Four days passed like a case of the hiccups and Friday was soon upon them. The meeting at Staten Island was little less than a week behind them. For four straight days every one of The President's advisors begged and pleaded for him to cancel this address, or to at least do it from a more secure location, but The President refused outright. Two members of the design team for Project: SuperFreak had come from his very Alma Mater, and he couldn’t resist doing a nationwide address from the Ivy League school that had produced him as well as two top ranked scientists in the field. It was just too perfect. And on an election year, too…in The President’s eyes, this pretty much synched his Vice President’s spot as his successor. But the leader of the nation was sincerely excited about Project: SuperFreak for other reasons than just political. That was another reason why he was so adamant about doing this nationwide address as soon as the full specifications were available. The advisors wanted to keep that classified for a while longer still, but The United States President was too eager to share his excitement. The school he had graduated from so many years ago was located in a fairly small New England town, far away from the hustle and bustle of big cities, and nestled next to the Connecticut River in central New Hampshire. Theoretically speaking, it was a very good place, security wise, to hold a national press conference. There were only a few main entrances to the downtown area, and all entrances could be sealed and defended very easily. Only a select few of the aides knew the breaking news about Cobra and they had no desire to start a full-scale panic, so they kept their personal fears to themselves. They all figured that this was way too high profile for the large terrorist group and their target would be the machine itself, undergoing final tests in two days. In fact, Washington bureaucrats were so convinced that a Cobra attack was happening in two days that they were preparing an elaborate scam to draw them out for a GI Joe ambush. Project: SuperFreak was not even going to be in action that day, just a mock-up serving as a trap, with almost the whole GI Joe force waiting in ambush. A textbook plan, one that most Washington bureaucrats felt was guaranteed success. Unfortunately, most Washington bureaucrats had never dealt with Cobra before. The address tonight was occurring at a rather large lecture hall directly across the street from the green of the school, right next to Main Street, with another street intersecting just next to it. Main Street actually ran down the west side of the auditorium and was home to many quaint little shops and local hangouts, and even the local school’s famous bookstore. All of these businesses would be closed at the time of the address, most of them closed by five o’clock anyway, except for the coffee shop and the Irish pub, which would be asked to close early for security reasons. It was late afternoon, almost evening; the sky already faded to a dull gray and the sun was pretty much out of sight. It was New England in March, and it got dark relatively early. The shops down Main Street had been closed all the way to Allen Street, which is where the Secret Service had the road roped off. Two black sedans sat diagonally in the middle of the road, several men in black suits and sunglasses milling around. If someone looked carefully, snipers could be spotted on several roofs, one even pacing on the roof of the bookstore, just in case. At the intersection of Main Street and the street running north of the lecture center more sedans blocked the traffic flow, assuring that no one unauthorized could even drive by the large, glass covered building. A proud placard displayed on the front of the center read "Presidential Address: Live to the Nation Tonight!" The rounded roof jutted up into the gray sky, three men in black roaming around up there. More sedans sat just beyond the center, positioned similarly to the other groups, and this section of the rich, Ivy League town was secured. Chuckles and Law wandered around on the sidewalk outside of the lecture hall and theatre center, each dressed for the occasion in black suits and headphones connected by the curly wires the Secret Service were known for. They were actually here undercover, no members of Secret Service or even The President himself aware that they were members of the GI Joe team and not even part of the coveted Secret Service.

"Gonna be a boring night, eh, hombre?" Law asked, frowning. Chuckles thought he looked strange with no dog by his side. Order had grown too old to be of much use as a police dog, and Law just didn’t have the heart to replace him. Order was now officially Law’s pet and stayed at his home for most of the time, taken care of a professional dog-keeper when Law was away.

"Let’s hope so, Law. Excitement is a bad thing when The President’s in town."

"So, where’s your post?" Law asked, checking his watch quickly.

"I’m in the backstage area, behind the curtains. Only man posted there. You?"

"I’m way in the east end of the building on the other side. Part of a roving security team. Probably won’t even see The President."

"Hello, boys," Agent Rooks approached the Joes, his walk stiff and his glare deadly serious. "We almost ready to get this ball rolling?" Agent Rooks was the senior Agent in charge, and the leader of this little "operation". He had two decades of service experience, and took his job very seriously, as did all Secret Service members. Agents Miller, French, and Biggs flanked him. Miller was a large man by any standards, standing taller and broader than the two Joes. His face was nondescript, which was just the way the service liked it. The less you stood out the better it was. Agent French was a female Agent, which was more and more prevalent in these days. She was on the short side, and not very intimidating, but Chuckles still wouldn’t want to be on her bad side. You didn’t get this job by looking pretty, that’s for sure. Agent Biggs was a normal looking man, dark skinned and focused. His eyes were trained on the lecture hall and didn’t move an inch while they stood there.

