CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

On The Brink

 

 

 

 

 

Destro fought the urge to laugh out loud.  A deep rumbling, evil guffaw, that would have most certainly been out of place on the raging battlefield.  Only the battlefield was not raging anymore.  The HISS squadron had not fired a shot.  It had done nothing but move the formation, and in burning wreckage not five hundred yards away sat GI Joe’s only two armored vehicles.  The only vehicles that had had even the slightest chance of taking on the HISS tanks.  The only vehicles that could have possibly saved the day for the Joe team were crumpled, jagged heaps, orange and yellow flame snaking towards the skies, and gray/black smoke belching from the wrecks.  He didn’t know who had survived the wrecks or how many, but at this point it did not matter…it was just a matter of time from here on until the Vipers got done with the slope, and regrouped to take out any last foot soldiers.  Besides, there were the Stingers and the HISSes…one of each of the vehicles could easily wipe out a small cadre of Joes.  As it was there were a dozen of each, positioned and ready for a final, violent sweep, and the day would be theirs.  The large Scottish man’s eyes danced and gleamed behind his rippling silver mask.  An invisible smirk spread across his face, hidden behind the emotionless metal; the cold, hard steel, which matched his newfound mentality perfectly.  He had forgotten the beauty of well-laid plans coming together; of the thrill of combat and the emphatic pleasure of routing one’s enemy on the battlefield.  They were feelings he welcomed back into his well-muscled body, ones that he had missed over the past years without even realizing it.  He was home now, he knew that.  Cobra was where he belonged, now and forever.  He would not forget that again.

“Baroness!” he barked, his helmet mike carrying the signal down to the cockpit.

“Yes, my dear?” she asked smoothly, her light hinted accent music as always to Destro’s ears.

“Radio the Tele Viper stationed with the various Vipers in the jungle, guarding our perimeter.  I want them to circle back and sweep the valley for survivors…” he glanced over, far to his left and smiled when he spotted the men gathered there.  There were two Joes hunched over a fallen one, over by one of the destroyed ASPs.  A third one was dragging another over to their group, the female who had been driving the missile-tank.

“Send a group to sector thirteen-four immediately,” he reported.  “The rest can sweep the wreckage for any survivors.”

“As you command, my Lord.”

Destro smiled broadly, the term bringing even more elation to him.  He waited brief seconds, and his radio crackled to life in his ear.

“Destro…they are not responding,” she said simply, her eyes wondering.

The broad man in the silver mask faltered his smile faintly, but was not actually that surprised.  “Hmm…very well…contact Scrap Iron…have him sweep the Stinger squadron through, destroying everything in his path.”

“As you wish.”  Destro leaned back slightly, the thunder pounding throughout the sky in sudden deep, growling violence.  The rumble practically shook the weapons expert as he sat in the turret and he immediately reached for the goggles strapped to the belt around his waist even as The Baroness’ melodic voice echoed in his earpiece.

“H…he is not responding either, Destro,” she said with nervous anxiousness.

“Bah!” Destro shouted as he lifted the binoculars to his eyes.  They were a modern M.A.R.S. design that he had overseen himself, capable of astounding magnification and atmospheric readouts.  Slamming rain and violent, stormy winds did not interfere in this signal as he adjusted the magnification and sucked in a quick breath, the thunder growing in volume.  “What?” was the only word he could stammer out as the shadows drifted over the dark clouds, streaking through the skies, all but invisible, but very, very much audible.  The two flanking shadows were unmistakable in their shapes as they whipped through the gray clouds, approaching the coast even as Destro watched, the magnification at its highest setting.  The sleek, narrow body…the triangular, arrow-like limbs tucked tight into the body, screeching through the night sky, tearing messily through the black clouds like a dull knife through cotton.  F-14’s…Skystrikers.  Destro could not believe it.  They DARE?  His mind screamed even as he focused on the strange center shadow.  Another slender, aerodynamic body, but the wings were upswept instead of tucked back.  An X-30.  He was suddenly certain of it.  Fools!  They’re absolute fools!  The Early Warning System… he lowered his goggles and craned his neck around, searching his own skies for friendly aircraft.  Certainly the radar umbrella had spotted the planes by now!  The Mamba’s should be well on their way.  The system was designed so interference could be run far before enemy planes were on the island.  Yet here were the planes, still almost a few klicks away, but closing fast.  Too fast.

