Prologue
Author's Note: While watching both classic GI Joe cartoons and many 1990s action films I wondered what it would be like to blend the universes together if GI Joe formed sometime in the mid-1990s. I also imagined a scenario in which only the first 7 minutes of the movie the Rock were canon (when General Hummel raided the VX gas site). I had him be asked to retire in the year 1992 and begin a small Private Military Company called Semper Fidelis Solutions...which caught the interests of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Somewhere in Croatia
Peter Dowling, Croatian Army
21 June 1992
'55 meters. 75 meters. 175 meters.' As he walked quietly through the underbrush, the AKM-47 rifle in his hands, Peter Dowling repeated the three figures in his head. Crouched behind a large rock he stopped and quietly scanned the terrain around him.
'No patrols…good. Best crack on with it.' Dowling thought to himself. He knew one thing at the moment: when his silent, creeping walk ended, three men were going to die. And he was going to kill them.
Taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly and quietly. The better to put oxygen into his blood. The better to slow his heart rate. Better to make three clean and accurate shots. Three clean kills.
'Nearly there.' He thought as he approached a gnarled tree, half burned and half blown apart by some quantity of high explosive. Near it was a stand of bushes burned near to a crisp.
He dropped to one knee, nearest the tree, setting the AKM-47 down to one side and unslinging the M76 sniper rifle from across his back. Wrapping the canvas sling around his left arm, he raised the rifle, pressing the buttstock against his right shoulder.
As he peered through the rifle's telescopic sight, he repeated three figures in his head again. '55 meters. 75 meters. 175 meters.'
Three sentry posts manned by men from the Serb Volunteer Guard. Three blokes were going to die, and he was going to kill them. First, the crosshairs sighted the bloke half standing and half leaning forward against a large rock to his front, aiming his AKM-47 out towards the horizon. '55 meters.'
Shifting the rifle to the right, now the crosshairs centered on the second sentry, stacking fallen bricks in a semicircle in front of him. 'Good squaddie are we, improving your position…75 meters.'
Shifting the rifle further to the right, aiming at the third sentry, this man standing up, behind the twisted wreckage of a car burned to cinders and turned on its side. The bloke with the balaclava had his AKM-47 slung across his back, hands in his pocket, and smoking a cigarette. 'Not so disciplined are we? 175 meters.'
Scanning between the three men through the scope with the knowledge that all three of these men were going to die. And that he was going to kill them. The only decision remained, which of these three to drop first? 'Bloke at 55 meters is closest, but he's scanning the wrong way. Bloke at 175 meters is furthest off, but he's not anywhere near as ready as the other two. Right, the bloke at 75 meters seems the keenest of the lot…sort him out, then the bloke at 55 meters…then take the further one…'
Slowly he turned the safety catch on the M76 from safe to fire. Then he centered his crosshairs on the man at 75 meters, focusing on the point just below the man's right ear. Dowling slowly exhaled as he squeezed the trigger…
With a crack, the rifle bucked in his hands and the Serb paramilitary pitched forward onto the stacked bricks. Shifting the rifle to his left he centered the crosshairs on the shocked man at 55 meters, seeing him start to turn towards him. With another press of the trigger, the bloke at 55 meters went down.
The sentry at 175 meters dropped his cigarette and fumbled for his rifle as he ducked behind the car. Only a portion of his head was visible from Dowling's position. 'Right, you wanker! Easy to be brave when you're gunning down innocent people…how do you like the taste of your own medicine.'
The man popped from behind the vehicle aiming his now unslung AKM and Dowling cracked off the third shot.
'Three rounds. Three sentries.' Dowling thought as he watched the Croats burst from concealed hideaways in a nearby gully. He put the M76 on safe before slinging it across his back and picking up the AKM-47 to join the attack…
Message 2-2-2-3
Authentication Yankee Zulu
ACME Field Office
Helena, Montana
30 April 1993, 9:45 A.M.
"Hey, Ashley, Inspector Strickland wants to see you."
Eight words from Ms. Peggy Dietz, from the front office, shook her out of the report from Zurich in the folder with the semicircular coffee stain from her mug—the one about a list of especially virulent pathogens stolen from a lab.
The slim blonde woman stepped one leg and the other out from beneath her desk before she stood up and set the report atop it before pushing in her wheeled office chair.
With a quizzical look, Ashley Killian composed herself as she walked out of her section of the office and towards the long hallway. The sound of her pumps on the linoleum floor sounded as she walked towards the conference room. Peggy knocked and opened the door, leaning her head inside.
