CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Skirmish

 

 

 

 

 

The thrashing, slamming rains, soaked through the air itself.  Howling wind blistered the earth with its whipping abusive force driving the slick drops down at a sharp angle.  The formerly dry sand broke apart underneath the barrage and shimmered, then melted into churning brown water and thick rolling mud.  Visibility through the downpour was limited at best, and the cold, harsh rain rendered the Night Viper’s scopes all but useless.  They struggled to filter out the shockingly chilly surroundings, but still only registered as wavy blue/green warbles rippling through the sensitive equipment.

“Nothing, NV-14, nothing at all,” the Night Viper reported, halting in the thick, muddy ground.

“Destro wants a report.”  The lead Night Viper turned to the three fellow night warfare experts that joined him in this small patrol. 

“Even in this storm, human heat signatures would show.  They must have regrouped,” NV-7 replied.  He turned his head back towards the path they had just walked up.  It was a straight passage from the edge of the volcano.  The tree line started not fifty feet to the south and to the north; the volcano wall had given way to an open expanse of land.  He looked back where they were heading, back towards Cobra Central…towards the “Cluster”.  It was named for a small grouping of buildings near the center of Cobra Island, which formerly served as the command center for the whole Cobra organization.  Now it was merely a concrete and dirt/gravel graveyard, the only significantly undamaged building the concrete bunker-like Citadel.  The large stone god, peering over its land with a single bay window eye, making sure all was well.  All was not well tonight…and it would only get worse.  Even in daylight and sunshine, the Citadel was not quite visible from this far away, but the Night Viper could picture it clearly in his mind’s eye.  Ahead of him, the path continued on its flat crest for a few feet, and then drove steeply downward to a small clearing about one mile east of the Cluster.  He could also picture in his head the HISS formation coming together at the edge of central command.  Destro’s intimidating visage glaring over his tanks, leading the group to certain victory.  That raised his confidence level a great deal, although with Cobra at a fraction of its strength, he still wasn’t so sure.  When The Commander had begun shipping off the personnel and armaments, no one was particularly concerned.  They were all sure there was some kind of plan…some kind of reasoning; although now, they were all fairly uncertain of what even the near future might hold.  But Cobra Commander had a knack for pulling things together and so far, the attackers had indeed been stopped cold.  Colder than a dead fish.  The Night Viper had even heard that eight of them had been captured.  With a wrinkled twist, he smirked behind the faceplate, content in the realization that there was nothing to fear from these attackers.  Nothing that they could not handle.  Everything was tightly under control.

“Well, Fourteen,” the Night Viper said, “I think they have been contained.  We have lost contact with the ASPs, but there are no heat signatures for the next two klicks.  It could just be the storm.”

“Very well, Seven.  I will let you give Destro that little report, all right?”

Seven nodded somewhat stiffly.

“Let’s move out.”

The four Night Vipers collected themselves and spun around, then began climbing the slight incline, walking in low crouches, heads scanning and weapons trained.

Gung Ho slowly lowered the night vision goggles as he was violently pelted with the falling raindrops.  The four silhouettes slowly wandered from view, his eyes squinting tightly to try and adjust to the dull darkness of night shrouded by rain clouds.  With a low grunt, he picked himself up from his laying position, his muscles moving sluggishly underneath the thick soaked layers of cool mud that covered his entire body.  Just to his right, Hit & Run peeled himself from the mud as if crawling from a shallow grave; his green uniform plastered with chunky gray/brown clumps of dripping earth.  His knuckles were whitened underneath the pale green flesh paint with the tight grip of his AR-15 assault rifle.  Zap rose just behind the other two, wet mud sliding from the LAW rocket launcher strapped to his arced back.  He also held an assault rifle in both hands, and his eyes squinted from the visor built into his dull gray helmet.  Gung Ho signaled the two other men to proceed ahead with him as they had done for the past two miles.  Following the Night Vipers had proven less difficult than originally thought, seeing as how the small patrol had stuck to the tree line and had to progress slowly through the thick woods.  Two miles of crouch walking and low crawling through the mud had been somewhat exhausting and Gung Ho was actually quite pleased when he saw the crest up ahead, knowing that it would make for a perfect vantage point for the troops they were following.  With a swift signal, he and his two teammates had double-timed it to the base of the slope, the horrendous rainstorm covering the sounds of their feet slapping through the loose, muddy soil.  They had buried themselves mere moments before the Night Vipers had stopped and turned, looking out from the highest point of the once dirt path.  The cold mud had done its job well, completely masking their body heat from thermal sensors.  Lying in the thick ground had also guaranteed their immobility so motion and radar failed to detect them as well.  Now with the rain thrashing down around them and the wet mud splashing up from their thudding boots, the three Joes rushed forward, assault rifles at the ready.  The four Cobras hit the edge of the crest and continued down the other side, their ears drowned out by the wild storm around them.  Gung Ho skidded to a quick halt and lifted his M-16/203 combination rifle to his squinting eye.  The faintest sliver of moon cast an eerie glow over the terrain and a light blur of movement flashed above the triangular sight above the long, slender barrel.  The rifle barked loud and long, riddling the dark night with sporadic flashes of illumination.  The butt drove hard into the Marine’s curled, muscular shoulder as his weapon exploded to life and sent the Viper flying clumsily forward, somersaulting end over end through the wet mud of the downward slope.  The other three Cobras spun with the abrupt noise and swiftly returned fire, sending the Joes scattering and dropping.  Hit & Run and Zap dashed ahead of the momentarily stopped Gung Ho, their guns lifting.  The light infantryman dropped to one knee, while the AR-15 jumped up into position and the gun quickly roared with an angry scream, spewing bright light and smoke from its thin black barrel.  Another Night Viper flew from his feet and tumbled backwards out of sight.  With sudden quickness, the two remaining Cobras ducked and ran, vanishing down from the top of the hill.

“Shoot!” shouted Gung Ho.  The small team had reacted much more quickly than he had anticipated.  “If those boys get within communication range, the whistle is officially blown!”  He waved his arm forward as he lurched to his feet and the other two Joes followed closely behind.  Long-range communication on the island had been severely compromised due to Blackout’s radar interference and the cooperation of Mother Nature, who was assaulting the island with driving rain.  Small groups of different roving Cobras were necessary to feed Cobra Central the information and intelligence they needed.  As far as central command was concerned, at the moment the Joes were halted and being bombarded at the volcano.  Gung Ho didn’t want them thinking any differently.  With hurtling speed, especially over the chunky, hard to navigate muddy ground, the Joes hit the flat top of the hill and proceeded quickly downward, their feet skidding slightly on the wet, slippery surface of the path.  Cloud cover carried in by the strong gulf winds moved in without warning and the night was bathed in an inky darkness, almost completely obscuring the Joes’ much needed night vision.  The path continued down into blackness, swallowed by the deep, dark night.  Gung Ho could vaguely make out a clearing of some kind at the bottom of the hill, but it was quite impossible to tell what lay beyond.  Visions of a platoon of night Vipers waiting in ambush paraded through his active brain and he slowed the progress to a light jog.

