CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

Out of Time

 

 

 

 

 

Cobra Commander leaned back in the ornate, red velvet throne as the persistent ruckus chatter of small arms fire grew nearer and louder.  His eyes twitched and darted under the deep blue hood, following the hectic motion and wild action going on just beyond the slowly sliding concrete barrier.  Several Vipers lay across the smooth ground, none of them moving, and he thought that for the first time, he had actually caught a glimpse of one of the attackers.  They were drawing closer…moving in.

“Commander, the Incinerators are ready to advance,” said Snakebite calmly, a small group of four of the Cobra flame-throwers standing at rigid attention behind him.  “And I think it is time you retreated to a safer location, my lord.”

Cobra Commander turned to face his security chief and personal bodyguard.  High pitched squeals and whines of ricocheting bullets tore through the large, cavernous, command room.  The door continued to ease toward the ground, and had now only left about four or five feet of view underneath.

“Very well,” The Commander said with a hiss.  “The view was getting terrible anyway.” He gestured towards the door as it slid downward, leaving only the bottom halves of the soldiers visible, along with the men scattered along the floor.  He slid from the throne, sighing softly as a resounding series of pounds shook the doorway.  With a shudder the door halted it’s movement right as the Incinerators slid underneath, flame-throwers in tight grasp.  The rush of flame, frantic shouts and barks of machine gun fire drowned out as the regal, hooded mastermind strode confidently towards a small indistinguishable panel on the wall of the large room.  Followed closely by the two Crimson Guard Immortals, Cobra Commander touched a section of wall, which released a sliding secret door, then disappeared into the black void left in the wall.  Snakebite walked over, hit another hidden switch and closed the door behind his leader.  He walked back over towards the throne where a group of half a dozen Vipers kneeled down facing the door, their large rifles perched and ready to fire.  The large, half metal man couldn’t help but gaze around the hustle and bustle of the Command Center, even now as attack was imminent.  There were four Tele Vipers manning their respective control panels, monitoring everything from short wave communication to radar and security of the installation.  They had never thought to post video cameras throughout the complex arteries of the underground fortress, something that Snakebite was now regretting.  The officer’s quarters, training room, and motor pool had them, but they just hadn’t had the time to string them along the prison route or near the storage lockers.  That mistake was now costing them dearly.  A small cluster of Techno Vipers and Cyber Vipers did busy work near all the complicated components, making sure everything was in working order and registering as it should.  They each had side arms strapped to their thighs, but were by no means crack shots.  It was up to this small group of Vipers to stop these insurgents; well a small group of Vipers and him.  He smiled broadly as he retrieved his pump action shotgun from the throne where he had left it.  Outside the door Incinerators lay in crumpled heaps, and he could see the last one falling to the floor, sliding against the massive concrete door, which had been halted mere feet from its secure resting spot.  Inside, Snakebite was happy about that; it had been a long few years, and the large robotic man had been yearning for some action.  Now that it had appeared, he was finally getting his wish.

“Come to me, Joes,” he hissed with a thick metallic twang.  He clenched his steel hand into a tight fist and pounded himself in his large, barrel shaped chest.  The metal on metal clang echoed throughout the quiet command room, as his eyes narrowed to dark slits on his melted, scarred face. 

 

 

 

Stalker dashed forward, the other men following close behind.  The last Incinerator had slid to the ground, and all that stood between the Strike Team and their mission goal was six Vipers and a big brute with a shotgun.  The guy had, for some reason, intimidated Stalker right off the bat, which was quite an accomplishment.  The grizzled Army Ranger was rarely intimidated by anything, but for some reason, this man’s twisted, gnarled visage; his almost inhuman size and those cold, steel arms drilled deep into Stalker’s psyche.  Not only that, but he must have known he was outgunned and outnumbered, but he stood there among the Vipers, no flak jacket, no cover.  Just stood there in the open, his dark eyes piercing the cool, stale air underneath Cobra Island.  Stalker planted his feet and slid slightly on the smooth floor, bending over at the waist.  With one motion, he swiped a small gray smoke grenade from his web gear, thumbed the pin swiftly out and chucked it underarm through the gap between the floor and the reinforced concrete door.  He regained his run, then planted himself back first against the door, his weapon held across his heaving chest.  The frantic shout echoed from behind the door as Vipers scattered for cover, and the rest of the Strike Team joined Stalker, back first, ready to rush in.  Claymore slammed himself against the door just to Stalker’s left, and Flint just to his right.  The others scattered along the concrete barrier, crouching down, ready to pounce.  The grenade detonated with a sharp BLAM reverberating through the enclosed area of the hallway and Command Center.  Shrapnel blistered the concrete door the Joes were flattened against and blasts of smoke rolled underneath, wrapping around their legs like frightened children.

