*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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
.
.
.
"I thought you said no one drives here, Doug," the sandy haired truck driver grumbled.
"So I was wrong," his partner shrugged.
The driver irritatedly adjusted his royal blue baseball cap, the word ARBCO embroidered in crimson across the front, and glared at the rust heap of a Yugo that struggled up the mountain road, chugging along at a pitiful 35mph. "Damn locals. Making us late with this delivery. Cobra Commander'll fire us if we're late."
"You mean shoot us."
"Same thing. He still might. Man, I don't know about this stuff from that local warehouse. They're not exactly prime quality ingredients."
"Beggars can't be choosers, pal. Our pantry only had enough fancy stuff for the officers so they didn't get suspicious. You want to explain to the Commander where our food budget's really going?"
"Hell, no! I like breathing fine, thanks." He wiped his brow. "Man, if we had just gotten a little more notice about this big shin dig---"
"No use complaining now."
"Says you!"
"Look, Fred, if those mamby pamby Iron Chefs can whip up a feast in an hour, then it should be no problem for us, right?"
"Only if we can actually make it to the fort before our food spoils." He gave the horn one long pull. "C'MON, GRAMPS," he yelled out his window.
"Yeah, go ahead and yell. Like they can actually understand English," Doug sneered.
"Stupid locals," Fred muttered. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Dammit, we're---oh no."
The Yugo began to sputter ominously. Thick steam oozed from under its hood.
"No," Fred moaned, slowing the truck. "No, no, NO!"
The car gave a thunderous backfire once...then came to a shuddering, complete halt.
Fred leaned his forehead against the steering wheel as he brought his truck to a stop.
"Maybe they can start it up again," Doug said hopefully.
The sickly revving from the Yugo's engine quickly dashed that hope to pieces.
"We are so screwed," Fred moaned.
"Oh, for---" Doug broke off as the Yugo doors opened.
A wizened old man with a bristly beard and an elderly woman timidly stepped out of the car. Raising their arms to shield their eyes from the truck's headlights, the elderly couple made their way to the driver's door. The old man blinked rapidly and turned his watery brown eyes to Fred. "Je mi luto," the man began, his voice wavery from trepidation and age.
"What the hell did he just say," Fred demanded to Doug.
"Ah," the old man beamed, relaxing slightly. "English you. Of car, say I sorry---"
"Sorry? SORRY?!" Fred reached for the holster bolted to the side of his seat and whipped out a Glock. "I'll show you sorry," he snarled.
Wide-eyed, the woman pressed her fists to her mouth, rooted to the spot and mute with terror.
The old man didn't suffer from such paralysis. Pale as paper, he turned to flee.
Fred mercilessly shot the old man twice in the back, felling him instantly.
Blood splattered the old woman, cranking her terror higher, freeing her voice. Shrill with hysterics, she threw herself to the ground and covered her head with her arms, shrieking.
"SHUT UP," Fred roared, aiming his Glock at her.
"Hey, whoa there," Doug said, placing a restraining hand on his friend.
"Why?"
"For the love of---We're behind schedule, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
"SO if we stuff the staff with more hands, that means we'll get BACK on schedule. Maybe even ahead."
"---OH! I get it!" He scowled. "But what if she doesn't cook?"
Doug leaned forward. "Hey, you," he yelled at the hysterical woman. "Do you cook?"
She kept screaming.
"Useless," Fred snarled, taking aim.
Doug whacked him on the back of the head.
"HEY!"
"Just cover me," Doug told him, pulling out a pair of cuffs and his own Glock. He hopped out of the truck's cab and made his way to where the woman was curled up, still screaming. He prodded her sharply in the ribs with his boot. "Shut up!"
Gasping wildly, she looked up, her green eyes wide and glowing with stark terror.
"Do you cook," he asked her curtly. "What's the word," he muttered to himself. He pointed a finger at her. "Kucharka?"
She just looked at him, shaking, her wrinkled face slack with grief, horror, and no comprehension.
"Hey! I asked you a question!" He grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her to his eye level, and shook her hard. "KUCHARKA?"
"ANO," she wept, terrified, nodding violently in affirmation, feebly trying to push away from him. "Ja kucharka! JA KUCHARKA!"
He shoved her back to the ground. "Well, kucharka good, you live," he said, giving her a thumbs up. Then he turned his thumb down. "Kucharka bad...." He drew a finger across his throat then pointed to her husband. "Understand?"
Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked fearfully at the bloody body of her husband, crumpled at the side of the road. Covering her mouth with trembling hands, she finally nodded.
"There we go," Doug said, satisfied. He cuffed the cowering woman and dragged her to her feet, pushing her a short distance down the road and giving her a helpful boost into the back of the refrigerated truck. "Don't break anything back there or..." He waggled his pistol meaningfully at her. He shut the doors before she could respond, walked back to the cab, and eagerly climbed back in, greeted by the sounds of 'Cold Slither's Greatest Hits CD.'
"Where's the woman," Fred asked loudly, carefully backing the truck up.
"Got her secured in the back," he yelled back.
"In the cold storage? Are you nuts? She'll crack all the eggs!"
"Don't worry," Doug loudly reassured him. "I got across if she broke anything back there, I'd shoot her!"
"I didn't get a real good look at her," Fred yelled as he shifted gears. "Don't suppose she was---"
"Tight ass, but uglier than wilted spinach and twice as wrinkled," Doug yelled back.
"Damn!" Fred slammed down on the accelerator and the truck lurched forward, spraying the body of the old man with gravel and dirt. The truck rammed into the little Yugo hard, sending it careening off the road and tumbling down the side of the mountain. "What the hell happened to fame, fortune, and fast women?"
"What can I say? The life of a Kitchen-Viper ain't for the weak of heart!"
.
.
.
The silver-haired old man lay crumpled just off the side of the road, his right eye closed, his left slightly bulging from its socket, staring sightlessly at the darkened mountain road. Red liquid spread across his drab homespun from the holes in his back.
From out of no where, strong opposing winds buffeted the road, kicking up clouds of swirling dust, coating the thick red liquid and still body with a fine layer of grit.
The winds died to nothing.
Everything was still once more.
With the suddenness of a blink, two hovercars decloaked on the road. Low Light tumbled out, rifle raised and ready for trouble, scanning the night. "Clear," he barked. He glanced over the edge and shook his head. "That Yugo's scrap, sir."
Duke quickly jumped out of the other hovercar, Beretta in hand. "Hell, it was scrap to begin with," Duke muttered. He looked over his shoulder into the hovercar's interior. "Don't feel too badly, Captain. Father Drozd did say we could use it as we needed to. We can recompensate him with something better later."
Captain America stepped from the second hovercar and paused, staring at the body sprawled on the road. "Father Drozd's car is the least of my worries," he said in a tight voice. He jerked his chin towards the body and took a deep breath. "Is he...?"
Carefully avoiding the oozing blood, the Second felt for a pulse along the old man's neck. Duke pursed his lips and sighed. "Yep," he said, pushing the eye back into its socket. "Too bad."
The sightless eye suddenly blinked furiously. "'Too bad,'" the old man snarled. "'TOO BAD?!'" He pushed himself onto his hands and knees. "Friggin'DAMMITsonofabitch," he swore with a gasp. He glowered at Duke. "I survive this crackpot plan and all ya can say is 'Too bad?'"
"Whine, whine, whine," Duke muttered. "I swear, not even the greenest Greenshirt whines this much!" With one hand, he ripped open the back of the man's homespun shirt to reveal the bulletproof vest beneath, liberally draped with blood packets.
"HEY!"
The Second gave the kevlar-covered armored-plates a sharp rap with his knuckles and a blood packet burst open. Ignoring the old man's protests of pain, Duke jerked him back into an upright position, unbuckled the vest, peeled it off, and exposed the scarred, bruised, but otherwise undamaged flesh beneath. "There, Colonel. You're fine. Happy?"
Fury glared at the Second, flipped him off, then jammed the finger up his own left eye socket. "Next time ya want someone shot," he growled, scooping the glass eye out with a sickening pop, "ya can catch the damn bullet yerself!" He glared at the Captain. "Couldn't give us a faster heads up about the change in plans, could ya?"
"Sorry, Nick." Steve held out a hand to the SHIELD Director and helped him up. "I know you two weren't expecting to meet up with any Cobras until further up the road, but an opportunity presented itself." He nodded to the truck's tire tracks. "I wanted to take advantage of it. Was Jaye prepared when you moved?"
"Only just," Fury rasped, tossing his glass eye from hand to hand. "Didn't get a chance ta test the transmitter in her false teeth, though."
