Author's Note: A convoy, a long-awaited briefing, and Annie learns a few things about who needs smacking.

This is a transition chapter, and since not a lot happens on a convoy heading places—especially not from a quartermaster's point of view—it's a little disorganized, and focuses mainly on character development. Next one will bring us back into the plot, I promise.

Rating: T for language.

Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

Chapter 11: Fresh Plate

An hour before dawn, they rolled out. Sixty-seven full-time Joes, the number that had been on base at the time of the attack. Forty-one greenshirts. Thirty members of the support corps, the ones that hadn't been hired locally and hadn't failed their security checks. Too many vehicles to count, barely scratching the surface of the massive equipment transfer that would take place on the sly over the next few weeks. More than a ton of assorted foodstuffs, three tons of spare parts for ground vehicles, and four hundred sandwiches that the quartermasters had stayed up most of the night assembling for the trip.

Annie was curled up in her corner of troop transport number seven, a notepad balanced on her knees, scribbling vaguely and trying to keep awake. Somebody had to stay alert in the back of the truck, and she was the most junior of the quartermasters; all the others had dropped off right away. She chewed her lip thoughtfully as she surveyed the scene, noting that S.O.S.'s head had sagged onto Eighty-Six's shoulder. Both were snoring. And me without a camcorder, she thought, blinking and rubbing her eyes.

Well, thank God for coffee, that was all she was going to say. Most of her things were packed and neatly stowed with the required military precision, but along with the notepad, she had brought along a battered old thermos filled with triple-reheated French Roast. By the time she was a third of the way through, her brain was beginning to get back on track, albeit reluctantly.

The sun was starting to rise, and Annie couldn't resist peering out the back of the truck and watching it. All she knew about the location of the Pit—the old Pit, she should say—was that it was out in the desert somewhere, and she had spent so much of her first week worrying and hurrying that she had never really gotten the opportunity to just look. Now she watched, breathing in the cool damp morning air, as the sun rose over the wasteland. Streaks of orange and purple and shocking pink glowed on the horizon, lending an odd primrose tint to the normally gray expanse and washing the whole scene in soft warmth. Later, during a normal Pit day, there would be dry heat and sweat and some pretty harsh words for a PT instructor who somehow managed to construct the only mudpits within two hundred miles and make the experience of getting wet in a desert miserable. For now, though, the morning dew was still on the ground and the world seemed a calmer and more serene kind of place.

Serene, that is, once you managed to ignore the fact that the troop transport directly behind you was being driven hell-for-leather by Cpl. Cover Girl, who appeared to have a grudge against the speed limit. That was hard to ignore.

Their truck gave a lurch as it went over a bump in the road, and the sleeping quartermasters were jerked awake. S.O.S. let out an undignified yelp as he was thrown out of place, narrowly avoiding landing with his face in Eighty-Six's lap. Chopper, the burly ex-biker and sandwich specialist, snorted out a laugh that quickly turned into a hacking cough. "It's too fucking early," he mumbled, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You mean too late," corrected Shingle with a sigh. He leaned back against the inside wall of the truck and closed his eyes, apparently trying to will the surrounding distractions away so that he could get back to sleep. It wasn't working, and when Annie offered him her thermos of coffee, he took it with a long-suffering look.

Eighty-Six, exhibiting the same charming lack of regard for boundaries that had made her such a fountain of useful gossip on Annie's very first day, had gone back to sleep with S.O.S.'s leg as her own personal pillow. The thin, twitchy young quartermaster was apparently torn between pushing her away and enjoying the fact that a rather attractive woman had chosen to take a nap on him, but his own exhaustion quickly won over both and he promptly dozed off with his head slumped over Eighty-Six's. Chopper, unwilling to accept the fact that the day had begun, finished hacking up a lung and then rolled off the bench, curling himself up between two sizable boxes of supplies and covering his head with his jacket. Whiskey Down, the lucky bastard, was riding with the officers.

Only Murphy seemed to be fully awake and alert. Of all the quartermasters assigned to this bizarre posting, Annie knew him the least. He was an old-timer, but not exactly old: lean and hard, whipcord thin with wind-tanned skin and red-blond hair now fading and streaked with gray, he looked hungry and usually was. He was a meat and starch man, hence his name (diner lingo for potato, although for all Annie knew it might have actually been his name) and he accidentally fulfilled the Irish stereotype by leavening his working day with illicit whiskey. Annie had seen the bottle occasionally during her first couple of days, tucked into a cabinet near Murphy's workstation; he didn't like anybody going near it, but he never got drunk or even tipsy on duty, so nobody gave him too much grief about it.