“Go!”

It was one word; one jerking motion of his hand, and everyone ducked under the door and charged the Command Center.  Recondo was the first one under and in, moving swiftly through the thick, opaque cloud of smoke that rolled across the floor.  His trained eyes quickly spotted a flailing shadow and his shotgun roared once, clacked with the sound of the pump being jacked back, then roared again and the shadow ceased its flailing.  Falcon dropped to his knees and somersaulted under the door, the bitter taste of smoke filling his lungs instantly.  He forced the discomfort from his body and spun up into a crouch, his shotgun blasting as well.  Beachhead ended up just behind him and to his right, his assault rifle tearing a barrage of thin paths through the thick smog that lingered inside.  Another Viper hunched over, then flew backwards and hit the floor in an awkward back somersault.  Flint and Claymore rushed in as well, ending up side by side, each one letting loose with their weapons into the dark cloud that clung to every surface of the center.  The slick walls and smooth floors suddenly had handholds and the smoke was not letting go, flooding the area with noxious fumes.  Stalker and Ripcord were the two bringing up the rear, but hit the ground just seconds behind the others, rolling swiftly under the door and coming up into low crouches, firing into the cloud at the vague shapes contained within.  The Command Center was instantly flooded; first by noise and smoke, then by soldiers, and now finally, flooded with the deafening clatter and roaring blasts of automatic gunfire, which shredded the billowing cloud of smoke like razors through whipped cream.  Muffled shouts and grunts, accompanied by the thuds on the ground and the slight let off of return fire signaled the Joes’ quick and utter victory in one vicious, final assault.

“Clear!” shouted Stalker above the din, and lowered his weapon.

“Clear!” shouted Recondo.

“Clear!” Falcon remained in his crouch, his shotgun lifted and ready.

“Clear!” Ripcord was behind Stalker, with his large assault rifle planted in his shoulder and waving slightly back and forth.

“Clear!” Claymore and Flint shouted simultaneously, scanning the dark smoke, which was slowly filtering away, but did not see any movement.

“Clear!” Beachhead replied, crouch-walking slowly forward, his rifle trained on the smoke cloud as well.

“All right, boys, round up these prison—“ Stalker started to shout, but then the smoke parted in a rolling puff and a figure hurtled from it, shotgun firmly in hand.

Snakebite’s already twisted face was further twisted into a glare of hatred, rage, and just plain meanness as he plunged from the cloud of smoke, his pump action lifted at Stalker’s camouflaged chest.  Stalker’s eyes widened as the world shifted into sudden slow motion as it often did in the heat of battle; a life and death situation.  Smoke erupted from the barrel of the shotgun and seemed to ripple through the air, hanging on the tiny oxygen molecules in the air itself.  Sparks skipped through the smoke, as if running hand in hand with the cloud from the barrel, moving with it over the small distance towards the Joe squad leader.  Stalker dropped, his muscles feeling like molasses as he fell back and slightly to his right, the sparks and smoke and buckshot cutting through the air just as he dropped.  He swore he could count the pellets and the individual sparks as they crawled by, but his heightened senses in the heat of battle were most likely playing tricks on him.  As if by itself, Stalker’s modified M-16 with the starlight scope leaped up as he flailed to his right, the tiny orange licks of flame from the shotgun dancing across his back and shoulder.  With a slow motion deep grunt Stalker’s right shoulder pounded into the metal floor and his lips pursed, sending small particles of spittle spinning through the air.  He held the M-16 firmly in one hand, his arm straight like and arrow and he yanked back on the trigger as he hit the ground roughly, his lungs hacking on the smoke that still lingered in the air.  With an angry bark, the rifle jerked, threatening to jump from the Army Ranger’s tightly clutching hand.  Before the echo of the first shot had even died down, he pulled again and again, the weapon lurching each time.  Sparks much like the shotgun’s roared from the barrel and spun through the air, desperately trying to catch the tail of the 5.56 millimeter rounds, but failing miserably.  Miraculously Stalker managed to keep the powerful rifle directed at the large target in front of him, and just as Snakebite shifted his aim, the first shot blasted into him, striking right between the large silver Cobra emblem’s eyes.  A puff of gray smoke burst from his chest and a single yellow spark streaked into the air as the large Cobra in the Crimson Guard tunic stumbled back, grunting.  The second shot plowed into his chest again, a little to the left of the first shot and his shotgun flew from his hand as if by an invisible force.  Stumbling, he tried to maintain his balance, to defy the force of the bullets, but the third shot negated his slight momentum.  It drilled him in the chest again, striking him dead center, right in the sternum.  It hit with a deep, muffled plunk, and his eyes opened wide, unbelieving.  Finally he stumbled back more than he could compensate for, his back arching and his legs flailing.  A loud BANG echoed throughout the Command Center as the large man slammed back first onto the smooth metal floor, then finally and certainly, laid still, a trio of thin wisps of smoke crawling towards the ceiling from his red chest.

