*Disclaimer: I own none of these fine characters. They all belong to Marvel, Image, Sunbow, Hasbro, Devil's Due, and if there are any others, I STILL don't own any of these guys! This is just a work of fun. I have no intention of making money off of this story. I'm just a penniless fan.
*Found the U.S. Code under--http://www4.law.cornell.edu/uscode/.
* I've incorporated aspects of the cartoon into this story. ________________________________________________________________________
Within a dimly lit room in the Pentagon, a group of seven men sat in seven of the eight chairs surrounding a circular steel table. Emblazoned at the center of the table was a black eagle heraldically displayed, symbolizing military might and boldness. Some could argue that it was indeed a fitting symbol for those present. Every man in that room, all brilliant and ambitious, wore dress uniforms of green, brown, blue, or white glittering with ribbons and medals testifying their long services to their country.
Holding pride of place on each of these men's shoulder were no less than four meticulously polished silver stars.
"Our circle is not balanced," a stout General in blue observed dispassionately, pointing at the empty chair with his cigar.
"I have reports saying that Abernathy was hustled off Fort Wright-Patterson to a safe house last night," a gray-haired General in green supplied.
"Location?"
"Unknown."
"Abernathy's condition," a blonde Admiral asked.
"Eye witnesses say walking wounded, but that's about all," the gray-haired General said with dissatisfaction. "Nothing specific."
"Was the SHIELD Agent with him?"
"Yes."
"So," a ruddy Marine General said, curious. "Then Abernathy doesn't know yet?"
"I can't say for sure," the gray-haired General said, frowning. "If I discovered someone was feeding intel to an outside agency, I'd definitely gullet the man. But we're talking about Abernathy, who's as sentimental as an old woman. Who can say?"
"Well, he's dropped off the radar," a dark-skinned Admiral pointed out. "If YOU knew SHIELD was sending assassins after you, wouldn't you disappear?"
"Once again, Admiral, I'd like to point out that we're talking about Abernathy," the gray-haired General said patiently. "Who can say?"
"It doesn't matter," the stout General rumbled. "He wasn't here in the Belt last night. THAT is the only thing that matters. In those terms, the first part of the operation was a success."
"Very true," the gray-haired General nodded, his craggy brow relaxing. "And, if these intel reports are correct, the first step for the second part of the operation has already been laid."
The Air Force General perked up. "His Second in Command?"
"ICU," the gray-haired General said, satisfied.
"Perfect."
"And his Third," a thin Marine General asked.
"Nothing so elaborate is needed with him." The gray-haired General smiled. "In fact, Abernathy has done half of our work already, and has given us resources for the rest."
"What about his First Shirt," the Air Force General asked.
The gray-haired General now snorted. "That white-trash non-com? Please. I won't even need to sully myself. He'll take care of our work all by himself if he's left alone."
"You better be sure, General," the stout man said.
"General," the gray-haired man began.
Whatever he was going to say died as the door slid opened and in walked another man in dress greens. Clean jaw set, shoulders squared, and both arms swinging freely at his sides, the robust man took the remaining chair and tossed his hat onto the table.
Like the other men, his uniform was also a glittering testament of his long service to their country.
Unlike anyone else in the room, holding pride of place on each shoulder were just three silver stars.
The seven stared at the newcomer with the look of larger birds sizing up a smaller, unwanted intruder. Outranked by everyone in that room, the newcomer should have at least showed SOME deference.
Instead the brazen Hawk granted the Dark Eagles the smug courtesy granted to…equals. Barely.
But not for much longer, the seven vowed silently.
I'm still alive, you bastards, Hawk thought at them. Take a good look and choke!
"Generals. Admirals," he said out loud in greetings, nodding curtly. "My apologizes for being late."
"Our circle is balanced," the stout General said flatly.
"General 'Tomahawk,'" the gray-haired General greeted after a slight pause, his voice slightly mocking. "Good of you to join us. We had heard there was some trouble at Fort Wright-Patterson."
"We heard you'd been shot," the Air Force General interjected.
Not for the first time, Hawk thanked God for Lady Jaye's make-up skills. No wound was evident, no weakness shown. "Just nicked," Hawk lied smoothly. "I've hurt myself worse shaving."