“Slow it up, Joes,” he said seriously.  “This is ambush central---.” His voice had barely trailed off when the pitch-blackness of night was completely vaporized.  The dark sky colored curtain tore apart like tissue paper as white-hot light exploded around them.  Five pairs of too-large, bright squinting eyes blinked open in the clearing, slamming the Joes with an almost physical impact.  Gung Ho cursed as he backpedaled, then spun and ran, Hit & Run and Zap close on his heels.  Even before they reached the halfway point of the hill, the beasts’ voices joined their twin piercing halogen eyes.  A low, throaty growl rumbled deep in the once dark night, all five merging into one shuddering roar of anger.  The yellow light eyes shook violently with the power of the grumbling engines and the growl went from deep to shrill, to a high pitched whine as the quintet of motors obliterated the silence with their deafening bellow.  The five HIgh Speed Sentries lurched forward in the loose, wet soil, their treads struggling to find a solid footing even as the Joes continued their upward progress.  Mud sprayed in wide arcs behind the black tanks as they hurtled forward, slipping across the rolling waters that were once solid ground.  The first HISS spun wildly to the right, but then caught hold and pressed forward, leading the small group up the slippery slope.  They moved slowly, desperately groping for solid ground up the steep incline.

“Snakes led us straight into a HISS nest!” shouted Gung Ho, his legs pumping fiercely, dragging his massive frame up the seemingly impossibly steep slope.  Sheets of rain pounded their moving bodies as they ran, framed by a bath of halogen-produced light roaring behind them.  Zap skidded to a halt, his LAW almost jumping off his shoulder and into his ready hands, the HISS tanks bearing down on the three Joes.

“Zap!” Gung Ho shouted.  “No time to be a hero!”

“Hero nothing!” Zap shouted as he lifted the gray cylinder up onto his shoulder, the viewfinder pressing against his thin visor on his helmet.  “I’m just saving my own skin!”  The LAW roared with a shuddering slam, the round barrel thrashing back on Zap’s shoulder.  Bright light and licks of flame blasted from the end, and a winding trail of gray smoke chased the orange streak of the rocket that sliced cleanly through the air.  Zap had already spun back around and continued up the hill as a brilliant pounding of brightness and smoke swallowed the lead HISS, throwing it off course and tumbling down the slope it had desperately been trying to climb.  It bounced away from the group and the four remaining tanks continued their lumbering ascent.  Zap let the launcher bounce back against his back in the strap, realizing that he had no time to reload another missile to fire again.  The mud coursed from the three men’s bodies, washed by the falling rain as they drove their feet into the deep mud, struggling towards the peak of the hill.  Thunder shook the skies above, and before it faded the tanks let loose with a barrage of thunder of their own.  Two pairs of barrels shook and screamed, blasts of orange flame and gray smoke belching from them.  The Joes threw themselves roughly to the wet mud, the large bore rounds whizzing over their heads as they rolled.  Another pair of shots echoed in the night and a large chunk of ground erupted from the earth as if vomited.  Smoke shot in the air as HISS rounds hit just to their right.  The Joes scrambled forward until the stumbled to a rest on the flat crest of the hill.  They were safe for a moment, their pursuers’ headlights beaming up into the night sky as the tanks continued the steep climb.  At the angle they were at, it was impossible for the turrets to lower enough to shoot them, but the tanks were pressing on and there was little time to waste.

“Zap, load up another rocket!” Gung Ho shouted as he unslung his black rifle.

“We making a stand here, amigo?” Zap asked, checking the digital readout on the cylindrical rocket launcher as he slid a thin, silver missile from his chest into the LAW.

“No way!” Gung Ho shouted.  “I just want to be ready.  Right now, we run like scared little girls!”  He pointed down the slope, back towards the volcano.  The HISS tanks barreled up the hill behind them, their lights growing in fierce intensity.  As the engines’ roar tore through the Joes, they drew their respective breaths, tensed and dashed down the slick slope. The dark of night swallowed them once more as they plunged down the steep decline, leaving the bright beams of light plowing through the late night sky.  The engines’ growl had faded somewhat, but now bellowed back to life as the tanks pushed a little more to reach the apex of the hill.  Gung Ho glanced back, the ‘203 clutched tightly in his arms and his breath even tighter in his lungs.  The rain still drove down in buckets and the three Joes were now almost completely clean of the once chunky mud that clung to the surface of their skin and uniforms.  The Marine squad leader squinted as the tanks pitched swiftly back downward and continued the pursuit, the Joes once again caught like deer in their powerful headlights.  As soon as the figures appeared in the light, the cannons blazed, eight large flashes brightening the night sky.  The turrets were still slightly too elevated and the bulk of the barrage blew craters in the soft earth a few yards ahead of the running soldiers.  The rear HISS got a lucky shot and shells plowed into the ground hot on Hit & Run’s heels and the ground opened up like a fresh wound.  Clumps of dirt, rocks and shrapnel spun and flew in all directions, the force of the blast throwing all three men into uncontrolled spins.  The Joes tumbled roughly forward, completely out of control and found themselves rolling end over end through the mud and wet soil.  The surroundings swirled together as if they were in the worlds’ largest clothes dryer, as ground became sky and vice versa, mud flying and thunder rocking in their ears.  The tanks continued their relentless pursuit, roaring down towards the hapless soldiers as they bounced clumsily down the hill and came to an uncomfortable stop at the bottom.  Hit & Run tried to climb to his feet, his head swimming and ears ringing.  Everything around him blended together into a nightmarish vision of muck, black sky and piercing, soulless lights.  His rifle clung loosely to his fingers just barely as he stood on shaky knees and prepared to run from the four metal beasts that pursued him.  As he stood Gung Ho and Zap stumbled to their feet as well, each one still grasping their precious weapons as fire continued to rain down, tearing trenches in the earth and blowing rocks into so many jagged pebbles.  The three soldiers lurched forward, but the noise halted them.  Deafening roars assaulted them from all sides and angles, but now a new sound arose.  A new, slightly different grumbling, vibrating through their auditory canals, but coming from a different direction.  And at a different pitch.  It was a wild, shaking, piercing shout that seemed to shake the ground itself as it bore down on them.  From the other side.  Gung Ho tried to shake the cobwebs loose, but the growl continued as a large dark shape lumbered towards them from the direction of the volcano, sliding over the earth with incredible speed, especially considering the state of the mushy ground.  The Joes stumbled back, clawing for whatever cover they could find as this new threat approached, its growl increasing in vicious ferocity, hitting with such power that a strong wind seemed to emit from it, slamming into the three soldiers.  The tanks dropped into rough formation behind the Joes, their turrets adjusting for maximum impact.  But the three Joes were oblivious, their sights locked tightly on the dark, ominous shape looming before them.  It halted and seemed to float there, considering its options.  Then, consideration was over, and it opened fire.