“Now we’re clear!” Stalker shouted, lying in a slight heap on the floor, supported only by his right shoulder.  His hand and arm throbbed with pain, his muscles straining under the force of the bucking weapon.  Sweat poured from under his dark beret and ran down his forehead and face, his eyes solid and unmoving.  Ripcord smirked through his still slightly swollen features and extended a hand, which the Ranger eagerly took, then lifted him to his feet.

“C’mon, old man, you can do it,” he said with a snicker.

Stalker put him down with a stern gaze.  “And you’ll always be a green blood, Ripcord.” He smirked finally as well, but then turned serious.  The other assorted Vipers all stood rigid at their posts as Recondo, Falcon and Claymore walked over to them, guns aiming straight at them.  Flint and Beachhead had the other side covered.  These Cobras looked like thinkers more than fighters, so Stalker wasn’t too worried.  He lifted his head and shouted, so everyone could hear.

“Under the auspices of the United States Government, I am placing you all under arrest!  Please lay down your weapons and surrender or we will be forced into further action!” He walked calmly over to the fallen Snakebite as the other Joes rounded up the prisoners and gathered them all together on the left side of the room, surrounding the radar screen.  A single Tele Viper remained seated at the screen and did not move.

“Okay, Snake…weapon down, hands up,” Falcon ordered, jabbing his shotgun firmly into the Tele Viper’s side.  The Tele Viper merely glanced up.

“Unlike the rest of these fools, I am devoted to the cause of Cobra,” he hissed, his face turning back to the radar.  “I know what you’re here to do, and the only way you’re getting to the radar is over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged,” Claymore replied harshly, walking forward, his hand digging for his Ka-Bar.

“For the glory of Cobra!” the Tele Viper shouted, stood, and drew his pistol quite unexpectedly.  Claymore dropped as the large handgun went off with a rapid series of sharp shots, which echoed throughout the cavernous Command Center.  Falcon, Flint and Beachhead simultaneously drew their weapons and fired, ripping through the renegade Tele Viper like a barrage of BB’s through wet tissue paper.  The Cobra Communications Officer thrashed and jerked, the bullets plowing through him and blasting away at the radar console behind him.  He lurched to his left, struck the chair he had been sitting in, grunted, then flopped to the floor, a pool of deep crimson already collecting under his prone body.

“You all right, Claymore?” Falcon asked, looking down at the man on the ground.

“Just dandy,” Claymore growled, standing.  “Feeling like a youngblood sucker, but no holes in me or anything.”

“Yeah, man, he roped you in, huh?” Beachhead said, chuckling.

“Drop it.” Claymore glared menacingly out of a pair of squinting eyes.  The other groups of Cobras stood stock still during the exchange, not wanting to get involved for fear of their lives.  They were devoted to the Cobra cause, but they wanted to live, and were certain that Cobra’s lawyers would have them free in no time.

“Everything under control here?” Ripcord asked as he strolled towards the men, Stalker still kneeling over Snakebite a on the other side of the room.

“Nothing to worry about kid,” Recondo said.

Stalker lowered his gaze from the miniature shootout and glared down at Snakebite, shaking his head.  There were three ragged bullet holes in his uniform, but only shredded uniform and black burn marks, no blood.  However, his chest was not moving, and he did not appear to be breathing.  The Joe kneeled down and placed two bare fingers against the Cobra’s neck, checking for a pulse.  He yanked the fingers away as soon as they touched, the flash beneath them cool and clammy; almost a disturbing feeling about it.  Much cooler than it should have been were he alive.  Snakebite’s eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling, no life visible in them, but no blood surrounding the body at all.  His deeply scarred and torn face actually looked somewhat peaceful, and Stalker almost felt a little bit of remorse as he placed his fingers on the man's eyelids to press them closed.

They didn’t move.

“What the--?” Stalker said quickly, pulling his fingers back just as the Cobra’s pupils darted over, staring directly into his eyes.

