The casual onlooker might not suspect anything to be beneath the unassuming motor pool of the Chaplain's Assistant School at Fort Wadsworth. However, take the hydraulic lift down and you'll find America's elite counter-terrorist strike force quartered within top-secret, highly armored, state-of-the-art underground bunkers. This team has the most skilled, fearsome members the US military has to offer, code named: G.I. Joe.
On Monday at 0830 hours the number 840 Amtrak hustled along its way from New York City to Washington DC through some countryside.
"I don't like it!" said the conductor, "Soldiers and secret service men crawling all over my train, just to protect one special passenger. So who is she anyway?"
"Don't you read the papers? Dr. Adele Burkhart is the nation's top nuclear physicists," One of the aforementioned soldiers, a lieutenant, scoffed, "She's one of the brains behind the Doomsday Project."
"Yeah, I've heard of her!" the conductor tugged at his scarf, "She claims she didn't know it was a Doomsday Project, and now she's supposed to testify in front of some kind of congressional committee! No wonder your people are so nervous!"
Secret service members swept through the different cars of the train. One made their intentions clear: "Check every inch of every car. Twice! Half the wackos in the country are out to waste that lady in the press car."
One of them peered through a doorway, scanning the empty room, "Yeah, and the other half want to make her president!" They had finished their sweep of the train. He glanced towards the press car, "Listen! She's already begun the press conference…"
"…In other words, I was deliberately misled as to the true nature of the project!" Dr. Adele Burkhart was a stern woman in her fifties. She kept her hair neat and jewelry conservative. She sported basic professional wear. Her hair was clearly blonde, and only showing the earliest signs of aging. She kept her hands clasped on a desk in the press car, focused firmly on the array of microphones, journalists, and cameras in front of her.
She continued, "The Doomsday Project has a single goal: the development of a retaliatory weapons system capable of annihilating all life on this planet. It is unthinkable that a person of conscience could- Wait!" Dr. Burkhart halted at the sound of rattling tin. It was coming from above the train. "What's that sound?"
At 0835 hours, several men with machine guns had begun an aerial assault on the Amtrak. Odd computer-aided hang gliders aided their descent onto the train. They recklessly loosed their weapons on the train. All of them sported the same blue uniform with a red handkerchief to mask their faces. Their uniform was the only organized thing about them, and they carried an air of chaos in their step and their aim.
Three of the journalists took action. A dark-haired woman with glasses and two men simultaneously pressed buttons on their cameras. They turned the dial on the lens, and it was clear that the cameras were in fact weapons as well.
"Strike now, brothers!" shouted the woman with glasses over the hail of gunfire from outside, "Take Burkhart alive!"
"Those reporters- they've got guns disguised as cameras!" shouted one secret service members, "Get down, Dr. Burkhart! We'll handle this."
Dr. Burkhart, shocked, took cover behind the desk. Another secret service member shouted, "Too many civilians! Can't get a clear shot!"
The woman with glasses downed one secret service member before charging through the mass of panicking journalists.
"Force them back, Gregor," said one of her conspirators, "So the Baroness can grab the doctor!"
The Baroness dashed around the desk and lifted Dr. Burkhart up by her hair, "Alright, I've got your precious Dr. Burkhart now! Back off, or I'll turn her face into a fine red mist!"
"Do as she says!" shouted Dr. Burkhart, "It's obvious they only want me! I'll not have any more innocent blood shed on my account!"
"Shut up! You're making my trigger finger itch!" The conspirators rushed towards the restrooms, followed closely by secret service members. "Gregor, hold these pigs off while the good doctor and I powder our noses!"
"As you command, Baroness!" said Gregor. He prepared his suicidal last stand as the Baroness locked the ladies' room door.
She fastened a strange canister onto Dr. Burkhart's back. "This is hopeless," said Dr. Burkhart, "You'll never get off this train!"
"Hold still," said the Baroness, pulling the doctor over to the window. "If these straps aren't tight, you'll dislocate your shoulders when I activate the gas canister!" The Baroness grabbed hold of Dr. Burkhart, and threw herself out of the window with her, pressing a small button on the canister.
The canister released a large, bright orange weather balloon. It drew Dr. Burkhart up into the air a hundred feet above the train, but the Baroness showed no difficulty holding on. "I hope you're not afraid of heights, Dr. Burkhart. This particular model doesn't come equipped with air sickness bags."
The Baroness looked around, and spotted the cable, "That cable will take us to my friends." She attached it to the canister's harness, and the duo was winched upwards, towards a blue helicopter.
"You're right on schedule, Baroness!" Said one of its occupants admiringly.
"Of course! Radio the airfield, we rendezvous with the supersonic transport in ten minutes!"
By 1100 hours, the Pentagon was abuzz with activity. General Austin and a team of analysts were reviewing footage from the train's cameras when young General Flagg arrived, "How bad is it, General Austin?"
"Bad?" General Austin turned to face General Flagg, "Son, the fan didn't just get hit this time, it got smothered! Burkhart has more dangerous secrets rattling around in her pretty little head than the Russians have tanks!"