"Inspector Strickland, Mrs. Killian is here for you."
"Come in," Strickland's New York accent blared.
Ashley let out a slow exhale before stepping into the room. Sitting at the table was the bald headed Inspector Stanford S. Strickland, talking to Agent Mitchell Cabot. It never ceased to amuse her how the tall, slim Carrothead Cabot towered over Strickland. Heck, he even towered over her by about half a foot. Strickland's broad shoulders also served to highlight Cabot's gangly height.
A taller fellow with close-cropped silver hair was wearing a black suit with a white collared shirt sat facing Strickland and Cabot, his back to her. 'Every inch of this guy screams military officer.'
The man turned and faced her and she noticed the lapel pin sporting the eagle, globe and anchor of the United States Marine Corps. 'Surprise, I was right.'
"Mr. Tom Baxter, this is Mrs. Ashley Killian, our resident expert on epidemiology. Tom is the Chief Operating Officer of Semper Fidelis Solutions ." Strickland stood up as well.
Tom Baxter held out his hand and Ashley shook it, her eyes flickering down as she noticed the file held in the man's left hand, spying her name on the label.
"Just a review of your credentials, Mrs. Killian, nothing more." Tom released his grip on her hand.
"And the reason why I called this meeting," Strickland added as he gestured for Ashley to take a seat at the table.
She complied, sitting next to Cabot, to his left and facing Strickland and Baxter. "What's this about, sir?" Ashley asked.
"The Zurich laboratory break-in. I believe you're familiar with it," Strickland began.
"As far as the list of missing samples is concerned, yes," Ashley replied, pulse whipsawing as she ran through the list of the items in that coffee-stained file on her desk.
Strickland almost theatrically slid another folder her way. Ashley noticed a standard non-disclosure statement stapled to the front. Reaching into the pocket of her white labcoat she pulled out a pen, clicked it then signed the form.
She opened the file, perusing the contents. The police report described little about the break-in, what little forensics were there, and the like.
"In your professional opinion, what is the potential harm these agents can cause?" Strickland asked just as Ashley's eyes scanned the paper from left to right going down the list.
"Botulinum toxin is capable of being weaponized, during the Gulf War it was believed Sadam Hussein had several Scuds loaded with it. Yersinia Pestis is the base bacteria for the plague pandemics of the 14th Century…" Ashley began, listing out the potential for the top five agents in the list.
She heard the just barely audible harumph from Strickland and nodded. "Basically any of these things on the list represent the potential to infect a large population, especially in urban environments."
"Such as Genovia, who's chief industry is tourism?" Tom spoke.
"Yes," Ashley replied.
"Which is why the Genovia Field Office put out an agency-wide request for a forensic epidemiologist. With your expertise and recent Gulf War experience, I recommended you." Strickland interjected.
Ashley's heart jumped in her chest. She blinked her eyes and replied, "I see, sir."
"Agent Cabot will accompany you," Strickland continued.
Ashley glanced over her right shoulder, noticing the boyish grin of excitement on Cabot's features. 'It's like dangling a red flag in front of a bull…'
"You'll also have the assistance of my firm. We have a small operation in Genovia training the country's National Police counterterrorism unit." Tom added.
Ashley sighed through her nose before asking, "When do we leave?"
"As soon as possible. My firm has even gone so far as to pay for your travel. First class." Baxter replied.
Cabot's grin widened.
Operational Report 1-1-2-2
Hendrix, Crisp, Dowling
Somewhere in Genovia
30 April 1993, 0445
John C. Hendrix scanned the Genovian countryside through a set of binoculars, zeroing in on a two story bed and breakfast nestled at the edge of a valley. The former Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance captain set the binoculars aside as he stepped inside the commandeered barn serving as the incident command post.
The far wall of the barn was festooned with maps, aerial and ground level photographs, whiteboards, and post-it notes. A young woman wearing the uniform of the Genovian National Police listened intently to a report from one of the observer teams scanning the bed and breakfast.
"Acknowledged, Tango Two standing outside. Red-haired woman, with a blue headscarf. Weapon Skorpion machine pistol." The female officer said, passing a handwritten note to another officer.
'They're getting the concept of using the snipers as observers down.' Hendrix noted as he walked over to where the Incident Response Commander stood at a table, smoking a Gauloise cigarette.
The commander asked, "Status on the assault team?"
"Moving into position on foot, sir, using the forestry break at the back of the bed and breakfast as cover. Advisor 3 is with them." A young man with a legal pad and a radio headset replied.