“Better get a bigger gun, Joe,” he snarled, his hand shooting out and wrapping around Stalker’s neck.  “Because I’m not DEAD YET!”  The Joe choked as the vice grip hand lifted him straight off the ground as Snakebite picked himself up from the floor and stood.  With a metallic grunt, he cocked his arm back and tossed the Joe effortlessly, sending him sprawling through the air, trying desperately to stop his progress.  He twisted in mid air and struck the large, velvet throne, now bullet riddled and broken.  The impact sent a vicious shock through his backbone as he struck the backrest harshly, his body twisting uncomfortably.  His momentum carried the throne over backwards and they both landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, the oak throne breaking apart and its pieces scattering along the floor underneath the fallen Ranger.

“Look out!” Ripcord shouted as he heard the impact and spun, seeing Snakebite back up on his feet.  He raised his rifle, but not before Snakebite armed himself as well.  In the blink of an eye, two massive .50 caliber Desert Eagles just seemed to appear in the Cobra’s hands, twin holsters on his thighs moving slightly with the swift action.

“No prisoners,” the Cobra said, his burnt and melted face snarling.  The pistols swiveled, his wrists interlocking to hold his aim straight.  Rapid gunshots exploded from the large handguns as they thrashed in Snakebite’s metal hands, but his strength kept them honed on their targets.  Shell casings arced high in the air as the shots rang out, large bore bullets whipping through the air.  The Joes hit the ground, raising their weapons, but soon found that they were not even the targets.  Off to their left, the small group of Cobras tried to scatter, but Snakebite was just too quick and had too good of an aim. The prisoner’s screams were drowned out by the loud shouts of the pistols, and even as their bodies jerked, shook and spasmed, Snakebite adjusted aim and dropped another one.  Then it was over.  The guns had roared for less than a minute until the clips were expended, and every would-be Cobra prisoner lay on the ground, not moving.  It had been a swift, sudden, vicious massacre.  The Joes hadn’t even had a chance to return fire.  But now, too little, too late, they finally did.  Claymore raised his Uzi first and blasted away, but Snakebite twisted and lifted his thick, steel arm.  Sparks spattered across his arm and torso, but he only stepped back and did not fall.  Shotguns roared and assault rifles opened fire, and the Cobra dropped to the ground, barely avoiding it.  In an instant he was over to the broken throne and had Stalker firmly in hand.

“Drop the weapons!” he screamed, hefting the Ranger high above his head.  The Joes had no choice.

“W—why?” asked Stalker in a wavering voice over the large red uniformed Cobra.  Snakebite stared up from under his beret.  His eyes glanced over to the fallen Cobra soldiers half a room away.

“No prisoners,” he hissed.  “We don’t want the good Commander’s plan reveled, do we?”

“We already know the plan!” Stalker shouted, his strength slowly returning as adrenaline pumped powerfully through his veins.

“You think you do,” Snakebite chuckled.  “Only he knows for sure.” He turned his attention back towards the Joes as he lowered the Ranger, and gripped his neck.  “Drop the weapons and kick them over here!” he screamed.  “I’ll pop his head like a zit!”

“D—don’t so it…” Stalker gasped, the air struggling in his tight lungs.

All eyes turned towards Flint, merely out of habit.  He looked around, assessing the situation.  “Do it,” he muttered, letting his own shotgun clatter to the ground.

“Fools,” Snakebite growled in his now too familiar twang.  Stalker thrashed around in his grasp, trying desperately to free himself.  Snakebite glared at the Joes across the room, his eyes focused and unmoving as they laid down their weapons.  Stalker thrashed wildly, his hands beating at his chests and Snakebite’s arms, and then rested, breathing heavily as the large Cobra did not budge.  His eyes moved from the Joes to Stalker and he grinned.  Stalker grinned back and raised his right arm, Ka-Bar firmly in his grip, swiftly plucked from his web gear as he thrashed around.  The Cobra’s eyes widened as the blade plunged downward in a tight arc and tore through the loose, clumpy flesh on the left side of Snakebite’s face.

“AGH!” the large man screamed and drew back, dropping the Ranger onto the hard floor.  Dark liquid seeped through his metal fingertips which he pressed to him mangled flesh.  “You DARE?” he screamed, his eyes wide and crazed.  His hands dropped and he lunged, growling deep in his metal throat.  Stalker backpedaled his mind searching, desperately thumbing through his mental index of Close Quarter Battle.  He shifted, grabbed Snakebite’s cold arm, then spun, sending the Cobra stumbling through the air until he went skidding face first on the floor.

