The rain had stopped, but a fierce wind still tore through the corpses of the buildings that used to make up Cobra Command on Cobra Island. The skies were now clear and bright, although the clouds still retained their dirty, gray look. Three Fang helicopters zipped just above the surface of the Gulf of Mexico, then darted between demolished buildings and finally came to a rest on the paved surface of the former Cobra Airfield; wooden crates nestled snugly between their skids. The hangers were crumbled and destroyed. The control tower was cracked at the halfway point; the top half was toppled over and rested at a forty-five degree angle to the support column. No soldiers came to greet them, no congratulations, and no pats on the back.

"Rotor-Viper One to Tele-Viper Team. Open hanger doors…we have six minutes to geosynchronus satellite placement." The pilot of the first Fang lowered the communicator from his ear, and held on to the helicopter for stability. The ground seemed to tremble below his feet as a perfectly concealed platform shook violently, then lowered them like helpless rodents into a snake’s waiting jaws. As soon as they were cleared, two sliding doors slid smoothly into place above their heads fitting snugly with the surrounding surfaces. Within seconds the airfield looked just as it had. Empty, barren, and lifeless. The elevator continued its rocky descent for a few seconds, then settled into place with a low rumble and crash of metal on metal. Techno-Vipers immediately swarmed the area, combing it for transmitters, bugs, or any other unpleasantness. They then turned their attention to the helicopters, exacting any necessary repairs right then and there. The three pilots stepped down from the platform as another small group of Techno-Vipers stepped onto it and began removing the crates and checking the contents. The chamber was poorly lit, but otherwise appeared a technological marvel. Smooth, metal walls of an underground bunker led towards the central command room with various other hallways and rooms branching off. The training area was the first hallway to the right, which led to an enormous complex underneath the island itself. Small arms fire, martial arts and demolition were the most common classes taught here, although classes in philosophy, sociology and psychology were also prevalent. Cobra Commander had come to the decision that intelligence and skill was just as important as loyalty and sheer numbers and had spent the better part of the past five years building an army of devoted, dangerous, and highly trained operatives. The three men passed the hallway leading to the training area and the next hallway, this time on the left, led down to the basement complex and the prison cells. There had not been many prisoners over the past five years, but when there were it was an unpleasant experience for all concerned. Not only the prisoners, but the surrounding troops as well who had to deal with constant wailing and screams of torture through most of the night. Gulag was the man in charge of the prison floor, and many a soldier cringed at the mere mention of his name. He had been a prison director for the Soviet Union prison camp in Siberia back in the Cold War days, and had lost an eye in a prisoner uprising. That little incident convinced him that his prisoners deserved nothing but contempt, and from that moment on, he came to actually enjoy torture and interrogation. A low echo of air ran through the hallway, carrying with it a distasteful stench that the three pilots did not even want to wonder about. Rotor-Viper One picked up his pace slightly as he neared the last bend in the hallway towards Central Command. His chest bulged out reflexively, a natural result of the pride he felt for a mission accomplished. The Commander would be proud. He smiled underneath the red facemask as he thought to the future, a monument erected in honor of the heroes of the uprising. His name would be there, The Commander had promised. He removed his helmet, revealing a very short buzz of black hair, and he quickly dusted off the fatigues he was wearing. The uniforms had changed slightly, giving up the plain royal blue for a darker blue and black camouflage pattern. The straps still ran down the front, a nine-millimeter attached to one side, a ka-bar knife secured to the other. For this particular mission, the Cobra Sigil was not allowed, but in the future, Trooper Lewis would wear the bright red cobra with pride. He tucked his dark blue helmet under one arm, his face still beaming. The three rounded the corner, and almost stumbled into the most intimidating man many of these troopers had ever seen, perhaps only matched by The Commander himself. He was between the six and seven foot mark, but closer to the latter, and weighed in at a healthy three hundred pounds. He always wore a black beret cocked to one side, and proudly displayed the uniform of a Crimson Guard. The shirt bulged and rippled over his massive frame, but he wore it just the same, more of a symbol than an actual position in the Cobra hierarchy. The silver Cobra symbol on the chest of the shirt was partially torn away and mangled, perhaps to symbolize this man’s facial features. From the right profile, the man looked more than healthy, chiseled even. A strong jaw, dominant features, he was downright handsome. As you scanned around to the other side of his face, things changed drastically. His nose was deformed and almost melted against his face, his left eye set back in its socket, practically surrounded by formed and reformed scar tissue. The skin’s color was a crispy brown, with black twinges, and his face was almost as if sloppily molded from lumpy clay. His left ear was pretty much non-existent, but none of these things affected the man. He was known simply as Snakebite. The head of Cobra Island security and Cobra Commander’s chief bodyguard. As a Crimson Guard, Snakebite had been extremely successful, rising quickly through the ranks to squad leader. He was thought to have been the next Crimson Guard Supreme, completely skipping the rank of Immortal altogether. One evening, however, a GI Joe raid caught the guardsman in a vicious crossfire and the resulting explosion cost him both arms and deeply scarred half of his face. Thinking that his life as a "Siegie" and his life quite possibly in general, were over, he was eager to hear what Dr. Mindbender proposed as a drastic, new untested project. Snakebite was fused with circuitry from the latest model of Battle Android Trooper, which replaced his arms as well as increased his speed, strength and stamina. Snakebite was now a "Super Soldier". Dr. Mindbender offered to repair the damage done to his face, but Snakebite outright refused, deciding instead to use his features to his advantage, to bring fear to his enemies and gain respect from his peers. It was no doubt a good decision, and Snakebite swiftly became Cobra Commander’s favorite. Now this mountain of a man was staring fiercely into the eyes of the three Rotor-Vipers as they rounded the corner to approach the Command Center. He lifted the twelve-gauge shotgun he always carried with him and grimaced.