"Ah. How…fortunate. And your Second in Command?"
Hawk carefully wiped away any trace of emotion from his face. "He'll pull through," he said a shade too firmly to believe. The longer people thought Duke was critically injured, the better. It gave the Second more time to discreetly gather and sort through the Intel from the Joe spies within the Dreadnok and Cobra ranks, as well as tapping his own wells of information in Black Ops.
"That's good to hear," the stout General said, taking a huge puff on a cigar (And damned if that wasn't a genuine Havana rolled stogie, Hawk thought wryly).
"So," the blonde Admiral said. "I take it that Warrant Officer of yours is running things while you're here?"
Hawk examined that question from all sides before answering. "Yes. Flint IS my Third in Command, after all."
"You're so very lax about rank, Abernathy. We just weren't sure if you intended to stick to your so-called Chain of Command."
"Do you know who tried to kill you," the gray-haired General asked before Hawk could respond to the Admiral.
Hawk shook his head. "Not yet, not for sure, but my troops are investigating several possibilities."
"Well, if you need any assistance, don't hesitate to ask. But tell us, how was your trip to Fort Killington," the gray-haired General asked. "Did you find it adequate to your needs?"
"My inspection was educational," Hawk said carefully. "But I intend to weigh more options before making a choice."
"As you should, as you should," the stout General boomed. "Wright-Patterson is an excellent base for normal operations, but I think recent events have shown you and your men---and women---need a more secure location. It was only supposed to be a temporary headquarters, after all."
"If I had been given the budget to create a new base or restore an decommissioned one," Hawk began through gritted teeth.
"Tut, tut," the gray-haired General said amicably, waving a hand. "Spending is tight for everyone here. Sacrifices need to be made for the new Department of Homeland Security. You'll just have to make do like the rest of us. Oh, speaking of which…" He slid a clipboard across the table to Hawk.
Hawk picked up the clipboard and scanned the first page.
He stopped.
He re-read it more slowly.
"What is this," Hawk hissed.
"Why, a memo," the gray-haired General said. "The Secretary of Defense couldn't get in touch with you last night, so I promised to give this to you as soon as I could. The basic gist of it is that under the U.S. Code, Title 10, Subtitle A, Part I, Chapter 18, Section 375, the Secretary is enforcing the ban against military personnel in search, seizure, and arrest in civilian law enforcement. He feels this will give DHS the chance to stand strong on their own two feet."
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MINDS," Hawk roared. "They aren't trained to tackle anything like Cobra yet!"
"Now, now, General," the gray haired General said, holding up his hands. "It wasn't us who issued this memo. The Secretary himself has advised against using regular military troops to deal with restless citizens. No one wants another Waco. A softer touch is required."
"'Restless citizens?' SOFT TOUCH?!" Hawk's fists came slamming down on the table. "WE ARE TALKING ABOUT COBRA!"
"Actually, we're talking about the women in GI Joe," the gray-haired General said coolly.
That threw Hawk badly. "WHAT?"
"Well the Secretary is not insensitive to the needs of this infant Department. He recognizes that DHS needs advisors familiar with Cobra and the Dreadnoks. I think you'll find that on the second---no, third page. Fourth paragraph, I believe. Everyone agrees that the transfer is ideal for DHS, and the best place for your women," he said. "To be truthful, I agree with him. Honestly, General 'Tomahawk,' how much longer will you endanger these poor girls just so you can drum up support from the Liberals? Putting WOMEN in frontline firefights---"
The clipboard cracked under Hawk's hands. "Those WOMEN have more combat experience than anyone I'm looking at," he stated in a deceptively soft voice. "These WOMEN aren't just crucial field commanders and frontliners, but most also double up as essential support personnel." His eyes glittered dangerously. "But I'm not telling you anything you haven't already thought of."
"Now, General---"
"You are NOT taking my troops away from me," Hawk snapped. "If you were sincere in helping DHS, you'd take advisors from the ranks of my retired and disabled Joes! They're just dying to lend the country their services in anyway possible!" He slammed his fist on the table. "And you'd keep your damned hands OFF of my women!"
