CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

Eye of the Storm

 

 

 

 

 

It was the sound of pure madness.  An opened window into the mind of insanity…a noise, both guttural and shrieking.  At one point a low growl, escalating to a shrill fever pitch, then choppy chortles and thick snorting.  It could barely be classified as laughter, but was laughter for sure, although laughter that none of the Joes had heard before or would hope to hear again.  The smoke from the shotgun blast still hung thick in the air, mingling with it, as if the two were the most intimate of confidants.  Intertwined and rolling through each other; one damp and musty, and the other a metallic, putrid stink.  Somehow they blended together into an entirely new kind of sensation.  Not smell, per se, but an assault on the senses just the same.  The echo of the blast still rang in everyone’s unbelieving ears.  Such a vicious attack, even for those familiar with wartime violence, was definitely a shock to behold, especially at such close range, and with such unexpected ferocity.  The only sounds besides the fading echoes and the choking laughs was the light tinkle of metal on concrete as the spent shell casing rolled in a strange arc on the hard prison cell floor.  Thin whisps of steam and smoke spiraled from the small brass cylinder and mixed with the fog that hung in the air itself, joining together into one swirling, gray, noxious cloud.

“Ha!  Brilliant!” Gulag shouted, throwing his head back and continuing his laughter.  He could barely speak with the force of his guffaws, and tears streamed down his twisted and scarred face.  “Completely unexpected…such viciousness…I wasn’t sure you had it in you!” he laughed again with body rocking brutality, sending him stumbling, but not too far, as his back was already pressed up against the crimson brick wall.  His good eye scanned his surroundings, soaking in all the surrounding pain and misery.  It delighted his senses, made him almost giddy with joy.  Tears continued to stream over his round cheeks, now red with the attack of laughter he was now suffering through.  It was a strange cackling now…a hyena like shriek, and then faded down to the guttural growl again.  Duke’s eyes stayed pressed shut as he hung his head low, trying to avoid the brutal scene before him.  He had felt the light, wet spattering over him as the shotgun blast ripped through human flesh and was unable to force himself to look up…possibly see one of his men in the last seconds of his life.  His heart slammed in his chest just under the blood and sweat soaked tan shirt he wore.  His bare arms were tensed and flexing over the concrete floor and he finally dared to pry his eyes open, and drew in a breath when he saw the amount of blood on the floor.  It was messy.  Gulag’s laughter suddenly grew in pitch again and in between chuckles, his ragged breathing rocked his chest.

“L…laughing so hard,” he muttered, gasping.  “Ch…chest hurts…so…funny.  Who would have seen it…” his face contorted from pure laughing joy into a spacey gaze of confusion.  His gloved fingers clutched at the brick wall as his breath continued to choke in his lungs.  He coughed and sputtered, red foam bubbling to his lips as his right eye rolled back into his head.  Knees buckling, he slid slowly down the wall, his breath slowing to a gurgle.  A series of red streaks smeared over the brick behind him, following the Interrogator down to the concrete floor where he slumped over and laid to rest.  Duke lifted his head at the curious sounds, and saw exactly what his ears had been telling him.  Ripcord stood there unmoving, his hand placed reflexively to his camouflaged chest.  Other than the battered and bruised face he had suffered already, he was, by all appearances unharmed.  Duke glanced over to his left as he struggled to pull himself from the floor and saw Gulag laying there in a heap, his head bowed, and the blue/gray uniform torn apart and plastered with crimson and a much darker, thicker liquid, which slowly rolled down his torso.  Duke finally brought himself to his feet, his mouth twisted underneath the red that was now caking to the skin on his face.  Ripcord and he glared at each other in confusion, then turned their attention to the Cobra Trooper who stood there with the shotgun, which still oozed thick gray smoke from the round barrel.  The Trooper jacked the pump back quickly, driving another round into the chamber.  He looked at the Joes curiously, his eyes probing, searching the group, looking for what, Duke was not sure.  They all stood there in stunned silence, not sure what to make of the entire event that had just unfolded in front of their eyes.  Duke walked slowly over to him and looked him in the eyes.

“Look, pal…I don’t know who you are, or why you did what you did, but thanks.”

“Save the thanks, Duke,” the voice said behind the mask.  His eyes narrowed slightly, but stayed friendly.  “I’m only here for one reason.  To get me some payback.”

