Flint and Duke sat on the couch in the rec room. They had an hour to kill
before their meeting with Hawk to discuss new military strategies. Duke
held the remote, rhythmically flipping through the channels.
"Hey, Conrad, can I steer now?" Flint asked, eyeing the remote.
"No."
"Then can we stay on one channel?"
Duke gave the remote one final click and then groaned.
"Not this clown," Flint growled, flipping the finger at the television.
On the screen, an intense-looking Hector Ramirez, investigative reporter extraordinaire stood in front of Ayer's Rock: "Hello, I'm Hector Ramirez, coming to you live from Australia. Our hardworking television team - well, mainly me - has uncovered a secret that the military wants kept quiet."
Duke bolted upright. "Don't friggin' tell me-"
On screen, Hector squinted dramatically, paused and continued in a hushed tone: "That's right, folks, a secret military competition designed to test the best of the best. Now, I have been following a team of competitors -" (Hector motioned for his cameraman to film to the left) "The ever- incredible, ever-daring, adrenaline junkies - G.I. Joe."
The camera flashed onto Scarlett stretching next to a jeep.
"You! Woman!" Hector said, running up to her. "You must be a girlfriend of one of these Joes."
"Go away," Scarlett grumbled.
"We have permission from the Australian government-"
"Yes, I know," Scarlett said. "We're not allowed to touch you. But do me a favor and leave me alone. I don't want an interview."
"Tell me," Hector said, ignoring her and leaning in, "what's it like being a Joe's girlfriend? Or, should I say, what's it like being a Joe's comfort girl-"
"COMFORT GIRL?" She grabbed Hector in a headlock and kicked out the cameraman's feet from under him. The camera lens hit the red rock ground.
The screen flashed: "We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stay tuned."
In the rec room, Flint fell off the couch with laughter.
Duke buried his face in his hands. "Oh god."
"I think Scarlett's already hit the first challenge," Flint said, wiping his eyes.
***
"What's the matter with Beachhead?" Roadblock said, watching the drill sergeant angrily throw his hands up in the air as a course specialist stood speaking to him.
"In general or right now?" Lady Jaye asked, sipping her canteen bottle.
"He looks pissed," Gung-Ho said. "Hope it's not a big deal."
"Guys!" Scarlett yelled, running up to them. "Trouble. Remember that journalist, Jaye? Hector Ramirez? He interviewed you on '20 Questions' with Hawk? Remember when Flint got jealous of Ron Michaels -"
"Zip it, Scarlett!" Lady Jaye said through the corner of her mouth. She smiled smoothly at the confused expression on Gung-Ho's face. "Yes, I remember."
"Anyway, he's here. He KNOWS about the competition."
"How?" Roadblock frowned.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Scarlett sighed. "Maybe there was a leak or something. The Australian government is pretty fierce about protecting the freedom of the press-"
"Even when it could hurt a goddamn anti-terrorist organization?!" Gung-Ho cried.
"Somebody's got to watch the watch-dog, I guess," Lady Jaye shrugged.
"Well, keep your eyes out for Hector, guys," Scarlett said. "The less we see of him the better. We should tell Beach."
"Tell me what?" the drill sergeant said, coming up from behind them. "Better be good news."
"Hector Ramirez, an investigative reporter from the U.S., is here to film the competition."
"MOTHERF*@#%R!"
Scarlett covered her ears jokingly. "My virgin ears!"
Roadblock grinned.
"What is with this bloody challenge?" Beachhead ranted. "It used to be raw, secretive - now we've got a goddamn coffee chain at the starting line. And look!" He held up a plastic bag with the Ultimate Challenge logo on it. "SWAG! Free stuff! T-SHIRTS!" He spat out the last word like a bitter pill.
"Oh cool!" Scarlett said, taking the bag.
"There better be other sizes than 'extra-large'," Jaye said. "I'm sick and tired of them not making any mediums. These t-shirts never shrink in the wash. When are they going to remember that women are in the military?"
"A lot of women in the military NEED the extra-large," Roadblock said.
"SHUT UP, EVERYONE!" Beachhead yelled.
They froze.
"We have another problem," Beachhead said. "There's been a change of rules." He sighed. "Last night, two of the competing teams got into a bit of a brawl. It seems that a couple of men got seriously hurt. They're in the hospital."
"That's terrible," Scarlett said.
"That's not the half of it," Beachhead continued. "Both teams are short a man now. That means one of us has to sit out the challenge. I know, I know. It's not fair. There's no point in arguing, I've already tried. So, anyone itching to back out of the challenge?"
Nobody spoke.
"That means I have to decide," Beachhead said. He studied at Lady Jaye. There were still huge bags under her eyes and she'd lost a considerable amount of weight since training. She's the obvious choice physically, Beachhead thought. Then he saw the fierce determination flashing in her eyes. But this competition isn't just about strength, he thought.