"You look like hell," he observed briefly, but without malice. Annie sighed and rearranged herself on her seat, cradling notebook and thermos to her chest.

"I feel like it," she responded. "All the surprises have just worn me out. Unless there's another robot attack, I'm done."

"I know the feeling." Murphy turned his head, shooting a glance at the lightening desert sky outside.

Annie drew her knees up. She recognized that look—almost world-weary. "How long have you been with this unit?" she said softly.

"Since it was formed. I was one of the first 92Gs they had—back when it was just me, Whiskey Down, and Chuck."

"Chuck?"

"Short for Ground Chuck. He picked it himself."

"That doesn't sound like a good name to have."

"You're telling me. He got shot in the first invasion of Staten Island."

Annie blinked. "Invasion? Staten Island?"

"Long story. Long, long, long story." Murphy slipped a hip flask out of his pocket and took a sip. "General Hawk will probably cover that when you guys get your orientation speech. But let me just say, this is not the first emergency evacuation I've been through. We Pitfall about every two years here."

"That . . ." Annie frowned a little, blinking rapidly through her exhaustion and growing headache. "That's information I could've used before I joined up."

He eyed her. "You signed the waivers. You got the information package. Got nobody to blame now."

"Hey, I try to look on the bright side. In a bureaucracy, there's always someone to blame." The last two words were half-stifled by a massive yawn, making Murphy grin a little.

"So what do you think of this crew? Has your first injury yet?" he asked. Annie, still working through the tail-end of her yawn, couldn't quite reply right away. Instead, she stretched out and took a deep breath before responding—good thing, too, because it gave her time to consider her answer.

"That isn't expected, is it?" she said finally. "I mean, we're just the 92Gs. The fact that any of us saw combat at all was a fluke."

Murphy stretched. "You're naïve, 'Stack," he said, without malice. "Remember? Pitfall every two years. And that doesn't count the field missions."

"All right, now you're just yanking my chain," Annie said grumpily. "Do I look like a combat engineer to you? We might get posted in dangerous spots, but we're here to run the mess, not flush out insurgents or defuse IEDs."

"This is G.I. Joe. Everyone is on the front lines." Murphy stretched himself, his neck and joints cracking audibly. His voice took on a theatrically solemn and sonorous quality. "Hear me, Short Stack. It is my prediction that, within a year's time, you will be called to serve your country in the field. And yea, someone close to you will betray you, and sergeant major Beach Head will fall in battle. There will be rains of frogs and a plague of boiled cattle."

"I never thought I'd say this, but I don't think you've had enough to drink." Annie shook her head at the thin quartermaster. He opened his mouth to respond, but his words were swallowed up by a massive yawn of his own. "Go back to sleep, Murphy."

He snorted softly. "No chance of that. Too awake now. You get some sleep, 'Stack; I'll take over for you."

For a moment, Annie hesitated. But one part of the soldiers' creed was not to relinquish your post unless relieved by a designated authority, and Murphy—a first sergeant—had rank and experience on her. Relieved, she relented and curled up, pillowing her head on her folded arms. The jolting truck soon lulled her into a fitful sleep.

The convoy rolled to a temporary halt around midday, making its stop in what appeared to be an old campground off the main highway. There was, to Annie's absolute lack of surprise, a tanker truck of fuel already waiting for them; after the robots and purple outfits, the kind of pull needed to order a fuel tanker out in the middle of nowhere was practically nothing.

She and the other quartermasters quickly fell in, distributing water bottles and the premade sandwiches among the other troops. Though she didn't dare ask directly, the Joes' behavior seemed to confirm at least part of what Murphy had said: though bored and annoyed, none of them seemed surprised by the fact that they'd been uprooted in just over forty-eight hours, or that none of them knew where they were going. (Glancing around, Annie could surmise exactly one thing about their geographical location: it was deserty.)

In fact, the major issue seemed to be boredom. A few of the Joes started a pickup football game in the middle of the otherwise deserted campground, chucking an empty water bottle back and forth until one side accused the other of cheating. Rule #37b-"Presence of a ninja on the field of play is prohibited at all times"-was cited, a few punches were thrown, and Law stuck his head out of his own truck and shouted that the next person to try anything would be on Order poop patrol for a week. That seemed to be a threat with teeth in it, and the ruckus quieted down somewhat. Annie was watching a spirited debate between Storm Shadow and the referee, Airtight ("You do realize that under American law, this is discrimination, right?"), when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

The camaraderie among members of the support divisions was well-documented, but some amount of empathy was also extended to Inkblot, General Hawk's long-suffering aide. According to Eighty-Six, Inkblot had been one of the first occupants of the original Pit, and served as a combination executive secretary and inconspicuous shadow in most matters. He apparently found a kind of Zen calm in paperwork, considering a universe that had its Form 9207s filed was a universe in order. For this reason, Inkblot had a special loathing reserved for Sgt. Major Beach Head, who apparently "forgot" his paperwork a lot. Annie could sympathize.