“Thank you, Lifeline!” Stalker shouted, thinking about the Aikido classes that the GI Joe Medic had taught; Aikido-the art of using your opponent’s momentum against them.  If there was one thing that Snakebite had plenty of, it was momentum.  The Cobra rolled quickly over the floor, and then sprang to his feet, still snarling.  Stalker glanced over at the Joes, which were now gathered about twenty feet away from the radar console, which loomed about fifty feet behind Snakebite.  Stalker clenched his fists and narrowed his vision as the large Cobra leaped again.  Stalker jumped to the side, spun and swung around a swift, sweeping leg, clipping Snakebite in the ankles of his blue and red camouflage patterned pants.  He shouted and stumbled again, sprawling to the floor.  Snakebite slowly pulled himself to his feet and actually chuckled slightly.  Stalker cocked his head.

“Very good, Joe.  Textbook C.Q.B.  But, when fighting against me, there is no textbook.”  He flexed, the servos in his arm humming and whirring.  His fists clenched together with a metallic cranking.

“You know Close Quarter Battle, Snakeboy?” Stalker asked, backing up slightly.  “You a military man?”

Snakebite lunged, Stalker shifted, but the Cobra changed tactics and intercepted the Joe with a sledgehammer like blow to the chest.  The Ranger’s breath exploded from his puckered lips as he flew backwards and hit the floor, then somersaulted clumsily backwards and came to a rest some ten feet away.  His chest burned with every breath and his left shoulder had picked a fine time to start flaring in pain again.

 

“We have to do something!” Ripcord shouted from thirty feet away, running over to the weapons.

“Hold back, kid!” Falcon shouted, his hand going up.  “We’ve done our part…the radar is toast.  This is Stalker’s fight.  Besides, we don’t know what that guy’s made of, we don’t want small arms fire ricocheting all over the place with him right there.”

Ripcord frowned, but picked up a shotgun, which was the closest gun to them, anyway.

 

With a shout, Snakebite ran for the fallen Joe again, and Stalker just barely rolled out of the way as the Cobra went sprawling past him.  The Ranger moved in instantly, and just as Snakebite turned, he cocked his arm back and blistered his face with a deadly elbow.  The Cobra grunted and fell backwards, his nose splitting and deep red blood flowing from the broken flesh.

“Am I a military man?” Snakebite growled between deep breaths, trying to control his rage.  “I was, Joe…but no more, thanks to you and your kind!” he moved forward and before Stalker knew it, had him in his grip, then spun and tossed him like a toy through the thin, empty air.  The Joe’s stomach lurched as he spun haphazardly through the air, a good eight feet from the ground.  He tumbled softly, end over end, then hit the ground a good twenty feet away, twisting and softening the blow by landing on his right shoulder and rolling.  It did little to soften anything as it felt like his shoulder burst from its ball and socket before his spine pounded into the unforgiving floor.  To add insult to injury he skidded on his backside another good meter or so before slowing to a halt.  Snakebite strolled forward in no rush, his eyes boring deep into the Army Ranger, his mouth contorted into a rage-filled sneer.

“M—my kind?” Stalker asked in a ragged voice, his lip trembling and bleeding profusely.

“GI Joe…turned be down for instatement.  Said I was…unstable!” he growled, eager to tell his tale to the Joe before ending his life.

“You?  Unstable?  I…I can’t imagine,” Stalker said jokingly, but only enraged Snakebite further.  The Ranger felt himself lifted from the floor like a child.  An iron fist plowed into his chest and he flew from his feet again, almost feeling the wet snap of ribs inside his body.  He rolled to a stop several feet away, and groaned, trying to pick himself up on shaky arms.

“As if that wasn’t enough!” Snakebite was still shouting as he walked firmly forward, still glaring and sneering.  “Then you did this to me!” he waved a hand over his warped, ruined facial features.  He scooped up Stalker yet again and tossed him backward.  The Ranger’s rapid progress was halted by the large radar console, which drove deep into his spine and threw him roughly to the ground, smacking his forehead on the floor.

“Cobra saved my life, Joe,” Snakebite growled, lifting Stalker from the floor and pounding him into the console.  The complicated equipment and monitor screen were bullet riddled and sparks flew and scattered from the damage done.  Sparks and smoke washed over Stalker as he felt his vertebrae cracked into the equipment yet again.  His whole body screamed in pain as he held his weight up by shaky arms, blood mingling with sweat and coursing from his brow and over his twisted, beaten face.  Snakebite moved in.

 

“We can’t just sit here!” Ripcord screamed, charging forward.  He brought Falcon’s shotgun up into his shoulder and ran, trying to get in range of the large Cobra who had Stalker pinned.  The other Joes agreed and followed the paratrooper, their weapons raised and at the ready.

