Night covered the sky like a dark blue/black curtain, completely blocking out all trace of daylight, the off white sliver of moon hanging like the broken shard of a light bulb. In the still water of the ocean, the mirror image of the crescent sat, almost as if transplanted from the darkness of space and planted in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. The water rippled slightly, the white reflection warbling and shimmering like the moon was suddenly reduced to a quivering liquid mass. A quick dart suddenly pounded through the reflection, scattering wavy shards of moon in all directions. The wake roared through and practically erased all trace that the reflection had ever existed. A black raft buzzed over the surface of the water, it’s powerful engine nearly silent in the dark night. Against the dark skyline, the raft was pretty much invisible. It was crafted in black and deep, dark blue, its sole purpose to allow for easy transportation without being seen. Seven men sat crouched in the large watercraft, equally invisible in the low moonlight. The raft skimmed over the water, bouncing slightly over the rolling waves, and thumping back against the dark water, tearing a shallow path in the ocean’s surface. At the front of the boat a man crouched, dressed like the others in a black rubber wet suit. Quite appropriate attire for this man, as he was Brian Forrest, the Team Leader for the mission. Better known to his former GI Joe teammates as Wet Suit. He crouched low to the floor of the raft, his alert eyes peering out through the opening in his rubber facemask. His well-developed night vision strained and struggled, but against the dark water and the dark sky, he could register little. The well built career S.E.A.L. lowered his silenced machine gun slightly and pulled a mask from his gear bag, which was water proof and lay at his feet, although it was secured to his waist by a long, durable belt. He slipped the mask over his eyes, and twisted a dial, the horizon flickering and coming back into focus a strange green hue. Adjusting the zoom, Wet Suit quickly brought the shoreline into view, though it was still almost half a mile away. He turned towards the rear of the raft.

"Hang it slightly left, Barker. We want to land on the East shore. It’s deep water right up to the rocks, and the shortest distance to snake central." He talked lightly, but did not whisper. The engine was quiet enough to allow for quiet talk, and Wet Suit still was reluctant to shout even though they were out to sea, and the island was supposedly deserted. Barker nodded affirmative, and made the slight adjustment. Wet Suit marveled at how the island had looked in the new satellite pictures they had been briefed with. On his first mission with the GI Joe team, now almost fifteen years ago he had been part of an attack on the huge monster of an island and the Joes had lost that little skirmish. Now Cobra Island looked completely different. There were fewer beaches. Erosion and lack of interest had worn away the sand and dunes, uncovering the jagged, rocky underbelly of the island. All buildings had been almost reduced to cinder in the last large-scale battle between GI Joe and Cobra, now about five years ago. The only building that remained was the Cobra Citadel. Very similar to their former consulate building in New York, it had been constructed shortly before the Joe attack, and was now the last building standing. That last conflict had been deemed a major success for the Joes, even though they had lost men. The Cobra army was pretty much decimated and much of the Cobra hierarchy was thought to have been killed when their escape watercraft had been bombed into oblivion by the remaining Joe air-fighters. Of course, this was Cobra, and those snakes did have a knack for coming back form the dead. Wet Suit promised himself he wouldn’t rule anything out yet. Especially when it came to Cobra. As they drew closer to the large island, Wet Suit glanced back to take an inventory of his men. Just to his left, Groen sat crouched, facing out into the empty sea, his machine gun at the ready. Each weapon had a tactical flashlight mounted to the barrel, as all night landing missions did, just as a precaution. Wet Suit was familiar with Christopher Groen, having served with him on the GI Joe team. Groen was also a Navy S.E.A.L veteran, and Forrest was happy to have him on the team. His Joe code name had been Tracker, and for good reason. His natural senses were insanely acute, almost to the point of being animal-like. These senses were even further enhanced by a black visor that Tracker wore, which was a prototype that he and Low-Light had designed together when they were on the Joe team. It was capable of night vision, thermal readouts, calculating distances, hearing heartbeats, and much more. It was unbelievably expensive to produce, so there were only a few in existence, but Groen always brought one on every mission. Brian Forrest was glad for that. They could use all the help they could get. Next to Groen sat Dickens, a pretty well experienced decent night-fighter. He had been with the Green Berets in Desert Storm, and was a welcome addition to his S.E.A.L. Team. Strapped across his shoulder was an MP-5 just like everyone else carried, tac-light, fixed stock and all. These MP’s were equipped with extended "banana" clips seeing as how the S.E.A.L.s got into hairy missions sometimes, and needed all advantages they could muster. Each man also had shoulder straps underneath the wet suits, with plenty of extra clips and ammo for quick access. Barker was manning he engine at the rear, also keeping his weapon trained on the water behind them should anyone be following. Marsh sat kiddy corner next to Barker, his night vision goggles on and scanning the water, and now the northeast shoreline of the island as they hummed past.