 

 

Destro sat proudly in the turret of the HISS, his piercing eyes glaring over his squadron, about a dozen jet black tanks, ready and waiting for action.  Far off in the distance, the low growl of combat sounded.  Multiple thundering roars of cannon fire, and the occasional light chatter of small arms.  It was almost a comfortable sound.

“Any word from the Night Vipers?” the voice echoed in his steel mask.

“No, Baroness,” he replied simply, moving his head slowly back and forth to take in the land in front of him.  The valley was large and open in front of the Cluster, which was scattered about behind him and to the south.  The Citadel sat proudly above the other broken down buildings, which scattered the landscape mostly south of the Citadel, but a few in the valley itself.  A large rock formation jutted up into the air behind the bunker-like fortress, reaching up towards the sky, a desperate young mountain yearning to grow large and looming like it elder brethren.  Machine gun nests were also scattered along the valley, some using sandbags and others utilizing the broken down remnants of buildings and constructs.  ASPs had been somewhat hastily set up around the front perimeter of the valley, which faced to the east and to a large, sloping hill that ran down from the path between the tree line and the volcano.  The trees cut a sharp ninety-degree angle and opened up into the valley as well, almost like a green leafed picket fence surrounding the concrete, humorless abode.  A light pound of thunder roared in the sky, but he couldn’t tell if it was nature, or pure, unnatural manmade combat.

“Soon,” he said softly, unaware that he was softly patting the turret of the tank.  “Very soon.”

 

 

 

The sky split and crashed with thunder, in the skies, and on the island’s storm blasted surface.  With muffled shouts, the three Joes hurled themselves to the ground, holding their rifles beneath them and squinting their eyes tightly closed.  It was all happening so suddenly, and it appeared the only way to go was down.  The large monster in front of them seemed to fire from all places at once, huge blasts of orange and yellow streaks of missile fire.

Nothing to do thought Gung Ho, but put your head between your knees and kiss your butt good-bye.  Hie eyes pressed tightly together as the night air exploded with scorching heavy fire, artillery, and rockets.  The earth itself seemed to shake with the thunderous blows and Gung Ho tensed, preparing for his quick trip straight to oblivion underneath the stormy skies of Cobra Island. 

It quickly became evident, however, that the muscular Marine’s trip to oblivion would not be nearly as quick as he had thought.  The bright blasts of gun and missile fire tore through the air—

 

--and struck the HISS group head on.  Gung Ho felt the hot wind whoosh over his head and back.  He could only imagine the shell searing the air itself as it passed by.  The sharp diesel twang of rocket fuel expelled into exhaust flooded his olfactory senses.  However, the damage done to his sense of smell was nothing compared to the damage done to the quartet of jet-black Cobra tanks.  The lead tank crumpled like tin foil as a shell plowed into the cockpit and evaporated the person inside.  Streaking, swirling yellow flashes of missiles whistled through the air, puffy, whisping tails of smoke chasing them eagerly.  They collided with the two tanks on the left; a clang of metal on metal, a blinding flash, then the rush of smoke, and a splintering blast showered HISS pieces along the muddy path.  The last tank slammed on its brakes, but as it skidded slightly askew, another shell drove into the front treads demolishing them and sending the black hunk of metal tumbling.  It hit the ground with a resounding crash, forcefully ejecting the two occupants, who hit the ground clumsily, but amazingly enough crawled to their feet and began to return fire.  Orange tracers streaked through the black air and threw the two snakes to the wet ground like so much day old garbage.  They stumbled clumsily to the soft ground and lay still, the gunfire ceasing to a strange, lingering echo.  The silence was deafening.  Faint echoes of explosions and gunfire rippled through the air like waves, but other than the low rumble and hiss of the Joe’s unknown saviors, the night air was quiet once more.  Rain pattered down on the Joes lying sprawled along the path, their eyes uncertain, bodies filthy, and muscles sore.  Smoke lingered like a bar room, minutes after last call, the light crackle and hiss of fires being hit by rain a strange, soothing background.  Gung Ho stood shakily, his large, but tired muscles arguing considerably.  He scooped up his rifle from the wet mud and looked around, locking eyes with his other two teammates who rose to join him.  They stared uncertainly at the large shadow in front of them, and it glided slowly forward, now caught in the ambient light of burning tanks.

“Ahoy Land Lubbers!” the shout barked from atop the vehicle.

Gung Ho smiled even as sour rainwater beat down on his bald, dirty head.  “Cutter, you salty dog!” He shouted.  “About time you second stringers showed up!”

The Whale slipped into full view, its deep green hull and dark rubber bottom a sight for sore eyes.  It was a long and large vehicle, almost invisible against the dark blind of night, but Gung Ho had seen it enough times for his mind to fill in the blanks.  The angled bow, with a swinging door and Plexiglas windshield used for troop transport.  The twin .50 caliber heavy machine gun turrets nestled just beyond.  The command center was a small square cubicle perched right on top of the large hovercraft, protected only by a small metal wall and a ring of flimsy plexi around the top.  A missile launcher was neatly perched on each side of the command center, just in front of the large, powerful rotors, used to propel the massive all-purpose vehicle over sea or land.  To complete the wide array of armament, one extremely large bore artillery cannon sat on each side of the Whale, capable of rapid and quite destructive firepower.  Roadblock flashed a smirk to the Marine from one of the gun turrets, which smoked slightly after the tracers it had stitched across the chests of the Cobras.  Leatherneck was in the next turret, his moustache curled over the ever-present frown, underneath his thick mop of dark hair and camouflage cap.  Hawk vaulted smoothly down from his spot in the command center next to Cutter, hit the ground gracefully considering it was mostly mud, and strode over to the Marine.  The cargo door swung open as he did so, revealing the troops inside.  Hawk motioned to the hovercraft and Hit & Run and Zap proceeded inside, smiles wide on their faces.