 

 

“Die!” shouted the large Cobra and plunged forward, his eyes wild with rage.  Stalker drew in a deep breath and lunged to one side, barely avoiding the impact.  Snakebite’s large metal arms drove into the radar console, ripping huge, jagged tears through the metal.  His hands and arms withdrew, exposed wires jumping and sparking, as he did so.  With swift rage he spun and lashed out, finally gripping the elusive Army Ranger’s neck in his tight steel grasp.  Stalker gasped and hacked as he felt his air leave his lungs, then his feet lifted from the floor, shaking back and forth, trying to get their balance on the thin air.

He drew Stalker in close, his breath hot and sour on the Joe’s skin.  “Now, Joe…I will show you what it means to be scarred for life.”

Stalker felt the air leaving his lungs with nothing he could do about it.

 

 

“Ripcord, don’t!” shouted Beachhead as the Joe prepared to fire.  He halted just in time as the two men spun around, leaving Stalker’s back to them and blocking Snakebite from their fire.  The Cobra stood between Stalker and the radar, and held the Ranger high in the air, snarling at him.  The paratrooper moved in closer, his eyes intent.  Stalker glanced back and spotted him, then thrashed, his eyes widening, and his hand reaching out.

“G…G…G—“ he stammered, his fingers twitching.  Ripcord looked curiously, not knowing what to do or what he wanted.  Snakebite was focused purely on Stalker, and was unaware that anything existed outside of his small circle of personal space.

“G…!” Stalker shouted again, his eyes pleading.  “G…GUN!” he finally screamed and Ripcord suddenly realized, and fought the urge to smack himself in the head.  He took three broad steps, then cocked his arm back and shot it out, sending the shotgun flipping through the air, circling end over end.  Stalker’s eyes followed the weapon as it descended in a slight arc and hurtled down towards him.  His breath was fighting for its freedom, but struggling as his fingers desperately clenched in empty air.  The shotgun sailed, spinning slightly, and finally dropped down towards the Ranger, his arm shooting out.  Stalker closed his eyes as he closed his hand, not wanting to look in case he dropped it.  The feeling of gun metal slapping against the cool flesh of his hand was the best feeling he had felt in a long, long time as his fingers closed tightly around the shotgun.  Without even thinking, he whipped his arm down and around, pressing the barrel firmly into the large Cobra’s barrel chest.  Snakebite glanced down as it suddenly dawned on Stalker that he hadn’t seen Ripcord pump it.  He closed his eyes again, praying, begging for the shell to be chambered…then pulled the trigger, actually expecting it to click on empty.  The exploding gunshot was loud and ferocious in-between the two men as smoke blasted up from the weapon.  Stalker’s left shoulder screamed in agony from the wild kickback and the shotgun flew to the floor followed quickly by the man who fired it.  Snakebite shouted angrily and flew back from the force of the blast, sparks still flying and smoke still rolling through the air.  His massive back plowed into the console and bent awkwardly, his feet flying from the floor.  Exposed wires jumped from the impact and spun through the air, dragging small trails of sparks from their ragged ends.  Stalker rolled back as the wires hit the large, mostly metallic man with devastating results.  Larger, brighter flames of light blasted into the air on contact, tearing through the Cobra Security Chief and drawing smoke from every joint and servo in his body.  His legs thrashed wildly as miniature bolts of electricity seared over the surface of his flesh, tearing his clothes and burning his hair.  A putrid stench of burning cloth, hair and other less pleasant things filtered through the enclosed air of the Command Center and finally after massive shaking and violent jerking, Snakebite lay still, small fires erupted all over the console and even on his clothing.

“Overload city,” Ripcord said quietly as he approached his fellow Joe.

“Thanks, kid,” Stalker gasped, as Ripcord helped him to his feet.  His chest and ribs burned and blood streaked over his face.  His right shoulder hung loose and his left shoulder once again began seeping blood.

“You look like crap,” Beachhead joked, walking over.

“Could be worse,” Stalker replied, using Ripcord for support.

“We did our job, boss, the radar is smoke,” Recondo said, approaching them.

“I knew you could do it,” the voice came from the entrance and the men spun, half expecting Cobra Commander himself to be walking through the door.  Instead it was Wet Suit, with a blood covered, but well bandaged Duke using him for support.  Duke smiled after he spoke.

“How you feeling, Top?” Stalker asked, walking over to Duke slowly.

“I feel better than you look, that’s for sure.”  There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd, but it stopped quickly.  Duke’s smile faded.  “We have to let the boys on the outside know the radar's down.  The signal’s supposed to be a Willy Pete star shell.”