Duke cocked his head slightly, and the Cobra Trooper slid off his helmet, then cast it into the far corner of the cell where it struck with a metallic twang, then dropped to the floor.  He let the shotgun swing loose on the leather shoulder strap that it hung from, which freed his hands to reach back and untie the black bandana wrapped tightly around the lower half of his face.  It dropped and Duke grinned widely, in spite of himself.  The crooked smile…the boyish good looks, which still remained after all these years.  A glisten in the eye that Duke had not seen for very long…too long.  His dark hair was tussled and matted from being under the helmet, but did nothing to betray who it was.  Duke strolled smoothly up to him and clasped his hand tightly with both of his own, his smile widening.

 “C’mon, boys,” the ‘Cobra Trooper’ said with that lopsided grin, looking towards the other Joes. “We’re going home.”

 “Flint!” Duke said, almost overjoyed.  The pleasure was visible even through the puffy and swollen, blood caked face.

“Duke,” Flint said simply, clapping his buddy firmly on the shoulder.  The other Joes had to stifle the urge to cheer out loud at the sight of their old buddy and former teammate.  Flint would have blushed had he been a less cocky man…but he loved the attention, and had missed the action for the past number of years.  The smell of gun smoke and the feeling of a weapon rocking in his tight grasp were like seeing an old friend again.

“How the hell did you get here?” Stalker asked, slapping Flint on the back.

“Well, after Duke tried to recruit me, I figured Cobra was up to no good again.”  Flint grabbed a hold of he black mask and pulled it back up around his face again.  “You’d be surprised how easy it is for one man to get on this island.  They don’t think one man is much of a threat.  Anyway, I took out a Cobra Trooper and took his uniform.  When I heard there were Joe captives, I volunteered for the messy duty of ‘taking care of them’.  Easy as that.”

“Glad to have you aboard, Flint,” Falcon said seriously, shaking his hand.

“Don’t get too misty eyed on me, boys.” His eyes narrowed over the mask and he adjusted the shotgun that hung by his side.  “Like I said, I’m here for one thing only.”

“Destro?” Duke asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Right the first time, boss.”  Flint swung the shotgun around and clutched it with both hands, his face turning deadly serious.

“There’s no place for personal vendettas on my team, soldier,” Duke said sternly.

Flint scowled.  “Guess I’m on my own, then,” he said, spinning and walking towards the door.  Duke grasped his shoulder with a tight, iron grasp.

“But…” he said as Flint turned slightly.  “I think this time I can make an exception.”  He smirked and Flint returned the slight smile.

“All right, now that everyone has kissed and made up,” Claymore interrupted, walking past them and glaring out the slot in the door.  “There are still six different Vipers out here.  Any ideas what to do about that?”

Flint pushed him aside slightly and pressed his own face against the door.  The HEAT Viper and Incinerator stood just across from the door, leaning against the smooth concrete wall, chatting inaudibly to each other.  Flint strained his neck and further down the hall the other four were gathered, two Frag Vipers and two Vipers, all standing guard with automatics at the ready.

“Well, the dangerous ones are right out here,” he said, gesturing.  “I can take them out in seconds.”

“Will this help?” Beachhead asked, kneeling down by the fallen Interrogator.  He produced a nine-millimeter Beretta from a holster strapped to his thigh.  He moved slightly and the pistol flew through the air, and Duke snatched it effortlessly.

“You draw their fire, and I’ll take out the other four,” he said, cocking the pistol and checking the clip for ammo.

“Easy for you to say, Sarge,” Flint joked.

“So, you just going to prance on out there and brazen this whole thing right out?” Claymore asked, shaking his head slightly.

“This guy doesn’t know me too well, huh, Duke?” Flint said, smirking his familiar smirk.  He patted Claymore on the shoulder.  “My man, ‘brazen’ is my middle name.”  He winked and strolled to the door, adjusting the shotgun yet again.  He unlocked the thick metal door and swung it open slightly, then tossed it closed.  Duke caught it on the way back and held it shut, so that it appeared locked.

“Hey, guys?” The ‘Trooper’ asked, strolling calmly across the hall.  “You got a squeegee or something?  Gulag made a nasty mess in there,” he jerked his head back to indicate.