“Destro to Central Command!  Come in Central Command!”  He shouted into his radio.  There was only static.  “Tele-Viper!!!” the scream was loud and violent, anger boiling in his massive, leather clad frame.  He had gone from utter elation to a miserable downward spiral of confusion, uncertainty and cold reality.  Central Command wasn’t answering.  The Early Warning System was down.  Destro’s eyes fluttered behind his mask, his mouth contorting and his fists closing.  His breath came rapidly, pounding in his lungs, matching beats with his hammering heart.  It was up to him now.  With calm confidence he scooped up the radio and glanced up at the cloud cover and pouring rains above, suddenly not feeling quite so panicked.  Visibility was awful.  There was no way the HISS team could be spotted.  No Way.  Still, he adjusted frequency even as the thunder grew to a rumbling crescendo, the numerous sonic booms rocking throughout the valley.

“Destro to the motor pool!  Wild Weasel, answer me blast you!”

There was some seconds of uncomfortable silence as Destro’s heart picked up its pace once again, threatening to burst from his broad chest and hop along the dark steel surface of the Cobra Tank.  Finally his radio crackled.

“This is Wild Weasel, Destro.  Go ahead.”

“Weasel!  Get Zartan on the radio now!”

“Zartan left a few minutes ago with his spare bow and arrow, sir.  I think we may have troubles in here.”

Destro bowed his head and slammed his fist on the HISS turret.  “Fine!  Scramble all Mambas NOW!  We have airborne intruders closing in fast!”

“Understood, sir,” Wild Weasel said with a calmness that infuriated Destro.  As long as the mercenary got his paycheck, he could care less apparently.

“I want them all launched and on my coordinates ten minutes ago!” Destro screamed and disconnected the radio.  His face was furious as the thunder grew even louder.

 

 

 

“What is that?” the young girl asked, twisting her neck around, and looking to the skies.

“Not thunder that’s for sure,” Scrap Iron muttered, his pistol clamped in his tight fist, pointing at the Joe in front of them.

“That sound,” Hit & Run started, frowning, “is the sound of the tides.  They’re turning.” His face was cold, mean and serious.

Scrap Iron laughed a gravelly, throaty laugh.  “Keep dreaming, soldier boy!” he shouted, extending his arm.

“Listen carefully, Snake,” Hit & Run continued, lifting his head to the sky.  “They’re planes.  Can you say ‘air strike?’”

Vypra scowled deeply behind her facemask, which twisted slightly with the movement.  “Don’t be a fool!  Look at that cloud cover!” She waved at the skies above, which were rolling with dark gray, bulbous cotton ball clouds.  “They wouldn’t be able to see far enough to shoot a spitball!”

“Well,” Hit & Run replied, his face lightening a little, “unless there were some spotters down here, right?”

Scrap Iron laughed out loud.  “Where were your spotters, Joe?  In the tank that just exploded?  Or in the hovercraft which just flipped over and burst into flame?  You’re a lousy liar, Joe.”

