Chapter Two
Plans of Attack
1.
Roadblock couldn't wipe the grin off of his face. He had done a good thing tonight. Cover Girl's birthday dinner was a blast. The girls had all gone off to Lady Jaye's quarters to open presents and gossip, and now the big guy was left to clean up…but that was okay. The gourmet chef knew the ins-and-outs of cooking. He may have reached the "un-fun" stage, but it was still worth it—the thank you kisses from his lady-friends more than paid for it all.
As he picked up the skillet, there was a knock at the door. "Man, they always know the exact time..." Roadblock set down the dirty metal dish, wiped his hands on a rag and walked to the door.
As soon as the big chef pulled the door open, he was jumped on by just about the prettiest G.I. Joe member in service, who slapped a big wet smooch right onto his lips. It didn't take long for the suffocating cook to realize that it was the wine directing the smooching, but it still took a lot of will to push her off.
"Cover Girl! Whatchyou doin' back here?" he managed to gasp out.
Roadblock's little birthday-girl teammate looked up at him with a dopey smile. "I just wanted to thank you, R-B. Nobody has ever made me such a nice dinner before. That means a lot to me."
"Anytime, baby, anytime." The sound of Lady Jaye's voice calling out Cover Girl's name started ringing down the hall. "I think someone is looking for you."
The pretty Joe smiled. "Yup. They all think I went to the bathroom. Hick. But I really wanted to come thank you."
"All right, then. You're welcome. Have a good sleep. I think you're gonna need it." The birthday girl started stumbling down the hall.
Turning back she blew a kiss. "Bye, bye, ya big stud!"
Roadblock closed the door and picked the skillet back up. "Man alive, what a night. I can't take any more surprises." Even though I sure would like to…
There were three more knocks at the door.
"Uh-oh." The Joe gunner nervously walked towards the door again, checking his breath. "Look, baby, I really don't think we should be kissin' anymore tonight, okay?"
Once the door was pulled open, however, all of the chef's mild anticipation was sucked from his expressions.
Gung-Ho stood in the hallway with his rock-hard face acting as antimatter to any of Roadblock's hopes. He smelled like soap—apparently he'd just taken a shower—but his breath reeked of gumbo. That's all the Cajun would ever eat. The Joe chef tried to cook it for the Louisiana native once, and got it thrown back in his face. Although the two men weren't enemies, Gung-Ho had a chip on his shoulder whenever Roadblock cooked food for other Joes.
Like tonight.
"Smells like chicken in here." Said the Marine with disapproval.
"I was making my special Chicken Cordon Bleu for Cover Girl." Stated the gourmet with pride. "It's her birthday."
Gung-Ho grunted. "I don't eat blue food."
G.I. Joe's heavy gunner didn't even blink. "How can I help you, Gung-Ho?"
"I came to tell you that there's a mission briefing in fifteen minutes. You need to be there."
Roadblock's eyes nearly popped out. "Fifteen minutes? Why didn't you tell me this about two hours ago?"
Gung-Ho lifted his hat and scratched his head. "Cause you were partyin' with them ladies, wastin' yer time. I didn't want to ruin things."
"Man, that's just cold!" The "Kiss the Chef-NOW!" apron flew onto the countertop again as the two big soldiers started their long trek through the halls of the PIT.
2.
Drip.
Water.
Drip.
Water…falling.
Drip.
Water falling…on his hand.
Drip.
Must…move…hand.
"Aarrgh!"
The pain in Skellar's right wrist fired through his body, but as he jerked his hand in reflex, a new pain in his elbow lit up. Before that pain was fully registered, a new pain in his shoulder reported itself. It didn't take long for the awakening Moray pilot to realize that he was dangling by his arms. The pain was unbearable. His entire body screamed in pain, but his arms dominated the calls for help.
Wherever he was, it was dark, wet, and of course, cold. As Skellar slowly moved his upraised arms, he could hear clinking of metal. Chains. He was actually shackled against a wall by chains; and his toes could barely reach the floor. Was this Cobra Island or had he gone back in time a thousand years to medieval Spain?
Before he could think any more, a dim light turned on inside his cell. Skellar's wide-open irises squeezed his eyelids shut and jerked his head to his side. After a few moments, he could finally verify that was hung up in a metallic prison built to hold ten people by chains. At least it wasn't a brick torture cell.