“Piss off, little man,” the HEAT Viper grumbled.  “Go find a Mop-Viper or something.”  He and the Incinerator chuckled to each other as Flint continued his walk forward.

“That’s all right.  There’s going to be a bigger mess anyway.” The shotgun rose up almost of its own accord, taking both men completely by surprise.  The first shot exploded in the small confines of the hallway, plowing into the HEAT Viper at point blank range.  Sparks flew from metal on metal body armor contact, but the cloth part of his uniform was shredded by the gunshot.  He flew back under a flurry of sparks and crimson, striking the wall with a sickening thud, and then falling to the ground.  Flint had the weapon pumped before he even hit the wall, then swiveled and ripped another shot off, this time directly into the Incinerator’s red tinged face-plate.  Glass shattered and flesh tore as the flame-thrower dropped to the floor.  Everything suddenly switched to slow motion as it often did in the middle of intense close quarter combat.  The Joe in disguise spun and dropped as the four Vipers opened up with their machine guns down the hall.  In this heightened sense of awareness, Flint could almost see the bullets whipping through the air and tearing into the concrete walls, sending orange sparks dancing and throwing tiny chunks of concrete throughout the hallway.  Flint dropped to one knee as he yanked the pump on the shotgun, bullets streaming just over his head.  The prison door whipped open, with Duke just behind it, the nine-millimeter clutched firmly in his right hand.  The First Sergeant squinted through his swollen face, raised his arm and hauled back on the trigger.  The pistol whipped back with every shot, but Duke’s grasp kept it level and aimed at the small group of Cobras.  A Frag Viper appeared in the center of the triangular sight picture and Duke pounded a pair of shots into the center of his mass, tossing him back as if his muscles were loose elastic.  Flint leaped to his left as a barrage of gunfire ripped clumps of concrete floor from their foundation and whipped them up into the air.  One of the Vipers broke off from the group and dashed to his left, his arm extending towards a small silver box attached to the wall.  Flint’s eyes narrowed and he saw the keypad quite clearly from where he stood. 

“Sorry, Chum…this is a private party.  No friends allowed!”  Remaining on one knee, he lifted the shotgun into a more comfortable firing position and squeezed off another shot, the thin cylindrical weapon blasting back in his grasp.  A large cloud of smoke rolled from the barrel of the weapon and the Viper stumbled as he ran, then fell to the ground and rolled to an awkward stop against the wall.  Duke pulled himself quickly back around the thick door and winced as slugs slammed against it with dull metal clangs.  He could feel the impacts against his back as the bullets bore down on the thick prison door.  He lowered himself to one knee and suddenly rolled out from behind the door, pistol firmly clenched between two tight fists.  With skillful grace, he rolled up onto a single knee and leveled the Beretta.  It took the two Cobras a short while to adjust to his new location, which was all the time Duke needed.  With a succession of well-aimed trigger pulls, the nine-millimeter was swiftly emptied into the two snakes, and they dropped, letting their weapons clatter to the cement floor.  The Sergeant’s hands throbbed slightly after the rapid kickback it had suffered from the powerful handgun, but the hallway was clear and at least for the moment, they were free men.

“Clear!” He shouted.

“Clear!” Flint repeated.  The six remaining Joe slowly exited the cell, walking carefully, but looking oddly naked with no firearms.

“We have to find our gear!” Claymore shouted, his eyes darting around.  Duke finally realized that as good as Claymore was, inside an urban area, he was slightly out of his element.  The jungle was his home.

“Works for me…sooner I get out of this snake skin the better,” Flint muttered, casting a disgusted look down at the uniform he wore.  The hallway they were in was long and wide for about a hundred yards, then narrowed to a normal looking corridor.  There were two more cell doors on the left hand wall before the room became slender again.  “The storage lockers are down this hall.  I stashed my own gear there, and I’m pretty sure that’s where they took your stuff, too,” Flint said, and pointed towards the narrow corridor.

Duke halted him for a second.  “Hey, is this the only detention cell?” Duke asked, looking around. 

“Couldn’t tell you,” Flint said.  “Didn’t get much chance to check out the whole place.  I’ve only been here about twelve hours or so.”

“We’re missing some boys,” Duke said, gesturing towards the cells.  “I don’t plan on going anywhere until we make sure they’re not here.”