"Any movement?" Wet Suit asked in a low, hoarse whisper. Marsh shook his head negatively. Two men also sat on the other side of Forrest one with an MP-5 and the other with an M-60 slung over one shoulder. Torres gripped his submachine gun like a lifeline, his goggles also deeply scanning the shoreline. Nothing. The place did indeed seem deserted. The man with the M-60 was Ralph Morales, nicknamed Ralphie by his teammates. Ralphie was the resident heavy machine gunner, his massive forearms easily handling the rather large firearm. A belt of heavy caliber bullets was slung over the shoulder of his wet suit, just waiting to be launched at unfortunate hostiles. The raft zipped past an inlet, and Wet Suit could barely make out the burnt out husk of the Terror Drome that once sat there, just beyond the shore. There were thick, plentiful forests throughout that area on the east coast, but numerous battles and combat had worn it down considerably. There were definitely still trees and woods, but not quite as thick as before. If Wet Suit remembered the satellite pictures and his own memory well enough, the treeline ended sharply just a quarter of a mile south from the next inlet. Just ahead, Wet Suit saw where the next inlet curved in towards the center of the island, and quickly motioned to Barker to guide it in quietly. The water had been calm and soothing further out in the ocean, but here, waves slammed and crashed onto the rocky shore, and there was no shallow beach area even this close to shore. The raft slipped in towards the edge of the island, and Wet Suit flashed some quick hand signals that all men had been conditioned to understand as if they were in plain English. The front of the raft gently bumped against the rocks, and Wet Suit and Tracker launched themselves from it, landing gracefully among the rocks and wet dirt. The other five men tumbled over backwards into the dark water, nearly silently, meshing right in with the sounds of the crashing waves. There was a sudden low hiss as the raft swiftly deflated and was sucked and drawn down into the dark ocean water, suddenly replaced by five men in black wet suits. With blinding speed and coordination, the seven men stripped off their rubber diving gear, revealing dark black BDU’s underneath. The quality of the wet suits was so good that the men’s regular uniforms were not even the slightest bit wet. Within seconds, the suits were in weighted gear bags and settled at the bottom of the ten-foot deep water where the raft was curled and tied to a rock itself. The process took about thirty seconds, and now each man wore black uniforms with flack vests and gear strapped to every possible place on their body. They each quickly applied black face paint and black knit masks, then finished off the ensemble with dark gray boonie caps. The S.E.A.L.s were here in force and to take no prisoners.

Far down below the surface and in a restricted area only a handful of people even knew about Mainframe tapped the keyboard with the fluid grace of a ballerina. On the screen in front of him was a radar image of Cobra Island, the path of the S.E.A.L.s mapped out in bright green. He checked his watch briefly and decided that the Navy frogmen were probably hitting the beaches right about now. His mind wandered as he thought back to his past life on the Joe team. Was Duke right? Have I changed? Become the Washington bureaucrat we all complained about? He leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked down, smiling. The gray uniform felt real good after all of these years. It had been too long, he thought. He’d forgotten about it. The camaraderie. Working as a team instead of for yourself, stabbing others in the back just to step up a pay grade.

"What’s the story, soldier?" A sharp voice echoed in the small office right behind the computer expert. He almost jumped from his chair. Mainframe spun eagerly, and saw Duke standing in the doorway, scowling.

"Yikes, Duke…you scared the crap out of me."

"Came down to check on our boys’ progress. When was the last update?"

"About 0215. They’d just been dumped in the drink by the C-130. As close as they are to the island, radio silence is obviously encouraged."

"Agreed. How’s the timeline pan out?"

"Well…if all is going according to plan, then they are probably just going inland now. Probably right about here." Mainframe pointed a finger to the screen, pressing it against the radar photo, just south of the southeast edge of the forest. The forest on the photo went up to the edge of the volcano, but shortly after that was practically flattened into dry soil and brown dirt. "This is their target here," Mainframe said, pointing his finger again, this time to the cluster of buildings north of the airfield. The buildings were crushed and reduced to rubble, but one tower stood tall among its peers, almost like a king before kneeling worshippers.

