“Venomous voice tempts me,
Drains me, bleeds me
Leaves me cracked and empty.
Drags me down like some
sweet gravity.
Without the skin
Beneath the storm
Under these tears
The walls come down”
-“H.” Tool, 1996
The Turning Tides
The corridor was plain and smooth, remarkably similar to the ones the Joes had seen before, yet more tame, more subdued somehow. Small bulbs dotted the smooth metal walls in an even, constant pattern, casting dim, but manageable light throughout the hallway, which almost seemed to drift downwards. With a low hiss, the door had eased shut behind the two Joes, leaving them alone in the too silent tomb of the narrow hall, leading down into the depths of Hades for all the two Joes knew. The hallway was only narrow when compared to the main hall these two men had traversed not an hour before. This stretch was actually about fifteen feet wide, a decent size, but thin compared to the cavernous artery that led directly to the heart of Cobra Central Command. The Rotor Viper, Mike, Ripcord had finally learned, had directed them down this way, towards the motor pool. With any luck, the main attack force was drawing fire near the front of the Citadel, and most, if not all of the troops would be redirected there. Theoretically, that would give Ripcord and Beachhead free reign in the motor pool to do what they want and search for the device they prayed was still closed inside. With amazing silence, especially on hard concrete floors, the two Joes shuffled down the hall, crouched low, assault rifles directed forwards, slowly waving back and forth with each carefully placed step. Ripcord was in the lead, his black helmet pulled tight over his dirty blonde hair, and his well trained blue eyes darting through every inch of the smooth hall. Beachhead pulled up the rear, always making sure that his weapon was directed in the opposite way whenever Ripcord moved his. He still wore his green knit facemask pulled tight over his head, the only part visible his stern, nasty, cold eyes. They were well-trained eyes, like Ripcord…honed and perfected over the years to spot and assess a situation at a moment’s notice, even under heavy, dangerous fire. Beachhead ran a hand over his black flack jacket that was pulled tightly over his broad chest, his fingers playing with the numerous small indentations in the Kevlar. He could feel the cold steel of a bullet lodged in one of the upper layers and forced himself not to shudder. Thank heaven for small caliber, he thought to himself, brushing off the jacket as if to release his pent up anticipation.
“What do we got, Ripcord?” Beachhead asked, looking throughout the hall.
“Lots of nothing, Beach…hold up, though,” he whispered, lifting his hand. Some meters ahead, a small metal door was embedded in the wall. It had no declaration, no sign or anything, but Ripcord was sure it wasn’t the motor pool. “We have a door up here on the right. Should we check it out?” he asked, glancing back at the veteran Army Ranger.
“Yeah. There may be goons hiding in there. We don’t want to be the middle of a snake sandwich when the heat comes down.”
“I hear you,” Ripcord answered in the same hushed tones. He lifted the large automatic to his shoulder, lowered himself slightly again and resumed his careful, silent shuffling. The hallway was silent once again, an eerie, dead silence, made even stranger by the fact that the Joes knew there was a war most likely going on not half a mile away. Yet the building didn’t shake, the earth didn’t tremble…it was all scarily, silently still. Ripcord figured it had something to do with them being underground. The deep, muffled silence and the stillness caused by the tomb-like coffin of earth, dirt and soil all around them. With a deep breath, he desperately tried to muffle the sudden onslaught of claustrophobia, and did so with moderate success. Still, he would have much rather been plummeting through wide, open air than stuck under the earth any day of the week. He imagined that was why he chose HALO as his specialty. High Altitude Low Opening jumps were the most exhilarating, the most freeing experience he ever had. Plunging through the heavens, through the cloud cover, his face in the wind and his cloth uniform whipping about him. At this point, he was sure he would pay handsomely for some airtime right now. With sudden clarity, he remembered one of the best jumps he’d ever had…over this very island, what seemed like an eternity ago. He was a copilot in Ace’s Skystriker and punched out over the island against specific orders. How Hawk and “Iron Butt” Austin had gotten that smoothed over with the Pentagon brass, Ripcord would never know. All he did know was that the air had had a crisp, clean smell that night. An invigorating aroma that washed over him as he spun down towards the island. For some reason, that night, everything meshed together, and everything was going right. Until he’d landed. Then there was Zartan…the bow and arrow…and every—
SNAP!