"Beach?"
"What is it, Gung-Ho?"
The marine shifted uncomfortably. "Lord knows I've never been a quitter. But I am the oldest one of the bunch and I have competed in this challenge a couple of times. Always wanted to WIN it, but hell. It's time to let others compete-" He glanced quickly at Lady Jaye and Scarlett.
"Anyway, someone needs to watch Hector Ramirez," Gung-Ho said and then grinned menacingly: "You all know how much I love those crafty journalists."
"You sure, Gung-Ho?" Beachhead asked.
"I'm afraid so."
Beachhead nodded and patted him awkwardly on the shoulders. "Good man. I'll tell the organizers." He walked off.
Lady Jaye and Scarlett turned to Gung-Ho and embraced him tightly.
"Whoa!" the marine exclaimed. "Maybe I should quit more often!"
***
He sat at the end of a long oak table, lazily shaving off a sliver of roast beef with his sharp knife. Bright blood from the rare meat pooled around his mashed potatoes. He always preferred the copper taste of blood to gravy.
The room was lit dimly with candles. Portraits of his ancestors hung on the walls, reminding him of his family's long line of heroes and warriors. Their eyes followed him as he moved - watching him, encouraging him, but most of all, judging him. They had all accomplished great feats: capturing town after town, wiping out enemies and amassing staggering wealth. And what had he accomplished? He couldn't even beat G.I. Joe's bunch of grunts; a rag-tag team of U.S. soldiers with limited intelligence and skill.
Destro sipped his goblet of wine, considering. The new COBRA intelligence officer had just informed him of the Joe's little competition. It didn't involve much detective work - the damn thing was broadcast over the news. Stupid, he thought. Very stupid.
Not that he was complaining. He'd put the information to good use.
"Destro, darling," the Baroness said, sauntering into the room in a tight, black nightdress. "Why are you smiling?"
"Because of you, Baroness," Destro said, leaning back in his antique chair and breathing in her spicy perfume. "You're ravishing."
She laughed throatily. "No, this is a different smile. It's your smile of revenge. Unless you are plotting something horrible against me, I'd guess you have a plan against the Joes."
"You know me too well," Destro sighed, as she sat down on his lap. He traced his finger along the strap of her nightdress.
She grabbed his finger and twisted it back. "What are you planning, darling? Don't make me ask twice."
Destro winced, pulling his finger away. "How would you like to go to Australia?"
She dug his fork into the bloody meat and brought it to his lips, trailing it along his tongue. "Mmmm. You know I love the poisonous snakes over there."
"Hey, Conrad, can I steer now?" Flint asked, eyeing the remote.
"No."
"Then can we stay on one channel?"
Duke gave the remote one final click and then groaned.
"Not this clown," Flint growled, flipping the finger at the television.
On the screen, an intense-looking Hector Ramirez, investigative reporter extraordinaire stood in front of Ayer's Rock: "Hello, I'm Hector Ramirez, coming to you live from Australia. Our hardworking television team - well, mainly me - has uncovered a secret that the military wants kept quiet."
Duke bolted upright. "Don't friggin' tell me-"
On screen, Hector squinted dramatically, paused and continued in a hushed tone: "That's right, folks, a secret military competition designed to test the best of the best. Now, I have been following a team of competitors -" (Hector motioned for his cameraman to film to the left) "The ever- incredible, ever-daring, adrenaline junkies - G.I. Joe."
The camera flashed onto Scarlett stretching next to a jeep.
"You! Woman!" Hector said, running up to her. "You must be a girlfriend of one of these Joes."
"Go away," Scarlett grumbled.
"We have permission from the Australian government-"
"Yes, I know," Scarlett said. "We're not allowed to touch you. But do me a favor and leave me alone. I don't want an interview."
"Tell me," Hector said, ignoring her and leaning in, "what's it like being a Joe's girlfriend? Or, should I say, what's it like being a Joe's comfort girl-"
"COMFORT GIRL?" She grabbed Hector in a headlock and kicked out the cameraman's feet from under him. The camera lens hit the red rock ground.
The screen flashed: "We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stay tuned."
In the rec room, Flint fell off the couch with laughter.
Duke buried his face in his hands. "Oh god."
"I think Scarlett's already hit the first challenge," Flint said, wiping his eyes.
***
"What's the matter with Beachhead?" Roadblock said, watching the drill sergeant angrily throw his hands up in the air as a course specialist stood speaking to him.
"In general or right now?" Lady Jaye asked, sipping her canteen bottle.
"He looks pissed," Gung-Ho said. "Hope it's not a big deal."
"Guys!" Scarlett yelled, running up to them. "Trouble. Remember that journalist, Jaye? Hector Ramirez? He interviewed you on '20 Questions' with Hawk? Remember when Flint got jealous of Ron Michaels -"
"Zip it, Scarlett!" Lady Jaye said through the corner of her mouth. She smiled smoothly at the confused expression on Gung-Ho's face. "Yes, I remember."