“If it’s one thing I can’t stand,” sputtered the female Cobra leveling her own weapon. “Is a bad liar.  I think it’s time for you to die.”  Her finger touched lightly against the trigger as the thunder grew in pitch and threatened to shake apart the very Earth.  She glanced back and Hit & Run moved.  Like a green/black blur, the Joe darted forward with lightning speed and liquid grace, sweeping his foot out and catching Vypra in her ankles.  She stumbled and he clamped around her wrists, then twisted, using her own center of gravity to send her in a complete flip until she struck the wet mud with her back, grunting and splattering dirty water in an arc around her.  Scrap Iron whipped his arm around, tracking the light infantryman with his pistol, but the Joe was already darting at him, and was quickly inside his range of motion, knocking his gun arm aside even as it went off with a sharp BAM, briefly illuminating the night for that split second.  He grabbed Scrap Iron by the collar and yanked him down as he brought his knee up, plowing it into his gut and hunching the missile specialist deep over his knee.  He brought his hands up for a vicious chop, but a blast of metal across the back of his skull sent him sprawling.  Spinning around as he fell forward, the Joe saw Vypra back on her feet, the automatic back in her hand.  She lowered it, scowling, and slowly pulled back on the trigger.

 

 

 

“This way, Beachhead!” Ripcord shouted through puffy, red-crusted lips.  The red streaks across his face had dried in the moments since the fight, and his muscles seemed to have loosened up as he and the Army Ranger dashed through the smooth, gray hallways.  Beachhead’s face was fully exposed now, his green knit mask fashioned into a makeshift bandage and wrapped around his head, which had thankfully stopped bleeding.  They had taken the left turn directly after the Viper’s quarters, but found the trip to be a little longer than they expected, having to wind through a maze of turns and branching halls.  So far they had encountered no opposition since Zartan, but they were ready, their weapons raised.  A low rumble trembled throughout the hall as they neared the last left turn.  Ripcord was sure they were getting close, and he slid to a quick halt at the last bend, his feet sliding along the floor until he skidded to a stop.  He spun his body around the corner, face to face with a quartet of Vipers guarding a large garage door, which was shut tight. 

“Hey!” the lead Viper, dressed in a dull gray uniform shouted at the paratrooper, and as one, four weapons opened up, their roar on the verge of deafening in the tight hallway.  Ripcord whipped himself back around as sparks spun and flew from the wall where he was standing.  Beachhead pulled up the rear, still at a full run.

“Beach—“ Ripcord said as the Ranger approached at a near sprint.

“I’m going low, you go high,” he barked as he dashed past and dropped into a skillful crouch, one knee planted on the floor.  He slid along the floor, dropped low, his assault rifle tucked neatly under his arm.  Gunfire exploded from the Vipers as he slid along, but went high, whizzing just over his now unmasked head.  Twisting as he slid, he drew aim on the left two Vipers and punched the trigger, the rifle jumping in his hand, tossing sparks, smoke and deadly lead in the small passage.  The left Viper shouted and was thrown violently backwards with the force, his back whacking hard against the metal wall, and Beachhead swiftly shifted aim, still sliding along, and punched the trigger again, dropping the next Viper in line.  With frantic shouts, the lead Viper and the last shifted their aim to shoot at the lower target when Ripcord jumped out from behind the wall his own rifle locked into his shoulder.  He screamed to draw their attention as the world shifted into slow motion, the Joe seemingly hanging in the air as he moved, the gun thumping powerfully against his muscled arm.  A shower of silver exploded from the lead Viper’s mirrored facemask and he clutched his face, dropping the weapon, and fell as the Joe reached the peak of his jump.  Ripcord was almost horizontal with the floor as he flew through the air and shifted aim, then sprayed the back corner with more deadly lead, sending the last Viper sprawling to the floor amidst a spray of sparks and metal fragments from the wall.  Ripcord struck the floor with his shoulder, spun into a sideways somersault, then sprang up to one knee, ending up just behind Beachhead, crouched against the far wall, both weapons trained on the door.  The four Vipers lay in heaps, gun smoke still lingering in the stale air, bullet holes scattered across the metal walls and ridged garage door.

“Clear!” shouted Beachhead, lifting his weapon.

“Clear!” replied Ripcord, doing the same, and then standing.