The sound tore Ripcord from his almost dream state with a violent rush of adrenaline. It was a sharp, harsh crack, too low to be a gunshot, but a familiar sound nonetheless. The snap was followed by a swift, low shriek, echoing fiercely in the tiny confines of the hallway. Ripcord spun swiftly, looking to where the sound had come from, behind them. Beachhead heard it as well, and dropped, feinting to his left, but he was a little too slow. A silver streak sliced briskly through the stale, recycled air, and even as the Army Ranger rolled aside, it blasted into the side of his head with a bone-chilling thunk and tear. Impossibly, the silver blur continued, unhindered, as if it had hit nothing at all, a wide, arcing, dark trail of blood spinning through the air on it’s tail. Beachhead grunted and slumped to the ground, his facemask ripping away and scattering over the floor, small green shreds of cloth raining through the hall.
“Beachhead!” Ripcord shouted, lunging towards his comrade. A loud, metallic THWACK clanged off the wall behind him, where the hallway took a sharp left turn. Ripcord halted his run, skidding slightly and looked back at the wall. A long, thin sliver shaft was embedded into the metal wall, quivering slightly.
An arrow.
Ripcord’s eyes went wide as he dropped into a crouch, his weapon raised at the back of the hall where the deadly projectile had come from. With clenched teeth, he pulled off one of his black gloves and pressed two fingers to Beachhead’s throat, almost not wanting to feel the nothingness. But there was a pulse, strong and steady. The shot had grazed his temple…grazed deep, but grazed just the same. He was out of the fight, but was far from seriously injured. His mask had fallen away from his face and his eyes were clenched tightly shut, his mouth twisted into a permanent sneer. Satisfied that his friend was okay, the paratrooper stood, cramming the butt of his rifle deep into his shoulder. The snap and shriek…a whizzing whisper…the arrow. At first, he almost thought it was a flashback to his drop on Cobra Island many years ago, but was now convinced he was lodged in the present cold reality. His buddy’s blood smeared across the floor and an invisible hunter closing in on him with a deadly weapon and even deadlier aim. He spun around frantically, keeping his legs bolted, his eyes scanning for any sign of disturbance in the hall. The hunter could indeed make himself invisible, but the bow…that, he could not hide.
So where is he? Ripcord thought to himself. He was unnaturally unsteady. He was a well-trained soldier with an assault rifle facing one man with a bow and arrow. Certainly he had the advantage. Of course, he had thought that years before, when he first met this mystery man, and he had lost that battle badly. Ripcord’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the hallway. With careful determination, Ripcord dropped one hand from where with gripped the body of the machine gun and guided it slowly towards a large leather holster attached to his web belt on his left hip. He didn’t like having cover in only one direction, so he swiftly unsnapped the holster and groped inside; trying to grab a hold of the Colt semi automatic pistol he kept inside. He was facing the back of the hall where the arrow had come from, and his weapon pointed that direction as well, ensuring that he would not be taken by surprise. But then, a low chuckle coasted through the air. An almost silent grate, satisfied and pleased. Ripcord imagined that if a lion could laugh, that was the sound it would make as it leapt to take down the hapless antelope it had been prowling after. With a sudden, swift blur, the Joe spun around, the pistol firmly in hand, just as the snap and whiz erupted from the other side of the hall. Impossibly, the hunter had gotten behind him yet again. Ripcord shuffled to his right as he spun, and his arm jerked as the swift silver blur slammed into his assault rifle as it was being brought around. The weapon jumped and spun to the hard floor, throwing the projectile into a hapless spin until it clattered against the far wall. Ripcord’s eyes narrowed at the weapon’s owner, who was now fully visible against the wall where it turned left towards the motor pool. Before the paratrooper could even form half a thought, his pistol roared to life, gray smoke and sharp yellow sparks pounding from the round barrel. The small semi kicked violently in his hand, but he held it firm and blasted off half a dozen shots in the span of seconds. Zartan weaved to his right as the first round struck the compound bow he held firm and splintered it into pieces too many to count. His hand shot open as the weapon broke apart and showered him with wood and fiberglass shards. Ripcord couldn’t honestly tell if the Cobra was angered or laughing at the Joe’s defiance, but he was on the defensive anyway, which suited the Joe just fine. The next grouping of shots slammed and drilled into the metal wall behind the shape shifter, sending sparks flying and ricocheting bullets whizzing throughout the confines of the hall. Zartan mysteriously began to fade from view even as he drew an automatic machine pistol from the leather strap that was strung over his shoulder. He lifted his hands and hauled back on the trigger, spraying the entire hall with a barrage of deadly gunfire, sending Ripcord sprawling. With a grunt, he hit the floor, his pistol leaping from his hand and smacking onto the concrete floor, only inches away. Rapid bullets peppered the floor, and the paratrooper shot to his feet and dashed towards the right hand wall, suddenly remembering the doorway perched there. He cast an uncomfortable glance back at Beachhead as he lunged forward, the automatic roaring in his ears.