'Alright, rookie, I'll definitely say patrolling in through the night was a good call, so far. ' Hendrix thought to himself. The new hire from the United Kingdom was showing some promise.
He walked closer to a speaker patched into the snipers' radio network as another report came up. "Tango Three, bald man with FN-FAL rifle stepped outside, calling Tango Two back in."
"Acknowledged, Tango Three calling Tango Two back in," the female officer replied.
Hendrix knew that both Tangos Two and Three had the crosshairs of two sniper rifles aimed at their heads and a .338 Lapua round with their names on them, ready to be dropped the second that the command was given.
'Crisp is with them. I know he'd rather be with the assault team, but this is rookie's chance to prove his idea works.' Hendrix's mouth watered as he saw his counterpart puffing on the Gauloise cigarette while he took in the same report.
"Tangos Two and Three moving back into the house." Another sniper, Sierra Two, reported.
Booker T. Crisp scanned the bed and breakfast through the binoculars, crouched behind a bush. To his right were the snipers with callsigns Sierra One and Sierra Two.
"Tangos Two and Three moving back into the house."
The former Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance Gunnery Sergeant nodded with approval at the way the snipers instantly zeroed in on the two Tangos. The call to drop them could come at any second.
The two snipers wore camouflage ghillie suits to help them blend into the surrounding foliage. Their L96A1 sniper rifles were ready, .338 Lapua rounds up the spout, crosshairs zeroed in on heads.
Through his earpiece, he could hear the radio chatter from the other sniper teams surrounding the building from all sides. They had gotten in first after the initial report of hostages taken by armed terrorists.
Crisp changed the channel on his radio to the assault team's net.
"In position." A voice quietly whispered.
Then the incident commander's voice echoed in every radio headset. "I have control. Stand-by. Stand by…go!"
Peter Dowling followed the eight-man assault team as they slowly crept past the tree line, hidden by the shadows of the trees. The sliver of moonlight had made the nighttime hike through that forestry break an interesting endeavor.
Thankfully the sniper team observing the back entrance had already scouted a good route.
The adrenaline pumped through his veins as his hand went for the holstered pistol at his hip. He checked himself. ' You're an advisor now, mate, not in their bloody unit. Trust this lot…they've done damn good these past five months.'
At the edge of the woods waited said sniper team callsigns Sierra Three and Four, armed with G3 battle rifles. At 50 meters they didn't need telescopic sights. And hours before they'd marked the path with some green chemical lights.
Then the voice of the Genovian incident commander echoed in his earpiece. "I have control. Stand-by. Stand by…go!"
Quietly the team crept across the carefully maintained backyard, weapons at the ready.
The point man went to the door as four of his colleagues stood in a line on the other side of the door jamb. With a pair of lock picks, he picked the lock and slowly pushed the door open. The first commando through the door fired seven rapid shots from his MP5.
"One Tango down. Going noisy." The first commando reported.
The commandos pushed past the door, Dowling directly behind the element. Another of the Tangos appeared around a corner. An alert Genovian commando fired a short burst from his MP5.
Reports. Gunfire. Screams of frightened hostages. Commands.
"Move towards the sound of my voice."
More shooting. Short bursts and rapid single shots.
"Room 1 cleared!"
A flashbang grenade thrown up the stairs. A nonlethal grenade designed to disorient anyone happening to look at its bright flash.
"Moving upstairs."
Heavy pounding footsteps. Seven rapid-fired single shots.
"Tango 2 Down!"
A single louder shot from one of the G3s.
"Tango 4 down!"
"Sierra 3, Sierra 4, stand by to receive hostages." The assault team leader got onto the sniper's radio net.
"Don't forget to search each of them. Watch for sleepers." The incident commander's voice echoed.
Dowling watched a line of hostages running out of the back door, only to see Sierra 3 and 4 directing them towards the greenhouse in the back, and having them sit down facing away from the bed and breakfast.
"Tango Two wounded."
"Last hostage secured."
Then a pause.
"Endex, Endex, Endex…" three words repeated over every channel.
Nearby commandos pulled off gloves, pulled out water bottles, and unloaded weapons. These young and fit policemen and women basked in the triumph of a job well done.
The hostages and tangos all stood up, dusting bits of grass and leaves from their clothing. Dowling stepped into the bed and breakfast, seeing the first paper target on a wooden platform shot full of seven holes in the head and torso.