"Yes, sir," Chuckles said. The President would be going on in about three hours, so they had to make sure all was ready. The six agents turned and walked into the building, shutting out the gray sky behind them.

Almost a complete country away, Stalker leaned back comfortably in his swivel chair which sat by a bank of computers and monitors that the Joe did not know how to use. He was here in Nevada as a decoy, plain and simple. He knew it, but it didn’t bother him…it was an easy job. He was dressed in his regular gear, a green and brown camouflage uniform and the whole nine yards. His always-present beret sat firmly on his head, slightly angled, proudly baring the badge of the Army Rangers. He stroked his thick black mustache and leaned forward, looking intently into the monitors, but seeing nothing. Another man sat not ten feet away, also next to some monitors, but he was constantly flipping switches, turning dials and bringing pictures into focus. He was a young kid, had glasses and short cropped brown hair. Probably not the most popular kid in school, but also probably making a heck of a lot more money right now than many of his more popular classmates.

"Hey, kid!" Stalker shouted, leaning back a little further. "I’ve been here a week now, man…what the heck are we guarding?" Stalker felt like goading the kid a little. He knew there was an empty room behind him, but he didn’t know if the kid knew or not.

"Nothing of importance, sir," the kid said, obviously a little intimidated by the grizzled man in camouflage sitting ten feet away.

"But there is something here, right?"

"Well, yeah…I guess so. Just nothing the bad guys would want. Prototype semi-conductors. Nifty little gizmos that we don’t quite know what to do with yet."

"Hmm…that’s Washington for ya, huh, kid?"

The kid laughed a little then turned serious. "You wanna know something, sir?" he asked quietly, then wheeled his chair over closer. In the large, metal room the sound echoed for seemingly forever. The room was huge and cavernous, with windows on two of the far walls. The roof sloped at the top like a dome, but the walls became straight on the sides, which gave the room a somewhat hexagonal shape. Stalker and the young kid were stationed at banks of monitors in the center of the room, facing a series of three doors. One door led to the hallway to the exit, and the other doors were the decoy doors, supposedly leading to empty rooms.

"Okay, kid, spill it. Long as it’s not classified." Stalker smirked at that idea. No way this green kid knew anything top secret.

"Those prototype conductors? I think they might be using those for something important. A lot of attention getting paid to them lately."

"And they are actually here?"

"Yeah, but no one knows that…and no one really knows if they’re important or not. Just my theory."

"Good theory, kid. Ever have any problems here, out in the desert?"

"Nope. Peace and quiet, all year round. It’s nice."

"Yeah, nice," Stalker said quietly, hoping the peace and quiet would stay, at least through tonight.

About five miles away, a group of men had set up camp and were in a lighted tent, hunched over tables, studying blueprints and maps. Destro could see the tents, shining like beacons in the afternoon sky as he glided quietly over in his small white Claw jetpack. The Baroness followed closely behind, humming along at a good clip, just thirty feet above the ground. It was nothing but desert out here, so they were not worried about being seen. The advantage to having a military institution way out here was privacy, but the disadvantages were lack of security and lots of places to coordinate an attack. Also, it would take help quite a long time to get here. The base was small, too. Nothing that a good squad couldn’t take care of. Destro and The Baroness circled tightly, then landed on the tight dirt, their legs buckling slightly under the impact. The jets blasted plumes of sand into the cool air until they were cut, drifting the tepid desert day into silence once again. The two operatives lay down their packs and opened up little cargo doors on each one, quickly pulling out specially camouflaged tarps, which they then draped over the white jets to hide them from view. There was one large tent, a small light bulb hanging form the support, clearly seen through the vinyl surface. Destro and The Baroness walked towards it when suddenly a group of men burst out from the desert sand around them. Small columns of desert sand exploded into the air and sprinkled down around the two surprised Cobra Agents as the men’s forms rose from the depths of darkness. Five men in total, in brown and tan, with specially designed face masks to filter dirt, red goggles and cloth hoods to keep out the scalding heat. Each man held an automatic machine pistol, and each one was pointed at the two operatives. Destro was not amused.

"Yes, very good…you surprised us. Now stand guard, you fools! We have plans to go over!" The five Desert Scorpions nodded and rested their weapons, each one proud that their superior desert training by Cobra had indeed paid off. Destro and The Baroness entered the tent, where Aleph and a group of ten Night-Vipers were going over the plan of action for the base tonight. Aleph raised his head to signify that he saw them enter, but then got right back down to business. He looked somewhat out of place in a desert environment, in his blue shirt and gray tiger stripe camouflaged pants. But they were planning to attack at dusk, where that color scheme would be very advantageous.