Flint nodded understandably and tossed Duke a key ring that hung from his belt.  “Came with the suit,” he said, half joking.  The First Sergeant caught it out of midair and jogged to the next cell.  Flint went on slightly ahead, covering them with his shotgun.  Duke squinted into the slot on the door and his heart skipped when he saw the body inside.  It was curled up and shirtless, looking thin, but not unhealthy.  Medical tape was wound around his ribs several times and a large bandage was strapped to his right side.  He wore the familiar black pants of the elite Navy SEALs, and Duke smiled.  The legs stirred slightly, bare feet curling and uncurling.  With a twist, the field commander unlocked the door and swung it open, followed closely by the rest of the team.  Flint stayed outside, shotgun in hand. 

“Soldier?” Duke asked, walking closer.  The smell inside the cell was not pleasant, but he was not fazed.  With a groan the prisoner rolled over, and his face lit up slightly.

“D…Duke?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.  He sat up with a start.  “What the hell--?”

“Wet Suit!” Duke shouted happily when he finally saw his boy’s face.  He helped the SEAL Team Leader into a comfortable sitting position.  “Glad to see you’re living and breathing, troop!”

Wet Suit’s head hung low.  “I’m the only one, Top,” he said in a low whisper.

Duke’s brow furrowed.  “What was that, son?” he asked.

Wet Suit lifted his head, the unmistakable look of loss written on his pale face.  “Team One…all gone, Duke.  All of them.  Tracker, too.”

“Damn!” Duke shouted, standing and punching at the wall.  His hopes had risen when he saw the lone prisoner.  He had just assumed the other troopers were in the neighboring cell.  He took a calming breath as Wet Suit continued.

“I d…don’t know what Cobra’s got going on this island, Top…g…ghosts…they move without sound.  Invisible to detection.  Freaky stuff, Duke.  Not natural.”

“That’s all right, kid,” Duke said, kneeling back down beside the SEAL.  He wasn’t sure why he called him ‘kid’…Wet Suit was a seasoned soldier and one of the elite badmen of the Navy SEALs.  Still, all of his troopers were ‘kid’ to him.  “It’s not your fault, Wet Suit, all right?  Shake it off, man, we’re going to get you out of here.”

Wet Suit smiled and glanced up at the troops in front of him.  They were all smiling and glad to see their old buddy.

“Long time no see, soldier,” Claymore said with a nod.

“You, too, Claymore.”

Duke stood and shook his head.  “You know this guy, Wet Suit?” he jabbed a thumb in Claymore’s direction.

“Sure.  We were on a Special Mission together awhile back.  In Brazil…”

“Hold up, kid.  Don’t know as that’s declassified yet.” Claymore said, pulling his finger over his lips.

Duke sighed.  “All right guys, we have to start searching for supplies.  Wet Suit needs a stretcher, and we have to get a good route out—“

“With all due respect, sir,” Wet Suit interrupted, standing.

“What?” Duke asked, turning around.

“I said, with all due respect, sir, I can walk just fine, I can sneak even better, and if one of you yahoos would stop gabbin’ and grab me a firearm I’d show you that I can still shoot, too.”  His face was stern and dead serious, and Duke’s eyes grew wide over his red, puffy cheeks.

“Whatever you boys are doing here, I mean to help you do it.  To hell with the stretcher.”

“Well, son,” Duke said with a grin.  “If I was wondering about your mental or physical health before, I’m not wondering now.  That’s the Wet Suit we all know and love.” Duke extended his hand and the Navy SEAL clasped it enthusiastically.  “Beachhead will fill you in,” Duke continued, as the Army Ranger strode forward to greet one of the guys he joined up with.  The First Sergeant led the troops from the cell and cocked his head as he saw Flint at the door to the next cell.  His mouth was moving and he seemed to be engaged in conversation with the inhabitant.  Duke signaled to the others to remain there and quickly strode to the next door.

“Duke,” Flint said as he approached.  “I think this guy might be helpful.”

Duke peered into the slot and drew his head back suddenly.  “Are you nuts?  He’s a Cobra,”

“Please,” pleaded the prisoner inside in an almost meek voice.  “At least hear me out.”