“Sorry we’re late, troop,” Hawk said quite honestly.  “We had to make a slight detour to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.” He tossed his head towards the cargo door where Torpedo stood, solemn as always.  Just behind him sitting in the hold was Topside, his arm in a sling and a white bandage wrapped tightly around his head, just under the short cropped blonde hair.

“Figures,” Gung Ho said, with just the hint of a smile.  “Where’s my team?”

“We left them two klicks back, soldier.  The Wolverine is fully stocked and back there with them.”

“Sounds good, General.  Now with all due respect, let’s go pick them up, huh?”

“Read my mind, Gung Ho.”

The Marine filed into the cargo hold while his commanding officer hopped back up into the small cockpit and command center.  The Whale gunned its massive turbines, rose slightly on a cushion of air, spun and raced off into the night.

 

 

 

The side trip to the storage lockers had proceeded without interference and within moments, the ex-prisoners were fully locked and loaded.  Flint ditched his Cobra uniform and retrieved his familiar leather jacket, sleeves rolled up above the elbows, camouflage fatigues and beret.  He was now fully loaded, twin straps of shotgun shells running down over his chest and his shotgun clutched firmly in hand.  Wet Suit had salvaged most of his SEAL uniform and appropriated two MP5’s for his use.  Everyone else merely grabbed all of their original equipment and all the ammunition they could carry.  The hallway was still slick and smooth and large, leading down away from the small alcove that had hid the lockers.  It ran for about a hundred yards, and then branched out into a larger, more cavernous passageway through the underground fortress.  There were no more doors present, the arcing hallway feeding forward like an artery pumping fluid to its large computer controlled heart. The Cobra prisoner tapped Duke lightly on the shoulder as they shuffled forward, their footsteps almost inaudible even in the echoing hallway.  The First Sergeant spun slowly, his face still somewhat distrusting towards their newfound comrade.  The young man had re-equipped himself as well, wearing dark blue Cobra fatigues and the round helmet over his neatly cropped dark hair.  His face was not masked, and appeared harmless, but his familiar enemy appearance still made the Joes uneasy.  He had an AK-47 taken from the locker slung over one shoulder and looked very much like the Cobra troopers Duke had been tangling with since he first met the infamous terrorist group.  The story he told was convincing, and enough to lead anyone to believe his intentions were good and he surely wanted revenge on his former employer…but trust was something that had to be earned, especially for a supposedly ex Cobra agent.  Duke knew that a change of heart was possible even for a terrorist.  Numerous missions with a top secret Joe agent named Mercer had convinced him of that.  If Mercer could leave a high-ranking position in the Viper corps and join the Joe forces, then surely this young man was capable of the slightest need for revenge.  Still, his men’s safety was the Sergeant’s number one concern, and that concern dictated that he proceed with this relationship with the utmost caution.  He held up a motionless hand and the column of Joes stopped.  Flanking Duke and the Rotor Viper was Flint, Falcon and Stalker, and then Beachhead, Muskrat, Recondo and Claymore followed closely behind by the somewhat limping, but quite capable Ripcord and Wet Suit bringing up the rear.  Duke looked at his troops through swollen eyes, his face still marked by Gulag’s punishing blows, but covered with a confident, assured calmness.

“What’s the deal, kid?” Duke asked the Rotor Viper, who was squinting up ahead where the hallway branched out.  They spoke in hushed, quiet whispers, and the young Cobra directed them all in closer.

“Guard change happens in a few minutes,” he whispered, glancing at his watch.  “There are single guards posted on each side of the hallway, but we must take them out before the night shift comes, which will increase the presence dramatically.”

Duke cocked his head at the young man, who appeared quite well adjusted and capable of making tough decisions on the fly.  What made a kid like this join up with Cobra?  Duke couldn’t tell, but was pretty sure that he would have made an excellent soldier. 

“All right,” the Sergeant said quietly.  “Any volunteers?” he asked, glancing around the small group.  Everyone began to raise hands, but Stalker spoke out first, slapping Beachhead in the chest as he did.  “Let us do it, Top.” He said, determination in his eye.

“How’s the shoulder, Stalker?” Duke asked motioning to the bandage still wrapped around the Army Ranger’s large muscular arm.

“Don’t worry yourself about it,” Stalker said grimly and moved on, Beachhead close behind.  They walked uncomfortably close to the ground, their feet shuffling skillfully and noiselessly over the hard concrete floor.  Machine guns slapped against their backs as they walked, strapped securely over their broad torsos.

“Rangers lead the way,” Stalker said with a wink and nod.  Beachhead smiled underneath his green knit mask and gave a thumbs up.  They continued the brisk walk down the wall swiftly and silently, and then pressed their backs up against opposite walls, letting their weapons slide down to their sides.  Each man’s expertly trained eyes scoped the large hallway cutting through the belly of Cobra Island, each way leading to who knew where.  One Viper stood perched at each side of the entrance just as promised.  The florescent lights rippled over their silver faceplates and deep, blue helmets.  These two particular Vipers appeared quite formidable, their muscles bulging under tight fitting blue fatigues and their black and red flack vests almost popping from the strain of their huge, barrel chests.  A long, slender gray machine gun was gripped in each one’s hands, one hand on each of the two handles, the long round barrel pointed to the floor.  A small grenade launcher was attached to the under side of the barrel, and a thin scope ran along the top of the magazine.  Seeing as how they were merely on guard duty, they wore no backpacks and stood flush with the wall on each side of the hallway’s intersection.  Stalker inched ever closer, as did his Army Ranger partner across the hall.  The Vipers were a mere foot away, around the corner, their heavy, echoed breathing audible underneath the round, reflective masks.  The man in the beret held up three fingers, stiff and straight, his eyes flicking just to the left to make sure they weren’t spotted.  Beachhead tensed his muscles as the fingers shot up, curling his arms and bending slightly at the knees.  Stalker did the same as he dropped down to two fingers, and then left just his index sitting straight.  In one fluid motion he yanked in the last finger, clenched his fist and moved.  With green-brown blurs of motion they went into furious Army Ranger action.  Stalker spun around the corner lightning quick, wrapping his large camouflaged arms around the unsuspecting Viper’s head.  With a twist, he yanked the trooper around the corner and stepped into his range of motion, making a firearm useless.  As he drew the Viper in close, he threw his knee forward and drilled it deep into the Cobra’s gut, doubling him over fiercely.  As he went down, Stalker wrapped his arm around his neck, and then jerked suddenly and with finality, the crack muffling under his armpit.  The Ranger released his grip and the corpse dropped to the floor with a dull thump.  Beachhead dropped low and moved in swiftly, then drove up suddenly into his opponent’s armpit and whipped around, flipping him effortlessly over one shoulder.  The Cobra trooper slammed into the concrete floor, the masked Ranger following closely behind, his elbow pounding into his sternum as he hit.  A muffled pop echoed through the hall, and both Vipers lay sprawled on the floor, not moving.  It had taken scant seconds.  While the Rangers unstrapped their own weapons, the other Joes moved in while the Rotor Viper broke off to check out the hall.  Stalker rotated his shoulder, wincing slightly and ignoring the disapproving look Duke gave him before he and Flint left to join the Cobra in the hallway.  They glanced around, seeing the hallway branch off in two opposite directions.  Another hallway veered off directly across from them, and to their right the large, cavernous passage seemed to disappear into the shadows.  Off to the left, it circled around and led somewhere; a place that gave off lots of light and where Duke could hear a bustle of activity, even from this far away.