Zartan wants me…he’s toying with me. He doesn’t want Beachhead. Ripcord tried to rationalize leaving his comrade, but was having a hard time of it. Still, he wasn’t going to do his buddy any good by dying, so with a final leap he threw himself into the air, sparks dancing along under his feet, throwing small chunks of concrete into the air. His right shoulder smashed into the metal door even as his hand frantically slapped at the wall just to the door’s left, desperately groping for an “open” switch. The HALO jumper dropped his head as small arms fire bounced off of the metal door just above his head, showering him with fragments and right sparks. He hauled his arm back and pounded one last time as Zartan scowled, angrily ejecting his spent clip and reaching for another.
“There’s nowhere to run, Joe!” he screamed as he closed his fingers around another clip jammed in his belt.
“I’m not such easy pickings when there’s no trees to hide in!” he shouted, his heart jumping a beat as the metal door slipped open easily. Ripcord smiled broadly and threw himself into the newfound room, then spun around. Zartan was running towards the door, fumbling with the clip as Ripcord pounded another large button on his side of the door. With a whisper, the thick, metal door slid firmly closed and slammed lightly against the concrete floor. He heard the shape shifter crash into the door on the other side and curse loudly, pounding against it. With hardly a thought, Ripcord scanned the keypad on the inside and with a single quick button press, the door was locked from the inside. His heart raced, and sweat brimmed to the surface of his forehead, then slowly began trickling down over his brow and down his facial features, which were still a little puffy and pink from the beaten Zartan had already given him. With a sigh, he planted his hand on the wall and lowered his head, his breath coming in harsh gasps, keeping in time with the rapid thumping of his heart. He turned, and stiffened as he saw the Viper lunging at him, his rifle lifted up above his head. The butt swung swiftly down, and Ripcord stepped back, waiting for oblivion.
“Talk to me, Dial Tone,” General Hawk said sternly and impatiently, glaring down at the communications officer. The mustached man with the beret was fumbling with a small, dark box, a thin, round radar dish firmly attached to the top.
“I think I’ve got it, sir,” he said, plucking the receiver from the small metal square pack. Hawk extended his hand and clutched an eager fist around the phone as Dial Tone punched in the coordinates. He was only greeted with static.
“What’s the problem, troop?” Hawk asked, trying not to sound too stern.
“I don’t know, sir. The skies have cleared up here, I don’t know what could be causing the disturbance.”
“I think I can tell you,” a voice said softly from behind the men. They turned as Airtight approached them. “I did some atmospheric tests…there is a major, and I underline major storm front moving in. It must have piggy backed off of the other one.”
“Must be coming in from the northwest,” Dial Tone said. “It would be in perfect position to degrade our communications.”
“Wonderful,” Hawk said sarcastically, when the radio suddenly popped to life.
“This is the Flagg to the assault team…status, assault team…” it was flooded with static, but was audible. Hawk smiled broadly.
“Flagg! This is Assault Team Alpha…get me the Admiral on the horn now, troop!” he shouted. The radio crackled uncertainly for a few seconds.
“General, I’m here. What’s the sitrep?” The static background almost completely washed away the Admiral’s voice, but Hawk could barely make it out.
“The early warning system is down, Keel Haul! Air strike is a go…I repeat, air strike is a go!”
White noise rippled from the receiver for a second, then Keel Haul’s voice barely squeaked through. “Negative, General! We are under heavy winds and a torrential downpour…launching would be impossible—“ static interrupted the rest of the voice, but Hawk had gotten the gist of it.
“Please, Admiral! You must reconsider…there are millions of lives at stake—“ Hawk was almost pleading. An unfamiliar sight to his troops, but understandable, nonetheless.
“General, if I launch these birds, there will be five dead pilots as well as those millions! Besides, this storm is heading your way…target tracking would be impossible at best…”
“Admiral! We’ve got spotters…please trust me on this. We’re almost there!” The General’s eyes were wide with disbelief. As was the going luck with this whole mission so far, as soon as they were on the brink of success, reality threw a cold bucket of water on their plans. Now, the cold bucket of water was a blinding gulf-storm.