"The Commander will see you now," he almost hissed at them, his voice a grating, harsh whisper due to damage sustained in the explosion. It also had a slight metallic twang to it, the voice box enhanced by B.A.T. technology. The Rotor-Vipers nodded and proceeded into the command room, Snakebite following close behind. The Command Center was an extremely large, circular room with computer banks extending throughout almost every inch. Tele-Vipers roamed about in their familiar dark blue uniforms and helmets, each one maintaining constant contact with the others and with the radar screens to verify trickling information. There was more Techno-Vipers present here as well, the purple clad busybodies frantically monitoring all mechanical equipment, checking and double-checking. With little else to be concerned with over the past half decade, Cobra Commander had become a strictler for detail and demanded the same from his followers. A large red throne sat in the center of the room, facing a wall-sized block of monitors and television screens that covered the space just above the entranceway where the Rotor-Vipers now entered. A Crimson Guard Immortal stood stock still on either side of the throne, each carrying an AK-47 assault rifle, and almost seeming to want an excuse just to use it. At the back and sides of the circular room, three more hallways branched out, heading to the motor pool, officer’s quarters, and private meeting room. Troops quarters branched off from the training area from the main hallway and every area past the Command Center were accessed by permission only. The throne in the center of the room was huge and looming, and aptly shaped like the head of a ticked off king cobra. The mouth was bared, showing sharp, deadly fangs, its stone-carved eyes glaring menacingly. The chair itself was a deep, almost blood red, and the man sitting in it glared out from under his hood with a menace that nearly matched the deadly serpent sitting etched in granite above him. He was dressed in deep, royal blue, his arms crossed over his broad chest. A single silver braid ran from over his right shoulder down over the right area of his chest, then back underneath to connect to the other side. A large red Cobra Sigil stared out from behind his arms, just below where the majestic hood rested to a halt. His legs were crossed and shiny black boots tapped impatiently on the cool metal floor. Rotor-Viper One smiled more broadly and quickened his pace yet again.