“The Command Center is that way,” the Rotor Viper instructed, pointing towards the left.  “If you want to take out the radar, that’s the way to go.”

“What about that?” Flint asked, stabbing a finger towards the hall across the way.

“Training room and laboratory.  Trust me, this is the way,” he gestured slightly as he lifted his AK-47 and headed off.

“You heard the man,” Duke said to the other Joes, nodding towards the left-hand side.  He turned himself, but was only halfway around when the sudden, loud voice pounded through the corridor, catching everyone by surprise.

“HEY!”

Duke finished spinning around, but wished he hadn’t as he spotted the group of Vipers running around the corner towards their left, weapons at the ready.

“Cover!” Duke shouted as the main hall erupted in wild gunfire.  The soldiers scrambled for the floor as bullets roared through the large hall, sending orange and yellow sparks dancing across the walls, spewing chunks of concrete and miniature plumes of smoke.  The floor blasted apart under the assault, geysers of floor shooting up into the air, licking at Rotor Viper’s heels as he dove for cover.

“We need backup!” the lead Viper shouted as the man next to him was thrown against the wall under a hail of return fire.  “Seal the Command Center!  NOW!” he shouted back around the corner as he lifted his own rifle to his shoulder and pumped out a thunderous barrage, shell casings spinning over the cement floor.  A deep rumble sent the hallway shuddering and the tell tale scraping of reinforced concrete grating across metal reverberated through the corridor.  The light shining from around the corner began to dim, little by little.

“No!” Shouted the Rotor Viper.  “If that door shuts we have no access to the Command Center!”

Duke scowled as he whipped around the corner, rattled off some return fire, then ducked back around as the wall broke apart, sending metal and plaster chips skidding over his red tinted flesh.  He winced as the smoke stung his eyes, but opened his mouth to bark orders anyway.  “Then we have to move now, Joes!”

Muskrat slammed the pump back on his automatic shotgun and roared off a blast, the long black weapon jumping in his tight grip, shell casings dancing along the smooth floor.  The Joe swamp fighter dove as return fire shredded the cloud of smoke lingering in the air just above his head.  “Are we feeling suicidal today, Top?” he asked, pressing a hand against his head to keep his treasured green boonie hat firmly on his light colored hared head.  He sat up, pressing his back against the wall, sweat running in branching rivers down his scowling face.

“That’s why we get the big bucks!” Recondo shouted and charged into the fray, his own shotgun pounding loud, sharp cracks in the hallway.  Vipers scrambled frantically.

“Speak for yourself!  I’m not being paid jack!” Flint barked as he jumped forward, then rolled smoothly under a blast of fire.  With swift grace, he rolled back up into a crouch and roared off a group of shots with his large bore weapon.

Duke shook his head but smirked in spite of himself, drew a deep breath, lifted his weapon and charged into the belly of the beast.

 

 

 

Cobra Commander shot up in his throne when the gunfire erupted through the complex, sounding far too close for his comfort.

“What is going on here?” he demanded, the two Immortals immediately coming to him, blocking him from the gaping entrance of the command center where the gunfire echoed.  Snakebite cocked his shotgun and glared into the large, echoing hallway.  Suddenly Vipers from all over the center scrambled to action, running frantically towards the entrance as the call for backup echoed through the large, computer filled room.

“This is intolerable!  Who are these buffoons?” he screamed, glaring out into the hallway.  Gunfire ripped through the hall, sparks flying and smoke spiraling from spent shells and pounded bullet holes.  “Snakebite, where is Destro?” the Commander demanded angrily.

“You sent him out to lead the HISS squadron, Commander.”

“What about The Baroness?  Scrap Iron?  Overlord for crying out loud?”

“They’re all occupied, Commander.  Things are happening all over the island.”

“Blast!” Cobra Commander shouted throwing his arms into the air.  “Do I have to do everything myself?”

In the hall, a Viper grunted and skidded across the floor under a barrage of gunfire.  With a low rumble, the thick, concrete door began to crawl down its tracks to seal off the Command Center.

“Perhaps we should relocate, Commander?” Zartan asked, coming up behind the broad shouldered man in the royal blue uniform.  He held an automatic in his right hand, his white eyes squinting out from under his hood.

“Don’t be preposterous!  Things are perfectly safe here.  The door will be shut soon, and I have you to protect me, yes?” he smiled broadly under the flowing cloth hood.

“Of course, Commander, although I think we should send reinforcements to the motor pool to ensure that…the ‘delivery’ goes off without a hitch.”

Cobra Commander seemed to ponder this statement for a few moments.  “Very well, Zartan.  Collect a handful of troops and go do that for me.  Snakebite and the Immortals can handle my safety.”

“As you command,” Zartan said with a nod then turned and left.  Cobra Commander sighed and moved back to his throne, glaring out into the hall where Vipers flooded in under a constant hail of fire.  The large door had only moved mere inches, but The Commander smiled broadly, enjoying the show.

“I think Zartan had a point, sir,” Snakebite said, the slightest bit of concern in his normally emotionless, metallic voice.  “This location appears to be somewhat unsafe.”

The Commander glanced around at the monitors spread around the command center.  A number of Vipers, Techno Vipers, Tele Vipers and Cyber Vipers still littered the center, all glued to their respective screens and areas.

“Balderdash, Snakebite.  I couldn’t be safer here.  Please…I’m enjoying the show,” he said, motioning to the hallway.  Three Vipers were now strewn along the floor and another was hunched against the far wall, a wet stain dripping above him, leaving a dark trail to where he lay.