"Hopefully won’t be too long now." Duke said, bending over for a closer look.

"Hey, Duke," Mainframe said, turning to face the sergeant. "About earlier. What I said—"

"Drop it, Mainframe. No blood, no foul, pal." Duke smirked his cocky smirk and punched Mainframe lightly on the arm. "I’m heading to my quarters. Give me a buzz when things get interesting."

"Could be a while."

"Good night, Mainframe."

"’Night, Top." Mainframe rested his arm next to his black helmet that lay on the desk just to his right. He smiled. "C’mon, Wet Suit, let’s get this wrapped up. Its bed time."

The shrill buzzer echoed throughout the small chamber, practically throwing the sleeping man from his bed. He reached over to the table next to him and grabbed a cloth object, then pulled the hood down over his sleepy face. Grumbling and cursing he stomped over to the intercom and pressed the call button.

"You have five seconds to convince me not to have you shot," Cobra Commander growled into the speaker.

"Sorry to disturb you," the Tele-Viper pleaded frantically.

"You now have two seconds," The Commander said, very seriously.

"We have visitors, sir. The southeast inlet."

Cobra Commander scowled under his hood. "Who are they?"

"They appear to be some type of operatives. Snakebite has identified them as Navy S.E.A.L.s. They are now approaching the treeline just north of the airfield, sir."

"Hmm. A little close for comfort, I’d say."

"What do you want us to do about it, sir?"

"Is. Dr. Mindbender awake?"

"Of course, sir. He is in the lab."

"Patch me through, Tele-Viper. Next time call Destro. If you wake me up at three in the morning again I’ll have your family killed."

"Y…yes, sir." There was a click.

"Yes, what is it?" the deep voice echoed, sounding very annoyed.

"It is your august leader, Mindbender."

"I beg your pardon, Commander…what can I do for you?"

"What stage is Operation: Shadow on, my dear doctor?"

"Shadow? Well…the process is complete, but the tests are far from finished. I need a little more time."

"You want tests? Tonight Squad One gets a field test."

"But, Commander! These prototypes do not come cheap…if something should happen, I don’t know if we can replace—"

"Release them, Mindbender."

"Cobra Commander, I must obj—"

"Release them, or go out and battle the team of Navy S.E.A.L.s by yourself. I don’t care which. Just do it and do it quick." With a final click, the intercom was plunged into silence.

"Yes, sir." Mindbender grumbled to the dead air. He walked over to the large, elaborate bank of computers that adorned the walls of the lab area. Three Techno-Vipers and a Medi-Viper hovered around them, checking vital stats and important info. "Release Squad One, Techno-Viper four thirteen," Mindbender said matter of factly. The Vipers had heard the conversation, so they immediately obeyed. "Medi-Viper, keep close watch on their physical statistics…blood pressure, heart rate that sort of thing. We are going to watch this first hand."

"Yes, sir," the three Vipers replied. They quickly input commands and Operation: Shadow was online.

Tracker walked slowly, leading the other six frogmen along the south edge of the forest. Some yards away, just south of them the broken down Cobra Airfield sat still in the dark night. The concrete runway was cracked and torn, the hanger destroyed. Tracker even thought he spotted some Rattler and Condor skeletons among the debris. Each man now wore night vision goggles. It was a cloudy night and without them, visibility was only a few feet. Just behind Tracker Wet Suit followed, his weapon pointed to the woods. Ralphie brought up the rear, his M-60 raised and ready, but for emergency use only. Tracker stopped so suddenly, that Forrest almost rear-ended him. A dull hum had quite suddenly burst into Tracker’s ears. An unexpected but almost quiet sound. A throbbing, quiet buzz. He looked around through his goggles, but couldn’t spot anything. His senses were more acute than many, and he thought that it could just possibly be that his ears were ringing. They continued the march forward, and Tracker could now see where the treeline curved north along a paved road that led from the airfield to the Citadel. He zoomed in closer with his visor and still saw no movement. He waved the others on with the all clear signal and they progressed, drawing closer to the edge of the trees. The humming had risen in pitch quite dramatically, and Tracker actually had to stop and grab his ears. He dropped to one knee, but waved the others ahead. Wet Suit stopped next to him, looking down. Tracker looked up and signaled, asking if Wet Suit heard anything. Brian Forrest raised his head, and listened, but then shook his head no. Tracker stood, adjusting the dials on his visor, hoping to tweak the sound, which he was suddenly convinced was some kind of electronic feedback. Shoot! He thought, placing both hands on the eyepiece. I thought we had this thing perfected. He slowly lifted the black visor from his head, and suddenly shouted. It was big, black and fast, and closing in on him quickly. Two red, piercing eyes squinted through the darkness, and that was all Tracker could see as it flew towards him with blinding speed. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do except draw in a deep breath and—