Duke looked in again at the young man in the blue camouflage fatigues.  His shirt was torn, almost shredded, and his chest was streaked with jagged, red scars.  His pants were blue and black camouflage and he was barefoot.  He was not wearing a mask or helmet, but the red Cobra sigil was slightly visible on the torn and ripped shirt.  Duke glanced around to make sure no one was approaching.  “Spill it, snake, but make it quick.”

The man’s eyes were open wide and pleading.  “P…please…you must help me!  I joined Cobra with my brother and two of our friends.” He stopped and coughed, surpressing his emotions.  “We joined the helicopter squadron…Rotor-Vipers…we never signed up for this!”

“I’ve heard enough,” Duke said, turning.

“No!  They’re dead!  My brother…our friends…all dead.”

Duke spun back around.

“Dave was my best friend from high school…Cobra Commander had him gunned down in cold blood.  The mission had been successful…why?” he buried his head in his hands and shook for a moment.

“Hey, kid!” Duke shouted.  “Pull yourself together…what do you want?  We are running out of time.”

“My o…my own brother…they tortured him.  He c…he couldn’t hold out.  I’m the only one left.”  He seemed to snap together and lifted his head.  “Please!  I know the layout like the back of my hand!  I can help…I want to help.”

Duke shifted uncomfortably and glanced at his watch.  Sweat ran down the side of his red face, which was now turning a slight purple twinge from the abuse.  “Fine, kid.  You want in, you’re in,” he said, motioning to Flint.  The Joe moved in and swiftly unlocked the door, and the young Rotor-Viper practically ran out into the hall, his bare feet slapping at the concrete floor.  Duke placed a calming hand on his chest.  “There are conditions, kid,” he said sternly.  The Cobra nodded his head.

“Anything!”

“You’re on point,” Duke said.  “No matter what, you lead the way.  That way if you lead us into an ambush, you take the first bullet.  And if we suspect you of anything, we can shoot you in the back.  Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the young Cobra said happily, his salty tears already drying on his young face.

Duke motioned to the other Joes and they all approached.  He then turned to the Cobra helicopter pilot.  “All right, pal.  First stop, the storage lockers.  You first.”

“You got it,” he said, and led them off down the hall towards their weapons, and towards the heart of the base.

 

 

 

There was no sound in the low valley, as the fires roared and raged in the wet, dark night.  Gung Ho blinked rapidly and shook his head, but all he heard was a dim buzzing…a shrill humming rocking his brain and threatening to tear his ear drum from its home, deep inside his head.  The rain continued to slam the ground, accompanied by the rocking thunder and streaks of white lightning.  As powerful as the rain was, the fires still raged, reaching up to the heavens as if trying to smother the rain before it killed them.  Deep craters were scattered along the wet, muddy surface, and a thick, smoldering cloud covered everything the eye could see.  Fortunately, the flames had illuminated the night, so everything was not plunged in darkness, but that was of little comfort, because all Gung Ho could see was smashed GI Joe vehicles and members of his team strewn along the trail.  The Mauler worried him the most.  It was burning, charred wreckage, unrecognizable as a tank, only a hunk of scrap metal.  Bazooka had been right next to it when it had been struck, and Gung Ho had seen no movement since.  He wasn’t even sure how long it had been.  Seconds, minutes…hours?  He could honestly not tell.  At least Cover Girl had made it out with the Wolverine.  He was certain she’d escaped the fire zone, but had no clue where she was now.  Besides, the missile racks were empty, what could she possibly do?  The Marine remained on his stomach, not wanting to move.  Outback lay sprawled in the wet mud, his limbs bent at awkward angles, and a crater mere feet from his body.  Clutch leaned against a tree, several feet away, sheltered from the artillery that had rained from above, but was currently not moving.  Gung Ho twisted his neck over to the right and saw Bullhorn lying there, apparently unharmed.  He didn’t move or speak, but the Marine had not seen him hit.  Fiery debris lay strewn all over, even yards away from the site of the shelling, and Gung Ho was quite concerned, because none of his other troops were visible or making any noise.  The Wolverine was gone, the Mauler smashed, and the AWE Striker was reduced to a smoldering pile.  His hearing was clearing slightly, the flames crackling and roaring, sparking and chattering with the contact from the falling rain.  The mixture of rain and flames thickened the smoke even more, flooding the valley between the volcano and the trees with a thick, choking smog.