"Commander! We have returned from the mission most successfully!" The Crimson Guard Immortals glared behind their black faceplates and took cautious steps forward, stopping the eager young pilot in his tracks. There were things that were just understood in the Cobra organization…don’t cross the boss, and when an Immortal says stop, you stop. Rotor-Viper One could almost feel their beady little eyes sizing him up behind the silver visors, probably wondering just how many different ways they could incapacitate him in the shortest amount of time.

"Successfully? Really?" The Commander sneered, leaning forward slightly. He uncrossed his legs and placed his hands on his knees, and stared directly at the pilot, almost through him.

"Yes, Commander. We only lost one man…the other ten were taken care of for us. We let the law do our dirty work for us, after all, we couldn’t have let them live after what they witnessed."

"Ah, yes…one of the disadvantages of using outside help." The Commander leaned back again, and re-crossed his arms. He nodded slightly. "Continue."

"One of the crates was lost unfortunately, but it was not an important one. The parts can be easily replaced. Now that we have the material, we can probably even do it in our own motor pool. All of the equipment for the laboratory was salvaged, so we can go ahead as planned."

"Is that all?"

"We did have an altercation with the local police force, but we escaped successfully, and with little incident, save the lost crate, pilot, and Fang."

"Well, Rotor-One, I thank you for your in depth report. But, you see, I already knew all of that." The Commander leaned forward slightly again, glaring into the soul of Rotor-Viper One.

"Excuse me?" Rotor-Viper One asked nervously. This was not the reception he had anticipated. Cobra Commander looked…upset.

"Everything you just told me…everything in your report. Is old news." Cobra Commander stood, a low ember burning in his pupils just behind the swaying hood.

"I…I don’t under—"

"I know you don’t understand, you IDIOT! Everything you just told me is old news. To me, and to the whole damned WORLD! Your whole escapade was broadcast to every NATION ON THE PLANET ON CNN!" The low ember was now a raging inferno as Cobra Commander stepped closer to the Rotor-Viper, their eyes mere inches apart. "Every Fang helicopter, every machine gun burst, every damn ROCKET blowing up a whole damn WAREHOUSE!"

"Commander…I’m sorry…I—"

"Did I give you permission to SPEAK?"

"No…no, sir—"

"We are trying to keep a low profile, Rotor-Viper One…hence, the underground base that took us a decade to construct…hence the satellite schedule. The object is to stay hidden from view until our time to strike." Cobra Commander stepped back slightly, regaining his composure. "Tell me something, Rotor-Viper One—"

"Yes, sir?" the pilot asked eagerly, desperately looking for a way to save his skin.

"Can we keep a low profile when our whole mission is on CABLE TV?" this last outburst was shouted so forcefully that the lower half of Cobra Commander’s hood blew up almost over his nose.

"No, sir—"

"No, sir…no, sir…NO, SIR! We most certainly CANNOT! Rotor-Viper One, you’re fired…collect your things from your quarters and find a way to the mainland. See the accountant on the way out to collect your pension."

Rotor-Viper One hung his head slightly. "Yes, sir…I’m sorry, sir." He turned and walked back towards the entrance, brushing quickly by Snakebite and his shotgun.

"Oh, wait just a moment, Rotor-Viper…I forgot something."

Rotor-Viper One halted, but stayed facing away. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his leader’s eyes.

"We don’t have a pension plan."

The shot rang throughout the Command Center, reverberating off of the metal walls. The surrounding Vipers barely even noticed it, and just continued about their basic duties. The pilot stumbled forward, confused, but did not fall. He spun and saw Snakebite, his shotgun pointed directly at him.

No! Don’t shoot! Please don’t! He tried to say but the words would not come. The shotgun trembled slightly as the pilot stumbled forward, pleading and begging for his life. Please! His eyes begged Snakebite for lenience. Slick wetness coursed down his back. I’m sweating…why am I sweating? He groped back behind himself, pressing his gloved fingers against the damp back of his uniform. So much sweat…running in rivers down my back. He stumbled for a couple of more steps, coughing. Sweat down my pants…collecting…in my boots…so much sweat. His eyes suddenly became confused, uncertain about what was happening, but then refocused and locked in a desperate, final certainty. Please, let it be sweat-- Rotor-Viper One dropped to his knees in front of Snakebite, clawing at his chest. He collapsed in a heap on the floor with such a thud that the spent shell casing bounced slightly just next to him. Snakebite lowered the smoking shotgun to the back of Rotor-Viper’s neatly buzzed head.