General Hawk glared down at the radio, which was only spitting static and white noise. No more sound was audible. He hung his head briefly.
“We’ve lost contact, General,” Dial Tone said grimly. “Do you think he heard?”
“I don’t know, troop,” Hawk said quietly, slowly rising to his feet. His face was solemn, but his voice firm. “Dial Tone, Airtight, gather everyone around. We’ve got to establish a plan of attack ASAP.”
“Sir!” the two men shouted and dashed off to round up the others.
Destro placed a black-gloved hand over his eyes, which were covered by the thick beryllium. The flash had just subsided and a low rumble rolled over the valley where he and the others were stationed. It had come from the top of the volcano.
“What was it, Destro?” The Baroness asked from her pilot’s seat in the HISS.
“Thunder and lightning…no more, my dear. There is a storm moving in, after all.” He spoke in an even voice, his speech being transferred into the cockpit via an internal radio in his helmet.
“Perhaps. Shall we send someone to investigate anyway?” her voice was thin and devoid of emotion.
“No. There is no need to spread us even more thin than we already are.”
“Is that resentment in your voice, dear Destro?” The Baroness asked sarcastically. Destro had been vocally opposed to sending the bulk of their troops to the Amazon quite so soon, but had conceded. He now wished he hadn’t. The trick was now on them, it would seem. The original plan had been brilliant, Destro did admit that. Call everyone’s attention to Cobra Island, where a massive assault would be staged, only to have the bulk of the Cobra force in a hidden bunker on the Amazon River basin. The U.S. would get its measure of revenge, and the book would be closed temporarily on Cobra, allowing them to strike with SuperPhreak at will. But all was not lost, Destro decided. He still had a decent squad of HISS tanks, troops, and a few Ferrets. His crack team set up in the front of the Citadel could easily hold of any Joes that were left from the ASP assault and the Eel squad. No, things were most definitely far from lost.
Hawk stood proudly before his men on a small ledge overlooking the sharp downgrade that ran into the valley below. They stood a good distance away from the edge to avoid being spotted by the troops assembled below.
“Gentlemen, here is the situation,” he said softly, but firmly. “As it stands, there is a good chance that the air strike may not be an option.” He spoke plainly, trying to avoid panic, but the anxious glances through the crowd showed that he had been a little less than successful. “However, we must proceed as if it is. If there is even the slightest chance that the air strike will be coming, we need to be prepared.” He paced slowly, pointing out each option as he spoke. “There is another storm moving in…most likely bigger and more violent than the last. If the strike is to proceed as planned, we need to give them something to shoot at.” The point was obvious, but he felt it was lost on a bulk of his troopers. “Under the thick storm clouds and rainfall, they will need infrared beacons…spotters if you will, to show them where to fire if they want to be assured of hitting their targets.” His face turned suddenly grim and serious, as he looked out at the faces of his troops, all intent and listening. Each one at this point must have known what was about to be asked, but none of them faltered. None of them balked. “I need one man to go deep into enemy territory and plant these.” He unslung a leather pouch from his shoulder and held it out. It was stuffed deep with magnetic infrared emitters. Small transmitters that emitted a very specific infrared signature that bombs and missiles could lock onto in the event of low visibility. “This is a dangerous…no, more like suicidal mission. But I need someone to step forward. I will not order anyone to do it, there must be a volunt—“
“I’ll do it,” the voice came suddenly and Hawk turned. Bullhorn walked from the crowd and stood next to the RAM Motorcycle, which sat on its kickstand. His shoulder was hung low at his side, but he made no motion of pain or injury. “I’ve gotten a lot of practice with this thing in the past twelve hours, sir. It should be me.” He patted the seat of the green motorcycle and nodded firmly.
“Are you sure, troop?” Hawk asked, and approached the younger man.
“Yes, si—“
“General Hawk?” Another voice came from the crowd and Hawk turned again, cocking his head.
“Yes, Hit & Run?” Hawk asked, looking at the light infantry trooper who walked calmly from the crowd.
“Please, sir…let me do it.”
Hawk looked at him questioningly.
“Bullhorn has a family at home, sir…people waiting for him. I…well, I don’t sir. I have no family. Please, sir…let me.” Hit & Run spoke with dramatic certainty and a calm assuredness. “Besides, sir…my test scores in the bike simulator are a hell of a lot better than his,” he couldn’t help but grin just slightly as he said it. Bullhorn returned the smirk and nodded slightly.