“Very well,” Snakebite said, lowering his shotgun, but not moving from his leader’s side.  Slowly, the door continued its decent.

 

 

 

The Whale slid into the clearing at the base of the volcano, its turbines growling, and the slightest hiss of expelled air coming from the rubber raft it rode on.  The clearing looked much like Gung Ho left it, although it was now more visible, being illuminated by several powerful halogen lamps set up around the perimeter.  The Mauler still lay in rubble by the volcano, a group of Joes standing by, desperately trying to free the man trapped inside.  The Wolverine sat at an angle near the entrance to the clearing, it’s massive missile racks pointed out towards the path.  At the sound of the approaching vehicle, the RAM purred lightly from the treeline and skidded to a slow halt, Bullhorn hopping off and slinging his large rifle over his somewhat tensed and bandaged shoulder.  Cover Girl dropped from her familiar treaded vehicle and approached the all-purpose hovercraft as it eased to a stop and slid open the cargo door.  The rain had let up somewhat, the various fires were doused, but thick, acrid smoke still hung in the air, and the destruction was downright shocking.  Even more so that no Joe lives had yet been claimed.  Faded moonlight also added to the halogen light, casting the terrain in an eerie glow, which helped visibility, but increased the spookiness of this nighttime insertion.  Gung Ho glanced over to the crumpled Mauler where half a dozen Joes struggled with heavy, thick armor plating, trying desperately to free a friend they could only hope was still alive.

“How’s it going?” Gung Ho asked, glancing at Bullhorn.

“Not good.  All the light work is done, but there’s a couple real heavy pieces which are still pinning him.”

“Sitrep, Bullhorn?” Hawk asked, walking up from behind Gung Ho.

“Bazooka is still trapped, sir,” Bullhorn replied, giving an abbreviated and informal situation report.  “We need some more hands.”

“Um…excuse me,” a small voice asked from behind the group.  “Where is it?” Blackout asked coming into view.  His eyes and nose were invisible under the reflective silver helmet he wore, but his mouth twitched nervously.  His arms fidgeted under the red insulated, quilted uniform he wore, but his black and yellow legs stood stock-still. 

“Over there,” Gung Ho said wearily, pointing to the smoldering tank.

Blackout’s silver helmeted head nodded and he plucked an equally silver object from a strap on one thigh.

“What’s that?” the Marine asked, following the young new blood.

“It’s a self-igniting acetylene torch.  With the push of a button, a searing blue flame shoots out.  Can be used for welding, and should be hot enough to slice through armor plate.”  He halted himself as he realized that Gung Ho was staring at him somewhat blankly.  “I never leave home without it,” he finished with a light chuckle.

“Hmmm,” Gung Ho said softly, eyeing the new kid behind his back.  Maybe there was a spot on the Joe team for an electronics and engineering expert.

Alpine and Airtight each held an end of the thick, tan charred hunk of armor plate that lay at a forty-five degree angle over other melted, crumpled chunks of metal.  A single brown boot rested on the ground a few feet from the debris, the only sign that someone was underneath.  They wrenched and yanked, groaning and straining, but the piece did not budge.

“Can I get in here?” Blackout asked politely as he approached the Mauler wreck, the torch clutched firmly in his hand.  His thumb pressed down on the ignition switch and with a low poof, white-blue flame shot from the torch like a searing knife blade.  It rippled slightly, and then held shape, a thin, piercing cone of pure scorching heat.  The two men stepped cautiously back as Blackout plunged the sword of flame into the thick armor.  Sparks whooshed over the new Joe’s tense body, smoke and flame shooting in bursts in all directions.  The flame cut cleanly through the thick plate and minutes later the massive chunk split and fell apart with a squealing tear, revealing a pile of smaller and lighter debris.  The Joes dug furiously, tossing metal plate and chunks of armor across the ground.  Alpine groaned as he lifted a somewhat heavy piece, but his face lit up when he saw the mustached man looking up at him.  His hair was singed and streaks of blood smeared across his face, but he opened his eyes and groaned slightly.

“A…about time.  I was getting b…bored down here.”

Alpine signaled to Lifeline who dashed over and assessed the tank driver’s condition.  Besides a broken leg, some injured ribs, and a scattering of first and second degree burns, all injuries were superficial.  Alpine tried to hide his joy, but was failing miserably.  The Joes were all gathered around, regrouping and assessing injuries and mental states of being.  Seizing the opportunity, Hawk walked up and loudly cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen,” he said loudly and seriously.  “As I am sure you have noticed, things have been far from smooth going so far.” His voice was solid and confident, and the men nodded slowly as he spoke.  “However, that is in no way going to inhibit our ability to complete this mission.  We must coordinate our assault with the assumption that the Strike Team has failed in their mission to drop the radar umbrella.”

“We’re going to combat assault the whole population of Cobra Island?” Repeater asked, his large bore heavy machine gun dangling from his right hip.  “With all due respect, General, we have barely a platoon of troops and only three major sources of armament.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Repeater.  Unfortunately, the choice has already been made.  It’s in our hands.  The wavelength weapon must be stopped and there’s no one to do it except us.”

“Boy, does that sound familiar,” said Leatherneck rolling his eyes slightly.

Hawk straightened up slightly, the seriousness of the situation settling into his chiseled features.  “Men, we are faced with a situation most dire tonight.  By this time, Cobra knows they have been invaded, and if our Strike Team has failed, then they know who has invaded them.  Cobra Commander will not hesitate to set this plan into action before we can stop him.”  Hawk turned and looked into each one of his men’s eyes, squinting slightly under the glare of the lights.  “Cobra has got us on the ropes.  More so than I can ever remember…but one thing to remember is that a cornered man fights the hardest, and that is what we must do.  We have already been dealt a serious blow.  Our country’s leader has paid the ultimate price…seven of us may be captured or worse.  We are outnumbered, outgunned, and out manned.”  Each point was brought home with a soft tap of his fist in his open, bare hand.  His eyes narrowed underneath his green helmet, and his motions rustled underneath the dark bomber jacket he wore.  “But we must remember.  Cobra is relatively blind at this point.  This storm has significantly deterred their communications network, which allows us some measure of freedom.  Besides, if we think we’re on the ropes, than undoubtedly, Cobra Commander thinks we’re beaten.  We are not beaten, gentlemen.  Quite far from it.”  Hawk’s voice was rising slightly and all eyes were glued to their leader.  “I see before me forty of the most capable, well trained soldiers I have ever had the pleasure of serving with.  If anyone on this planet is capable of pulling off a mission this difficult…this downright hairy…it is you.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the words sinking in to the group of soldiers before him.  “Any questions?” he asked with a stern gaze.