"No time like the present." Steve tapped out a secured frequency on his wrist-com. "Eagle to Jay Bird."
Silence.
"C'mon, Jaye," Steve muttered. "Eagle to Jay Bird."
Still nothing.
"Broaden the transmission band," Fury suggested.
Duke shook his head. "Don't do it, sir."
"Listen, dog-boy," Fury snarled.
"This isn't about you, Colonel," Duke snapped. "Captain, I know what Cobra's capable of. If we broaden the band any more, we run the risk of tipping our hand."
Steve's brows furrowed. "She's not answering."
Duke held up both hands. "Please, sir, just keep trying. Jaye's breaking in new equipment she's never handled before. It's just taking her a little while to activate it, that's all."
The Captain gave the Second a thoughtful look. Slowly, he nodded. "Eagle to Jay Bird," he repeated for the third time.
"...jay bird here..."
Duke let out a puff of relief, echoed by the rest of the men.
"Jaye, how are you doing," Steve asked softly.
"Dandy," she whispered. "Found a way to beat the summer heat. They threw me into the back of a refrigerated truck."
"Refrigeration transport? Fer food?" Fury grinned. "Is that why they were askin' if she could cook?"
Duke scowled. "Damn! That would have been a good way for us all to sneak in. It's still not too late, Captain. We can catch up with them---"
Steve covered his wrist-com with his hand. "And do what," he demanded. "We still don't know where they're holding Hawk in that place."
"Knock some Vipers out," Duke shrugged. "Steal their uniforms, make them talk and---"
"And when they miss their check-in times, the whole damned fort'll be on red alert, and then we can all watch Abernathy's brains fry," Fury finished matter-of-factly. "Cripes, YER the best Joe has ta offer?"
Duke knotted his fists. "Fury. Back. Off."
"Gentlemen," Steve hissed sharply. "If it's not too much to ask, can you two drop the pissing contest and act like professionals? We have a job to do now---"
"...captain...," a muffled voice squeezed past the hand covering Steve's wrist-com. "...hello? Little bird here risking life and limb for intel? This is all a little pointless if no one's listening."
Wincing, Steve whipped his hand off the wrist-com. "Sorry, Jay Bird," he said contritely, glaring at Duke and Fury. "I was taking care of some static. You were saying?"
"I was saying, these boys aren't hauling ordinary chow. We're talking Grade A caviar, truffles, fois-gras, escargo, culinary gold dust, 1782 champagne---hell, there's even eight braces of peacocks with their feathers intact!"
"Yummy," Fury muttered, rolling his glass eye. "Sophisticated grub."
"He's there already," Duke said, clenching his fists.
"Looks that way," Jaye whispered.
"Who," Steve asked.
The hooded blue eyes took on a hardened glint. "Cobra Commander. He's there."
"But," Jaye interjected, "even with the Commander's penchant for gluttony, there's enough epicurean treats here to feed a platoon. I doubt this is all for just fang-face's midnight snacking."
Duke inhaled sharply. "Cobra High Command?"
Fury became very still.
"My thoughts exactly," Jaye affirmed. "And if the volume of the supplies here add up, I'm willing to bet most of them will be there. Maybe all of them."
"That changes things," Fury murmured thoughtfully.
"Doesn't change a damn thing," Duke growled.
"Nick," Steve said in an ominous, warning tone.
"Think about it, boys and girl," Fury said harshly. "We got the core members of Cobra in one location. All it'd take is a quick tactical strike- --"
"I thought you wanted the files on the Jugglers," Duke shot out. His shadowed eyes narrowed at the SHIELD Director. "That IS why you're really here, isn't it? Hard to find out where Hawk stashed them if we're scrapping his gray matter off of rubble."
Fury's lips curled back. "And if Abernathy's brain's already fried? What then? The Jugglers AND Cobra going scott free while we fish a vegetable out? Or do we take out Cobra while we got the chance?"
Steve recoiled violently. "I can't believe what you're suggesting," he hissed.
"Believe it," Fury rasped. "Yeah, more than anythin' I want the names of the Jugglers. But if we can't have that...well, personally, I know I can settle fer some charbroiled snake---"
"And put Hawk out of his misery, is that it," Jaye demanded, her low voice skirling with anger.
"Yer the one who said ya'd rather shoot him yerself and give him a clean death," Fury reminded her.