“Bullhorn?” he half shouted at the still figure that lay not too far away.  He stirred slightly and turned his head.

“Gung Ho?” he replied, shuffling on his stomach slightly.

“Yeah, buddy…hold, up, I’ll be right over.  I think it’s clear.”  He jumped to his feet and walked over to Bullhorn, who picked himself up off the ground as well.  There was a crash of thunder, so loud it almost shook the ground.  Gung Ho would have merely dismissed it with the crazy weather, but the shrill whistle in the air alerted him.

“Down, Bullhorn, down!” they both threw themselves to the ground just as a yellow blur whipped overhead and struck the treeline with a cloud of smoke and earth shattering blast.  Charred timber and flaming wood leaped into the air and flopped down onto the wet earth, smoldering from the impact.  Another crushing blow followed, this one to their left, then another one yards away from Gung Ho.  The night echoed with the explosions, but then faded again into silence.

“Are we just going to sit here?” Bullhorn asked, obviously annoyed.

“No way.  We’ve got buddies in rough shape out there.  My priorities are with them.”

“Understood.”  Bullhorn shuffled on his stomach closer to the squad leader, and they were now only a few feet apart.  “Where are Zap and Airtight?  Or Repeater?  Are all of them okay?”

“I don’t know, Bullhorn.  What I do know, is that we need cover and we need it now.”  He made a sideways gesture with his bald head, towards the rows of smashed HISS Tanks.  “I say we break for them.  Once we get shelter behind there, we should be all right.  It should at least give us a better vantage point.  Besides, their ammo can’t last forever, right?”

Bullhorn shrugged.  “I hope not.  I counted six of them before we dove for cover.  Maybe Hit & Run and Alpine—“

“We can’t count on them.  We’ve got to play this like we’re the only ones left.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No time like the present, son.  Up and at ‘em!” he shouted and jumped to his feet, then was off like a shot.  Bullhorn was not far behind.  The volley started immediately, pounding the ground where they lay, and drilling deep craters in the soft ground.  With deep, thunderous blasts, the very earth shook under their feet as they ran.  The HISSes seemed so far away, but they were drawing closer…closer...The shot hit within ten feet of the two men and rocked the earth like a small asteroid.  Gung Ho found himself suddenly airborne, with Bullhorn flailing next to him, with complete and utter loss of control over their entire bodies.  Smoke followed them up into the air, and they found themselves hurtling to the ground amidst clumps of smoldering earth and flaming rocks.  The impact was not deadly, but Gung Ho’s breath burst in his lungs, and his back seared with pain.  Bullhorn landed on his left shoulder and simply crumpled into a boneless pile of gel.  The Marine looked up into the dark, stormy sky and saw his attackers for the first time.  Bullhorn was right, there were six of them, embedded in the very volcano.  The blue steel gun pods were angled up at almost ninety degrees and the twin barrels oozed smoke into the already rainy, smoky air.  All six of them swiveled on their bases, and Gung Ho could almost feel the targeting sights on his chest.  Where they had been lying before, there was little light and lots of ground clutter.  The ASPs had been unable to pick them out until they moved.  Now they lay right out in the open, near the collection of flaming tanks, and the ASPs no longer had to wait for movement.  It was a free fire zone, and Gung Ho had a monster bull’s-eye right on his chest.  His eyes pressed shut as he anticipated oblivion and the roar of the ASP cannon made him tense when he heard it.  There was a bright flash, even visible behind his tightly shut eyes, and an explosion, but it seemed so far away.  The Marine pried open his eyes just a little and smiled widely when he saw the spectacle.  The ASP nearest the top of the mountain swiveled on its base and roared off another shot.  A second ASP, nearest to the bottom was hit and jerked wildly, then fell from its perch, tossing and tumbling down the steep slope.  Gung Ho’s eyes widened.  The lead ASP was taking all the other gun pods out, one by one.  The two remaining Assault System Pods whirled their barrels around, honing in on the ASP that sat perched near the top.  Before they could fire, the top ASP launched another volley, cutting clean through the right hand pod.  As the top half of the ASP flew into freefall and exploded in a bright flash against the unforgiving earth, the other simply exploded, even though the last ASP had not fired at it.  The explosion was from within, and bloomed outward like a yellow and orange flower, dropping blue shrapnel and chunks of metal down with the pouring rain.  Gung Ho ran over to Bullhorn who lay at a strange angle, but was still breathing normally, and swiped the goggles from his belt.  He placed them securely over his face and smiled broadly when he saw Hit & Run doing the same, with a green camouflaged arm waving in the wind.  He was climbing out of the top ASP, and Gung Ho could see a Rock Viper hanging out of the cockpit, his arms dangling.  The Marine shifted his vision down and to the left at the ASP that had exploded spontaneously, and saw Alpine rappelling down from the ledge, his automatic slung over his shoulder.  Minutes later, they were on ground and greeted by a relieved Marine squad leader.  They both looked around in confusion.