"All right. The Desert Scorpions have already been briefed. They will be used for backup only, hiding in the desert surrounding our escape route. We attack at six-fifteen sharp. Planning must be exact! I take it we have all synchronized our watches?" Nods all around the table confirmed this. "We will begin to scale the building at seventeen forty-five on the dot. That should give us plenty of time. We attack through the windows, take out any guards, take the goods and split. We will be running southeast until the Cobra Transport helicopter can rendezvous with us for evacuation. The Desert Scorpions will be guarding our tails. Any questions?"

Destro cleared his throat. "What exactly do you need us for?"

"We don’t," Aleph said, none too kindly. "But Cobra Commander thinks I need a babysitter. Plus, you know exactly what to look for in that base. I wouldn’t know it from a hole in the ground. Any more questions?"

No one had any, so the meeting was closed and the weapons passed out.

The auditorium was kept within reasonable control, capacity limited to reporters and professors at the school. A few political science majors were allowed in the auditorium as well, doing research for potential projects to end their university career. A podium was set up on a small stage at the front of the hall, the bleachers rising up in stadium style seating were only about half full. The Presidential Seal was etched into the wooden podium, which stood centered, about ten feet in front of two easels that had specific information regarding the weapon that The President would be addressing the nation about tonight. There was a gathering of Secret Service agents roaming around the stage area, combing for any unknown items or unauthorized visitors. The President himself was behind the flowing black curtain with his aides and even more agents garbed in black. A barrage of video cameras plastered the front row of seats, representing every major network in the country. The TV trucks were all parked haphazardly out in front of the auditorium, their satellite antennas beaming signals to millions of television sets across the country and the world. Reporters lined up behind the cameras, eager to ask questions, and eager to ask the questions that would get them noticed. It was approaching the nine o’clock hour, Eastern Standard Time, and with each network going live at that point, there were people milling around everywhere, just to make sure everything was exactly right. As the minutes passed, the numerous Secret Service agents dispersed some fading into the audience, some posted at the entranceways, and quite a few merely spread out along the edges of the stage. At 8:59 a multitude of red lights on the array of video cameras flickered on and the collective whirring of videotape was heard throughout the lecture hall. A young woman in a gray suit walked slowly out to the podium. She bent over slightly and put her face close to the microphone.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, The President of the United States." Camera flashes burst throughout the lecture hall, all lenses aimed at the podium on the front stage. The President slipped out from behind the black curtain, flanked by Secret Service, though they were far enough away for the cameras to not pick them up. He smiled as he walked and stopped behind the podium, adjusting the microphone slightly. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

Chuckles peered out around the edge of the curtain as The President walked up to the podium. Every Secret Service agent who had been back there followed him up, flanking and surrounding the edge of the stage area. Chuckles though it odd that he was the only one hanging back, but he figured Agent Rooks, who set up the arrangement, had enough experience under his belt to know what he was doing. He moved his eyes back and forth, checking any available exits next to the stage. The black curtain parted slightly to his right, on the right edge of the broad, wooden platform, but he couldn’t see a door behind it. He wandered back into the hallway slightly, and peered around the corner. Sure enough there was a hallway branching off which no doubt led to the side door. That’s odd…no one posted there, Chuckles thought, but shook it off, thinking that there was probably a guard around the next bend. Chuckles was actually supposed to be with the other group of agents, but he slipped away as they all headed up to the stage, thinking that there should at least be someone guarding the rear exit. The President had begun to speak, and Chuckles moved back towards the curtain, but hung back near that branching hallway, just in case.

"Good Evening ladies and gentlemen of the press, and families around the world." The President said in a calm, even tone. His hands were both on the podium, and no papers were arranged in front of him. A teleprompter screen sat in front of him, just beyond the cameras, so that he could read his officially prepared speech and not shift his eyes. "I come into your living rooms tonight with news that could change the face of global conflict as we know it." He cocked his head slightly and paused to let his words take effect. He spoke for several minutes, replaying current events, discussing present and past conflicts that had rocked the world. Expertly setting the stage for the full impact of what he was going to say. After a short while, he got into the meat of his speech.