The handle of the door began to creak, and the battered Lamprey squirmed, but soon regretted his mistake; his movement left him with a painful expression when his cowled visitor entered the room. Skellar wanted to say something, but his level of suffering wouldn't allow it.
His visitor's leather boots floated with disturbing silence across the metallic floor. Raising his hands, the intruder pulled off a black glove and reached for his prisoner's chin. As he grabbed it, the hydrofoil pilot groaned in agony, realizing his jaw housed a mild fracture. His cowled torturer's mouth grew into a grin—a grin anyone with knowledge of the Cobra Terrorist Organization would know.
"Z—Zartan."
"Lamprey Eel First Class Niles Skellar. I'm so happy to see you still alive." Zartan's voice rang in Skellar's ears with that trademark echo of his, the aspect that sounded like the Dreadnok leader was speaking through a tin cup. It was obviously done with sound equipment, but no one knew where he carried it. Most likely within the camouflage vest he wore, the one that could amazingly alter his appearance, but would also flash red whenever Zartan's emotions became too enraged. "You're very lucky that I had ordered Monkeywrench not to kill you, even if you fought back. I can never be too trusting of my Dreadnoks, they do have nasty tempers. As do you, I've heard." Zartan patted the Lamprey on the cheek and walked about the prison with his arms outstretched.
"How do you like your cell? I got it set up just for you. The Prison Commander wanted to throw you in with a bunch of other critically wounded prisoners," Zartan raised his finger and spun around, "But I wanted you to have a little peace and comfort." The Dreadnok's grin spread again.
Skellar's mind was running in a hundred directions, but he hurt too much to think clearly. "W—why?"
"Because I need a Moray pilot."
Was Zartan insane? After what Monkeywrench did to him, why in the world would Niles Skellar even consider helping those bastard Dreadnoks? Despite the pain it caused him, Skeller couldn't resist laughing.
Zartan's smile disappeared, and he charged for the pilot and grabbed his ribs, transforming Skellar's laugh into screaming pain. "Listen to me, and listen to me well, Lamprey. You gained a lot of my respect by standing up to my idiot henchman, and it's obvious why you did it: you're passionate about your boat. So, my stubborn fish-man, here are the facts: we are taking your hydrofoil on our mission—with or without you. You can hang here and die, knowing that my stupid henchmen will probably massacre your precious boat much the same way they did to you, or you can come with me, drive the Dreadnoks to victory and save your beautiful Moray, and quite possibly your life."
Skellar would later ponder about whether pain overrode his sense of better judgment, but his arms just couldn't take any more agony. And the thought of his Moray being driven by the Dreadnoks—that was absolutely unbearable.
Making damn sure to not look back at Zartan in the eyes, Niles gave his reply.
"I'm…in."
Zartan's grin grew back. "There's a good fish-boy."
3.
Torpedo was a bit surprised to see Roadblock come into the Mission Briefing with Gung-Ho two minutes late. His normally smiling face carried a frown now, and he smelled like chicken; and was that…perfume?
The Briefing's members were impressive, and the Joe SEAL couldn't stop twiddling his thumbs. He was sitting between the heavy-talker Shipwreck and the panting Roadblock, both Joes with long mission histories. Continuing around the ovular table sat Duke, Cutter and Ace—all three of them were Joe leaders. Their records were phenomenal as well. The table's chairs also supported Gung-ho, Leatherneck and Doc. The latter two Joes had records that weren't too different from Torpedo's, but Gung-Ho was a legend. This was a group of heroes, and most of them knew it. Torpedo was actually thankful to not see Snake-Eyes or Flint. There was already enough perfection in the room.
"Good evening, men." Started Duke as he stood up. "We've got a pretty simple mission on our hands, but one that I can't afford to let slip by." A computer monitor built into the wall behind Duke revealed itself by way of a sliding panel. Once the screen was visible, a map of the Gulf of Mexico lit up, centered around Cobra Island. What sparked Torpedo's interest was the small red dot brightly highlighted between the west coast of Cuba and the Cobra homeland.