BA-DAM!

Rotor-Viper Two and Four swallowed nervously and approached the Commander.

"Please…it was all One’s plan…we were just following orders!" Four pleaded with his hooded leader while Cobra Commander smiled beneath the cloth.

"I understand…do not worry, your lives will be spared. Snakebite. Take these men to the prison sector. I’m sure Gulag would…love a word with them." Cobra Commander sat back down on his throne, snickering.

"No! Commander, please! Have us shot…anything! Not Gulag!" Rotor-Viper Two actually placed his hands together in prayer as he begged for mercy that was not present.

"The only thing worse than a horrible leader is troopers with no backbone who follow that leader simply on the pretext of following orders." Cobra Commander sneered behind his mask, his eyes narrowing to barely white slits. "You two are no better than that cold meat on the floor. Snakebite, take them away."

The huge man approached them slowly, and the Rotor-Vipers reacted violently. Four charged past him towards the exit, while Two lunged directly at the large mammoth. Snakebite reached out with his empty, metal hand and wrapped it around the back of the collar of Number Four, then yanked fiercely down. Four’s head smacked dully against the metal floor hard enough to leave a round helmet shaped dent in it. The helmet was dented as well, and Four rolled over and did not move. Two struck Snakebite headlong with a rough shoulder tackle, but pretty much bounced off. The large man gripped his shotgun with two hands and drove the butt fiercely into the midsection of the Rotor-Viper, doubling him over. In almost the same fluid motion, the shotgun rose dramatically and violently and caught the pilot directly in the face. There was a low splat, and the trooper slumped unconscious to the floor. Cobra Commander laughed heartily.

"Ah, Snakebite! Quite a showman you are! Are they still breathing?"

Snakebite kneeled to both of them and looked up, nodding.

"Excellent! Take them to Gulag…you two!" he beckoned, motioning to two Vipers, fully equipped with helmet, vests and assault rifles. "Clean up this refuge." He waved a callous hand to One, who was now lying in quite a puddle of his own blood. "That was stimulating!" he shouted happily. Destro emerged from the entryway as Snakebite left, dragging the two men.

"Was that necessary, Commander?" he asked, glancing uncomfortably at the heap on the floor. The Baroness entered just after him, obviously physically disturbed.

"’Wicked men obey for fear, but the good for love.’" Cobra Commander quoted, quite pleased with himself. "Tell me, Destro. Which category do you belong to?"

"Aristotle, Commander? Surely—"

"We came for the planning session, Commander. I believe it is time," it was The Baroness speaking this time, eager to change the subject. She did not want Destro and Cobra Commander at odds again so soon. It jeopardized her position in the Cobra hierarchy. The Baroness was strongly confident in Cobra Commander’s new plans, even though she didn’t yet have all of the details, and knew that if they succeeded, she was guaranteed a good position out of it. That is, if Destro and Cobra Commander could get along. So far, so good, but things were touchy. She followed the men to the meeting room, her mind racing on how to use these occurrences to her own advantage.

Jason Faria leaned back in his recliner in his Washington, D.C. apartment, owned and operated by the U.S. Government. One of the perks of his current employment. Since he was not centralized in a fixed location, he worked for the feds rather than the state. He picked up his grounded phone line and quickly dialed the number by memory.

"Department of Defense, how may I direct your call?" came the brisk reply on the other side of the phone.

"I need a secure line to Blaine Parker please," Faria replied.

"Authorization?"

"Faria, Jason A. Three six nine, oh nine, six five four three."

"Please hold." The phone clicked and the hold music chimed in.

Yikes, thought Faria, This is the U.S. Government…you’d think they’d get something better than Neil Diamond! The phone clicked again.