"I do not want to mince words…I don’t want to beat around the bush. There is a specific reason for this address tonight. I’m not here merely to entertain you with my vast knowledge of world politics." Snickers rippled through the local folks sitting in the bleachers. The President smiled. "So without further ado, men and women of America, I present to you, the W-769. The Frequency Wave Bomb." He gestured slightly and an easel, which had been brought closer before the cameras started rolling, was uncovered, revealing a picture of the device. A gray, cylindrical object, no different in appearance to any other smart bomb, with the exception of a multitude of tiny satellite dishes plastered around the center of it. "Now, I’m getting right to business tonight because I want you, the American public to know just what a breakthrough this is. We’ve only got an hour slot on the networks tonight, so I have to be quick and to the point." The audience laughed mildly at the joke, a collective chuckle going through the lecture hall. "We all know that our history has been defined by conflict." His eyes narrowed as he squinted at the camera, trying to turn deadly serious after even the most timid of joke. "The history of our nation and the history of our world. Just imagine for a second, that throughout these millennia of war torn history if the toll of human life could be cut in half. Or more. Would that be a project that you considered worthwhile?" It was a rhetorical question, but several of the reporters, audience, and even cameramen nodded their heads approvingly. The President even figured that some of the audience at home was doing the same. He smiled broadly, a satisfied smile that told him that he had these people in the palm of his hand. It was a good feeling. One that he would miss after the coming months had passed. "This new weapon is quite revolutionary. It uses high pitched frequency waves, which, when set to the right channel will dismantle any weapon, machine, or building."

Rumbles and frantic conversation rippled through the audience like a wave. The President stood above them, on the slightly raised stage, smiling broadly. In the wings, the speechwriter shook her head, upset that he wasn’t sticking with the written material. She knew he was excited about the project, but they had agreed to a little more build up and a better presentation. As a public speaker this president could have used some work, and it was a good thing he had someone to write speeches for him. When he didn’t follow the program, sometimes things went badly.

"Imagine, if you will," The President started speaking again, "a battle to destroy a bunker in the center of a neutral village. A smart bomb could do the job, but at what cost? How many civilian buildings could possibly be destroyed along with the bunker? How many civilian lives lost when the bunker explodes, showering the village with debris and shrapnel? The W-769 will end all of that." He smiled again and stepped back just a little, taking in the welcome attention. "This weapon would be guided the same as a smart bomb, only instead of exploding, it will emit a high frequency wave, which will affect only the targeted building, causing it to literally shake apart, crumble, and finally disintegrate instead of exploding. Some lives, of course, would be lost, but a great many less than with a conventional weapon." He cleared his throat, a serious look on his face. "Imagine if the war in Vietnam had been fought with this weapon. Carpet bombing with a W-769 would have merely destroyed all weapons held by the enemy, severely reducing the number of American and Vietcong losses. Is that a weapon that would be worthwhile?" The President repeated the question again, only to please himself with the series of nods coming from the audience again. "As I speak, finishing touches are being put on the initial production run of the weapon, and we hope to have it in wide availability to all NATO allies within a year. A demonstration is being shown this Sunday to a select few, by invitation only. It will be recorded for mass audience viewing at a later date. Now…are there any questions?" The President blinked as the teleprompter operator struggled to catch up with him, but finally did, putting up a screen that gave him all the acceptable answers to any questions that might be asked. In the second row, hands shot up immediately, with desperate pleas of "Mr. President, Mr. President." He lifted a finger to point out a reporter, but didn’t get the chance.

"Yes, Mr. President, I have a question!" the voice practically shouted out to be heard, in one of the last rows filled. A young chiseled man stood swiftly. He wore a deep red suit with blue pinstripes, and fit the image of Ivy League to a T.

"Mr. Broca!" another man shouted, angered. The President recognized him as a political science instructor at the college. The young man was obviously his student.

"Relax, Professor Carson. Let the young man speak," The President said. That little punk is damn lucky we’re live to the world, he thought, but his expression did not give away his feelings.

The young student contorted his face into an angry scowl. He looked common, nondescript, with short blonde hair, blue eyes and a solid chin. One of the millions. "Mr. President, my question is this: Is it just a coincidence that this new invention is now available, just days before the Super Tuesday electoral vote? I doubt your good intentions, sir."

The President smiled, somewhat sarcastically. "Now, my good man…"

"Isn’t this whole proceeding just a thinly veiled election commercial for your Vice President?"

"Young ma…"

Don’t you think that’s what’s wrong with our country today? Politics and democratic nonsense ruining the country and the world?" Secret Service agents were now getting slightly nervous, and began inching towards the young man. The President motioned slightly for them to stand down. This was live TV, after all.

"I think you’re looking at things a little negatively, son."

"Don’t you think the world would do better underneath the leadership of one man?"

"Excuse me?" The President was quite confused.

"One organization, controlling everything?" the student’s arms pumped emphatically.

"No, I don’t. You’re not making much sense, young man."

The student was still standing, the agents ignoring their boss’ instructions and continuing their slow pursuit. "One man! One organization, coiled around the world…like a giant…" the student’s whole body tensed as he lifted his arm slightly, and the agents moved immediately.

"--COBRA!!!" the student screamed the last word and whipped his arm forward, a small object spiraling through the air from his open hand. Secret Service agents were on him in a flash, leaping over rows of seats and tackling him roughly to the ground. At the podium, The President stood, his eyes wide and his jaw gaping as the green object turned end over end, almost moving in slow motion towards the stage.