"Once again, General, it wasn't us who issued this memo," the gray-haired General said pleasantly. "But don't think of it as losing your women. Try to think of the women being assigned to DHS as your voice at home while you and your men take care of things in Europe. That IS where Cobra is most active, are they not? The Secretary believes you should think about stationing your men there, instead of lagging half a world away." He nodded at the papers still attached to the ruined clipboard. "I believe you'll find some European base recommendations on page five."
Hawk's eyes narrowed. "You're trying to kick us out of the country."
The gray-haired General blinked innocently. "Don't be absurd. The Secretary is just trying to put your men in a strategic location."
Hawk planted his fists on the table and leaned forward. "We'd be a foreign strike force looking to police dissidents in established allied territory. Under the International Laws of Armed Conflict, we'd need permission for a host Unit to SNEEZE for us written in triplicate, never mind going after Cobra ourselves."
"Now that's an exaggeration," the gray-haired General chided.
"Not by much," Hawk growled.
"May I remind you that this is the Secretary of Defense's idea," the gray-haired General said sternly. "And under Title 10 of the U.S. Code, Subtitle A, Part I, Chapter 6, Section 162, the Secretary is within his full rights to do this without consulting you."
"That may be true." Hawk ripped the pages from the clipboard. "But according to Section 164 (b1) under the same Chapter of the U.S. Code, the Secretary can't implement any action without approval from the President." He crumpled the papers into a tight ball. "And under Section 163(b2C) of the same Chapter, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is responsible for supporting my discussions to the Secretary in the handling of my own troops!" He squashed the ball on the table with a thud. "And you can be sure that I'll tell the three of them EXACTLY what I think of these so-called plans."
"You would be that much closer to Afghanistan," the stout General pointed out.
That stopped Hawk cold.
"I remember you made quite the impassioned speech before the President," the stout General continued. "You barged right into the Oval Office with your jacket still smoking from the Pentagon fire. A very dramatic sight." He took a puff on his cigar. "I understand you lost one of your men."
Now Hawk's face was truly wiped of emotion. His stitched shoulder twitched violently as his muscles clenched.
"You wanted to gather your precious Joes right then and there and go after al-Queda." The stout man looked at Hawk intently. "I know you still want a piece of those murdering hi-jacking bastards. You and your men are, after all, supposed to be the world's elite anti-terrorist strike force. You may think we're the Devil's own servants, General, but we want these maniacs crushed too. This country cannot be attacked with such impunity."
"No," Hawk said softly. "It can't." He looked dead into the stout man's eyes. "Which is why GI Joe is staying based in the States, intact."
The stout General puffed on his cigar. "You have a duty to this country, Abernathy."
"Don't lecture a West Point Grad about the meaning of duty, General! In fact, it seems that I'm the only one who hasn't forgotten it," Hawk said. "That day in the Oval Office, the President gave me my standing orders. Cobra." He swept them all with a raptor fierce glare. "Generals. Admirals. The whole of our Armed Forces is bent on wiping al-Qaida completely out. We all know it's only a matter of time before we're successful. But it's inevitable that some of those bastards will slip through our net, and that means other terrorists will gain new recruits from al-Qaida's broken ranks. Cobra is the largest to date and has already come too close to striking at America's heart." He slammed his fist against the table and pointed viciously at the ceiling. "Do you want this building attacked AGAIN? GI Joe is a rapid mobile strike unit, we go where we're needed, but we NEED to be based right here in the States AND NO WHERE ELSE!"
"It doesn't matter what you think," the stout General rumbled. "The fact remains that with Section 375 in effect, your troops have no jurisdiction against Cobra within the States. Outside of your women, your Joes have no purpose within the borders."
"You should read Section 375 more carefully, General," Hawk told him. "All my troops need is lawful authorization. And according to Section 382, concerning emergency situations due to weapons of mass destruction, such as Cobra possesses," Hawk leaned forward, eyes narrowing, "we HAVE that authorization."
"The President won't see it that way. He was given that memo last night as well," the gray-haired General said.
"Getting a memo and accepting it are two very different things, General," Hawk snapped, gripping the table until his knuckles turned white. "The President ordered me to track down and destroy Cobra. I intend to carry that order out to the fullest of my abilities." His brown eyes glittered dangerously. "And I warn you. 'Gentlemen.' Screw with my team any further and I will run a warpath right down these ranks."