Hawk noticed the exchange with enormous pride. They were two of his youngest men…two of the somewhat later recruits, but showed maturity and determination well beyond their years.
“Hit & Run,” he said softly, holding out the leather pouch. “Thank you, son.” He saluted swiftly and briskly, his arm coming to a crisp, solid jerk.
“Sir.” Hit & Run replied back, his own hand and arm repeating the motion. He bent over and grabbed the large duffel bag that he carried with him, and then slung it over his shoulder. He tossed the pouch over his other shoulder and strapped the AR-15 to his harness that criss crossed his camouflage chest. With silent resolve, the Joe strode over to the Ram, stopping briefly to salute Bullhorn, who returned it. The man in green lifted his leg, then shoved it roughly out, striking the bulky gatling gun attached to the side of the bike. It popped loose and dropped to the muddy ground as Hit & Run swung his leg over the dark seat. With one swift motion he pounded his leg down and wrenched back on the throttle, roaring the bike to shuddering life. The engine dipped slightly, then roared, gunned and lowered to a constant, deep rumble, the Joe sitting on it as if he was born there. Suddenly the bike lurched forward, the front wheel flying into the air in an almost vertical wheelie. The back tire dug deep into the soft ground, and then sprayed a wide arc of thick mud out from behind the cycle. With a jerk, the tire finally caught on the soft ground and the RAM hurtled forward into the darkness, down into the nest of Cobras.
“Good luck, troop,” General Hawk said deadly seriously and snapped off another salute, honestly wondering if he’d ever see the young man again.
Zartan stomped angrily towards the metal door, the thin plastic keycard clutched firmly in hand. He scowled as he realized that he had wasted fifteen precious minutes tracking down the blasted card, and the Joe could pretty much be hiding anywhere behind the door. It led to the Viper quarters, or one of many, anyway. There was a short hallway, which led to a medium sized room with scattered bunks and a bathroom on the far wall. It was good enough for the Vipers…it met their needs, but wasn’t extravagant. He glanced down at the Joe who was still unconscious on the floor. The shape shifter sneered as he stepped over his prone body, and almost considered finishing him off right then and there. But he really didn’t want to give the other one a chance to get good and hidden. What was his name? Oh yeah, Ripcord. You and me are far from finished, Joe. It’s time I ended this little chapter. A slight smile turned up the corners of his thin mouth as he whipped out the thin plastic card and swiped it quickly through the reader on the right side of the door. He’d had to ask four different motor pool jockeys before he finally found one who resided in this room. For some reason, Snakebite wasn’t answering his radio. Although, if the Joes were down this far, Zartan had a feeling Snakebite wouldn’t be answering any radios ever again. Suits me, he thought with a frown. That guy was too spooky for my tastes. With a quiet whoosh, the metal door slid quickly up into its recess in the frame and the Cobra master of disguise was immediately disgusted. A single Viper lay on the floor in the hallway. His assault rifle was cast onto the floor carelessly, and he lay propped up against the wall, his head resting on a padded shoulder. One padded arm was slung over his stomach and he coughed slightly as Zartan walked by.
“Where is he, fool?” Zartan demanded of the fallen Cobra Trooper who lifted his head slightly.
“Unnh…I think I hit him…” the voice rasped underneath the thick, silver plated helmet. “He’s in there,” he said, pointing a shaky finger towards medium sized square room, which branched off the hallway. Zartan frowned angrily. It was so hard to find good help. The Dreadnoks were living examples of that. He grinned as he lifted off the brand new bow and arrow from his shoulder. He’d had a spare in the motor pool locker room, seeing as how he expected to be knee deep in Joes. He wrapped his steel fist around the grip, and slowly slipped silver, straight arrow from the small quiver built into the heavy compound bow. With a swift flip of the wrist, he notched the arrow cleanly on the thick, taught string of the bow, then slowly pulled back, his muscles tensing with the resistance. The resistance quickly faded and the string pulled smoothly back until it was back all the way, the arrow pointed at the floor. Zartan’s eyes scanned the area as he left the hallway and entered the square room, with four sets of bunks on each side. The room seemed large and empty, with no one inside, and no movement from where he stood all the way back to the bathroom. With a twist of his head, Zartan got ready to call back to the Viper, when a sudden movement flashed in the corner of his eye. His feet shuffled quickly, then set and he spun quickly around, bringing the bow up into firing position. The movement now had a pattern and color…it was a figure in camouflage, stumbling to his feet, blood streaming down over his head and face. A dark black helmet was pulled down over his head, but the wound was apparently below it, almost directly between the eyes, and it was bleeding profusely. The Joe stumbled again, but managed to stand, using the wall just next to the bathroom door on the far side for support. Two fingers twitched anxiously on the tight string of the bow, then closed firmly around the feathered shaft as the cowled man squinted at his target. With a final, deadly realization, the paratrooper noticed the large man standing meters away, the primitive, but more than effective, weapon clutched and aimed right at him.