"Grenade!" it was Agent Rooks who shouted from the wings, and the agents were immediately in action. "Human shield! Now!" The entire group of agents lunged, and wrapped themselves around The President. Agent Biggs broke off from the group and leaped into the air, trying desperately to intercept the hurling object. He hit the object and pinned it quickly to the floor in front of the stage, just next to the row of cameras. Screams echoed throughout the lecture hall, reporters, cameramen and others scrambling for the exits. Commotion and confusion tore apart the professional air of the address and reduced it to total chaos. Biggs lay on his stomach, smothering the object, his eyes tightly closed and his muscles tensed, expecting a quick trip to oblivion. Several seconds passed and the agent slowly lifted up his head, his eyes glancing down in nervous anticipation. His stomach muscles twitched slightly, trying to decipher exactly what he was lying on. It folded in slightly with a strange crunch. Biggs drew in an anxious breath as he rolled over, looking nervously down at the object on the floor. He was smothering a plastic soda bottle, a wrinkled and torn Sprite label wrapped around it. Shaking his head in anger, he stood, and began to turn to chew out Rooks, whose eyes were obviously playing tricks on him. The crowd settled slightly as he stood, happy that no loud bang was currently blasting through the hall. Everything was still flowing in slow motion, and in utter silence.

And then the real chaos began.

As soon as he heard the raised voice, Chuckles moved forward, towards the rear of the stage. He was still too far away to hear what was being said, even when the kid shouted at the end of his apparent speech, Chuckles still couldn’t quite make it out. Then, there it was. Spiraling through the air, catching the light just right as it arced over the cameras towards the podium. Chuckles heart raced, but his eyes quickly focused and revealed it to be a harmless soda bottle. He was instantly confused even as the agents in the hall tackled the kid and wrapped him up in handcuffs. Why? Chuckles wondered to himself. Why would a kid risk jail for a soda bottle prank? Rooks voice shook him out of his thoughts. The frantic shouting of warning. Rooks is closer than I am! Chuckles mind was racing again. He must know it’s not a grenade. But still, Biggs launched himself into the air and smothered a soda bottle, protecting his president from certain carbonation. Chuckles lowered his head and shook it slowly from side to side. Oh, man, he thought, this is going to be all over the news tonight. He grinned and laughed softly. He was mildly amused about the whole predicament.

Chuckles’ head shot up and back as if struck from a physical force. Gunshots! I only lowered my head for a second! He charged forward, his eyes taking in the scene in front of him. His mind raced, but his voice could only formulate one thing.

"Oh, no…"

Stalker leaned back in the swivel chair, glancing briefly at the Iron Man on his right wrist. It was about ten past six, Pacific Standard Time, of course and his stomach grumbled like an angry dog.

"Almost dinnertime, eh, kid?" he asked his fellow guard who was hunched over the screen as if caring for an ill child.

"Yeah, I guess so. We get relieved at eighteen thirty. Can you hold out till then?" he asked, somewhat jokingly. The kid was getting a little braver around the Army Ranger, but was still intimidated by him. Stalker chuckled lightly at the joke.

"Burns, I’ve lived for a week in the bush eating snakes and bugs. I sure as hell can wait twenty minutes for government chow!" He leaned forward in the chair, and gazed at the monitors in front of him, still not fully comprehending what he was supposed to be watching for. Guess that’s what the kid’s here for, he thought and shook his head slightly. Dang, I’m gettin’ old! He crossed his arms and sat back comfortably, waiting for the time to slip away. The middle door ahead suddenly slid open with a hiss and three men in fatigues with M-16’s slung over their shoulder came running in, each one’s face contorted in anguish. Stalker’s heart skipped. The door slid shut behind them as they approached the two men, all still looking distraught. Stalker jumped to his feet.

"What’s going on? Guard relief isn’t for another—"

"It’s The President," the first guard said softly. Stalker was taken aback.

"What? What are you talking about?" He approached the three men slowly.

"Burns!" shouted the man on the left. "Turn on the TV!" he pointed to a monitor firmly set into the corner of the room, just above and to the right of the right hand door.

"Something happened to The President." The middle man reiterated. Burns lifted a small remote and clicked the button, the TV blinking to life, already set to CNN. The talking head on the screen looked grim and serious.

"—still no information coming out of Washington, and all reporters have been sequestered at the site. As we get more information, we will bring it you, the American Public. Rumors already flourish on internet web sites and underground publications are already preparing headlines for tomorrow, which is sure to be a big news day." The five men stood stock still glued to the television set, their eyes not closing, their mouths hanging sloppily open. "For those of you just joining us," the newsman continued, "there were shots fired as The President gave his national address from a small New England town. We have lost all contact with our camera crews and reporters, and quite frankly, this reporter fears the worst. We now turn you to Fox Vincent, our on the spot cameraman who is situated outside of the lecture hall. Fox, what do you—" Without warning the television set blinked, the screen shuddered, then went blank. Stalker whipped his head around as every light and monitor in the large room hummed lowly, then plunged into blackness.