"UUMMMMPPHHHH!" Tracker screamed quite loudly as the black thing barreled into him with incredible force and speed. It struck him high in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer and threw him roughly into the air, somersaulting and spinning wildly. Wet Suit jumped back in surprise, seeing nothing except his teammate tossed like a rag doll. Tracker struck the hard ground back first, his face contorting and his limbs flailing uncontrollably. Forrest ran over to him, and knelt beside him, concern washing over his face. The other five men, who were a few yards ahead, joined their friends, all looking bewildered.

"What the hell was that?" Barker whispered. He looked down at Tracker who was bleeding considerably from the mouth and nose. His eyes rolled back in his head, then rolled forward, but still didn’t look too stable.

"Groen?" Wet Suit asked briskly. "What hit you, bud?" He ran a hand over his fallen comrade’s chest. He grimaced as he felt what was quite possibly broken ribs. Lots of them.

"Unnhhh…the eyes…" Tracker coughed. More blood spat out and dribbled down his chin.

Wet Suit looked uncertainly at the other S.E.A.L.s. Tracker seemed delirious. Looks like this mission was scrubbed before it began. "Was it an animal, Groen? What was it?"

Tracker rolled onto his side, breathing haggardly.

"C’mon, Ralphie…help me get him up. We’re EVACing right now." Wet Suit pointed to Tracker and Ralphie nodded. Suddenly Wet Suit screamed in pain and stumbled awkwardly backwards. A splash of red burst from his side as he fell to the ground, striking the brown dirt, mere feet away from Tracker. He winced as he fell, his hand clutching at his left side, ribs screaming in pain.

"What the hell?" Ralphie asked quickly, and lifted his machine gun. Dickens knelt immediately beside the team leader.

"That’s a damn bullet wound!" he shouted. "Armor piercing…flew right through the flak jacket."

"I didn’t hear anything. Not even a silenced shot. A gun firing that slug would sure as hell made some noise," Barker shouted nervously, now turning his attention to Wet Suit. "C’mon, guys, let’s get our boys out of here!" Gunfire erupted from the treeline, completely audible this time. It was a loud, ragged, vicious sound and Barker screamed and fell under the barrage of bullets. The muzzle flashes had exploded just yards from where the men were standing. Ralphie spun immediately and squeezed the trigger, keeping the wildly shaking M-60 under tight control. The gun blasted large bore ammunition into the trees, but nothing moved but branches and leaves as the large weapon cleaned them off.

"What the HELL is this?" Ralphie asked, suddenly quite concerned. He twisted some more dials on his night vision goggles, but could still see nothing. The other three set a circular formation around the fallen men. Barker was not breathing, and a large amount of blood stained the ground beneath him.

"Whatever they are, man…they’re toying with us," Marsh said harshly, quickly whipping his weapon around, covering all areas.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" Torres screamed, laughing, a little hysterically. The night was dark and silent. Bullets tore into the ground just in front of Torres, spitting up chunks of dirt and fountains of pebbles. He stumbled back, cursing in his native tongue.

"What are these things, friggin’ invisible?" he shouted. On the ground, Wet Suit groaned.

"You okay, Forrest?" Dickens asked.

"Yeah…just damn ducky." Wet Suit gripped his wound tightly, but thick crimson still oozed from between his fingers. "What exactly are we dealing with here?" he asked. He was sitting up slightly now, and looked around, but his night vision goggles had been thrown when he was hit. He stared down towards the airfield, and drew a breath.

"Uh, guys," he said in a sharp whisper. "What are those?" he asked, waving a shaky finger towards the runway. The four men turned to look, but shook their heads.

"I don’t see nothing, Forrest," said Torres, squinting through his goggles.