As he walked away from his chair, Duke lengthened a short pointing stick. Not surprisingly, he pointed it at the red dot. "Our center of interest is here." The Joes' First Sergeant pressed a button on the map touchscreen. The map zoomed in on the red dot, revealing it to be a small, apple-shaped island. Plant-life dominated the lonely spot of land, but it did have a beach on its northeastern side, a couple of large buildings, a harbor and even a large helipad.
"This is Sammeston Island. It is a personal getaway for Fredrick Sammeston, an oil tycoon from Texas." Duke turned to look at the Joes in the room. "Or rather, it was his personal getaway. This satellite photo is three months old." Another button was clicked. "This is a picture taken this morning."
Roadblock and Shipwreck whistled when the pretty image of Sammeston Island transformed into a blown over wasteland. The buildings were heavily damaged, and the harbor no longer existed. At least a third of the plant life was broken or on the ground. It didn't take long for Torpedo to realize why.
"You're looking at the results of Hurricane Gilford from four days ago. The storm hit this little rock in the water full force. Lucky for us, it dropped to Tropical Storm status before it hit the coast of Alabama."
"What does this have to do with us?" asked Shipwreck at his usual inappropriate time. Duke's response sounded like he was expecting it, though.
"It has a lot to die with us, since Fred Sammeston is one of Cobra's biggest supporters." Duke paused to let that fact sink in. A lot of Joes were shocked, including Torpedo. Why would a rich American citizen want to help power hungry terrorists?
Gung-Ho was the next to speak. "So we're supposed to go help this scum-ball?"
The First Sergeant sat back down. "Yes and no. He left his island two day before the storm hit. But his little resort has been a safe-house for Cobra agents escaping from the United States for years. If it has been severely damaged…"
Shipwreck butted in, "Then Cobra's gonna go nuts wanting to rebuild their little fort!"
"Exactly."
"Well, let's send the fleet in and blockade the place!"
"Sit down, Shipwreck!" barked Cutter. Shipwreck seemed a little angry, but followed his superior's orders.
"That's exactly what we can't do," explained Duke, "I want to send in just a small recon force to examine the island. If Sammeston is there, we can just tell him we were checking up on his condition. But our real purpose is to see if Cobra is in the area, helping the traitorous tycoon rebuild his home."
"What if we do find Cobra?" asked Leatherneck, with a hopeful look in his eye.
"That's where I come in." Ace leaned in. "If Cobra responds, radio for back-up, and I'll coordinate the reinforcements for you."
"Aren't you in a Skystriker, Ace?" asked Shipwreck.
"The FLAGG is unavailable for this mission, so I'm going to work with Deep-Six on the Jane to cover you guys. You won't be helpless.
Duke pointed back to the map. "Deep-Six and Ace will be waiting thirty miles out on the G.I. Jane, ready to bring in any emergency air or water support.
Roadblock asked the question that was on Torpedo's mind as well. "What if this Sammeston guy won't let us come ashore?"
Duke and Cutter looked at Torpedo, flushing the color from the SEAL's face. "That's where you come in, Torpedo." Said Duke. "Before the WHALE reaches the island, you will be launched on the recon sled towards the southern point of Sammeston Island. Once there, your job is to perform a lightning fast search for any sign of Cobra."
"A little data collection and sabotage couldn't hurt, either." Added Cutter.
So this is what it was all about. This is why Cutter found him in the pool and encouraged him to practice his land-fighting skills: a commando mission. Torpedo had done them before joining the G.I. Joe team, but frankly, Snake-Eyes kind of had domination over all of them around here. This was serious stuff.
"Are you okay, Torpedo?" inquired Duke.
"Huh?" The Joe SEAL snapped back into reality. "Oh, yes, yes sir. Completely."
"Because if there is a problem, I can get.--."
"No! Uh…I mean, no sir, that won't be necessary."
"Okay, then. And Torpedo. We don't do the 'Sir' thing on the G.I. Joe team."
"Oh, uh.. right. Sorry, sir. Uh, I mean, Duke."
The Joe's First Sergeant shook his head with a smile and began issuing call times. Torpedo looked over to Cutter and saw his old friend wink at him, then turn away.
This was gonna be for more than just pride.
4.
Wild Weasel entered the Conference Room still clenching his fists. It had taken him four hours to clean his Rattler's engines, and another three to find tarps to cover the intakes. Naturally they were muddy, ripped-up tarps that had to be repaired.