Repeater raised his hand swiftly.

“Yes, trooper?” Hawk asked nodding at the machine gunner.

“When do we start, sir?” he asked, his round face twisting into a confident grin.

Hawk returned the smirk.  “Things have already started, Repeater.  It’s up to us to finish it.  For good.” His eyes narrowed even further.  A deadly serious, determined glare.  “Cover Girl, you Zap and Repeater, get on The Wolverine.  Bullhorn you’ve got the RAM…Bazooka, Topside you two man the turrets on The Whale.  Lifeline, get the wounded loaded on the hovercraft…and the rest of you mount up!  It’s time to kick some butt and take some names!” He shouted pulling the chinstrap tight under his green helmet.

“YO JOE!”

 

 

 

 

A free fire zone was deadly and dangerous in any environment, but in this enclosed hallway, it was on the verge of suicidal.  The small group of four Vipers had quickly grown to a dozen and the large hallway now seemed to contain more lead than air.  Duke charged forward, his assault rifle clutched and aimed, an endless pounding of sparks and bullets slamming from the barrel.  The main hall was straight from right to left, then curved around to the right again, making somewhat of an ‘S’ shape.  Vipers were flooding from the Command Center and fired relentlessly at the Joe as they dashed forward, desperate to make it to the Command Center before the groaning, scraping reinforced concrete door could slide shut.  Duke glanced to his left as he dropped and slid right to avoid a grouping of return fire from the three Vipers directly ahead of him.  Just to his left Flint, Falcon, and Ripcord were pressed up against the near wall, firing erratically into the crowd of Cobra troops.  The Vipers were strewn across the ground in various uncomfortable poses, but as of yet, no Joes had been hit.  Thank God for them little miracles Duke thought as he crouch-ran to the rounded section of wall where the corridor wound around to go to the Command Center.  Stalker, Beachhead, Claymore and Recondo were there already, grasping cover wherever they could find it.  Muskrat crouched further back, down on one knee, almost out of the visual range of the Vipers.  Wet Suit was directly behind him, loading more clips into his twin MP5’s.  Bullets screamed through the center of the hallway, tearing a path in the air that the Joes dared not cross, but time was running out.  The door was slow, that much Duke had surmised, but if they didn’t advance quickly, it would seal them off from their goal.  The whole mission was riding on this, and their lives were inconsequential compared to the potential deaths on the North American seashore.  With a deep breath, he slammed a new clip into his automatic and plunged forward, hauling down on the trigger.  A pair of Vipers went spinning under the initial burst, one thrown harshly backwards and sent sliding along the floor, and the second caught it in the upper chest like a football tackle and tumbled awkwardly before lying still.  The remaining group of Cobra troops all spun, their weapons trained on the First Sergeant.  Duke tensed as he spent the rest of his clip, the rifle pumping in his sweaty grasp.  A sharp report came from his left as he dodged and weaved and he twisted, seeing Muskrat run forward, his shotgun roaring.  He’s drawing fire! Duke’s mind immediately snapped.

“Muskrat, don’t—“ before he could get out the rest of the sentence, a heavy thump pounded into his chest, high up, near his collarbone.  White-hot pain exploded at the point of impact, and then seemed to flood the entire rest of his body with violent waves and ripples of dull ache.  Suddenly his legs wouldn’t work, and he found himself flat on his back, his eyes squinting under the harsh white florescent light.  There was a strange, sticky wetness floating around his body, and darkness seeped into his field of vision, before he finally blacked out.

“Duke’s down, Duke’s down!” shouted Muskrat, skidding to a swift halt.  He spun and ran to his fallen buddy, but the Vipers adjusted their aim first and blasted away at the swamp fighter.  Muskrat was hit in the shoulder first and sent spinning wildly before the next shot plowed into his right side into his ribcage.  Thick, dark blood flew like a hunk of chewing tobacco and Muskrat grunted before sliding to a rough halt next to his leader.

“Damn!” screamed Stalker, pumping another clip into his M-16.  “Two men down!  Who’s our acting medic?” he asked, leaning out and pumping a few rounds at the Vipers.

“Muskrat was!” replied Recondo as he blasted off another shotgun round.

Stalker shook his head, and perked his ears, listening for the sound of the door.  Sure enough it was still grinding, which meant they still had hope.

“Stalker!” the shout came from behind him, and he turned to see Wet Suit jogging up, both hands holding MP5’s.  “Let me give you some cover fire.  Give the signal to the guys across the way, and we’ll catch them in crossfire.  Someone’s got to get access to the Command Center.”

“Agreed.” Stalker looked over to the other group, which was now joined by the Rotor Viper, who had hung back to reload.  Now he was up on the front lines, his AK-47 spurting lead at men who had been his teammates just weeks before.  Lieutenant Falcon was now the Squad Leader, but Stalker didn’t think he’s mind the Ranger taking over.  In the Joes, experience often meant more than rank, and Stalker had that in spades.  Besides, over the past few years, Stalker’s rank had been pushed up some, and even though he still wasn’t quite a Lieutenant, there was no reason why he couldn’t be acting squad leader.  He scooped a clip from his web belt and reloaded his M-16.  Someone had to get access.  That someone was now him.  He signaled over to Flint, Falcon and Ripcord, indicating the plan of action.  They looked uncertain, but nodded agreement.  Stalker pressed his eye to the starlight scope on his M-16, and cocked it, loading the bullets quickly into the magazine.  Sporadic fire blasted from the six remaining Vipers, who stood buried in deep cover behind the walls.  The Ranger glanced over to his two fallen buddies who were leaking significant amounts of bodily fluid onto the concrete floor.