Duke's eyes flashed ice. "Fury---"
"Don't get all affronted with me," Fury snapped. "I ain't spoutin' anythin' ya didn't think of already! Even you. Hell, 'specially you!" He marched up to the Second and went nose to nose with him. "Go on, Mr. Black Ops," he dared. "Tell me it didn't occur ta ya!"
"It occurred to me," Duke said evenly with blunt frankness. "But I discarded it as soon as it popped into my head. Do you know why?"
"Enlighten me," Fury sneered.
"BECAUSE HAWK'S A JOE," Duke thundered, shoving Fury sharply in the sternum.
Fury stumbled back with a grunt, dropping his glass eye. Steve immediately leapt between them, arms outstretched, keeping them apart. "Settle down," the Captain snapped.
But Duke wasn't done yet. "Joes don't abandon our own for any reason," he hissed, his eyes blind to everything but Fury. "Minutes, months, years, IT DOESN'T MATTER! We get our own BACK by any means possible!" His eyes narrowed. "No matter what condition they're in."
"And if Jaye finds he's already cold meat," Fury demanded. "What then?"
Duke closed his eyes, his features twisted in pain. "Then someone will need to bring him home," he whispered. He turned away, his voice nearly inaudible. "Like Hawk did for Falcon."
Fury looked puzzled, but before he could say anything, Steve cut him off.
"Drive it in the hanger, Nick," Steve said softly. "Your recommendation has been heard and turned down." Tempered steel entered his voice. "Either we all go home, or nobody goes home." He raised his voice. "Does everyone understand?"
"Yo Joe," Jaye said softly, but emphatically.
"Yo Joe," Low Light echoed from the darkness, his voice clear on the wind.
Duke turned to face them, his eyes flashing defiantly in the starlight. "Yo Joe."
Fury grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him to one side. He covered Steve's wrist-com and whispered harshly, "Ya can't run an army like this, Cap."
"Watch me."
"Logistically---"
"This isn't about logistics," Steve interrupted. "This is about the team's ethos."
"Ethos be hanged," Fury growled. "The mission---"
"Is to get Hawk out," Steve said firmly.
"GI Joe's MAIN mission---"
"We. Get. Hawk. Out," Steve grounded out. "Above all else, we get him out. If there's an opportunity for us to strike at Cobra without endangering that mission objective, we'll take it, but we get Hawk out. Period."
"Yer lookin' at this through blinders, Cap," Fury spat. "Ya gotta see the big picture---"
"Well, that's the difference between scavengers and hunters, Nick," Steve snapped. "Scavengers like Ravens can afford to look at the big picture. Everything and anything's an opportunity for them. Hunters like Eagles don't have that luxury. They get one shot per hunt. It's either the snake on the ground or the bird in flight, Eagles have to focus on one thing or the whole hunt's a wash."
"That's a simplistic---"
"It's the way I was made, Nick," Steve interrupted. "Why else do you think I have blinders?"
Fury winced. "I HATE it when ya say stuff like that," he muttered.
"But it's true," Steve pressed. "I told you once, Nick. I AM military technology. And I was made with blinders because sometimes that's the best way to get a job done. Now we can stand here and argue with Jaye listening in, or we can get ready to kick some of that snake-scale butt you were so anxious to skin."
Steve moved to turn away but Fury kept a firm grip over his wrist-com.
"'The tree of liberty must be watered periodically with the blood of tyrants and patriots alike,'" Fury whispered, staring intently at Steve.
"But not tonight," Steve told him. His eyes narrowed. "I asked you once if I could trust you at my troops back," Steve hissed. "You told me I could." He fixed his friend with a steel blue gaze. "Has that changed too?"
Fury's lips thinned. "No," his gravelly voice said, a touch...apprehensive? "That hasn't changed."
"That doesn't sound too convincing, Nick."
"Ain't me ya gotta worry about," Fury said.
Steve tensed. "What do you mean---"
"We gonna rescue the kid or not," Fury demanded loudly, dropping his hand from Steve's wrist-com. He bent down and scooped up his glass eye. "Time's awastin.'"
Steve felt the eyes and ears of the Joes on him.
He could have cheerfully strangled Fury for sidestepping his questions that way.
But he was right. Time was wasting.
"Mount up," he ordered the men. "Jay Bird, keep your head down and your ears open. We'll be in position soon."
"Godspeed," she whispered. "Jay Bird out."
Steve looked out at the star strewn night. "Almost there, kid," he murmured. "Just hang in there..."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
.