"Of course we won't. After all, we wouldn't want to go the way of Admiral George Lattimer, now would we," the blonde Admiral mocked loudly.
The other six men grew very, very still.
Hawk's eyes grew cold. "George turned his coat and his ship over to Cobra. He was Court Marshaled for high treason and found guilty," he said in a steady voice. "After the USS Montana was sunk, he didn't want to live. He insisted upon the ultimate penalty. I doubt you 'gentlemen' will want the same."
"No we wouldn't," the blonde Admiral sneered. "But I'm sure you'll be there to volunteer a hollow point bullet in your .45 despite our wishes."
Hawk drew himself up stiffly. "I was the one who brought George in. I wasn't going to make anyone else do it. It was my duty. But George was my friend. The hollow point was a courtesy. For you…I'd use a lead ball and musket."
The Admiral smiled broadly. "I'll remember that, Abernathy."
Hawk's eyes narrowed and his gun hand twitched. "And I'll remember too." He pulled on his hat. "Admirals. Generals. Good day."
The seven men watched in silence as Hawk left the room.
"You idiot squid," the gray haired General hissed.
"He can't suspect," the blonde Admiral said dismissively.
"I'm not so confident," the dark-skinned Admiral told his fellow Naval Officer. "Why did you have to mention Lattimer? After he talks to the Secretary, things are bound to start clicking into place."
"He's too caught up in trying to find out who's trying to kill him, trying to deal with SHIELD blackmailing him, and trying to run his unit the way he sees fit," the blond Admiral said defensively. "What's he going to notice?"
"He's going to notice how scared the Secretary is of him," the ruddy Marine General spat. "And he's going to suddenly wonder why!"
"A standing army of elite soldiers fanatically devoted to one disgruntled man in the States is enough to make anyone paranoid. Abernathy's precious good opinion of himself kept him blind to that fear he invoked in others," the gray-haired General told the blonde Admiral exasperatedly. "Now that you SPECIFICALLY bring up a convicted traitor's name---"
"Enough," the stout General said sharply. "It's done. All we can do now is move up the schedual. General. His Command Chain must be destroyed as soon as possible. If you can, make the Second a vegetable. That's much more traumatic than outright death. If you truly feel that the First Shirt will do more damage left alone, fine. And I understand that he is especially close to the two senior women in Joe? See if you can use that, put some kind of spin on it."
"I was going to," the gray-haired General told him. "Abernathy's Third in Command is married to one of them. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."
"Good thought."
"What about those Drednoks," the Air Force General asked. "Are they ready to plant some more information in the SHIELD databanks so quickly?"
The stout General smiled slowly. "Absolutely. When Director Carter looks into this matter further, she'll find more than enough reason to send her assassins, her Black Bullet Squad, herself. For real this time. Gentlemen. Imagine a man who believes that the dead slut he knocked up thirty years ago is about to put a crack in a life long career. One by one, his supporters begin to turn against him. When he fights the orders removing the female troops from him, for their own good, people will talk. He is off balance, he won't know who to trust, and will rely heavily on his Command Chain. And when we knock that support from him---" he flicked the ash from his cigar. "---will anyone be surprised if he snaps? Who knows what such a man is capable of? Even, perhaps, treason?"
"And if he doesn't snap," the thin Marine General asked.
"Oh, he won't snap," the stout General said. "But that doesn't mean the Dreadnoks can't MAKE it look as if he's snapped."
"He'll be destroyed," the blonde Admiral said smugly.
"IF he doesn't smarten up," the gray-haired General warned. "No thanks to you."
"I said, enough," the stout General said firmly. "Abernathy is our target. Do not lose sight of that." He took a long puff on his cigar as the men around the table nodded their agreement. "It's time we made that jumped up mountain cowboy remember that his precious West Point Academy isn't only famous for the heroes its produced." He put a hand over the Dark Eagle. "But also the traitor who commanded it centuries ago."
"The West Point traitors of General Benedict Arnold and General Clayton Abernathy," the blonde Admiral said with heavy satisfaction.
The stout General smiled tightly. "It's time Abernathy remembers what the REAL Jugglers are capable of."