"Those eyes? You don’t see those red eyes?" Wet Suit was a little more frantic now. Four pairs of round, red eyes were luminescent in the dark, just twenty yards away, all lined up along the runway.

"You feelin’ all right? I don’t see anything," Ralphie said. Wet Suit looked up at them and realization suddenly dawned on him.

"The goggles! Take off the damn gog—" Gunfire, loud and long interrupted his pleading, and all he could do was hug the ground. Four assault rifles roared as one in the cool night air, explosions of orange and white-hot intensity blasting from the thick, round barrels. The men did not even struggle with the weapons, even though they were obviously very powerful. The four Navy S.E.A.L.s didn’t even have time to react as the paths of rushing bullets across the open air cut them down. They didn’t shout, scream or swear, they just jerked and fell, then lay still in the dirt of a foreign land. Wet Suit swore loudly at the four attackers as they walked ever closer. The moon was peering out from behind the clouds and a little more light descended upon the airfield. Wet Suit could make out four large men in mostly black leather gear. Each one wore a gray chest plate and black boots. The red eyes stared menacingly from the motorcycle helmets each man wore. On the right side of the chest plate, all of Wet Suit’s fears suddenly came to fruition. The red cobra sigil smiled its toothy grin out at him, as if it had a mind of its own and knew it had just drawn first blood. Wet Suit frowned, and tried to talk, but slumped into unconsciousness. Tracker pried open his eyes just feet away, and shook his head sadly when he saw all of his teammates strewn all over the ground around him.

"You’re alive?" one of the men asked, and Tracker noticed for the first time that there were four rather huge men looming over him.

"W—what hit me?" he asked, still clutching his ribs. The man who spoke to him kneeled beside him.

"We have some good news and bad news for you. Which do you want first?" his voice almost hissed inside the helmet. Tracker could only envision a scaly snakeman face behind the mask.

"Screw you." He said defiantly. He refused to play any of their sick games.

"Heh," the man stood again, laughing quietly. "Well, the good news is, we need someone for questioning, so we don’t need to kill you all tonight."

"I can’t tell you how happy that makes me," Tracker snarled, trying to pick himself up off the ground. A black boot slammed into his ribs and forced him back into the lying position. Tracker sucked in a pain soaked breath, but refused to scream.

"The bad news, my friend, is that we only need ONE person for questioning. And I think the team leader probably knows a lot more than you, huh?"

Tracker scowled, trying to come up with anything rebellious to say. He merely choked out half a snarl before the assault rifle exploded into his forehead.

The meeting was early in the morning, but all were accounted for and present, surprisingly bright eyed and eager. Fort Wadsworth had been closed for quite some time due to budget cuts, reduced Defense Department spending and all that. There were still some buildings there left unoccupied, and it was decided that The Chaplain’s Assistants Motor Pool would be the best place to gather the troops. Most of the ex-Joes knew the location, military vehicles would not look out of place there and the fort was vacated, which allowed for secretive conversation. Before the meeting took place, several men went through the long and painstaking process of screening for electronic devices and soundproofing the motor pool itself, just to safeguard against possible spies or just curious onlookers. This all occurred at the dead of night so as not to alert anyone, and the meeting was happening relatively early on this Sunday morning, in hopes that most of the local Staten Island residents would still be asleep in their beds. The motor pool was jam-packed. It was impossible to calculate the number of years of military experience all of these men had between them, but it was considerable. They shook hands eagerly, told tales of non-violence after the team’s disbandment. The talk was all friendly, as many of these men had not seen each other in half a decade. It was an unusual sight of camaraderie. Navy men talking eagerly to Marines, infantry rubbing elbows with Generals, Army Rangers laughing and joking with men from the Coast Guard. In this room, the affiliations, the rank, the experience meant nothing. These men were equal. They were all the best of the best. They were the GI Joe team. Of course the minute the blonde-haired man in the brown leather bomber jacket stepped up to the podium, things changed.

"A Ten-Hut!" Shouted Duke, the Master Sergeant and field commander of the GI Joe team. General Hawk tapped the podium a little nervously, then cleared his throat and bent down to the microphone.

"Good morning, gentlemen. At ease."

As if one single entity, the crowd of men dropped from attention, spread their legs slightly and crossed their arms behind their back.