Cobra's Ace Pilot never got a chance to clean himself up. The Floor Commander apparently "forgot" to deliver the message about an important meeting until five minutes ago.
It would take three plastic surgeries to fix his nose.
The group of Cobra agents surrounding the Conference Table was unimpressive, if not a bit crude. Zartan sat at the head, with a few of his Dreadnoks spread around the sides. Wild Weasel couldn't remember their names—there was really no need for a Cobra pilot to know these morons. The only other Cobra officer that sat at the table was a pretty beat-up looking hydrofoil pilot. What were they called?
"So glad you could join us, Wild Weasel." Snarled Zartan with his usual sarcasm. "If you could please take your seat."
As the Cobra pilot sat down, a few of the Dreadnoks looked at him, started bumping shoulders and giggled like hyenas. Wild Weasel simply smiled behind his helmet's visor. After they saw what he did to their Thunder Machine, they wouldn't be so giddy.
Zartan started tapping on the table. "All right, all right, calm down everybody, we have work to do." After a button was pressed, the giant Cobra flag covering the back wall rolled up and revealed a monitor displaying a map of a small, somewhat fruit-shaped island. "This is Cobra Relay Outpost Seven, about 180-miles east of Cobra Island. For years it has been a safe-house for Cobra agents heading to-and-from the Gulf Coast of the United States."
"Looks like a dump now." Commented the bearded Dreadnok wearing sunglasses.
"Shut-up, Torch!" snapped Zarana from across the table.
Taking a deep breath, the Dreadnok Leader continued, "It is in such sad shape because of the recent hurricane that blew threw the Gulf." Wild Weasel could see where this was going. "It is going to be our job to head out to the relay station and perform repairs on it. First and foremost we need to re-establish the defense systems before the U.S. government decides to set foot on the island."
"Who owns the island?" The question came from behind Wild Weasel, and caused him to jump. He didn't know anyone was there. After turning around he saw…Zandar, Zartan's stealthy brother, hiding in the shadows.
"A U.S. oil tycoon named Fredrick Sammeston. Cobra has convinced the world that he is a traitor. The truth is we have been threatening to kill his entire family unless he granted us use of his little island." Zartan smiled as his henchman giggled.
"So what is our plan of attack?" asked his sister, uh…Zarana.
"Destro wants to keep our presence there pretty low-key, and not attract a lot of attention. An advance air team will survey the island, while a team traveling by sea will arrive shortly thereafter." Zartan braced himself for something. "We are only to take in one Moray and one Rattler."
Outbursts of "What the?" and "No freaking' way!" filled the room. Even Zandar and Zarana were in shock. Cobra's Ace Pilot stood up and started to leave.
Zartan managed to quiet down his minions enough to bellow at Wild Weasel. "Where do you think you're going, Weasel?"
Cobra's Ace Pilot felt the staring needles pierce him as he slowly turned back around. Despite the swarm of brute strength in the room, there was only one man he feared, but respect for that man was not in Wild Weasel's heart.
"This mission is a joke, and I will not be part of it. You expect me to escort this family of freaks to an island that the United States government is aching to get its hands on? It's suicide! Why else do you think Destro is dumping the mission on the Dreadnoks? Because he hates you guys! Everybody knows it!"
Zartan's chest plate started to glow red. "Sit down, pilot."
"I'm going up to Destro and beg for his mercy, rather than be sent to my death with you!"
The Dreadnok leader's torso flashed bright red. "Sit down!"
A hand grabbed Wild Weasel from behind and placed a heavy blade against his neck. Zandar. Damn that invisible scum-ball.
Zartan smiled. "I suggest you re-think your decision, for if you don't join us on our little quest, you won't even get out of this room alive, much less up to dear Destro to beg for a better job." Now what was he supposed to do? Cobra's Ace Pilot wasn't ready to die yet, at least not until he had a little vengeance against these stupid Dreadnoks. Besides, allegiance with Destro costs money. Oh well.
Wild Weasel shook off Zandar's grip and flopped back down onto the chair. Granted, the Dreadnoks were chuckling at his loss, but the hydrofoil pilot seemed interested in the Cobra Ace Pilot's struggle, and stared silently at him.
Why would he care?