"Those secrets are useless without the necessary back-up technology!"
"That's the problem, Flagg," General Austin turned to address his sergeant, "Roll that footage of the press car powder room, the stuff we didn't release to the press."
"Yes, sir," said the sergeant.
The footage showed the Baroness drawing a message in fine cursive on the bathroom mirrors before her dramatic departure: try to rescue her and she dies! Cobra
"Burkhart is in the hands of Cobra Command," said General Austin.
"They have the technology and the will to use it!" General Flagg was all too familiar with Cobra's activities, "Their threat doesn't make any sense, sir. We'd almost be better off, national security-wise, if we attempt a rescue, bungle it, and Cobra, uh, terminates her."
"Don't believe it, General Flagg. We're in a double bind. We can't let Cobra keep her long enough to use her, and we can't let her die because the whole world knows that we consider her an embarrassment. Our only possible course of action is a successful rescue!"
The sergeant pulled up one of the few bits of footage collected from Cobra that showed its military.
General Austin continued, "It won't be easy. Cobra has legions, well trained and equipped with all the latest hardware. A direct frontal assault could turn into a bloodbath for our boys."
General Flagg nodded, "General Austin, we have no alternative. We have to call in special counter-terrorist group delta, code name: G.I. Joe!"
"You're a good officer Flagg, and you'll make a good politician someday. You let an old brass-hat gab his head off when you've had all the shots covered from the beginning." He turned to face his sergeant again, "Sergeant! Let's see those G. I. Joe dossiers that General Flagg had you compile this morning!"
"I've got the basic read-out standing by on the display board, sir," she said, "Complete service records can be available on a printout within ten seconds."
"Who's going to honcho this mission in the field?" asked General Austin.
"Colonel Clayton M. Abernathy," said General Flagg, "Code name: Hawk! He's the best man we have."
Hawk's readout read as follows: Hawk comes from a well-established family. He's a West Point graduate, top of class and has seen action in a number of trouble spots. Graduated Advanced Infantry Training, Covert Ops School. Served on Cadre, North Atlantic Range command and USA ENG COMETA Missile and Radio Training. Qualified Expert M-16, M-1911A1 autopistol.
"Ah, yes. But how lucky is he?"
"Just my luck to catch a driver with a lead foot!" It was 1231 hours at Fort Wadsworth. The road was nowhere near this ragged the last time Hawk had come here, "Slow down, Clutch. This isn't Asbury Park and we're not on thunder road!"
Clutch grimaced, caught between a Hawk and a hard place, "With all due respect to your rank, Colonel Abernathy, sir, I've got orders from General Flagg to deliver your class-A colonelship to G.I. Joe command center, ASAP!"
"Young general Flagg hasn't worn out his first set of khakis yet!"
They bounced through the entrance of the motor pool at forty. A wandering chaplain's assistant glanced at the speed limit sign that read 'five.'
"The orders were counter-signed by General Austin!" said Clutch.
"Old 'Iron Butt' Austin?" asked Hawk, "Step on it, Clutch, or we'll both be facing a court martial!"
Clutch came to a perfect stop in a marked rectangle in the motor pool's garage, easy to find due to the garage's general emptiness.
"Hi Hawk!" said one of the motor pool's residents, an easy-going fellow with a long blonde beard, "Grand Slam and Zap were just saying it's about time you threw a surprise inspection!"
"Negative, Rock 'N Roll!" said Hawk, "We've been called together for another mission."
"Steeler, is everyone else 'downstairs?' " asked Clutch.
"Affirmative," said Steeler, "According to the schedule, alpha team should be in the middle of individual weapons training. I'll send you straight down to join them at the staging level."
Steeler activated a switch, and the rectangle of floor began to descend down.
"Grand Slam, we must be the only motor pool in the world with a hydraulic lift that goes down," said Zap.
Grand Slam looked at the jeep as it disappeared beneath the floor. "As well as the only one with five floors of armored basement under it."
The lift came to a halt. Clutch announced their destination, "Last stop: tanks, laser cannons, and G.I. Joe combat training center!"
Two men practiced in a weapons range with familiar arms. A woman with her red-hair in a neat ponytail practiced as well, but held a crossbow. Two others practiced hand to hand not too far away, and a sixth was cleaning his weapon, inspecting it thoroughly. A seventh man sat in a large fishbowl of water, breathing through a tube and holding his balance in the water.
"At ease!" shouted Hawk, addressing them all, "All team members will report for briefing in the briefing room in five minutes!"
The woman stepped down from the range, "Looks like we've got another hot mission, Breaker."
Breaker hurriedly dried off as he stepped out of the fishbowl, "They're all hot missions, Scarlett! Bet it's the Burkhart kidnapping!"
"They're going to risk our butts to rescue a woman who's practically a traitor," said Stalker, team leader, "How's that sit with you, Snake Eyes?"
Snake Eyes wore all black, and a mask concealed his face and eyes completely. He acknowledged Stalker.
"Can I quote you on that?" asked Stalker.