Chapter Three

Lock and Load

1.

Roadblock unhooked the bolts locking the hangar doors. Now free-swinging, the metallic blockades could be bumped open by the cart the big Joe was pushing. More accurately, they would be bonked by the big green crate being carried by the cart.

"Hey, big guy!" The Joe machine gunner cancelled his attempt to push the oversized cart. Without having to turn his head, Roadblock knew Shipwreck was running towards him—the voice was very distinct.

"How can I help you, sailor man?"

Despite his naval seaman history, the G.I. Joe SEAL hated being called a sailor anymore, but ignored the poke this time. "We're shoving off in twenty minutes. You want some help loading this gun of yours?"

Roadblock whipped his burning eyes towards the nuisance. "I'll get my ass-kickin' baby in there on-time as long as I don't get any more distractions. Now don't you do no worryin' about it, okay?" He topped his grilling statement with a super-huge smile.

For all the physical skills Shipwreck had acquired over the years, he was still as rude and naïve as the day he joined the team. Taking a step back, the SEAL raised his hands. "Okay, okay. Chill out. I'm just making sure everyone is ready to go."

After giving a crooked frown, Roadblock gave the cart a hefty push through the doors. Shipwreck was surprised how much the buff Joe's muscles flexed. Maybe that gun really was heavy?

Unfortunately, as soon as the crate smacked the doors, it stopped hard—something was on the other side!

"Dammit! Who did that?" yelled a familiar Cajun voice.

"Uh-oh." Gulped Shipwreck.

Nearly ripping the right door off of its hinges, Gung-Ho stood in the hangar holding his forehead, looking ready to spew fire.

"I'm sorry, Gung-Ho," apologized Roadblock, "I had no idea you were on the other side."

"Ain't ya got ears?" growled the Joe Marine. "Why were ya blastin' through them doors anyhow?"

"Look, I said I'm sorry."

"Fine, now we're even for me not telling ya about the briefin'." Gung-Ho started grumbling curses and stormed off down the hallway, rubbing his forehead.

Before anything could be asked, Roadblock snarled "Shut up, Shipwreck" and slowly pushed his cart into the hangar.

2.

It was something Wild Weasel didn't like to do. It always made him feel weak and desperate, but in this situation he kind of was. He didn't want any support from those moronic Dreadnoks—if he had to, he would fly alone. Still, if any kind of G.I. Joe aircraft attacked him, the only allies he could trust would be his missiles, which wasn't bad, but not if he was being tailed. As much as he hated to admit it, the Joes were good at getting behind him. He needed a helping hand.

Once he reached room FB-13, the Cobra Ace Pilot swallowed his pride just a little bit deeper and knocked on the door. A few moments later, a six-foot tall blond man opened it.

"Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Mission for you."

"I'll be right out, sir."

Twenty minutes later Cobra's top Rattler pilot and Cobra's top Firebat pilot were walking together into that damn decrepit hangar. The sight was a little more approvable this time. Although they were a bit torn-up, tarps were now covering the intakes to Wild Weasel's Rattler. They weren't new, but they were better than nothing.

The icing on the cake was seeing the Dreadnok Thrasher desperately working on his Thunder Machine, trying to figure out what made his truck's engine suddenly explode. Cobra's Ace Pilot's smile engulfed his face. He was truly thankful for that helmet.

He pointed to his jet. "I'm sure it is obvious that this is my Rattler."

"Yes, sir." Replied the Firebat pilot.

"Let's go up and remove those tarps."

Working together, the pilot duo took the tarps off in less than five minutes. As the last intake cover dropped to the floor, Zartan entered the hangar. The Dreadnok leader called up to the pilots. "Wild Weasel! What are you doing with a Firebat pilot?"

The Cobra pilot hadn't anticipated a problem with his choice. He was used to free decisions with any Cobra mission. After all, he was Commander of the Cobra Air Force. Ah, but this was a Dreadnok-controlled debacle. This could get messy.

"I require an experienced pilot to man the turret cannon."

Zartan's chest glowed red. "Why was I not consulted about this?"

Wild Weasel paused and blinked. This guy really needs to relax. "It is an Air Force priority. Those matters are mine to decide!"

The Dreadnok's torso flashed bright red. "Get down here! Both of you!"

As the two pilots climbed down their ladders, Cobra's Ace Pilot started mentally practicing his verbal defense against Zartan. Once they had reached him, however, the flashing red Dreadnok grabbed them by their throats and slammed them against the hangar wall. Wild Weasel could see Thrasher watching the action with a smile on his face that resembled the one the pilot enjoyed when he entered the hanger.

"You never have 'matters to decide' on missions that are under my control." With that, Zartan let go of the Firebat pilot, pulled out a pistol and shot the blond man in the lower torso. Wild Weasel watched in shock as his favorite apprentice slid down the wall and hunched over on the floor.

Zartan's eyes turned back to his now-motionless prisoner. "Don't worry, I didn't shoot anything important, but I can guarantee that he won't be helping you anytime soon. Now, if you need a gunner, then my sister Zarana will be manning your turret, and if you don't like that, I'll simply shoot you and stick Zandar in your Rattler's cockpit. He's been itching to try one of them for a long time. How does all of that sound?"

Wild Weasel wanted to cuss so bad that it hurt. Once again, he was getting screwed over by the Dreadnoks. But he couldn't lose his plane to them, especially to the family of this bastard Zartan.

"F—Fine…You win."

"I always win." Sneered the Dreadnok leader. Wild Weasel didn't believe that for a second.

3.