Beachhead climbed to his feet, glancing back at the bloodied paratrooper.  “What’s this?” he asked, noting Ripcord’s positioning.  “Using me for cover?  Thanks a lot!”

“Hey, you got the flack vest, old man,” Ripcord joshed, gesturing to Beachhead’s prematurely gray hair.  The joking stopped and they glared at the wide door in front of them, shut tight with a small display just above it on the wall, a flashing red light blinking from it.  Do Not Enter: Launch Pad In Use.  The rumble shook the floor where they stood and they looked at each other, and then looked down at the sprawled Vipers, each one with a pair of grenades strapped to their chest.  With swift movements, the two Joes scooped up the explosives and retreated to the corner, clutching them tight.

“We start with one each, all right?” Beachhead asked, popping the pin off of the one clutched tight in his hand.  Ripcord nodded and repeated the motion.

“Fire in the hole!” the Ranger shouted and whipped his grenade down the hall, Ripcord following suit.  They swung back around the wall, pressing their bodies close as the sudden sharp blast tore through the passageway.  Thick chunks of concrete floor and thin, razor sharp metallic shards spun and flew down the hall whipping past the Joes and clattering to the floor and wall next to them.  As soon as the smoke started to clear they whipped back around, weapons at the ready.  The garage door was torn and shredded, a thick gray cloud of exhaust rolling from the chamber beyond, and a loud, deafening racket of numerous jet engines igniting at once.

“Uh oh,” Ripcord said as the shuffled forward.  “Our boys are gonna get some Mambas thrown at them!”  The room was large, and literally cavernous.  The ceiling and a large portion of the upper walls were jagged, dark rock, stalactites dangling and rock face jutting out in uneven patters.  With another violent shudder, the rumbling almost shook the men off their feet as the ceiling trembled with the force of a giant earthquake.  Suddenly, impossibly, the whole rocky, jagged ceiling slowly began to recede into the walls on the side, sliding smoothly and evenly backwards opening up a large empty space in the top of the motor pool, letting the cool air of the gulf night drift in to the chamber.  Ripcord whistled.

“Impressed, kid?” Beachhead asked, glaring over the large room.  Only a section of it was filled at this point, apparently all of the land based vehicles were in use.  But the air force more than made up for it.  There were ten Mambas; sleek, narrow, purple and black double bladed helicopters that had vertical take off and landing capabilities, but were as swift, maneuverable and armed as any airplane in the sky.  A few Fangs hovered above the ground as well, lifting slowly to the opening in the ceiling, piloted by Gyro Vipers, who had been promoted from the Rotor Vipers of old.  The Mambas were taking off in shifts; each one only had one of the three cockpits filled, some Gyro Vipers and some with Aero Vipers.  The other two were pods of a sort, which could be used as transportation, or as quick, but not very maneuverable rocket sleds.  Three Mambas rose slowly, the propellers whipping a vicious wind down at the two Joes as they stood there, weapons drawn.

“Somehow I don’t think these pea shooters will be very effective down here!” Ripcord shouted above the thrashing winds, holding his hand above his head to try and shield the force.  Two sudden sharp gunshots quickly told him that not everyone was of that same opinion.  The two Joes stumbled back as bullets plowed into the hard floor at their feet, spitting up chunks of concrete and mortar.  Wild Weasel stood atop a short curved ladder leading to the cockpit of a Rattler, the deep blue Cobra jet based on a souped up version of the U.S. Army’s A-10.  Primarily used as a “Tank Smasher”, the Rattler had evolved into a speedy, maneuverable force to be reckoned with in Cobra’s air arsenal.  Piloted by Wild Weasel, the Rattler could theoretically take out any other plane in the sky.

