M.I.A.

Disclaimer: I do not own G.I. Joe. It belongs to Hasbro. Same goes for "The X-Files," which is owned by Fox.

Prologue:

Lt. Vincent Falcone, codename Falcon walked with the Russian Ilya Fedotenko, exchanging small talk. The Russian soldier was good company. A bit surly at times, but he was swiftly becoming a good friend. He was the European equivalent of Falcon's own position as a member of the Joe team. He was also a welcome distraction to break the tension on guard duty. Afghanistan wasn't a pleasant place to be.

Falcon watched as the other man drew a pack of cigarettes from his parka and tried to light up. After several tries, he finally managed to get the task done.

"Don't you know those things will kill you?" Falcon asked, watching the Russian blow smoke rings in the dark.

"And didn't anyone tell you interrupting a man while he's enjoying one of these will kill you?" Fedotenko asked, his heavily accented English and menacing tone overridden by the smile on his face.

Chapter 1

January 2002

Sgt. Conrad S. Hauser, known to his friends as Duke, shielded his eyes to watch the Tomahawk chopper land on the deck of the U.S.S. Flagg, the aircraft carrier that at the moment, housed most of the Joes on active duty. The chopper hovered inches above the flight deck, dropped off its passenger and took off again. Duke didn't bother to acknowledge the salute Liftticket threw his way as he took off. His attention was focused on the man standing in front of him.

Flint waited until the chopper was gone to deliver his news, news he knew Duke wouldn't want to hear. He unconsciously pulled his jacket tighter against the cold Atlantic wind, trying to steel his nerves.

"Did they find him?" Duke asked.

"No," Flint said. "But that doesn't mean anything. He wasn't with the. . .cargo being shipped back stateside."

Duke's shoulders hunched a bit. Flint placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll find him Duke, either way," he said. "Don't give up hope."

"I won't Flint. I know he' s still out there, somewhere. He has to be."

Later that night, alone in his berth, Flint fumbled in his breast pocket. He pulled out a set of dog tags. "Lt. Falcon" was stamped on the metal tags. He didn't, couldn't tell Duke he had them, where they were found. He let them dangle a few more seconds before putting them away.

The camp in Afghanistan had produced little of value, only the remnants of human occupation and the evidence of the hasty retreat the rag-tag band of fundamentalist terrorists had beat before the cavalry had shown up. That and the I.D. belonging to one Lt. Vincent Falcone, Duke's kid half-brother, who was MIA.

Duke was right. If Falcon could be found, it would be done. Flint owed his friend that much. And he had dropped everything else to fulfill Duke's request, as much as he could.

-----

Three weeks earlier. . .

Falcon sat with his back against the wall, elbows resting on his knees. He was being held captive by a small group of fighters who had gotten lucky when they ambushed his Special Forces unit. As far as he knew, he and Ilya Fedotenko were the only ones left alive, and he was still alive for the obvious reason he as an American G.I. who could know valuable information.

He'd been knocked around several times, but nothing as bad as the beatings he'd received in the past while being pumped for information by another certain international outlaw organization.

Compared to a Viper, the locals were mere amateurs. However, they had been very lucky. That didn't matter. The only thing that did was getting out and making back to his friends alive.

"Duke probably thinks I'm dead," he said. Falcon didn't care if anyone heard him. Talking to himself seemed to keep his captors off-guard. And it kept him alive. If he talked long and loud enough, maybe they would hear something useful.

He also hoped Fedotenko could hear him, but it was unlikely. He hadn't seen his companion since they'd been shoved into their individual cells, not even during the infrequent times they took him out of his cell.

Night had long since fallen but he couldn't sleep. Falcon was restless, cold and bored. The camp was more active than usual for the time of night, more voices breaking through the silence.

Falcon scrambled to look out the peephole that served as his window to the outside world. All he could see was people staring up at something in the sky. He tried to get a better look but only saw an eerie white light bathing the camp.

It was then replaced by what sounded like a sonic boom followed by an explosion. Then fire rained from the sky and the ground shook as whatever had been in the sky seconds before made impact. Falcon hit the ground, covering his head. Burning debris from the fallen craft rained down on everything, including the shack where he was being held.

Falcon came back to his senses and got to his feet, realizing he was free. All hell was breaking loose around him but he wasn't going to leave without looking for Fedotenko. He stumbled through the debris and started yelling, not caring if anyone tried to stop him.

It didn't take long before he heard a weak reply in Russian. Falcon stopped only long enough to help the other man to his feet. He looked around and spotted one truck that wasn't damaged. Falcon shoved Ilya into the truck and waited long enough for the other man to climb in. He gunned the engine and headed the other way as another light appeared over the camp.