"D.O.D., this is Parker." The voice said inquisitively.

"Blaine? This is Jason Faria."

The hesitation gave it away. Parker had no idea who he was talking to.

"Is this a secure line?" Faria asked, just to verify.

"Yes it is," Parker replied, still trying to place the voice.

"Mainframe, old buddy…it’s me, Shockwave." Faria smirked on the other end.

"Shockwave! Damn, pal…you threw me for a loop!"

"Sorry about that…wanted to make sure the line was clear before I started casually throwing out classified information."

"Understood, man, understood. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I’m not sure if this information has trickled your way yet, so I thought I’d drop you a line." Shockwave leaned back in his recliner, and tried to decide where to begin.

"Throw it my way, man…try me."

"To start off with, I’m Team Leader of Mobile S.W.A.T. Team One. Northeast region."

"That’s you? Shoot, man! You’ve got some great numbers tacked up."

"Thanks. Low-Light’s my sniper. Took a hard hit this last op, but he’s doing fine."

"Good to hear. So, tell me more." Mainframe squinted curiously into the receiver. He was pretty sure he knew everything that Shockwave was about to say, but he wanted a clear perspective from someone who was there. Someone who could verify the nasty rumors circulating.

"Well, we had an incident in Hartford, Connecticut yesterday. Masked men unloading weird crates, two cops killed, a real mess."

"I’m listening."

"It was a run of the mill infiltrate and eliminate. Easy stuff, but some weird crap, too. The goons all wore blue fatigues. They were camo patterned, but still blue. They also had black facemasks and blue helmets. Ring a bell?"

Mainframe relaxed a little. If this was all he had, maybe this call wasn’t worth it. "Is that all you’ve got to go on, Shockwave?"

"No way…there’s much more. We spanked one of their transport ‘copters. Single pilot, black and gray color schemes. No emblems, but remarkably similar to the Fang model."

"Terrorists buy half their junk on the black market. Could belong to anyone."

"There’s more. We retrieved a crate from the scene and inspected the contents." Faria leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk for emphasis. Mainframe couldn’t see it of course, but to Faria, it felt better anyway.

"Don’t leave me hanging, J…"

"Sloped armor plating. Jet black, thick metal stuff. Only one vehicle I know that uses that. The markings on the crate just confirmed everything."

"Let me guess…"

"You got it. Military Armament Research System…M.A.R.S."

"Sounds like our boy with the metal head is up and running again."

"Wonder who’s funding him?"

Mainframe’s heart was racing. "Okay, Shock…this is huge. You’ve gotta keep a tight lip about this, okay?"

"You got it, buddy. My lips are sealed. Only guy I’ve even mentioned anything to is Low-Light. He won’t tell a soul."

"Make sure of that, Shockwave. If this is what it appears, we have to tread very carefully."

"Agreed. Just one thing, Blaine. A favor to me and MacBride."

"Name it."

"If things get rolling again?"

"Yeah?"

"We want in."

"I had a feeling you’d say that, Jason. Believe me, if the situation is bad enough so that we’re operational again, we will need all the help we can get."

"I’ve got another guy, too. Seems real solid…we think Cobra whacked his S.W.A.T. Team, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Frank Kage."

"Yeah. Kage’s rep precedes him. I think we can find a slot for him if we go on this. And that is a huge ‘if’ Shockwave, all right? Military budget’s tight these days, keep that in mind."

"You’ve got my number?"

"I can get it, no problem." Mainframe checked the computer screen on his desk. The moment the call came through all vital information on Jason A. Faria had popped up on his screen.

"Hopefully I’ll be hearing from you."

"Nothing personal, Shock…but I hope I never have to call you…it would mean bad moon rising, that’s for sure." Mainframe clicked the ‘flash’ button and ended the short, but educating conversation. With a flip of his thumb he pressed another number and the phone began ringing on the other end.

"Authorization, please?"

"Parker, Blaine L. RA eight one eight, five zero, one six seven three."

"How may I direct your call?"

"Special Forces…Lieutenant Vincent Falcone."