“Don’t try and stop us, Joes!” he screamed through his large round helmet.  His pistol barked a few more quick times, and he slipped into his cockpit, quickly yanking down the reinforced Plexiglas canopy.  Ripcord squeezed off a quick blast of gunfire, which banged into the side of the large plane, but did little to no damage.  The large, round, wing-mounted engines suddenly ignited in the vertical position, throwing the plane quite suddenly into the air among the group of Mambas, which were now all climbing into the opening in the ceiling.  It deftly weaved between hovering battle copters and spinning rotors, and then was up into the night.  It’s turbines swung down into the horizontal position and with a sudden blast, the Rattler was off, Mambas close behind.

“That was a waste of time,” Beachhead said, shaking his head. 

“C’mon, Beach,” Ripcord shouted to the Ranger, heading back out the door.  “We’ve got to get back to the command center.  Maybe they have a radio we can call our buddies with to let them know what’s coming!”

Beachhead fought the urge to say it would be far too late and followed his buddy into the hallway.

 

 

 

Hit & Run forced his eyes to stay open even as gunfire roared from mere feet away.  The Joe was back first on the ground, the female Cobra driver standing above him, gun drawn and aimed.  She was merciless, emotionless, and despite the weapon, Hit & Run still thought she was pretty cute.  He imagined being killed by her might change that opinion just slightly.  The Joe winced, expecting the impact, but saw instead that Vypra was backpedaling, lifting her hands in the air.  The light infantryman jumped to his feet and spun, his eyes wide and unbelieving, as his jaw dropped when they walked through the trees.  A mustached man in camouflage was first, whom the Joe didn’t recognize, but the man draped over his shoulder was a familiar face with a short crew cut, the faint smirk on his puffy and beaten face even though he looked the worse for wear.  The man with the moustache held a small Uzi, still pointed at Vypra, who had dropped her weapon.

“Duke!” Hit & Run shouted for joy as he moved in and took the sergeant from the other man’s shoulder.  Duke could walk on his own, but stumbled slightly, held up by the young man.  Falcon and Recondo emerged next, Muskrat practically carried by them.  The swamp fighter was still unconscious, although the bleeding seemed to have eased slightly.  Hit & Run’s eyes grew even wider when he saw who exited next.  Stalker limped slightly, held up by Flint, his face cocky as ever underneath his lopsided beret.  They all convened into a small group, happy chatter coming from everyone.  Mike, the Rotor Viper walked out next, but was for the most part unnoticed, with Wet Suit just behind.

“On your stomach, sister,” Claymore muttered, breaking away from the group, directing with his machine gun.  Vypra grudgingly complied.  Hit & Run looked around, relieved to see Wet Suit okay for the most part, but then grew concerned.

“Isn’t Beachhead with you guys?” he asked, wondering about his friend.  Stalker saw the worry in his face and rushed to console him.

“Relax, kid…he and Ripcord branched off to find the motor pool.  Look for the weapon.  We’re supposed to meet them in one hour, back in Central Command.”

Hit & Run looked somewhat relieved, but then his eyes darted back to Vypra.  “What did I tell you?  The tides are changing, Snake,” he said with mild satisfaction.

“Ha!” She laughed.  “You precious planes still don’t have any targets to shoot at, Joe!  Where are your precious spotters, hmmm?” she asked with a snicker.

Hit & Run ran a hand over the leather pouch that hung at his side, glancing down, but remained smiling.

“Well, they were in here.  But I dumped them out in your little jeep as I jumped over it,” he gave her a wink and a smile. 

“When that thing exploded, it must have scattered them all over the valley.”

Vypra’s eyes grew wide with rage even as she stayed prone on the ground.  The thunder still rumbled loud and long, still growing in volume as the planes grew nearer.  But another sound had joined the thunder.  A wild, rapid shriek and thumping.  Lightning quick thumps one right after another slowly echoed from the south. 

 

ThumpThupThupThupthupthupthupthupthupthupthupthupthupthup

 

Hit & Run looked to the sky as Vypra grinned under her mask.  The Mambas streaked overhead, their propellers stirring up small cyclones of dirty water and spinning them around, mixing with the pouring rain.  Hit & Run ducked down as the battle copters whipped overhead, on a direct intercept course for their salvation.