“No! P…please!” the Joe stammered, throwing his hands up. “I’m n---“
“Shut up,” Zartan hissed and released, his stern glare melting into satisfied, if somewhat pent up glee. The string whipped straight with a sharp SNAP and the silver metal arrow streaked through the air like a finally honed sword through a soft pillow. It shrieked like a spoiled child, the piercing shattering noise downright disturbing in the small, stale room. The man in camouflage jerked one way uncertainly, then lunged the other…but stopped dead when the silver streak drilled deep into his chest. It struck the sternum with a dull thunk, but didn’t stop there. The force of the shot slammed the Joe back first into the wall, his face contorted with pain. The black helmet flew from his head, and his dark black tussled hair swayed over his shocked and confused eyes. He gurgled incoherently, looking down at the silver shaft buried in his chest. It was embedded up to the feathers, and the target couldn’t help but feel the strange tickle of the feathers against his flesh. He tried to speak, but could not, and his head plopped downward as he hung there, pinned to the metal wall by the long, silver shaft.
“Just like a butterfly,” Zartan whispered, striding confidently forward. A red stain had spread along the wall in back of what was now a corpse and slowly drooled down the smooth surface. It was a beautiful sight, Zartan was sure. Contorted, twisted and bloody, hanging on the wall like a trophy. The uniform torn and ragged, his face drooped down, looking at his own deadly wound. His hair tossed and unkempt, dark…
…and…dark? Wait a minute—Zartan’s thought barely processed before he swung around, his free hand clenched into a tight fist. But the “Viper” was already on top of him, lunging forward, his weapon cocked like a baseball bat. But now, the “Viper’s” helmet was off, and it wasn’t a Viper at all…it was that Joe that blasted Joe-- Zartan sucked in a deep breath as the wooden butt of the large rifle swung around and plowed him in the gut, just below his clear chest plate. The bow spun from his loose grasp and he doubled over, gasping loudly, and Ripcord adjusted the grip of the weapon.
“Two of us can play the old disguise game!” he shouted, swinging the rifle back around, then down in a tight, swift arc. The wooden butt crashed into the back of the Cobra’s head with splintering force, breaking apart and sending wooden fragments and splintered shards spraying all over the two men. Zartan collapsed in a heap as Ripcord dropped the rifle, his arm numb from the contact.
“Too bad the Viper wasted all of his ammo before I took him down,” he snarled. “I’d have just as soon shot you in the back.” He turned, his face angry and tired.
“Not very hero-like of you, Joe,” the voice hissed from behind him. Ripcord couldn’t believe it. The Joe spun around as the shape shifter slowly pulled himself to his feet, almost growling with a combination of anger and pleasure at the young man’s obvious shock and disbelief.
“You’re conscious…how? No human being—“
“I’m surprised you haven’t learned this yet, boy!” Zartan screamed, storming forward, his head lowered and eyes flaring. “I’m a little more than human!” He wrapped his massive arms around the unsuspecting paratrooper and lifted then twisted, hurling the Joe around in a tight circle. Ripcord winced as his back pounded hard into the unforgiving wall that the mystery man had slammed him into. Zartan’s grip did not release, but merely shifted to the Joe’s collar, just above the dark flack jacket of the Viper uniform he wore. He cocked back a large fist, while maintaining his tight grip with the other, and then drove the fist forward in a vicious straight jab. Ripcord lunged to his right, the fist grazing by and drilling into the metal wall with bone shattering impact. Zartan swore and drew his twisted fist quickly back as Ripcord slipped from his grasp. As soon as the Joe was free he moved in quickly, striking with swift, numerous, calculated blows. In rapid succession, he slammed Zartan in the ribs with a quick right, then whipped his left around and plowed it into the shape shifter’s jaw. Then with equal quickness he pounded his face three more times with lightning quick jabs and crosses. The Cobra stumbled back under the furious assault, until his back struck the other wall behind him.