.
.
"I thought you said no one drives here, Doug," the sandy haired truck driver grumbled.
"So I was wrong," his partner shrugged.
The driver irritatedly adjusted his royal blue baseball cap, the word ARBCO embroidered in crimson across the front, and glared at the rust heap of a Yugo that struggled up the mountain road, chugging along at a pitiful 35mph. "Damn locals. Making us late with this delivery. Cobra Commander'll fire us if we're late."
"You mean shoot us."
"Same thing. He still might. Man, I don't know about this stuff from that local warehouse. They're not exactly prime quality ingredients."
"Beggars can't be choosers, pal. Our pantry only had enough fancy stuff for the officers so they didn't get suspicious. You want to explain to the Commander where our food budget's really going?"
"Hell, no! I like breathing fine, thanks." He wiped his brow. "Man, if we had just gotten a little more notice about this big shin dig---"
"No use complaining now."
"Says you!"
"Look, Fred, if those mamby pamby Iron Chefs can whip up a feast in an hour, then it should be no problem for us, right?"
"Only if we can actually make it to the fort before our food spoils." He gave the horn one long pull. "C'MON, GRAMPS," he yelled out his window.
"Yeah, go ahead and yell. Like they can actually understand English," Doug sneered.
"Stupid locals," Fred muttered. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Dammit, we're---oh no."
The Yugo began to sputter ominously. Thick steam oozed from under its hood.
"No," Fred moaned, slowing the truck. "No, no, NO!"
The car gave a thunderous backfire once...then came to a shuddering, complete halt.
Fred leaned his forehead against the steering wheel as he brought his truck to a stop.
"Maybe they can start it up again," Doug said hopefully.
The sickly revving from the Yugo's engine quickly dashed that hope to pieces.
"We are so screwed," Fred moaned.
"Oh, for---" Doug broke off as the Yugo doors opened.
A wizened old man with a bristly beard and an elderly woman timidly stepped out of the car. Raising their arms to shield their eyes from the truck's headlights, the elderly couple made their way to the driver's door. The old man blinked rapidly and turned his watery brown eyes to Fred. "Je mi luto," the man began, his voice wavery from trepidation and age.
"What the hell did he just say," Fred demanded to Doug.
"Ah," the old man beamed, relaxing slightly. "English you. Of car, say I sorry---"
"Sorry? SORRY?!" Fred reached for the holster bolted to the side of his seat and whipped out a Glock. "I'll show you sorry," he snarled.
Wide-eyed, the woman pressed her fists to her mouth, rooted to the spot and mute with terror.
The old man didn't suffer from such paralysis. Pale as paper, he turned to flee.
Fred mercilessly shot the old man twice in the back, felling him instantly.
Blood splattered the old woman, cranking her terror higher, freeing her voice. Shrill with hysterics, she threw herself to the ground and covered her head with her arms, shrieking.
"SHUT UP," Fred roared, aiming his Glock at her.
"Hey, whoa there," Doug said, placing a restraining hand on his friend.
"Why?"
"For the love of---We're behind schedule, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
"SO if we stuff the staff with more hands, that means we'll get BACK on schedule. Maybe even ahead."
"---OH! I get it!" He scowled. "But what if she doesn't cook?"
Doug leaned forward. "Hey, you," he yelled at the hysterical woman. "Do you cook?"
She kept screaming.
"Useless," Fred snarled, taking aim.
Doug whacked him on the back of the head.
"HEY!"
"Just cover me," Doug told him, pulling out a pair of cuffs and his own Glock. He hopped out of the truck's cab and made his way to where the woman was curled up, still screaming. He prodded her sharply in the ribs with his boot. "Shut up!"
Gasping wildly, she looked up, her green eyes wide and glowing with stark terror.
"Do you cook," he asked her curtly. "What's the word," he muttered to himself. He pointed a finger at her. "Kucharka?"
She just looked at him, shaking, her wrinkled face slack with grief, horror, and no comprehension.
"Hey! I asked you a question!" He grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her to his eye level, and shook her hard. "KUCHARKA?"
"ANO," she wept, terrified, nodding violently in affirmation, feebly trying to push away from him. "Ja kucharka! JA KUCHARKA!"
He shoved her back to the ground. "Well, kucharka good, you live," he said, giving her a thumbs up. Then he turned his thumb down. "Kucharka bad...." He drew a finger across his throat then pointed to her husband. "Understand?"
Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked fearfully at the bloody body of her husband, crumpled at the side of the road. Covering her mouth with trembling hands, she finally nodded.
"There we go," Doug said, satisfied. He cuffed the cowering woman and dragged her to her feet, pushing her a short distance down the road and giving her a helpful boost into the back of the refrigerated truck. "Don't break anything back there or..." He waggled his pistol meaningfully at her. He shut the doors before she could respond, walked back to the cab, and eagerly climbed back in, greeted by the sounds of 'Cold Slither's Greatest Hits CD.'
"Where's the woman," Fred asked loudly, carefully backing the truck up.
"Got her secured in the back," he yelled back.
"In the cold storage? Are you nuts? She'll crack all the eggs!"
"Don't worry," Doug loudly reassured him. "I got across if she broke anything back there, I'd shoot her!"
"I didn't get a real good look at her," Fred yelled as he shifted gears. "Don't suppose she was---"
"Tight ass, but uglier than wilted spinach and twice as wrinkled," Doug yelled back.
"Damn!" Fred slammed down on the accelerator and the truck lurched forward, spraying the body of the old man with gravel and dirt. The truck rammed into the little Yugo hard, sending it careening off the road and tumbling down the side of the mountain. "What the hell happened to fame, fortune, and fast women?"
"What can I say? The life of a Kitchen-Viper ain't for the weak of heart!"
.
.
.
The silver-haired old man lay crumpled just off the side of the road, his right eye closed, his left slightly bulging from its socket, staring sightlessly at the darkened mountain road. Red liquid spread across his drab homespun from the holes in his back.
From out of no where, strong opposing winds buffeted the road, kicking up clouds of swirling dust, coating the thick red liquid and still body with a fine layer of grit.
The winds died to nothing.
Everything was still once more.
With the suddenness of a blink, two hovercars decloaked on the road. Low Light tumbled out, rifle raised and ready for trouble, scanning the night. "Clear," he barked. He glanced over the edge and shook his head. "That Yugo's scrap, sir."
Duke quickly jumped out of the other hovercar, Beretta in hand. "Hell, it was scrap to begin with," Duke muttered. He looked over his shoulder into the hovercar's interior. "Don't feel too badly, Captain. Father Drozd did say we could use it as we needed to. We can recompensate him with something better later."
Captain America stepped from the second hovercar and paused, staring at the body sprawled on the road. "Father Drozd's car is the least of my worries," he said in a tight voice. He jerked his chin towards the body and took a deep breath. "Is he...?"
Carefully avoiding the oozing blood, the Second felt for a pulse along the old man's neck. Duke pursed his lips and sighed. "Yep," he said, pushing the eye back into its socket. "Too bad."
The sightless eye suddenly blinked furiously. "'Too bad,'" the old man snarled. "'TOO BAD?!'" He pushed himself onto his hands and knees. "Friggin'DAMMITsonofabitch," he swore with a gasp. He glowered at Duke. "I survive this crackpot plan and all ya can say is 'Too bad?'"
"Whine, whine, whine," Duke muttered. "I swear, not even the greenest Greenshirt whines this much!" With one hand, he ripped open the back of the man's homespun shirt to reveal the bulletproof vest beneath, liberally draped with blood packets.
"HEY!"
The Second gave the kevlar-covered armored-plates a sharp rap with his knuckles and a blood packet burst open. Ignoring the old man's protests of pain, Duke jerked him back into an upright position, unbuckled the vest, peeled it off, and exposed the scarred, bruised, but otherwise undamaged flesh beneath. "There, Colonel. You're fine. Happy?"
Fury glared at the Second, flipped him off, then jammed the finger up his own left eye socket. "Next time ya want someone shot," he growled, scooping the glass eye out with a sickening pop, "ya can catch the damn bullet yerself!" He glared at the Captain. "Couldn't give us a faster heads up about the change in plans, could ya?"
"Sorry, Nick." Steve held out a hand to the SHIELD Director and helped him up. "I know you two weren't expecting to meet up with any Cobras until further up the road, but an opportunity presented itself." He nodded to the truck's tire tracks. "I wanted to take advantage of it. Was Jaye prepared when you moved?"
"Only just," Fury rasped, tossing his glass eye from hand to hand. "Didn't get a chance ta test the transmitter in her false teeth, though."