The walk up the on-ramp was a steep one, and Torpedo often required a little help with all his gear. But this time, he wasn't carrying a couple heavy scuba tanks and bags of weapons. Now it was just a small supply of recon equipment and light weapons. He couldn't carry very much; he had to travel at least ten miles across the ocean on the recon sled. It was ironic that he had been focusing on more land-battle training; the time spent in the pool was what won him the mission.

As the Joe SEAL placed his equipment underneath the hatch onto the recon sled, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Yeah?" No response.

"Yeah, what?" he asked again, louder.

"What do you want?" he growled as he turned around. As he saw Snake-Eyes standing behind him, his cheeks burned blood red. "Oh, man, Snake-Eyes, I'm sorry, man. I'm just under a lot of stress, you know—."

G.I. Joe's top commando raised his hand to calm Torpedo down. He was probably used to occurrences involving frustration towards his inability to speak Snake-Eyes' other hand offered Torpedo a very impressive-looking multi-edged knife. Not too big, but obviously very sharp and full of features.

"You, you're giving me a new knife?" The Joe SEAL was in awe. Snake-Eyes nodded. Torpedo humbly accepted it, and quickly took his current knife from its lower-leg sheath. He was almost embarrassed by its simplicity. It was a good knife, but this gift was a great knife! Amazingly, the commando-knife blade fit perfectly into Torpedo's leg sheath. How did Snake-Eyes know?

Looking up to thank him, Torpedo only caught a glimpse of the Joe ninja's head disappearing down the WHALE's on-ramp. The SEAL smiled and swore to thank him later.

Other members of the Joe team began filing into the hovercraft's hold, making it a very tight fit. When the ramp swung up and closed, it got worse.

Cutter's voice called down over the intercom, "Okay, Joes, we're heading off for the transport. It's gonna be a tight squeeze until we get on board. Enjoy the sweat!"

With that, the Waterborne Hover Assault Landing: Experimental's massive fans kicked into gear, lifting the hovercraft off of the ground. Torpedo could barely hear the hangar doors open over all the noise, but he could feel the soft movement as the Joe's big floating tank drifted out across the concrete.

Resting on the end of a runway, with its own turbofan engines spinning, sat a massive C-130 cargo plane. The WHALE floated up a special 30-yard long low-angle on-ramp that led into the back of the plane. Once the hovercraft had had made its way inside, it turned off its fans and was latched down. The on-ramp was pulled free and the C-130's hatch was shut. The massive flying fortress began a thunderous charge down the runway, gaining power and speed until it surrendered to the sky, tilting back and magically lifting itself into the air.

Next stop: the Gulf of Mexico.

4.

Skellar hooked the last ammo belt into the port rear .30-caliber machine gun. These guns always felt a bit pointless to him, since he never drove slow enough for them to ever be aimed accurately, but he supposed that if the need ever arose, it would be nice to have them.

Now, the big 55mm side cannons; he kept those babies spotless because with Niles Skellar at the controls, they never stopped firing. All missile launchers received frequent check-ups as well. He had his priorities straight.

Unfortunately, fate always brought new challenges.

Four Dreadnoks came stomping down the docks carrying massive amounts of weapons and supplies. They began throwing the bags and boxes on board the Moray, and even before Skellar could open his mouth, they had filled every inch of space on the boat.

"Hey! What do you think you are doing?" panicked the Cobra Lamprey.

"We've got stuff we gotta bring." Said the blond one with the pony tail.

"You said it, Buzzer." Said the short-haired one carrying a bayonet. "But this boat ain't got enough room! Where we gonna put it all?"

"I know, Ripper!" said the shaggy one with a blowtorch. "Let's make some more room!"

Cheering their agreement with Torch, the Dreadnoks powered up their weapons, but Skellar pulled out his spear rifle. "Don't you even touch my Moray, you pigs!"

Monkeywrench freaked out the most. "Blimey! You hear that? He called us pigs!"

"That's it, then, his boat is scrap!" screamed Buzzer as he revved up his chainsaw.

"Stop it, you fools!" ordered a voice from farther up the docks. The Dreadnoks quickly obeyed it, obviously having heard those words plenty of times. Looking up the dock, Skellar saw a skinny, pink-haired woman standing at the base of the dock, carrying an enormous assault rifle and a small bag.

"But, but Zarana," cried Ripper, "He called us pigs!"

"You are pigs!" The skinny, scruffy, yet fairly attractive woman's eyes turned to the Moray pilot, and she aimed her rifle his direction. "But this boat-boy better have a damn-good reason for insultin' me boys!"

Niles was actually a bit nervous. Zarana was Zartan's sister, and if he angered her, his life was on the line—she wasn't as stupid as these other doofuses.

"Miss Zarana, let me explain: these idiots are over-stocking ma hydrofoil. To make matters worse, they were about ta chop up ma craft to make more room!" Skellar could feel the sweat slide down his forehead.

Zartan's sister frowned and turned around. "You pigs! This isn't a cargo ship! You can only take a few rations and a couple of weapons. That's all it has room for. Get rid of this stuff, now!" With that, Zarana tossed the Lamprey her gear and stormed off towards the hangar. The Dreadnoks began unloading the Moray, amidst a massive amount of cursing and glaring at Skellar.

When the unload and light reload was finished, Monkeywrench grabbed Niles' arm before he could reach the pilot's seat. "Don't think you beat us today, mate, 'cause when this mission is over, we're gonna rip this hunk-a-junk to pieces, I promise ya that." The Dreadnok patted the Lamprey's shoulder and climbed out of the boat. "G'day."

As Zartan's henchman giggled their way down the dock, Skellar could only think about one thing: Could pigs swim?