“You know, you took me out once, freak!” Ripcord shouted, lurching ahead. “But that was a long time ago! I’ve had years of practice taking down slime bags like you since then!” He threw his right leg around in a tight circle, drilling it into Zartan’s left kidney. He stumbled and gasped, but did not fall. But Ripcord did not take that for an answer. He moved into the Cobra’s range of motion and pounded his temple with two successive elbow strikes, hitting so hard that his elbow ached immediately after contact. Zartan stumbled again, and fell down to one knee, supporting himself with a shaky arm.
“I’ve got some payback to get, Zartan!” Ripcord screamed as he slammed another kick into the shape shifter. “Payback for Cobra Island, ten years ago!” He kicked him again, even harder. “Payback for one of your boyfriends taking out my Candy!” He dropped down slamming a fist in a sharp angle, which glanced off of Zartan’s head. The Cobra dropped to one elbow, his face bleeding freely, and his arms quaking. “Our little rivalry ends now!” He lifted his foot to send it crashing into the shape changer, but Zartan was swift and sudden, despite his suffering. He leapt to his feet, knocking away Ripcord’s attempted kick, then moved in and struck him with a thunderous punch to the chest, sending him sprawling.
“Feel better, Joe? Not for long!” Zartan nailed him with a left cross, then followed up with a right uppercut, spun and blistered him with a whipping back fist. Ripcord’s face opened back up, spraying blood in a wide arc throughout the room, spattering the walls and the floor. Zartan lunged, but Ripcord feinted and threw a straight punch into his chin, which made him stumble back, but he quickly regained his balance, spun around again and slammed the paratrooper in the side of the head with a powerful roundhouse kick. He followed the spin kick with a straight sidekick, then shuffled in and threw a swift left. The Joe ducked away from the left, and swatted his hand aside, then dove in and drove his knee deep into the Cobra’s ribcage, doubling him over. He planted his hands firmly on the man’s wide back, then shifted and flipped him over in a clumsy, uncontrolled somersault. Somehow Zartan turned it into a graceful, gymnastic flip and ended up on his feet and spun around to face his attacker. With a shout, he lunged forward, thrusting out his large, powerful leg, which Ripcord quickly slipped away from, luckily, because the harsh blow struck one of the bunks with enough force to split the support beam in half and knock a solid chunk of two by four out of the post. Zartan drew his leg back in and Ripcord lunged at him in a rough football tackle, slamming him into the broken post and smashing through it. Their momentum continued amidst a shower of splinters from the busted wooden bunk until they struck the next post, which was fastened securely to the metal wall with bolts. The shape changer’s back struck the immovable object and twisted, throwing both of them onto the bed. With a grunt, Zartan grabbed Ripcord’s collar again and yanked up fiercely, smashing his head into the wooden frame of the bed above. The Joe drew in a sharp breath and grimaced as Zartan pulled his knee in tight to his chest and thrust out, sending the paratrooper sprawling out back onto the floor. The Cobra followed close behind, sending the Joe reeling with powerful kicks to the stomach and chest, even as he merely tried to stand. Suddenly, Zartan’s large arms were around him again, almost impossibly powerful, and before he could do anything about it, the Joe was off his feet and hurtling sideways through the air. His back struck the same bed post and shattered the rest of the mangled wood with his impact, then struck the wall and actually bounced the other way, rolling onto the cold, hard floor among the wooden splinters. Every single bone and muscle in the Joe’s body screamed for painkillers. It was adrenaline alone keeping him moving, and even as he lay still, he could almost feel the pain synapses and nerve endings firing in their rage for what he was doing to them. His arm felt like a slab of mushy lead, and his legs seemed like they could do nothing but drag as the shape shifter strolled calmly forward, his bloodied face scowling, and his piercing white eyes glaring out from beneath black face paint and a thin coat of red. Ripcord rolled onto his stomach, trying to lift himself, but his muscles would simply not cooperate. The large, menacing, cowled figure loomed over the fallen Joe, hands firmly on his hips, his face stern and determined.