"Short Stack, the general wants to see you," Inkblot said. Annie felt a surge of worry, and for a moment, a small smile appeared on the aide's face. "You and eight other greenshirts. You're overdue for a briefing."

"Holy cow, the the mythical briefing," Annie said, stretching a little. "When is that?"

"Five minutes. The general's truck."

That got her attention, and Annie did the proverbial deer-in-headlights freeze. "Seriously?" she said. "Do I have to—I mean, do I need to bring anything? I was cited in the report about the captive, but I thought the paperwork was on file-"

"The paperwork is on file." Inkblot apparently took pity on the alarmed quartermaster; it was no secret that, in a normal unit, a PFC 92G wouldn't be seeing the general much unless she was handing him a tray, and she could guess that her skittishness was obvious. "The only thing the general is expecting is for people to sit down, shut up, and listen."

Annie offered him a nervous grin. "Okay, I can do that. Thanks."

As Inkblot darted off down the line of vehicles, Annie sat down on the edge of the truck's open back and shook her head. In addition to putting her in the position of almost killing a man (and doing a piss-poor job of it, too. "'I am become death, devourer of worlds,' I don't quite think") and acquainting her with a subspecies of human being that enjoyed crawling around in airshafts, this posting was making her paranoid. General Hawk, at least, she trusted—who wouldn't? He was the one all the Joes took orders from, and if her disastrous KP experience had taught her anything, it was that Joes didn't like being told what to do.

It occurred to her only as she was clambering down from the truck and dusting off her BDUs that she had mentally referred to Gen. Clayton Abernathy by his code name. That worried her, though for the life of her she couldn't understand why.

Under most circumstances, one would expect a general in the United States military to travel with a bit of style; rank had its privileges, and Annie had cooked for enough officer's club banquets to know that some sorts were inclined to indulge in those privileges. Looking at General Hawk now, though, Annie had the distinct impression that his sheer amount of testosterone would dissolve luxury on contact.

She had seen him in full uniform during her first day in the old Pit, but that was about it, and now he looked like . . . well, like a fighting man. He was even wearing a battered old leather jacket and visible dog tags, something Annie had never seen on any general inside the United States. More than that, though, Hawk radiated toughness: he was tense and extremely alert, but the tension and nervous energy was all coiled inside him, and he never seemed to twitch or raise his voice. He definitely looked like someone a ninja would take orders from.

Lacking an office, and requiring someplace private for the briefing, Inkblot ushered the nine gathered greenshirts into one of the eighteen-wheelers that was being used to transport the more top-secret vehicles. As Annie's eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the general seated in the driver's seat of what looked like a modified Jeep . . . if, by modified, you mean "with added laser cannons." He looked up as the group filed in and stood at attention.

"At ease," he said, and waved his hand to the crates of motor parts stacked and lashed in place nearby. "Find a place to sit. We'll be moving out soon, but you can go back to your assigned trucks when we make our next stop."

Possibly out of herd instinct, Annie gravitated towards the greenshirts she knew best. She'd met all of them at one point or another by now, usually while giving them bacon, but Boom Town and Rabbi Lee had been in the same hall with her during the invasion. Once you've peeled gas masks off dead bodies and robots, you feel a certain kind of bond with somebody. The sniper and the explosives man made room for her on a crate labeled "Brindley Turbines & Manifolds (Asst)" and Annie got as comfortable as she could. Murphy's pessimistic talk about front lines had left a bad taste in her mouth, and she couldn't help wondering just what had been kept back from them that was about to be revealed.

General Hawk surveyed the group. He looked tired, Annie thought, and the half-lit interior of the truck threw deep shadows into the hollows of his cheeks and eyes. He surveyed the nine of them alertly, though, and Annie got the uncomfortable feeling that she was being X-rayed.

"Boom Town," he said, and the greenshirt in question jumped. "Rabbi Lee, Gaijin, Dutch Irish, Zipline, Mothra, Night Train, Short Stack, and Kilowatt. Welcome to G.I. Joe."

He shifted out of the seat of the Jeep, instead leaning against the hood and bracing himself as the eighteen-wheeler rumbled to life. "Normally, I prefer to give these kinds of briefings in an office, but as you can tell, these are extenuating circumstances. I hope none of you get carsick." There was a round of nervous laughter from the assembled greenshirts, and Hawk nodded.