“I don’t think we’ll be shooting white phosphorus through his roof,” Stalker said grimly, gesturing upward.

“Agreed.  Only thing we can do is make it outside to tell them in person.”

“How do we do that?” Stalker asked.

“I can tell you.” The voice was from the Rotor Viper, who emerged from the entrance with Muskrat draped over one shoulder.  The Joe swamp fighter still looked mostly unconscious, but was now bandaged at least.

“All right, kid,” Duke said.  “You’ve proven yourself.  Tell us what you got.”

“With all due respect, Duke?” Ripcord asked, walking forward.

“What is it?” Duke asked.

“Since we’re in here, don’t you think we should send a team to look for the weapon?  They’ve got to have it in here somewhere.”

Duke smiled at the fire haired Joe.  “Thinking like a leader, Ripcord.  Smart idea.  You volunteering?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right.  Rotor Viper?” Duke turned to the young man.

“Motor pool would be my best guess.  There’s a mini underground airfield with a secret hatch to launch from.  Only problem is, they’re restricted to helicopters or V.T.O.L. craft.”

“Is it near here?” Duke asked.

“Yeah.  Through those doors, actually,” the Rotor Viper said, his finger jutting towards a set of doors in the wall about fifty feet away.

“Good.  Ripcord, Beachhead and Flint, you men will—“

“Hold up, Duke,” Flint said.  “I’m here solo.  I’m not running every little mission you guys come up with.  I’m here to get me a piece of Destro, and nothing else.”

Duke’s glare narrowed.  “Wow, for a little while there I saw the Flint I remembered.  Thanks for reminding me what an arrogant jerk you are now.”

Flint smirked.  “Anytime, Duke.”

“Fine.  Beachhead and Ripcord?  Can you guys handle it solo?”

“No problem, Top,” Beachhead said, moving over towards the paratrooper.

“Good.  Go to it, and then meet back here in the Command Center.  We’ll be in to meet you shortly after we pass on our message.  Everyone clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the unanimous voices replied heartily. 

“Let’s do it!”

“YO JOE!”

 

 

 

A sharp, brisk, cold wind whipped through the air, close to the ground, assaulting the group of soldiers as if sent by Cobra itself.  It whistled melodically, pounding over the soft ground and bringing with it small droplets of water; a storm in waiting.  The men were gathered here on a peak of sorts, much like the one the three Joes had faced down four HISS tanks from mere hours before.  But this peak was higher; it’s down slope a sharp angle, and travelling down a good distance before flattening out into a wide clearing.  The Whale sat cockeyed, its turbines silent and the hold devoid of life, merely waiting for the proper time.  There was a thick batch of trees here, a few meters from where the forest really started, but this little thicket served its purpose as the Joe team huddled behind it, using mere wood branches and thin leaves as a life-saving bunker.  Gung Ho shivered and rubbed his arms.

Hawk lowered the binoculars from his eyes and turned to the Marine, shaking his head.  “That’s what you get for wearing that vest and not much else.”

“I want those snakes to know it was a Marine who came stomping down on them!” he shouted, thumping his chest with a clenched fist, right against the large, proud Marine Corps tattoo emblazoned on his thick, muscled chest.

“Don’t worry, Hawk, not all Jarheads are that crazy,” the voice said lowly from behind the two men.  Leatherneck approached, decked out in his forest camouflage and green cap.  His mustached face was solemn despite the joke he had just told to lighten the mood.  His trademark M-16/M203 grenade launcher combination swung from his shoulder by a leather strap.  “Any word, sir?” the Marine asked.

“Not yet, Leatherneck.  Low Light and Bullhorn should—“

“We’re back, sir.”

Hawk spun, his heart leaping in his chest.  Low Light emerged first, his dark hair pressed down by his large round helmet.  The elaborate visor was pointed upwards, away from his beard covered face, which was looking very serious.  Bullhorn followed, his night vision goggles swaying from his neck.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack on of these days, troop,” Hawk said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

“You would prefer I made more noise, sir?  I didn’t think you wanted me to draw any fire.” His sarcasm was only visible by the tone of his voice; his face remained stern and steady.

“All right, Low Light.  Give me a sitrep…tell me what’s going on.” Hawk pressed his hands to his hips and looked at his two look outs, his eyes focused.

“Well, it’s not good news, sir, but were you expecting anything else?” Bullhorn asked, shaking his head.