"Anyway, he's here. He KNOWS about the competition."
"How?" Roadblock frowned.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Scarlett sighed. "Maybe there was a leak or something. The Australian government is pretty fierce about protecting the freedom of the press-"
"Even when it could hurt a goddamn anti-terrorist organization?!" Gung-Ho cried.
"Somebody's got to watch the watch-dog, I guess," Lady Jaye shrugged.
"Well, keep your eyes out for Hector, guys," Scarlett said. "The less we see of him the better. We should tell Beach."
"Tell me what?" the drill sergeant said, coming up from behind them. "Better be good news."
"Hector Ramirez, an investigative reporter from the U.S., is here to film the competition."
"MOTHERF*@#%R!"
Scarlett covered her ears jokingly. "My virgin ears!"
Roadblock grinned.
"What is with this bloody challenge?" Beachhead ranted. "It used to be raw, secretive - now we've got a goddamn coffee chain at the starting line. And look!" He held up a plastic bag with the Ultimate Challenge logo on it. "SWAG! Free stuff! T-SHIRTS!" He spat out the last word like a bitter pill.
"Oh cool!" Scarlett said, taking the bag.
"There better be other sizes than 'extra-large'," Jaye said. "I'm sick and tired of them not making any mediums. These t-shirts never shrink in the wash. When are they going to remember that women are in the military?"
"A lot of women in the military NEED the extra-large," Roadblock said.
"SHUT UP, EVERYONE!" Beachhead yelled.
They froze.
"We have another problem," Beachhead said. "There's been a change of rules." He sighed. "Last night, two of the competing teams got into a bit of a brawl. It seems that a couple of men got seriously hurt. They're in the hospital."
"That's terrible," Scarlett said.
"That's not the half of it," Beachhead continued. "Both teams are short a man now. That means one of us has to sit out the challenge. I know, I know. It's not fair. There's no point in arguing, I've already tried. So, anyone itching to back out of the challenge?"
Nobody spoke.
"That means I have to decide," Beachhead said. He studied at Lady Jaye. There were still huge bags under her eyes and she'd lost a considerable amount of weight since training. She's the obvious choice physically, Beachhead thought. Then he saw the fierce determination flashing in her eyes. But this competition isn't just about strength, he thought.
"Beach?"
"What is it, Gung-Ho?"
The marine shifted uncomfortably. "Lord knows I've never been a quitter. But I am the oldest one of the bunch and I have competed in this challenge a couple of times. Always wanted to WIN it, but hell. It's time to let others compete-" He glanced quickly at Lady Jaye and Scarlett.
"Anyway, someone needs to watch Hector Ramirez," Gung-Ho said and then grinned menacingly: "You all know how much I love those crafty journalists."
"You sure, Gung-Ho?" Beachhead asked.
"I'm afraid so."
Beachhead nodded and patted him awkwardly on the shoulders. "Good man. I'll tell the organizers." He walked off.
Lady Jaye and Scarlett turned to Gung-Ho and embraced him tightly.
"Whoa!" the marine exclaimed. "Maybe I should quit more often!"
***
He sat at the end of a long oak table, lazily shaving off a sliver of roast beef with his sharp knife. Bright blood from the rare meat pooled around his mashed potatoes. He always preferred the copper taste of blood to gravy.
The room was lit dimly with candles. Portraits of his ancestors hung on the walls, reminding him of his family's long line of heroes and warriors. Their eyes followed him as he moved - watching him, encouraging him, but most of all, judging him. They had all accomplished great feats: capturing town after town, wiping out enemies and amassing staggering wealth. And what had he accomplished? He couldn't even beat G.I. Joe's bunch of grunts; a rag-tag team of U.S. soldiers with limited intelligence and skill.
Destro sipped his goblet of wine, considering. The new COBRA intelligence officer had just informed him of the Joe's little competition. It didn't involve much detective work - the damn thing was broadcast over the news. Stupid, he thought. Very stupid.
Not that he was complaining. He'd put the information to good use.
"Destro, darling," the Baroness said, sauntering into the room in a tight, black nightdress. "Why are you smiling?"
"Because of you, Baroness," Destro said, leaning back in his antique chair and breathing in her spicy perfume. "You're ravishing."
She laughed throatily. "No, this is a different smile. It's your smile of revenge. Unless you are plotting something horrible against me, I'd guess you have a plan against the Joes."
"You know me too well," Destro sighed, as she sat down on his lap. He traced his finger along the strap of her nightdress.
She grabbed his finger and twisted it back. "What are you planning, darling? Don't make me ask twice."
Destro winced, pulling his finger away. "How would you like to go to Australia?"
She dug his fork into the bloody meat and brought it to his lips, trailing it along his tongue. "Mmmm. You know I love the poisonous snakes over there."