"No time like the present." Steve tapped out a secured frequency on his wrist-com. "Eagle to Jay Bird."
Silence.
"C'mon, Jaye," Steve muttered. "Eagle to Jay Bird."
Still nothing.
"Broaden the transmission band," Fury suggested.
Duke shook his head. "Don't do it, sir."
"Listen, dog-boy," Fury snarled.
"This isn't about you, Colonel," Duke snapped. "Captain, I know what Cobra's capable of. If we broaden the band any more, we run the risk of tipping our hand."
Steve's brows furrowed. "She's not answering."
Duke held up both hands. "Please, sir, just keep trying. Jaye's breaking in new equipment she's never handled before. It's just taking her a little while to activate it, that's all."
The Captain gave the Second a thoughtful look. Slowly, he nodded. "Eagle to Jay Bird," he repeated for the third time.
"...jay bird here..."
Duke let out a puff of relief, echoed by the rest of the men.
"Jaye, how are you doing," Steve asked softly.
"Dandy," she whispered. "Found a way to beat the summer heat. They threw me into the back of a refrigerated truck."
"Refrigeration transport? Fer food?" Fury grinned. "Is that why they were askin' if she could cook?"
Duke scowled. "Damn! That would have been a good way for us all to sneak in. It's still not too late, Captain. We can catch up with them---"
Steve covered his wrist-com with his hand. "And do what," he demanded. "We still don't know where they're holding Hawk in that place."
"Knock some Vipers out," Duke shrugged. "Steal their uniforms, make them talk and---"
"And when they miss their check-in times, the whole damned fort'll be on red alert, and then we can all watch Abernathy's brains fry," Fury finished matter-of-factly. "Cripes, YER the best Joe has ta offer?"
Duke knotted his fists. "Fury. Back. Off."
"Gentlemen," Steve hissed sharply. "If it's not too much to ask, can you two drop the pissing contest and act like professionals? We have a job to do now---"
"...captain...," a muffled voice squeezed past the hand covering Steve's wrist-com. "...hello? Little bird here risking life and limb for intel? This is all a little pointless if no one's listening."
Wincing, Steve whipped his hand off the wrist-com. "Sorry, Jay Bird," he said contritely, glaring at Duke and Fury. "I was taking care of some static. You were saying?"
"I was saying, these boys aren't hauling ordinary chow. We're talking Grade A caviar, truffles, fois-gras, escargo, culinary gold dust, 1782 champagne---hell, there's even eight braces of peacocks with their feathers intact!"
"Yummy," Fury muttered, rolling his glass eye. "Sophisticated grub."
"He's there already," Duke said, clenching his fists.
"Looks that way," Jaye whispered.
"Who," Steve asked.
The hooded blue eyes took on a hardened glint. "Cobra Commander. He's there."
"But," Jaye interjected, "even with the Commander's penchant for gluttony, there's enough epicurean treats here to feed a platoon. I doubt this is all for just fang-face's midnight snacking."
Duke inhaled sharply. "Cobra High Command?"
Fury became very still.
"My thoughts exactly," Jaye affirmed. "And if the volume of the supplies here add up, I'm willing to bet most of them will be there. Maybe all of them."
"That changes things," Fury murmured thoughtfully.
"Doesn't change a damn thing," Duke growled.
"Nick," Steve said in an ominous, warning tone.
"Think about it, boys and girl," Fury said harshly. "We got the core members of Cobra in one location. All it'd take is a quick tactical strike- --"
"I thought you wanted the files on the Jugglers," Duke shot out. His shadowed eyes narrowed at the SHIELD Director. "That IS why you're really here, isn't it? Hard to find out where Hawk stashed them if we're scrapping his gray matter off of rubble."
Fury's lips curled back. "And if Abernathy's brain's already fried? What then? The Jugglers AND Cobra going scott free while we fish a vegetable out? Or do we take out Cobra while we got the chance?"
Steve recoiled violently. "I can't believe what you're suggesting," he hissed.
"Believe it," Fury rasped. "Yeah, more than anythin' I want the names of the Jugglers. But if we can't have that...well, personally, I know I can settle fer some charbroiled snake---"
"And put Hawk out of his misery, is that it," Jaye demanded, her low voice skirling with anger.
"Yer the one who said ya'd rather shoot him yerself and give him a clean death," Fury reminded her.
