Turnabout

Chapter 3- Briefings

2030 hours, somewhere over Iraq

Destro's full concentration was on the controls of his Dominator. Nap-of- the-earth flying was dicey at the best of times, but when your mind wanders, it's a recipe for disaster. Therefore he did not hear the chime of his communicator until the Baroness lightly touched his arm. Irritated, he whipped his head around and glared at the woman he loved. As he opened his mouth to speak, she pointed to the flashing light on the console. Irritated, he turned the controls over to her before flipping the switch and snapping, "What is it?"

"Good evening to you as well, Destro," Scrap Iron growled sarcastically. "You asked me to advise you when your troops arrived."

"And?" Destro asked.

"Consider yourself advised," the weapons specialist replied. "Scrap Iron out."

The man in the silver mask grinned at his cohort's audacity. Anyone else would have been executed on the spot, but his business partner constantly pushed the boundaries and tested their working relationship. Besides that, Destro liked the man and respected his engineering abilities. He was far too valuable an asset to lose. As he shifted his concentration back towards the controls, he felt more than saw Anastasia relax in her seat.

"We're less than twenty minutes from the rendezvous," the Baroness said. "I have entered the coordinates into the computer. The auto-pilot will engage momentarily." As soon as the words left her mouth, the computer took over piloting the vessel. Reluctantly releasing his grip on the control stick, Destro rose from his seat and stalked towards the rear compartment, a scowl creasing his features.

"Is something wrong, darling?" Baroness asked. The man known as James McCullen Destro XXIV looked over his shoulder, his scowl replaced with a sinister smile. For the briefest of moments, Anastasia felt a twinge of fear as his predatory gaze fell upon her. I no longer control this man, she thought with a shudder.

"Everything is fine, my dear Baroness," he replied with the slightest emphasis on dear. "I should be the one asking you that question. You have not been yourself recently." A sudden shift in engine speed pre-empted the Baroness's reply.

"We're on final approach," she said, hoping to change the subject.

"And this conversation will be continued," Destro said icily.

**********

2045 hours, near the Iraq border

A dust cloud in the distance told him that Destro's transport would be there in moments, so Scrap Iron took the opportunity to look over the troops assembled before him while he waited. There were two five-man teams of COBRA Alley Vipers, one five-man squad of COBRA C.L.A.W.s, one ten-man unit of COBRA Vipers, two Tele-Vipers, and a three-man team of Dr. Mindbender's latest creations, the COBRA Sand Vipers.

Rumor had it the Sand Vipers were brewed from the misfits of COBRA's legions- only the hardest, meanest, most violent men in the ranks were even considered for the training, and out of those men, only 2% made it through the first day. Those who passed the physical and mental challenges of day one were then subjected to a wide range of chemical and surgical alterations, including genetic enhancements to speed, strength, endurance, and agility.

Scrap Iron shook his head as the three Sand Vipers approached, marveling at their feline grace. Their every movement seemed to reveal barely-contained hostility, and their displeasure regarding the delay was evident. Aside from constantly seeking action, these men were killers, pure and simple. They were not used to waiting for anything, preferring to take what they felt was theirs, and to hell with anyone who stood in the way.

In order to curb this attitude, Dr. Mindbender devised an alternating scheme of drug cocktails and Brainwave treatments. Scrap Iron wasn't so sure the plan worked, as these three warriors looked ready to explode in an instant. The biggest of the three approached him, his confident stride sending an involuntary spasm down Scrap Iron's spine.

"What's the hold-up, Hoss?" the gravelly-voiced Viper asked, his face mere inches from Scrap Iron's. "We were told this op would be down and dirty, but for the last five days you been avoidin' us." Before he could answer, he saw Destro's Stinger Jeep pull up behind the massed troops, and the familiar silver-masked man step out.

"Your orders were very clear," Destro's voice rang out across the crowd. "And you will follow them, word for word, whether you like them or not."

The Sand Viper turned around to see who would dare address him in such a fashion, and found himself staring into the large black eye of a .50- caliber Desert Eagle leveled at his head.

"Now, I suggest that you remove yourself from Scrap Iron's personal space, or I will be forced to perforate that pathetic excuse for gray matter between your ears," Destro continued. The Viper stood stock-still, almost daring Destro to pull the trigger.

As Destro's finger started to tense, the larger man moved back towards his comrades. The man in the silver mask rotated along with the Viper, not lowering his handgun until the Viper rejoined his squad. Sand Viper 013's stare burned into Destro's eyes, the sheer hatred and naked fury plainly evident.

Holstering his sidearm, Destro moved to stand beside his business partner. "Glad to see you've got everything under control," he said with a smirk. Seeing his associate's discomfort, he turned and faced the troops standing before him. "As you all may or may not know, we have been sent to secure a threat to COBRA's plans for continued crisis in the Middle East. The plan is as follows."

**********

2200 hours, Incirlik AB

Chuckles was busy setting red-tabbed manila folders in front of each chair when the SEALs walked into the MAC. Depth Charge took one look at the Hawaiian shirt and almost burst out laughing. He nudged Torpedo, who nodded knowingly before taking his seat. Chuckles surveyed the Joes, taking note of the FNG's reaction to his attire.

"Gentlemen," Chuckles started. "First order of business tonight will be details on your quarry, code-named Turnabout. Inside the folders in front of you are several photographs I've managed to dig up, some taken as recently as last month." He gave each man a moment to study the pictures, and then continued. "You'll also find topographical maps of the region the last transmission came from. We've narrowed the signal down to a small village just outside the town of Sinjar. As you can see, this area is in Northwest Iraq, and as such, we cannot just go in there guns blazing." The sailors looked at Chuckles, skepticism plainly etched into their features.

"Your orders clear on this one," the Intel Officer said. "HALO insertion at 0130 just inside the Iraqi border. From there it's about 6 miles to the village we believe Turnabout is holed up in. Most importantly, there will be no firing unless fired upon. Do not, I repeat NOT, engage any targets of opportunity while in-country. This is a straight grab-and-go. Once you secure the package, you are to proceed directly to the Iraqi border. Once on neutral ground, you can radio for pick-up. Radio silence must be maintained at all times while on the ground. I don't need to tell you all how important this op is. Turnabout could break COBRA once and for all."

Chuckles stood up and asked, "Any questions?"

Depth Charge spoke up, asking, "Any word on COBRA activity? I can't shake the feeling we're being set up."

"We have not seen any activity within COBRA High Command on this one. As far as we know, COBRA Commander thinks Turnabout is dead. At this time, we do not believe she has been tracked to her present location," Chuckles said. The sailors mulled this over, apparently satisfied with the answer provided. Just to be sure, he asked, "Anything else?"

When none of the Joes spoke, he continued, "Your gear arrived about an hour ago. Your High Altitude Precision Parachute System (HAPPS) rigs were checked and packed by Ripcord. Your rifles and sidearms were all cleaned and maintained by Beach Head, and cannot be traced back to the states. You'll find the equipment waiting in the staging area, along with sterile BDUs and any other gear you may need. This op is totally black. If you're compromised, you're on your own. If there's nothing else, you're dismissed. Good luck."

The four SEALs stood almost as one and exited the briefing room, making their way to the staging area, ready for the mission ahead of them.

To be continued...