"When you first joined this unit, you were told that this was a highly-classified group of specialists assembled for the purpose of dealing with extremely delicate, high-risk operations. This is still true. However, as you likely learned on your first day of hand-to-hand, there are a few details that were left out of that initial briefing." Hawk leaned forward a little, his arms still braced against the hood of the Jeep, his eyes sharp. "You weren't told everything before because we had to be certain that you were the kind of person capable of dealing with the unexpected. G.I. Joe is the best of the best, and that's no joke. Anybody who can't face up to something like Snake-Eyes or Beach Head doesn't belong in this unit."

When he put it like that, the torture the ninjas had put Annie through in the kitchen almost sounded like an accomplishment. Annie thought this for roughly two-tenths of a second before lapsing back into grudging dislike of said ninjas—although she had to admit to the general's point where Beach Head was concerned. She'd occasionally gotten the sneaking feeling that he was a little smarter than he owned up to, and the idea of the sergeant major being part of a test made sense. And surviving Beach Head was definitely an accomplishment.

That raised her spirits a little, despite Murphy's downer attitude. For a moment, she thought about her brother Kevin, who was four years older than her and took a dim view of her career. 'Glorified frycook for a bunch of grunts,' huh, Kevin? I've got a sergeant major I want you to meet . . .

"The circumstances that G.I. Joe faces," General Hawk was saying. Annie quickly dragged her thoughts back to the here and now "-are a lot stranger than most people would think. Some of you have already encountered Cobra's robots: the B.A.T.s, Battle Armored Troopers. Standard equipment in any manned assault. Others might have witnessed one of our prisoners apparently shapeshifting." As the eighteen-wheeler turned slightly, pulling back onto the highway, General Hawk tucked his hands into his pockets and surveyed the group calmly. "Any questions?"

There was another moment of silence. Then Dutch Irish, a thin, nervous-looking type with blazing red hair and freckles, raised his hand.

"Permission to speak, sir?"

"This is an informal briefing, Dutch, you don't need to raise your hand. Permission granted."

Dutch Irish swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing in the hollow of his long throat. "Sir . . . is it always Cobra?"

"A good question. No, it isn't just Cobra." The general nodded again at them. "There are plenty of covert ops, terrorist groups, and international crises that won't involve any kind of snake. Cobra, however, is unique in that it's our problem alone. They have excellent public relations and several semi-legal front operations, and G.I. Joe is the only group really equipped to run them to ground."

Rabbi Lee was next. "What do they want, sir?"

"Power." The general's voice was flat on that word. "By any means necessary. Do any of you remember hearing about the civil war in Frusenhagen?" Nods all around. "Cobra. Diplomatic crisis over the Nazi survivor in Sierra Gordo?" More nods, now slightly apprehensive. "Cobra. Three captured commandos thrown into the Borovian gulag? Everyone remembers that one." Nobody even bothered nodding this time around, and General Hawk smiled just a little wryly. "Getting things from the news only gives you half the story, because we're not the kind of unit that can tell everyone what operations we're running.

"When we've arrived at the new base, you'll all be issued second-level security clearance and given access to the available files on Cobra's structure and leadership. I suggest you study them. Knowing your enemy puts you halfway towards beating them."

Seated on her crate with Boom Town and Rabbi Lee, listening to the nervous questions from the greenshirts and the swift, sure answers from General Hawk, Annie found herself thinking back to her old postings.

Yeah, she remembered those stories. They were usually headed "Crisis in-" and involved a lot of talking points about oil resources, economics, and religious tensions. Supposedly, the reindeer herders of Frusenhagen were rebelling against centuries of oppression, which somehow involved them smashing up a meat market after decades of no real conflict whatsoever. Annie usually scanned those stories and then went back to work. Born at the tail end of the conflict in Korea, a high-school student during the final years of the Vietnam War, she had never known a world where there wasn't one kind of international crisis of one kind or another. It seemed like the planet was always a mess, and there was nothing that could be done about it: it was just the result of five billion people who all hated each other. Ma Gorshin could really lay into a diner patron who was picking a fight, but you couldn't smack sense into an entire country.

Cobra, on the other hand. 'Cobra.' She worked over the word in her mind, testing its sounds and meanings. A smaller group of people. If General Hawk was right, and this whole thing wasn't actually the result of a bunch of paranoid lunatics reinforcing each others' delusions, then a lot of those wars she had read about and heard about could be chalked up to one very determined group of power-hungry nutjobs.

Murphy had had a point. There was a lot more going on in this unit than she still knew, and General Hawk's speech wasn't making her feel any calmer about the robots and the ninjas. But . . . well . . .

Annie didn't know anything about covert ops, or terrorist groups, or international crises. She was there to cook. But she liked the idea of knowing who to smack.