"What the--?" Burns asked, turning. With a shattering crash and tinkle the two large windows on the far wall blew in as if torn from their foundation by the winds of a hurricane. Shards of glass and even chunks of concrete sprayed into the dark room in a broad arc, raining down on the metal floor and the five men. Stalker lifted his arm as an automatic response, and felt tiny bits of glass sprinkle across it. The low light of dusk shone through the gaping holes that were once windows, and for a split second, Stalker didn’t know what to make of it. As soon as the figures swung down on rappelling wire, he was no longer confused. He’d seen the uniforms enough times to know exactly what he was dealing with.

"Everyone, grab some cover!" he shouted, and hit the ground himself, reaching into his hip holster and pulling out his Colt. He scrambled to the bank of monitors he was guarding, and pressed his back up against it, looking around over his shoulder and trying to get a rough count as the soldiers plummeted through the windows on swift zip-lines. Burns dove clumsily to the ground as well, hugging the bank of monitors for dear life. The other three guards scrambled for cover, one of them joining Burns, and the other two crouching down next to Stalker. Thin, faint red lines pierced the dim light of the room, waving back and forth, searching for victims.

"Did you get a count?" one of the guards asked Stalker as he crouched there.

"Roughly. Tough to count in a dark room…think there was eight, but I’m not sure. I was too busy hugging floor."

"The backup generator will kick in shortly. What do they want?" he asked Stalker again.

"I can only guess, bud. But, be careful here, okay? I’ve dealt with these guys before." Stalker frowned as he said it. As soon as he saw the first familiar dark green and black uniform, he knew it was trouble. Night-Vipers were nasty enough, but in a dark room, with him the only seasoned soldier their chances were not good. The backup generator kicked in with a soft whine, dull light bulbs flickering on scattered throughout the ceiling. They bathed the large room in an ominous red light, and Stalker wasn’t actually sure if it helped, or just made things spookier. He glanced over to his left at Burns, the young kid and sighed. He was cowering in fear, sweating heavily, and refused to take the weapon that the other soldier that joined him was offering.

"Kid!" he shouted in a hoarse whisper. "Stay cool! Don’t worry."

Burns nodded his head nervously.

"All right!" the voice boomed through the red, hazy air, and Stalker whipped his head around, trying to peek around the edge of the computer banks. It was a tall man with a dark blue vest, ammo clips all over it. He wore gray and black tiger stripe camouflaged pants an Ingram Mac-10 clutched tightly in one fist. His face was uncovered unlike the Night-Vipers, but definitely had a commanding presence about him. "This facility has been taken by Cobra! Stand up slowly and relinquish your weapons. There is no need for bloodshed!" He tried not to smirk as he said it, and was mostly successful. The Night-Vipers walked slowly through the red, misty room, their image intensifiers trying to compensate for the new light source. Aleph paced impatiently back and forth, squinting through the dim light in the room. Time was of the essence. "I don’t hear anyone surrendering!" he shouted, and lifted his machine pistol. Stalker drew in a breath, and cocked his pistol. He threw himself to the left, hitting the floor and rolling, keeping his weapon trained in front of him. With a shout he squeezed off four shots, the pistol thrashing in his tight grip. The weapon maintained its posture even as the flashes exploded from the barrel and the steaming spent shell casings bounced across the metal floor. The gunshots echoed in the room, and each muzzle flash lit the area for a split second. Aleph snarled and sidestepped quickly then darted back the other way. A Night-Viper behind him shouted in pain and stumbled backwards, chunks of green flying from his uniform as he fell under the wrath of the bullets. Stalker’s eyes grew wide.

"Did he just…dodge those bullets?" one of the guards asked, in shock.

"No…my aim was off," Stalker growled, pulling himself quickly back behind the monitors. Stalker shook his head. Only a couple people he knew could move like that and they were all ninja masters. Who the heck is this guy? Stalker thought to himself. The guy hadn’t exactly dodged the bullets, he just anticipated where Stalker was going to fire, and moved the other way.

"That didn’t sound like a surrender!" Aleph shouted angrily. "Night-Vipers! Eliminate—"

"No!" Burns jumped up from behind the computers, his arms flailing. The guard behind him reached up to hold him back, but the kid was too quick. "What do you want?" he asked anxiously, stumbling forward from behind the computers.

"Ah…there is a smart one here," Aleph said, smiling. Burns walked closer to him, nervous, but persistent.

"Kid! Don’t do it!" Stalker shouted, but in vain. Burns continued walking until he was just in front of the tall dark hared man.