"I cannot tell you how good it is to be here with you all again today. Unfortunately, as I’m sure you all know, if we are brought back together all is not right with the world." Hawk let this remark sink in. All of the men present knew this of course, but somehow the boss pointing out the fact just made it more serious than it was previously. "I will, as usual, get right to the point." Hawk stopped for a second and cleared his throat again. He appeared nervous. "We have sufficient reason to believe that Cobra is back in action again." That simple sentence sent a ripple of chatter flowing through the room. Gasps, swears, and violent mutterings echoed in the small, empty garage. "We think we know what they are up to, and we are going to need all of your help to put a stop to it."

"Just tell us where you want us, sir!" Gung Ho shouted with emphasis. Like most of the men in the room, Gung Ho was clad in his old GI Joe uniform, his green hat pulled snugly over his bald head and his vest wide open, proudly displaying the Marine Corps tattoo on his chest.

Hawk chuckled slightly. "We will be getting to that, Gung Ho. First however, I believe that it is my duty to be completely honest with you gentlemen."

Questionable stares and whispers went through the crowd again.

"Some of you are not going to like this, but as you know, I can do nothing about that. What I am about to say is classified information, and is for strict top secret clearance only, understood?"

"Yes, SIR!" came the unanimous, eager reply.

"Five years ago, after the Pit III was closed down due to budget restraints, many of you were relocated and given new positions. Some of you were honorably discharged, and others of you volunteered to leave the armed forces. Quite a few of you made that decision based on the assumption that the GI Joe Team had disbanded. I would hazard a guess to say that about ninety-five percent of you were told that the GI Joe team was disbanded. Well, the uncomfortable truth is this: The GI Joe Team was never disbanded." He let the words sit in the still air, and drew in an uncomfortable breath. Stunned silence permeated the air as the men all glared at their leader in confusion. "It was decided by the top brass that GI Joe would be better off as a much lower scale, even more covert, tight knit group of people not knowingly affiliated with any of the armed forces. The Washington guys chose ten men to be on that team, and the rest of you were placed in other facets of the military."

"Wait a darn minute here, General!" Beachhead shouted angrily from the front row. He wore his green battle suit and black flack jacket. His green mask was tucked in the back pocket of his brown and green camouflage patterned pants. "Are you saying the rest of us weren’t good enough for this team?"

"Yeah!" Shouted Bazooka. "What are we, second stringers?"

"Gentlemen, relax." Hawk said nicely, but with authority enough to tell them that he was still a Brigadier General, after all. "It was decided that most of you could better serve our country in other ways. We had room for ten men, so the ten were chosen and the rest of you were given positions based on your skills and where we thought you would do the most good. The fact that you were even called here today should be proof enough that you’re still considered the best of the best. Most of you men were given jobs instructing the soldiers of tomorrow. Leatherneck and Gung Ho at Parris Island, Torpedo at S.E.A.L. school in Annapolis. Bazooka, you were placed at West Point for crying out loud! We figured the best way for our armed forces to be the best is to be taught by the best. Make no mistake about it, soldiers, you men are the best! If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here right now."

"There are a lot of guys I don’t see here right now, sir," Recondo said, glancing around the room.

"Steps were made to contact every surviving former member of GI Joe, Recondo. The men that you don’t see were either occupied or turned us down."

Recondo nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer.

Hawk puffed his chest up slightly, invigorated by the conversation. His nervousness had waned to about nothing. "Now, gentlemen? Are we going to sit here and banter back and forth about the screwed up way our political system acts, or are we here to kick some ass and take some names?"

"Kick ass, SIR!" Came the deafening response.

"All right…now before I turn this over to Agent Wilkens," Hawk said, somewhat sheepishly, tipping his head over to the man in the corner in the three piece suit, "I need to know. Anyone who does not want to go through with this, please, the time to exit is now." Hawk leaned back, crossing his arms. Not a single muscle moved in the whole room. "I thought so. Agent Wilkens, the floor is yours," Hawk said, stepping to one side. The well-dressed man stepped up to the microphone and looked out to the stern gazes of the soldiers before him.

"Thank you, General Abernathy." He cleared his throat and pulled out a small stack of printed sheets of paper. "Approximately five days ago, our Northeast Roving S.W.A.T. unit intercepted a shipment of armor plating destined for an unknown location." Shockwave and Low-Light smiled and shot each other satisfied glances, each one getting pats on the back from the surrounding men. "The shipment was sent by a company you should all be familiar with. A company called Military Armament Research Systems. M.A.R.S. for short. A company owned by a known terrorist named James McCullen Destro." The room burst to life in conversation yet again. Agent Wilkens appeared visibly annoyed. "This shipment was being picked up by three helicopters remarkably similar to the FANG model single man helicopters that the terrorist organization known as Cobra has used in the past. Also, the armor plating in the crate we recovered is the same type of plating used in the construction of the HISS tank, a weapon of destruction also formerly used by Cobra. We think this is reason enough to be concerned."