His walk through the place revealed quality shooting, very little damage to the property. All hostages were rescued and safe. All four Tangos neutralized.. 'So many of the locals volunteered as roleplayers, be they hostages or even tangos before we went live and switched the tangos for paper targets.' Dowling thought to himself as he inspected one such target with a cluster of seven rounds on the torso and upward towards the head.
He turned a corner in time to see Crisp, smiling broadly as he talked to the redhead who had played the female Tango during the exercise. The well-muscled African American winked at him just as the redhead slipped a room key into his back pocket.
'Good for you, mate. You've been chatting that redhead up since we bloody started here. What was her name again, ah, Tiffany, the Yank from the local ACME Field Office.' Dowling thought to himself.
"Would you like some tea, sir?" A young man carrying a tray said, jarring Dowling out of his observation.
"Yes please," Dowling said, taking one and handing a good-sized tip to the youth.
He sipped his cup of tea as he walked about the place, taking pictures with a small point and shoot camera he'd bought just before going on this mission.
He headed out into the front of the bed and breakfast, sipping at the plastic tea cup's contents, waiting with the assault team and Sierra One and Two for transport back to base.
Presently it arrived. A convoy of SUVs and vans for the Genovian counterterrorist team parked just as another SUV parked as Hendrix stepped out.
"Mate, I believe Crisp is staying behind with the civilian roleplayers here at the bed and breakfast." Dowling grinned toothily.
"Let me guess, debriefing them?" Hendrix replied.
"He's giving one a rather personal debriefing tonight," Dowling deadpanned.
"The redhead from ACME playing one of the tangos?" Hendrix cocked an eyebrow. Dowling nodded in reply, still grinning, and Hendrix let out a low whistle. "The infamous lady's man strikes again."
"I hope she doesn't pump him for too much information." Dowling quipped as he stepped into the SUV.
"Genovian National Police Crisis Response Team live fire training exercise successfully executed." - Report from John C. Hendrix, Semper Fidelis Solutions.
Message 2-3-2-3
Authentication Yankee X-Ray
ACME Field Office
Helena, Montana
30 April 1993, 11:07 AM
"Flying to Europe, first class to boot sounds like the makings of a good case to me," Cabot began.
"You forgot about the list of stolen biological agents that quickly?" Ashley groaned as she followed Cabot down the hallway towards the breakroom.
"Don't worry, you're in good hands, Ashley." Cabot reached over for two coffee cups. He handed one to Ashley who declined.
" Agent I Live For Danger himself is keeping me safe?" Ashley raised an eyebrow.
"Hey, you know me…eight separate commendations in the line of duty." Cabot grinned toothily.
"Also with six cautions of reckless conduct. We might as well have Missus Cabot with us to keep you safe." Ashley groaned.
"Anyway, let's stop by admin and get our tickets and travel arrangements. Gotta go home to pack." Cabot poured his coffee before replacing the pot and walking out of the breakroom.
"You are way too chipper right now, you know that," Ashley mused as she followed the long-legged Cabot down the hall.
"Hey, it's a case. And one I can really sink my teeth into," Cabot replied.
"Will you slow down," Ashley shot back.
"Hey, Mitch Cabot only has two speeds, all stop and full speed ahead." Cabot flashed a toothy grin.
"You know only crazy people refer to themselves in the third person, right?" Ashley countered as they walked into the admin section to discuss travel arrangements.
Tom Baxter was waiting for them, standing near the front desk. "My firm took the liberty of taking care of your travel arrangements, so we have tickets for you arranged."
'These guys work fast. Somehow I'm not surprised, Semper Fidelis Solutions CEO is a retired Marine General after all.' Ashley thought.
Baxter handed both of them their tickets before walking out of the room. Ashley looked at her ticket. They were on the 6:00 A.M. flight out of Helena Regional Airport. 'It's a good thing I'm a morning person.'
Ashley put hers into her lab coat's pocket before saying, "Gotta get home and pack."
"Same," Cabot replied.
Ashley walked back into the hallway to the women's locker room. After changing out of her clothes to an outfit more suitable for riding her bicycle, she stepped out with her green JanSport backpack over one shoulder and helmet under one arm.
As she walked into the parking lot she saw Cabot waiting for her, unlocking his own bike. "See you bright and early?"
Ashley nodded as she went over to unlock her mountain bike off of the rack before slipping her arm through the other shoulder strap of her backpack. "You're rearing to go."
"Yeah! A high profile case starting with a first-class flight to Europe…" Cabot began.
"In pursuit of stolen biological samples of deadly pathogens? Not exactly my idea of a European vacation." Ashley swung one leg over the top of the bike and began pedaling.