 

 

 

“This is Striker One to Striker Two, come in, Striker Two,” Ace’s smooth, low voice echoed inside the tiny cockpit as it zipped through the dark, murky clouds off the coast of Cobra Island.  It reminded him of swimming through a mud puddle, actually, quick and easy to pass through, but you couldn’t see jack.  His black flight helmet was pulled down tightly over his shortly cropped red hair and his eyes squinted out from under the goggles, glaring at the instrument panel in front of him.  It was much more elaborate and complex than it was the first time he flew in a Skystriker, but he had kept with the times, instructing when he wasn’t flying himself.  He had so many hours in at this point, he couldn’t possibly calculate them all, and seriously thought that he had spent more time flying than he had sleeping in his life.  Combine his time flying and playing cards, and there was no doubt sleeping came a distant second.  He flipped on a new addition to the plane, the sonar dish, which was implanted just under the black nose of the sleek jet and monitored the various sounds surrounding the plane much like a submarine used sonar deep under the water.  In flying conditions like this, it was sometimes necessary to fly by sound instead of sight and radar.

“This is Striker Two, Ace…go ahead,” Ghostrider replied steering his own Skystriker smoothly through the thick cloud cover.

“I’ve got land mass dead ahead, Two, prepare to descend and pop the wings on my mark.”

“Affirmative.”

Ace slightly adjusted the chock and switched his frequency quickly.  “Three, this is One, do you read?”

“Yeah, One, Slipstream here on your six.  I’ve got land mass dead ahead and drawing close.”

“Confirms my readings, Slipstream.  Two and I are going in low and hard, you’re our rear cover.”

“I copy, One.  How’s the handling with the extra armament?”

“Just fine.  We just ditched the extra fuel tank and added some bomb racks.  Our air-to-air Sparrows and Sidewinders are still there, and the weight and balance matches up fine.”

“Good to hear.  When it all goes down, I don’t want to have to stop and pick your sorry butt up.”  Slipstream snickered slightly.

“Just worry about your own butt, Three; and tell you what, the one with the most kills deals first back at the Flagg.”

“Works for me, Ace…I didn’t want that last paycheck anyway.”

Ace chuckled softly and glanced back down at his radar, the laugh choking in his throat.  Just as he saw the approaching blips, his radio crackled from all channels.

“One, this is Three!  Bogeys at ten o’clock low and swarming in!”

“I see them three; Two pop those wings now!”

“I hear you!” The two Skystrikers cut their afterburners and their sleek, arrow-like wings slammed out at a sharp angle, slowing their rapid approach.  In the out position, the Skystrikers were much slower, but the maneuverability was necessary in close combat.  The wings hit with a CHUNG!!!  and the two white jets pulled up and away out of formation, already circling around.

“One, I’m going in!” Slipstream’s voice echoed harshly in Ace’s radio.

“Don’t be a hero!” the squad leader replied cranking his jet around in a tight right bank.