“Ready?” Stalker asked Wet Suit and he nodded.  “Go!  Go!  Go!” he shouted and the Joes moved in.  Ripcord swung around his two teammates and peppered the Cobras with small arms fire, dropping one immediately.  Flint and Falcon charged forward, ripping with their shotguns and sent another snake stumbling backwards.  The other four shifted aim, drew a bead, but suddenly Wet Suit ran forward, his arms extended, MP5’s clutched tight in each fist.  He snarled angrily as the weapons cut loose, bucking wildly in the loose grip of the Navy SEAL.  Shell casings spun wildly through the air, raining down on him as he ran, pounding away with the silenced automatics.  Another Viper was tossed from his stance like a rag doll and hit the back wall with a wet thump, then slid to the floor.  Unfortunately, Wet Suit’s hands could not physically keep the weapons straight and the remaining bursts spewed all over the walls and ceiling of the hallway, but still accomplished their purpose, which was driving the Cobra troopers for cover.  As they moved, the rest of the Joes moved in.  Beachhead emptied a clip into a Viper, and ran forward, but a sudden impact threw him violently back.  The bullet pounded him directly in the chest with the impact of a half a dozen jackhammers.  His feet slipped and flew into the air as he was thrown roughly backwards, his back slamming into the hard, unforgiving floor.  Claymore slipped around the Ranger as he dropped and let loose with his Uzi, sending yet another Viper tumbling to the floor.  Stalker ran swiftly forward from his spot, not even paying attention to the last remaining Viper standing.  The trooper unleashed a barrage of gunfire at him, but his focus was directed on one thing and one thing only: the door that was slowly sliding shut, cutting them off from the Command Center.  The hallway wound around in almost a ninety degree angle, and Stalker could just barely see the doorway as the reinforced concrete barrier slid down, about four feet from the bottom.  He heard a grunt and saw the last Viper fall, but the focus of his attention remained on the door.  With expertly trained eyes, the Ranger scoped the whole door and area around it.  He couldn’t possibly cover the distance to the door quickly enough to slide under, and even if he did, he’d be trapped alone in a room full of Cobras.  But then he saw it.  A small control panel set into the wall, just to the left of the doorway.  He was about a hundred yards from it and had but seconds to take a shot, but all of a sudden, his mindset kicked in.  A soldier’s mindset created and honed through decades of combat.  Tweaked when you see a friend die, adjusted to make sure it doesn’t happen to you…it’s a state of being.  Sports announcers call it being in the “zone”.  Stalker wasn’t psyched about the terminology, but the meaning was accurate.  His boots skidded along the smooth floor as he dropped and stopped, his rifle coming up into his shoulder.  His body just stopped momentum when the scope pressed tightly to his right eye.  Vaguely, he heard voices shouting at him, screaming for him, but his attention was focused on the control panel, which now filled the crosshairs in his starlight scope.  He had no idea how far the door had slid shut, or if he was even in time, but he no longer cared, and just yanked back the trigger, his tight grip and firm shoulder keeping the large assault rifle trained on the small one foot square box.  Sparks pounded from the rifle as he hit the trigger, trails of thin, almost invisible smoke spiraling after the numerous bullets now hurtling through the air.  Similar sparks erupted from the control panel as Stalker emptied an entire clip into the section of wall, throwing small, harshly cut shreds of metal and wire sprinkling over the concrete ground.  His eyes closed as he lowered the rifle, praying to himself, his heart racing.  Finally, the mindset drifted away, and his senses worked in normal fashion again, and the first thing he heard…or didn’t hear, was the door sliding through its tracks.  It had stopped.  They did it.  He had done it.

“—Said look the hell out!” was the next thing he heard before he felt a body slam into him, throwing him clumsily across the slick floor.  A sudden flash of searing heat and the pungent smell of smoke attacked the Army Ranger’s senses and he noticed for the first time a small group of Cobra Incinerators escaping from the small slit between the bottom of the door and the floor.  So in tune with his mission had Stalker been, he hadn’t noticed the group of Cobra flame-throwers bearing down on them from the Command Center. He’d have been burned to a crisp if he hadn’t been tackled by…

Stalker looked up at the mustached man who crouched above him, slamming a clip into his Uzi. 

“Thanks, Claymore,” he said quietly as the mystery Joe jumped to his feet, his machine gun chattering.  He stumbled to his feet as the lead Incinerator adjusted the aim of his flame-thrower.  Orange death exploded from the large, round barrel, and Stalker dove out of the way, just as the whipping yellow tongues of flame skittered across the metal wall where he had been.  The whole corridor now felt like a blast furnace, the flame and smoke filling the Joes’ lungs and punishing their bodies.  Flint and Ripcord moved in, sliding smoothly around the rounded wall, and unloaded with their weapons, dropping two of the red and silver clad Cobra troops.  Wet Suit had tossed aside the MP5’s and now clutched a nine-millimeter Glock in his hands, holding tightly as he returned fire.  A tight grouping of shots blistered into the lead Incinerator’s red facemask, blasting chunks of silver helmet and red faceplate into the thick, smoky air.  He stumbled and collapsed with a muffled grunt, and the last Incinerator thought better of continuing the fight.  Turning to run, the Cobra did not get far as a short burst of fire exploded from Claymore’s Uzi and sent him hurtling forward.  He smacked into the door, which was closed to all of about three feet, then slid down and hit the floor with a thud.  It had felt like seconds, but the firefight had ended, at least for the moment, and silence settled into the hallway.  Gun smoke and the thick, sticky smoke of the flame-throwers still hung in the air like a pea soup fog, and Stalker whipped his head around, making a mental count of his men and the casualties.

“Wet Suit, you and the Rotor Viper just got elected to be our new medics, understood?”

The Navy SEAL started to object, but decided against it.  “Yes, sir.” He said, somewhat unsurely.

“You guys appropriate Muskrat’s med kit and see to those three right now.”

“Two, Stalker,” came a voice from behind him.  Stalker turned and Beachhead limped forward.

“Vest stopped the slug…I’m a little sore, but far from needing medical attention.”

“You’re lucky we need all the guns we can get.” Stalker said, somewhat harshly.  He crouched down and glanced under the thick, concrete door.  A defensive position was being set up quickly, but haphazardly.  He quick counted about six normal Vipers, and an assortment of specialty Vipers none of which were geared toward frontline combat.  Piece of cake, he thought to himself, until he noticed the guy in the Crimson Guard tunic.  He was big and bad and had metal arms, and he appeared to be directing the action.

“All right, boys,” Stalker said quickly, slamming another clip into his weapon.  “We’ve got a new Cobra bigwig in there…big guy in the Siegie shirt.  He’s the target, and then we smoke the radar, got it?”

“Yes, sir!” everyone replied.  Even Falcon. 

“Lieutenant Falcon, sir?” Stalker asked, looking at the camouflaged Green Beret.  “Do those orders suit you?”

“Stalker, I think you’re more than capable of handling this.  I defer squad leader to your discretion.”

  Stalker smiled as the other Joes loaded their weapons, determined looks on their faces.  The little crew looked the worse for wear, injured, bruised faces, smears of blood, minor scrapes.  But they were the dirtiest, the nastiest, and the best.

“Then let’s go!” Stalker waved his hand and they ran forward, towards the door, and towards a solid step to completing the mission.