Cabot matched pace and asked, "Even if Genovia is known for tourism?"
"I'm mapping out just how fast a case of Yersinia Pestis could spread for one. Or nearly any other disease on that list," Ashley countered as they turned out of the parking lot.
"Ash, you worry too much…" Cabot quipped as he pumped his pedals.
"Mitch you don't worry enough !" Ashley shouted after him as she caught up, rolling her eyes at the 'Ash' nickname.
"Hey, nothing risked, nothing gained," Cabot replied as he leaned forward in his bike while they went down a hill.
Ashley squeezed the handbrakes on her bicycle at the hilltop and then let go, leaning forward, hands on the brakes as she followed Cabot down the hill before turning to the left, heading towards her property.
Behind her, she heard the sound of honking horns as Cabot narrowly avoided being hit by a pickup truck when he crossed the road.
'And I'm in hishands in Genovia?' Ashley thought to herself as she shifted gears, pedaling uphill, getting closer to her property.
"Rogue Force Reconnaissance Marines Raid Chemical Warfare Storage Site" - Los Angeles Times Headline, 1992.
Operational Report 1-2-2-2
Frank Hummel
Semper Fidelis Solutions
Fort Lauderdale, FL
30 April 1993, 5:08 P.M.
When the phone rang at his desk, Frank Hummel took a sip from the glass of scotch in his right hand before setting it down and picking it up.
"Hi, Tom, how's Montana?" Hummel leaned back in the high-backed leather office chair.
"How'd you know that was me, Frank?" A surprised Tom replied.
"Tom, we've served together since Tet back in '68, of course I recognize you taking a breath before you speak on a telephone." Hummel took another sip of the scotch.
"Well, ACME's sending its team, a field agent, and a forensic epidemiologist on our dime to Genovia. I've called Hendrix's team to make a link up with them when they arrive." Tom reported.
"Alright, pass the word to Hendrix to give us a sitrep when they make contact," Hummel replied.
"Will do, Frank," Tom said before hanging up.
There was a knock at the door and Hummel called out, "Come in!"
The door opened to reveal a tall, athletic fellow in his middle years.
"Clay, it's good to see you again."
"Likewise, Frank." Clayton Abernathy crossed the room with long strides as Hummel poured another glass of scotch.
"I hope you don't mind if I started without you." Hummel sipped his own scotch after he handed the newly charged glass to Clay.
"Not at all," Clay replied, before taking one of the chairs in front of Frank's desk. Hummel watched his former protégé eying the office, with its relatively Spartan yet clean lines.
"I have to say, Frank, that was one Hell of a statement you made last year…and one Hell of a soft landing." Clay took a sip of his drink.
Hummel nodded with a nasal sigh. The death of Corporal Joseph Meyer due to a mishandled VX gas container marked 84 Force Reconnaissance Marines killed under his various commands since the Vietnam War.
"It has to be done. And had to be made." Hummel replied.
"I don't disagree, but you know they spun my unit up to go after you. You're lucky Delta got stood down and the folks in DC decided to actually talk to you."
"My men would've given you Army boys a Hell of a fight." Hummel countered.
"And neither side would've won. You're lucky Washington decided to bury it, provided every Marine that followed you on that raid left the service or retired." Clay countered.
"I still have the nondisclosure agreement. I even copied and framed it…redacting the juicer classified parts of course." Hummel pointed over one shoulder at the framed document.
"Marines…" Clay chuckled.
"I did look over your proposal, Clay. And it's solid. However, the penny-pinching bureaucrats on the Hill won't go for it…even though your assessments on Cobra are solid." Hummel took a sip of his scotch.
"Politics," Clay grumbled as he took a sip of his own scotch.
"They think the existing security apparatus plus a few ex-officio measures are sufficient." Hummel took another sip.
"Let me guess, the Agency approached you when you started this firm earlier in the year?" Clay took another sip.
Hummel nodded and gave a wry grin. "And we've been busy…most of my Marines jumped at the chance to work with me again. And we've even got a new hire or two from across the Pond. One of whom is working in Genovia."
Clay squinted and the left side of his mouth quirked in a slight grin. "Frank, I might have an idea how I can help with the Cobra situation."
"Oh? Let's finish these drinks and have dinner, then we can discuss it back here in my office. Stone crabs are in season." Hummel replied.
"I'll buy," Clay replied.
"Dinner's on me tonight, Clay." Hummel finished his drink and closed the decanter of scotch.
Clay finished his drink and the two men left the office…
TBC