"That’s a good lad," Aleph said, patting Burns lightly on the shoulder. "All we want is the conductors, my good boy."

Burns sighed in relief. "That’s all?" He turned and pointed to the left-hand door, situated against the far wall.

"Excellent. And the access code?" Aleph asked simply, noticing the small keypad just to the right of the door.

"I…I don’t know the access code, but—"

Aleph grimaced. "Then what good are you to me?" He lifted the weapon and pointed it directly at the young man’s face.

"Wait! I can help…I’ll figure it—" The silenced thuds of automatic gunfire interrupted him as Aleph blasted half a clip of nine millimeter into his face at point blank range. Burns stumbled back clumsily, then just slumped to the floor like a bag of rocks. Stalker’s eyes squinted tight, his hands squeezing almost painfully at his sides. He whipped to his left and yanked an M-16 from one of the guards that crouched next to him. He leapt to his feet, screaming in anger and training the assault rifle on the nearest group of Night-Vipers. With a violent jerking motion he let loose a blast of gunfire, the shots ringing in his ears and the flashes from the barrel illuminating everything within ten feet. There was a group of three Night-Vipers about twelve feet away, and the blasts tore through them with aggressive certainty as they collapsed roughly under the hail of gunfire. Stalker turned and aimed the rifle at Aleph, his eyes burning deep into the man in blue. Aleph’s eyes opened slightly in surprise. Another group of Night-Vipers opened fire quite suddenly from Aleph’s rear. Bullets slammed into the bank of computers and ricocheted off the metal walls in little shrieks, but Stalker did not move.

"Get down!" shouted one of the guards, and reached up, grabbing Stalker’s belt. Stalker stumbled back as another bunch of slugs hurtled at him, his assault rifle still roaring angrily. He whipped back as a bullet pounded into his shoulder in a crimson splash. With a thud, he hit the ground back first, his M-16 empty and smoke spiraling slowly from the round barrel. He clutched the wound, which was in the meaty part of his upper shoulder, just under the ball and socket. It throbbed with every beat of his heart, thick blood oozing through the green cloth uniform.

"C’mon, man! You’re no good to us dead," the guard chastised.

"Relax. I don’t…unh…lose my cool." Stalker said, struggling to sit up, his hand clutched painfully tight to the messy, but relatively harmless wound. "I just had the leader in my sights. With these guys, if you take out the leader, the rest of the group is pretty much helpless. I was just trying to help us out."

"How many did you take out?" a guard asked.

"Three more. Plus the one I nailed earlier, we just cut their force down to half. We’ve actually got the advantage of cover. There’s no reason why we can’t hold these goons off. What about backup? Anyone else in this dang base?"

"No one but scientists and lab techs. There wasn’t supposed to be anything here."

"Yeah, well, there is. And it’s up to us to keep it here. You got any more clips?"

The weaponless guard nodded and plucked some ammo from pouches in his uniform then handed them over to the dark skinned Joe. Stalker relinquished his sidearm to the guard and thanked him for the rifle.

"Hey, from the looks of it, you can use it a lot better than I can, man."

Stalker slammed a clip into the weapon and cocked it with one swift motion. His shoulder throbbed, but with a grimace he shut out the pain.

"Come now…do you really think you can hold us off? We have greater numbers and more powerful weaponry. Do the sensible thing!" As Aleph spoke he used silent signals to tell the remaining half dozen Night-Vipers to circle around the computer banks in a flanking maneuver.

"All right, guys." Stalker said to the two guards that stood with him. "We’ve gotta keep them from that door. I want you guys to run over there and join your buddy behind the other computers. I’ll cover you." His arm was a deep crimson mess, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to properly dress the wound. The two guards nodded and lifted their weapons. Stalker gave them the signal and they darted. Stalker stood up and aimed his weapon, only to find that the enemies had spread out into two distinct groups, each one approaching their cover.

"Dang!" he shouted angrily. He spun to the right, holding the M-16 in his good hand, leaving his left arm dangling to the side like a slab of meat. The blood was now coagulating and somewhat solidified and formed a deep almost brown stain on his camouflaged arm. His right arm buckled under the frantic bucking of the assault rifle as he struggled to keep the path of gunfire straight with one arm. One Night-Viper on the other side of the room flew off his feet and slid onto the metal floor, little streaks of red following his path, but Stalker was forced to take cover as the group of Night-Vipers closest to him unloaded with their weapons. He looked forward and relaxed when he saw the first guard, the one with his pistol, slide to safety behind the computers. Suddenly, though, a Night-Viper charged and blasted away with his submachine gun, hitting the second running man directly in the chest. His momentum reversed unexpectedly and his feet whipped out from under him as his upper body was halted with the force of the impact. He sprawled out back first on the metal floor and lay still, his M-16 spinning away across the metal floor. Stalker cursed to himself. He pressed his back up against the banks again and tore a shred of uniform from his right sleeve. The wound was now pounding with dull agony and the blood was flowing slowly again. Stalker wrapped the fabric around the wound, then pulled it tight with his teeth, grimacing in pain as he did. His fingers went slightly numb, but the blood flow had been stopped momentarily anyway.