"Are they based on Cobra Island again?" asked Airborne.

"We don’t believe so, no. At 0300 this morning we sent a S.E.A.L. team to investigate Cobra Island. Unfortunately a storm front has since moved in and we are unable to contact them. They are a few hours overdue, but most likely the storm is keeping them ashore. We have maintained satellite coverage of this island religiously for the past three years, and have not once seen a hint of activity."

"Pictures can lie," said Hit & Run, a little harsher than he had planned.

"So I’ve been told," growled Wilkens, squinting at Duke from the corner of his eye.

"What’s our plan of action?" This time it was a new addition to the team asking. An electronics expert and radar jammer by the name of Blackout.

"Well, we have several things in the works. We believe the main target is going to be the Frequency Wave Bomb, code-named: SuperFreak."

The Joes stared blankly at Wilkens when he mentioned the name. "This coming Friday, our President is going to be making a live address to the nation from the Ivy League school he graduated from. This address is going to announce the new Frequency Wave Bomb, a weapon capable of structural destruction, but without the cost of human life. The elections are coming up and we believe this address is going to give a big shot in the arm to the Vice President who is running for election. Super Tuesday is in a week and a half, and this announcement will please the human rights sissies to no end."

The Joes still looked somewhat puzzled. "How do you know Cobra wants this thing?" asked Airborne, who was feeling especially inquisitive.

"Well, we were able to take one man alive at the warehouse attack in Hartford, Connecticut. He attempted suicide by jumping from his helicopter, but a news van below broke his fall somewhat. He said that ‘his brothers’ were planning something big and soon. Said it could crush the country as we know it. This is the closest thing we can come up with. The only reason Cobra is forming up at this specific time." Agent Wilkens was mildly embarrassed at his own lack of solid info, but the Agency felt really strong about this one.

"Do you think The President will be a target?" Chuckles asked.

"We don’t think so. Just to be safe, we will be placing you and Law into his Secret Service crew, but it’s really just a precautionary measure. Project: SuperFreak is being tested that next Sunday, one week from today, and we think that they will strike then, and attempt to steal the prototype."

"Where’s the prototype now?" Gung Ho asked this question.

"Well, if I bandied that information about, it wouldn’t be classified Top Secret, now would it, soldier?" Wilkens sneered a little, glad to finally have a foot up on the military thugs. "We have men stationed at various facilities throughout the country, just to keep everyone guessing. In fact, one member of the GI Joe team is at our facility in Nevada, guarding an empty room."

"All right, Wilkens," Hawk said, stepping back towards the podium. "You’ve given us all the background mumbo jumbo, so what do you want the Joe team to do about this problem? You want us to wait around until Sunday and react when Cobra launches their attack, or are we going to press ourselves and beat them to the punch?"

"The Joe team is not going to ‘wait around’ as you so eloquently put it. They are going to stake out the test location and monitor it for the week, to ensure the project’s safety."

"Wait a minute. You called the team back together and set up this meeting so we can ‘monitor’? That’s it?" Duke glared at the well-dressed man with obvious disdain.

"I cannot stress enough, Sergeant Hauser, the importance of Project: SuperFreak." Wilkens got into Duke’s face and sneered.

"Important to human safety? Or important to the damn election?" Duke stepped one step closer.

"Stand down, Sergeant!" Hawk ordered, stepping up between the two men. "Thank you for the update, Agent Wilkens. I think I can take it from here."

Agent Wilkens nodded and turned, walking stiffly down the podium. He glanced back at Duke as he walked to the side door of the motor pool where there was no doubt a limousine waiting.

"He’s one of them, isn’t he Hawk?" Duke asked, scowling.

"There’s been some shake ups in Washington, Duke. Things are a little out of whack." Hawk spoke quietly, painfully aware that the room full of Joes was watching them.

"But he is, right?"

"Yeah, Duke he is. He’s one of The Jugglers."

"And they’re running the show now?"

"For better or worse, Duke, yeah…The Jugglers are running the show."