“This is what we’ve got,” Low Light started, cutting off the younger man.  “Looks to be about a dozen or more HISS Tanks, all lined up, guarding the Citadel.  The pattern is four in back, three in the middle and five in front.  Those were the visible ones, I have no idea if there are any hidden or not.” Low Light crouched down and plucked a thin stick from the dirt floor of the edge of the jungle.  He quickly sketched the Citadel in the dirt, and then marked down each row of HISS tanks.  “The snakes were nice enough to provide twin halogen lamps here and here, perched on top of two heavily armed watch towers.”  He made another series of marks, and then drew a thick line a ways to the left.  “This is the airfield.  It’s not much to look at, which means we should definitely take a look at it.  If they have this much armament, they must be keeping it somewhere…my guess is underground.”  He paused for a moment to let it all sink in.  “I think the airfield is the place to look.”

“Agreed.  Go on,” Hawk said, motioning to the night warfare expert.

“All right, there are six ASP emplacements, which I think will provide the least resistance.  They should be easy to take out, and will have a hard time tracking us down if we move fast.  Which is probably why there are scores of foot soldiers in machine gun nests and roaming the grounds all through here.” He marked it all down, the General’s eyes widening as he did.  It certainly seemed pretty impenetrable.  “To add to that, sir, there appears to be another storm front moving in.  If we know this, then undoubtedly the head snake knows it too.”

“If he’s going to launch the weapon--,”

“--It will be soon.”

Hawk wiped his brow with the sleeve of his brown leather jacket and exhaled deeply.  “We’re out of time,” he mumbled.  “But not out of hope.”  He stood and motioned to the Joes, and they all filed in close, eager to hear the game plan.  They circled in tight to their fearless leader, eyes and ears wide open, waiting for the news.

“All right, men, the time has come,” he said sternly, but softly.  “The clock has run down, and it is up to us to finish this and finish it quick.  We do not know how, but we are fairly sure that Cobra Commander will be launching the weapon in a very short amount of time, which means we act, and we act now.” His eyes were stern, his features like they were etched from solid marble.  “We have to go under the assumption that the inside team has failed in their mission.  It is now our job to drive through the Cobra force, take out their radar coverage and call in the air strike.  If we can’t find the weapon, then we’ll make sure nothing is left standing, understood?”

“Yes, sir!” was the enthusiastic, but muted reply.

“Everyone knows their positions, so load up and let’s do this!”

“Yo Joe!” the troops began to spread out to the two vehicles, preparing for the battle ahead.  Gung Ho wandered up to the General, his face calm.

“You really think the Strike Team failed, sir?” he asked.  It was a question he didn’t want to ask, and even less wanted the answer to, but he felt it necessary.

“If only I knew, Gung Ho.  If only there was some kind of signal—“

A loud rumble tore through the heavens as if on cue.  It was a loud thunder-like growl, but it was deeper, more forceful.  Hawk could almost feel the very ground tremble slightly.  Without warning, a sudden, bright flash of light burst on the top of the tall, ragged volcano reaching high up into the sky.  It was a ways from where the Joes were standing, but it was clear, even from that distance when a large cloud of smoke spun up out of it and reached for its cloud brothers in the heavens.

“What the hey?” Gung Ho stammered, stepping back.  “Is the dang volcano erupting?” he asked loudly, wondering what else could go wrong.

“I don’t think so,” Airtight replied, squinting up from under his green helmet.  “Doesn’t sound ri—“

Another earth shattering roar almost knocked the Joes from their feet as a large, jagged object plowed into the soft ground, not twenty feet away.  It hit with a resounding CLANG, smoke trailing from it, and even little specks of fire danced across its smooth surface.  It slammed into the ground once, digging a deep, uneven trench, then actually bounced slightly, twisted and landed with a massive THUD one more time, teetering like a Frisbee, wrong side up.  Dial Tone and Airtight leaped to their feet, each one eager to check out this mysterious object that fell from the sky.  Smoke hung in the air, marking a slight arcing path from the volcano to here, where the strangely shaped object lay.  Hawk picked himself up off the ground where he had dove after the strange thing collided with the ground.  He walked up to the metallic round chunk of metal, which still teetered strangely, and even though it was only a piece, it stood almost as tall as the Joes that surrounded it.  General Hawk approached it, seeing the smiles on the Joes for the first time, and then glared at the object, wondering what everyone was so happy about.

“Here’s your sign, General,” Dial Tone said, almost laughing with happiness.  Hawk shook his head.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“C’mon over here, sir,” Dial Tone motioned, and then stepped away from where he had been looking.  General Hawk approached it, and got a good decent view for the first time, a long, thin smile spreading across his face. 

It was the broken, battered remains of one of the largest radar dishes he had ever seen.