"Keep it up! We’ll get what we want whether you’re alive or dead!" Aleph glanced at his watch again. This was taking far too long.

"Keep it up, Smiley! We’ve got plenty of ammo, don’t worry—" a sudden, violent explosion from the back wall interrupted Stalker. He inhaled sharply and ducked his head as concrete chunks and metal shards spun through the air haphazardly, chased by wisps of smoke and spurts of flame. He dropped and rolled to his right, peering out from behind his cover. The Night-Vipers had pulled back and rejoined their leader, forming a wall of sorts in front of the gaping hole that had just been made in the wall. The dim light of dusk shone through the jagged makeshift window as the two figures emerged into the foggy, red-lit room. The red bulbs shone mysteriously over the chrome head of the first man as Destro entered the mini war zone. He wore his silver helmet of old with his familiar regal leather uniform and high-necked red fur-lined collar. A red cape was draped over his shoulders and dragged softly on the crushed rock and pebbles that crunched beneath his shiny, black boots. Small bits of mortar on cement dropped from the edges of the hole and plunked softly off of his mask and broad shoulders. Stalker noticed a thin trail of smoke coming from his right wrist, and immediately saw the vacant spot where a wrist-rocket had sat. The Baroness strode in proudly just behind her man, clad in her familiar black leather, with a sneering red Cobra sigil displayed on her chest. Her jet-black hair fell just below her shoulders, and her green eyes squinted from behind the round glasses. She didn’t appear to have aged a bit, although it had been over five years since Stalker saw her last. The two walked forward, the human wall parting like the Red Sea and allowing them to pass through.

"Bad move, Chrome Dome," Stalker whispered to himself and lifted the rifle slowly. Destro spun almost gracefully and launched an object from his left wrist that Stalker only could guess at. He jumped back as the red grenade struck the computer bank and exploded loudly and harshly. Stalker was thrown through the air and tumbled roughly to the hard floor amidst a shower of microchips, monitor glass, and electrical components. He hit headfirst and rolled none too gracefully, sliding slightly, then laying still. Through the fuzzy haze of his vision he saw the other two guards jump to their feet, weapons blazing. A thin red streak erupted from the large man in black’s arm and hit their collection of monitors, but had a much more drastic effect than the grenade. The computers were annihilated and a huge orange ball of fire as the guards were torn viciously apart by the explosion and deadly shrapnel. The figures disappeared in the bright blast, and when the light faded and the smoke settled in, they were nothing more than battered rag dolls, bent and twisted on the cold floor. Stalker shook his head sadly as unconsciousness draped over him like a warm blanket.

"I was getting concerned, Aleph," Destro muttered as he continued to walk. "You were taking quite a while."

"You had nothing to worry about, Destro," Aleph said harshly, stepping up to the larger man’s side. The Baroness matched strides on Destro’s other side. "The conductors are in there," Aleph said, pointing to the door on the left. "But there is an access—"

Destro huffed as he walked and let loose his last wrist fired grenade. It clanged on the metal floor and rolled to a stop just in front of the door. The three continued their quick pace as the explosion ripped through the hazy air and shredded the metal door like so much tin foil.

"Night-Viper," Destro commanded, turning to one of the soldiers that had followed him in. Destro held out his hand and the Night-Viper produced a thick, metal briefcase. The large silver-masked man took it and entered the small room. He opened the case and carefully selected a number of small objects, studying each one with precision. He placed them all in the foam-padded case, a recessed compartment in the foam for each component that he picked up. Minutes later, he was done and they began the walk back towards the hole.

"Destro," Aleph said suddenly, pointing to Stalker. "That one…I think he’s still alive." Aleph lifted his Mac-10 and aimed, but Destro placed a firm grip on his forearm.

"We have what we came for. There is no need for more senseless bloodshed."

"But they saw us. They know who we are."

"They are local base guards, nothing more. I doubt they have even heard of Cobra, much less seen our faces before. Trust me, we have nothing to fear."

"As you wish," Aleph finally acquiesced and lowered his weapon.

"Contact the Desert Scorpions," Destro barked to one of the Night-Vipers who had joined them. "Have them break off into two groups. One to cover our escape and the other to get rid of these bodies." He motioned to the Night-Vipers strewn about on the floor. "The less evidence we leave, the better." The Night-Viper nodded affirmative as the group of victorious Cobras walked out into the night air.