other Joes and Gulag, showing the shotgun for emphasis.  The Interrogator kneeled down next to the fallen sergeant and cocked his arm back.

“Tell me!”

“H…Hauser…Conrad, S., First Sergeant.  234-0955-GI89.”

“Name rank and serial number?  Surely you can be more witty than that!”  Gulag plowed his fist directly into the Joe’s face, whipping his head back.  His eyes squinted shut as the brass knuckles slammed into his already bruised and puffing face.

“How many, Sergeant?” Gulag asked again, this time standing, and pulling Duke to his feet.  The field commander of the GI Joe team was wobbly on his feet, his tan shirt already soaking red with the blood from his split face.  His jaw felt loose and disconnected, and his head swam.

“Hauser…C…Conrad S., First--” this time the knuckles drove deep into his ribs and he dropped to his knees again, coughing horrifically.  He held himself up with his cuffed hands as he hacked and choked, pain tearing through his lungs with each breath.  A red haze clouded his very thoughts, the only thing clear, was the pain, agony and desperation.  Liquid ran in rivers and floods from the torn and broken flesh of his beaten body.  Gulag glared down at him with utter contempt.

“Hmm…I see we need a different approach, hm?” he asked.  He shoved the sergeant with a stiff boot, and rolled him over onto his side.  Duke lay still and didn’t move, although his breath still heaved in ragged gasps.  A steady stream of blood ran from his pressed lips and now collected on the concrete floor.

“Trooper!” Gulag shouted.

“Yes, sir?” the Trooper asked, eager to be of help.

The Interrogator cast his gaze around the room, as if to decide who to be his next victim.  Each man presented their own scowl…their own look of hatred and defiance.  Gulag enjoyed it thoroughly.  “Take that one,” Gulag replied, pointing to Ripcord who half sat and half lay on the left hand cot.

“No!” shouted Stalker, stepping in the way.  The Trooper shoved him with the shotgun and scowled.

“Just tell me what I want to know, and this will all be over,” Gulag said with a smirk of satisfaction.  Stalker did not reply.

The Trooper gripped tightly to Ripcord’s arm and yanked him from the cot, and then half dragged him to a standing position next to Gulag.  Duke’s eyes fluttered.

“Sergeant?” Gulag asked, smiling.  He gestured to Ripcord.  The Trooper raised the shotgun until it was mere inches from the young Joe’s chest, hovering there like a long, black finger of death pointing to its next victim.  Duke’s eyes were slits as he stared at the Interrogator who stood before him, almost glowing with victory. 

“Tell me!  HOW MANY IN YOUR FORCE?” He glared back down at the fallen sergeant, whose eyes wandered and met Ripcord’s.  They looked at each other like friends that could only be made during combat.  War buddies…men who had saved each other’s lives countless times, and were quite possibly only alive today because of each other.  It was a deep friendship that only is made between soldiers.  There was also just the slightest hint of loss…and a solid glare of understanding.

“D…Don’t tell them anything, Duke,” Ripcord stammered.  The Trooper shoved him roughly, and then lifted the shotgun again.

Duke looked at his young teammate.  Remembered his first mission with the team.  His one time innocence now erased by over a decade of warfare.  It amazed Duke that he still thought of Ripcord as a kid.  He was an older, experienced soldier now.  A great trooper, and a great friend.  Duke blinked through foggy vision, looking straight at his teammate and cleared his throat to speak. 

“How many, Sergeant Hauser?” Gulag asked more calmly, and with confidence as he awaited the answer to his question.

“Hauser, Conrad S.,” Duke said with stiff determination, his eyes locked on Ripcord’s, and as much as he tried to fight it they were tearing, just slightly.  “First Sergeant, 245-0955-GI89,”

The shotgun roar shook the room with the thunder of its blast.