“It’s over, Joe. Your turn now, and then your friend in the hall.” He reached down and grasped the back of Ripcord’s jacket, lifting him, but the Joe HALO jumper wasn’t out of the fight yet. With a shocking quickness, the Joe leaped at Zartan, his hand clutched defiantly around what he landed upon when he was tossed to the wall like so much trash. It was the thick, solid chunk of two by four broken from the bedpost and he held it like it was a lifeline. He whipped his arm around in a tight, vicious arc, Zartan’s eyes growing wide with this last ditch act of rebelliousness. Ripcord’s hand flared with pain as the large block of wood cracked into the side of the shape changer’s cowled head with a rocking impact. Zartan shouted and reeled, stumbling clumsily, the energy and fight quite suddenly leaving his body. Ripcord charged forward and swung again, and again the shape shifter backpedaled uncontrollably, his arms flailing and his legs buckling. The Joe used this momentum and lurched forward again, this time lashing out with a fierce, arrow straight sidekick, which caught the Cobra directly in the chest plate. He whipped back and hit the ground with his back, and skidded a few feet before coming to a rest just outside the bathroom door. His narrow eyes glared at the Joe through a red haze as blood now coated his flesh and ran down over his body in wide rivers as well as narrow streams. Smears and drops trailed along the floor, leading to where he now sat, half laying, half sitting up, one hand pressed tightly to his flowing, now red mouth. With stiff gasps, his large chest rose and fell beneath the protective plate, which was cracked, and starred from one of the impacts, he had no idea which. Ripcord stumbled over to the Cobra master of disguise, trudging slowly, one foot plodding after the other, in short uneasy steps. Zartan laughed out loud, the coughed, tiny specks of red spraying from his lips. He put a hand to his cowl, which was torn and matted to his head with dark crimson.
“Are you going to brain me, Joe?” He asked, smirking. He lifted a hand up and clutched at the porcelain sink above his head, steadying himself. “G…going to smash my head in with that two by four as I lay here?”
Ripcord continued his determined walk forward, his eyes lowered and hard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the impaled Viper in his uniform, suppressing a slight odd feeling of fatality…like being at his own funeral.
“I s…see that look in your eye, Joe. It’s not a very heroic look…” Zartan continued to sneer as his muscles tensed in his arm that clutched at the white sink above his head. Ripcord faltered a little, the two by four wavering ever so slightly in his grasp.
“What’s the matter, hmm?” Zartan sputtered, more blood bubbling to his lips. “Feeling uncertain? A little conscience, perhaps?” Zartan slowly pulled himself to his feet as Ripcord halted his forward progress. “Hmmm, having a conscience…I wonder what that feels like?” the words were barely out of Zartan’s mouth when he lunged forward, his face contorting and his mouth snarling, his arms reaching for the paratrooper. But Ripcord was ready. He stepped back, just slightly, raising the slab of wood high above his head. With a grunt he drove it downward…no arc, just a straight shot down at a sharp angle. It slammed into the top of the shape shifter’s skull with a blistering splinter, the two by four actually cracking and flaking apart under the contact. Zartan groaned and stumbled backwards towards the bathroom. He fell like a two hundred and fifty pound bag of rocks the back of his head pounding into the porcelain sink with a sharp CLANG! His eyes rolled, Ripcord could see this even with Zartan’s lack of pupils, and he slumped to the tile floor, and then laid still, a small, thick puddle of red collecting under his cowl, which was splayed out under him. Ripcord’s fists clenched around the wood as he stepped forward, glaring down at his foe. His muscles tensed as sweat mingled with blood rolled down his face and bare arms, over the pads and gloves of the Viper uniform he wore. His heart beat; pounded in his tense, tight chest, and his face twisted into an angry scowl. He rose the two by four over his head, staring blankly down at the prone body in front of him, lying on the tile floor. His breath jerked in quick, sudden gasps, as his muscles tensed, his arms shook, the broken two by four trembling, ready to strike.
“Ripcord! Don’t do it, buddy!” the shout came from behind him and shook him from his mindless, dazed rage. He lowered the weapon and spun, glaring at Beachhead as he walked slowly through the room, his hands waving in a smooth, calming motion. “Relax, pal…it’s over, man. He’s done.”
Ripcord’s breathing slowed a little, his chest resuming its normal rhythm. His arms still trembled, and the two by four dangled loosely from his outstretched fingers. Beachhead’s mask swayed loosely from his wet, dark stained head. His eyes were focused and alert, which was a good sign, and the dark mess on the side of his temple was already pretty much solidified into an infection-preventing scab. He had both rifles with him, one slung over each shoulder, and he patted the paratrooper gently.
“C’mon, buddy,” he said. “We’ve got a motor pool to check out.”
Ripcord smiled finally, letting the two by four clatter to the hard concrete floor. “You’re right, man. Sorry, kinda lost it there for a minute.”
“Happens to the best of us, Ripcord. But yeesh, you need to get a better tailor!” he laughed and gestured at the Viper uniform as the two men slipped out the open door and approached the motor pool.