Duke's eyes flashed ice. "Fury---"
"Don't get all affronted with me," Fury snapped. "I ain't spoutin' anythin' ya didn't think of already! Even you. Hell, 'specially you!" He marched up to the Second and went nose to nose with him. "Go on, Mr. Black Ops," he dared. "Tell me it didn't occur ta ya!"
"It occurred to me," Duke said evenly with blunt frankness. "But I discarded it as soon as it popped into my head. Do you know why?"
"Enlighten me," Fury sneered.
"BECAUSE HAWK'S A JOE," Duke thundered, shoving Fury sharply in the sternum.
Fury stumbled back with a grunt, dropping his glass eye. Steve immediately leapt between them, arms outstretched, keeping them apart. "Settle down," the Captain snapped.
But Duke wasn't done yet. "Joes don't abandon our own for any reason," he hissed, his eyes blind to everything but Fury. "Minutes, months, years, IT DOESN'T MATTER! We get our own BACK by any means possible!" His eyes narrowed. "No matter what condition they're in."
"And if Jaye finds he's already cold meat," Fury demanded. "What then?"
Duke closed his eyes, his features twisted in pain. "Then someone will need to bring him home," he whispered. He turned away, his voice nearly inaudible. "Like Hawk did for Falcon."
Fury looked puzzled, but before he could say anything, Steve cut him off.
"Drive it in the hanger, Nick," Steve said softly. "Your recommendation has been heard and turned down." Tempered steel entered his voice. "Either we all go home, or nobody goes home." He raised his voice. "Does everyone understand?"
"Yo Joe," Jaye said softly, but emphatically.
"Yo Joe," Low Light echoed from the darkness, his voice clear on the wind.
Duke turned to face them, his eyes flashing defiantly in the starlight. "Yo Joe."
Fury grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him to one side. He covered Steve's wrist-com and whispered harshly, "Ya can't run an army like this, Cap."
"Watch me."
"Logistically---"
"This isn't about logistics," Steve interrupted. "This is about the team's ethos."
"Ethos be hanged," Fury growled. "The mission---"
"Is to get Hawk out," Steve said firmly.
"GI Joe's MAIN mission---"
"We. Get. Hawk. Out," Steve grounded out. "Above all else, we get him out. If there's an opportunity for us to strike at Cobra without endangering that mission objective, we'll take it, but we get Hawk out. Period."
"Yer lookin' at this through blinders, Cap," Fury spat. "Ya gotta see the big picture---"
"Well, that's the difference between scavengers and hunters, Nick," Steve snapped. "Scavengers like Ravens can afford to look at the big picture. Everything and anything's an opportunity for them. Hunters like Eagles don't have that luxury. They get one shot per hunt. It's either the snake on the ground or the bird in flight, Eagles have to focus on one thing or the whole hunt's a wash."
"That's a simplistic---"
"It's the way I was made, Nick," Steve interrupted. "Why else do you think I have blinders?"
Fury winced. "I HATE it when ya say stuff like that," he muttered.
"But it's true," Steve pressed. "I told you once, Nick. I AM military technology. And I was made with blinders because sometimes that's the best way to get a job done. Now we can stand here and argue with Jaye listening in, or we can get ready to kick some of that snake-scale butt you were so anxious to skin."
Steve moved to turn away but Fury kept a firm grip over his wrist-com.
"'The tree of liberty must be watered periodically with the blood of tyrants and patriots alike,'" Fury whispered, staring intently at Steve.
"But not tonight," Steve told him. His eyes narrowed. "I asked you once if I could trust you at my troops back," Steve hissed. "You told me I could." He fixed his friend with a steel blue gaze. "Has that changed too?"
Fury's lips thinned. "No," his gravelly voice said, a touch...apprehensive? "That hasn't changed."
"That doesn't sound too convincing, Nick."
"Ain't me ya gotta worry about," Fury said.
Steve tensed. "What do you mean---"
"We gonna rescue the kid or not," Fury demanded loudly, dropping his hand from Steve's wrist-com. He bent down and scooped up his glass eye. "Time's awastin.'"
Steve felt the eyes and ears of the Joes on him.
He could have cheerfully strangled Fury for sidestepping his questions that way.
But he was right. Time was wasting.
"Mount up," he ordered the men. "Jay Bird, keep your head down and your ears open. We'll be in position soon."
"Godspeed," she whispered. "Jay Bird out."
Steve looked out at the star strewn night. "Almost there, kid," he murmured. "Just hang in there..."