The Conquest pounded down through the cloud cover, it’s jets screaming, and dark gray cotton clinging to its wings like salt-water taffy.  It was slightly modified from the original version, colored in green and brown camouflage instead of its older gray, black and yellow.  Slipstream liked the new look immensely. Anything that made him a harder target was all right in his book.  As soon as he ripped through the bottom layer of clouds and plunged down into the dark night, two Mambas filled up his screen, roaring straight at him, their twin propellers screaming.  Immediately, both battle copters opened fire with their chin turrets, twin red cannons below the main pod, firing twenty-millimeter armor piercing rounds.  Slipstream brought the X-30 into a sudden and immediate dive, his stomach lurching, but lurching much less than it had all those years ago when he first flew the experimental warplane.  It was light and fast, Slipstream called it “Speed Demon” for short, and there was no other aircraft he’d rather be behind the stick of.  Sparks roared in the air above him as he dove below the Mambas, and he swore he heard the light tinkling of shell casings clattering against the thick skin of his plane.  Suddenly another craft was in his radar, a smaller one, moving more like a conventional helicopter.  As he brought the Conquest up into a tight bank, the craft appeared in his windshield, and was exactly as he suspected.  A Fang.  He smiled; almost thinking it was a waste of bullets as he yanked back on the red trigger embedded in his flight stick.  The twin twenty millimeters embedded in the nose of the narrow plane exploded to life, brightening that portion of the sky with white throbbing flashes.  With an uncertain lurch, the Fang moved away, but the barrage blasted into it full bore and it exploded in a white/yellow flame, black debris sprinkling the ground below.  The Joe pilot smirked for a millisecond before his threat indicator blared to life, bathing the cockpit in a warm red glow.

 

Ace brought the Skystriker X-14 around in a tight, right bank, just as Two broke away and dove for the surface of the island.  He looked up out of his cockpit as his plane turned, becoming sideways in the air, almost perpendicular to the wet ground and rocky ocean water below.  Ace noticed then for the first time that they had been intercepted well before their target range, and had to move in quickly.  Out of the corner of his eye as he turned a purple black blur floated across his range of vision, disappearing quickly behind him.  His radar showed two more faint blips to his south and below, and they were converging quickly.  The Joe pilot straightened out, glancing quickly behind him, and saw a flash of black spinning metal just off to his left.

“Sneaky,” he muttered, “but you can’t stay in my blind spot with those propellers!”  Ace kept the jet at a constant forward pace, waiting for the right time.  As soon as the red light on his threat indicator flashed, he yanked back on the stick and drew the jet into a steep climb.  Two blood red, spear-like missiles roared underneath him as he ascended, and he wrenched the stick back around to his right, bringing the jet around and righted again, this time heading back towards the copter.  The Mamba pulled up and away, which was the worst mistake he could make as Ace directed the Skystriker inside his turning radius and unleashed his left hand Sparrow “fire and forget” heat seeking missile.  The white jet plunged back earthward as the missile struck pay dirt, blasting the purple helicopter into smoldering fragments.

“One down,” he said confidently, bringing the jet back around into a slight descent, his radar already filling up with more bogeys.

Ghostrider skimmed the surface of the island, his Skystriker running near to the ground enough that his imminent crash warning was flashing.  The waves from the rocky beach had slapped up against the bottom of his plane as he scoped out the LCT where it was embedded in the sandy dunes.  He brought the jet up slightly as he zoomed by the volcano, and switched on his ground radar, searching for the targets on infrared.  He was below the clouds, but the rushing rain impaired his vision considerably, and it would have been impossible to hit any ground targets whatsoever without the spotters.  He desperately hoped the Assault Team was able to set the spotters, but he wasn’t sure.  The Citadel suddenly appeared before him, still quite a ways away, but he came closing in and his radar lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Bingo!” he shouted, grinning at the numerous radar contacts, down on ground surface.  He was too focused on the ground, and suddenly his plane jolted and shook, thrashing about like a dog being given its monthly bath.  He brought the jet quickly back under control and glanced out the side of his canopy, spotting the three Mambas closing in on him.  His right wing was peppered with twenty-millimeter, but was holding together just fine without any serious damage done.  He was not sure how long that would last with the three battle copters closing in fast.