“Where the heck is everyone?” Alpine asked, scoping the surroundings.

“We all dove for cover when the bombing started.  I haven’t tracked everyone down yet, but six eyes are better than two, c’mon!”  The three Joes combed the path, the treeline and the area around the towering volcano.  Within half an hour, everyone was accounted for, with one exception.

“Where’s ‘Zooka?” Alpine asked, looking around with some nervousness.

Gung Ho placed a reassuring hand on the mountain climber’s shoulder.  “He was right next to the Mauler when it got it…I don’t think his chances are good.  Even if he is alive, there’s no way we can dig him out of that heap of metal.”

“We’re just going to write him off?” Alpine asked, visibly irritated.

“No…but we have to wait for Hawk to get here.  Right now, our duty is to these men,” he cast a hand towards the row of Joes that lay there before them.  The fires had died somewhat, but there was enough light to see what serious condition the Joe team was in.  Bullhorn sat on the left, his left arm hastily wrapped in a makeshift sling.  Lifeline adjusted it slightly, and then turned to Gung Ho.

“Everyone is accounted for except Bazooka, Gung Ho, and none of them are dead…yet.” The word was said with disturbing certainty.  “Bullhorn has a severely dislocated shoulder and some superficial burns.  Spearhead…” he continued, moving his attention to the next man lying there, who was still quite conscious and aware.  “Spearhead is still hanging in there, but will need an evac ASAP.  Outback is quite the worse for wear.” He gestured to the man who lay there in the t-shirt and camouflage pants.  The normal wording on the shirt was torn away, revealing his bare chest, and some nasty looking bruising.  His long orange hair was slightly matted with a dried substance, and his eyes were non-responsive.  “He appears to have a concussion and seems to have been struck in the chest with a large hunk of shrapnel.  There are most likely some internal injuries, the severity of which I cannot discern without serious medical attention.  If he is not airlifted from this island by morning, this man is dead.” It was a solid factual account…said without hesitation or question.  An unusual tone of voice for a medic.  His eyes were solid and unwavering, but his lip quivered ever so slightly.

“As long as that radar is active, no plane is getting in here or out of here, Lifeline.  You know that,” Gung Ho replied.

“Well, hopefully that gives the infiltration team plenty of time to get it done.  Let’s all hope they can do it.”

“They’ll do it,” said Clutch scowling and cracking his knuckles.  A thin red streak ran down his forehead.

“Are you going to let me check that out?” Lifeline asked, standing and reaching for Clutch’s head.

“No,” Clutch said, pulling away.  “Worry about the guys who really need your help.”

“All right, boys…here’s the plan.  Lifeline, Bullhorn, Outback, Spearhead, Clutch, Repeater, Airtight and Alpine.  I want you guys staying here.  Whoever’s healthy work at digging away that Mauler any chance you get.” He turned to the other men standing behind him.  “Zap and Hit & Run, you guys are coming with me.”

“Where are you going?” Repeater asked, hoisting up his stedi-cam and locking it into position on his right hip.

“We’ve still got a mission, boys.  I mean to keep going.”

“No vehicles?  Three troops?  Through a wall of HISS Tanks and Stingers?  You been eating your own gumbo again, Gung Ho?” Alpine asked, smirking.

“We’ve just gotta clear the path, troop.  As soon as the radar’s down, we call in the reserves.”

“Hawk’s already an hour overdue, Gung Ho,” said Airtight.  “Perhaps there are no reserves.”

“Spoken like a true soldier, Airtight!  Well, then…we cross that bridge when we come to it.  But we are on a strict timeline, people.  Are you with me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“I thought so.  Hit & Run…Zap…Let’s move out!”