 

 

“Lifeline!  Lifeline!” Hawk shouted fiercely, pounding on the door leading into the cargo hold of the Whale.  Behind him Cutter leaned on his shoulder for support and Topside and Bazooka were helping each other stay upright.  But Lifeline and Blackout had not emerged from the hold yet with the wounded, and that had Hawk a little worried, especially now that the planes were engaged in pitched battle above with a score of Cobra Mambas.  Gunfire roared in the heavens like angry thunder, muzzle flashes and explosions the responding lightning.  Hawk turned around and held Cutter out to lean on the other two, giving them a slightly apologetic look.  He ran a hand through his soaked hair, his breath coming hard underneath the cold, driving rain, which battered the ground and all who stood upon it.  With a swift kick, Hawk sent his combat booted foot in a sudden jolt, cracking it against the window of the hold.  Already weakened by the crash, the window caved in, shattering gummy pieces of windshield into the tiny alcove behind.  Hawk stuck his head through the small opening, his blue eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness.  The wounded men were tipped over and lay in crumpled heaps on the floor, but actually looked okay, although both were still unconscious.  Blackout lay near the exit, his helmet off and on the floor, and Lifeline was a few feet behind him, lying prone.

“Joes, let’s go!  Snap to it!” Hawk shouted loudly, his voice a raging echo inside the tight confines of the hold.  Lifeline immediately sat up, shaking his head, and running a hand over his dark hair, looking around to see if he could spot his helmet.  His green glasses lay askew on his face, but he adjusted them and crawled over to the door, quickly checking out Blackout, who awoke with the prodding.

“General,” Lifeline said, his eyes fluttering.  “What happened, sir?”

“Stinger ambush, troop.  C’mon, get it together, we don’t have time to dilly dally here!”

Blackout swiftly shook the cobwebs off and reached down, wrapping his hands around the silver torch that hooked to his leg.  “Stand back, Lifeline,” he said softly and the medic complied, with Hawk doing the same.  A brilliant, blinding light scorched from the cylinder and struck the metal plated, wrenched and twisted door that locked them inside.  The torch was cutting, but Hawk was sure it wasn’t fast enough.

“How is she?” Zap shouted over the driving rain as Roadblock dragged Cover Girl through the mud and dirt over to where they sat behind the ASP.

“She’s breathin’!  Besides that, you’d have to ask Lifeline.” His eyes were squinted as the large globs of rainwater pounded down on his bald head and dark face.  Water dripped from his dark goatee and ran in streams over his tank top he wore, now that his green knit shirt was soaked with Gung Ho’s blood.

“The Jarhead’s not doing too hot,” Repeater said solemnly, crouching over him.

“Well, hot or not, we’ve got to move, and we’ve got to move now!  Our flyboys are here, and when the bombs start droppin’ ole Roadblock’s not going to be anywhere near!”

“I agree with that sentiment.  The trees?” Zap asked, pointing over to the thick trees that sprouted at the north side of the valley.  They weren’t close, but they beat low crawling past HISS Tanks and Stingers.

“Sounds like a plan,” Roadblock nodded and walked over to the Marine.  “I’ll take Gung Ho.  The pretty lady over there is nice and light, I figure one of you boys can handle her,” he flashed a bright smile and hefted Gung Ho onto his shoulders, his enormous biceps bulging and rippling with every motion.  He broke into a slow jog as Zap and Repeater lifted Cover Girl.  Zap glanced up into the sky and spotted a Skystriker, swiftly engaging three Mambas.

“I hope that’s you, Ace,” he said softly.  “Anybody else’d be dog meat.”

 

 

Ghostrider hit the firing mechanism and released one Sparrow, then banked away to his right, saying a silent prayer in his head.  With a white hot flash, the Sparrow collided with the Mamba’s rotor mechanism, blasting it to pieces and sending chunks of black iron scattering in all directions.  Smoke and flame roared from the impact and the battle copter went into a wobbling downward spiral, and then plunged towards the Earth.

 

 

“Damn!” Roadblock shouted as the flaming hulk of twisted purple wreckage spun down towards the small group, chunks of metal breaking away and falling with it.  “Back that way!” he shouted frantically, turning towards the other two Joes.  They stumbled back reflexively, then broke into a quick run as the fireball roared towards the valley.  It plowed into the wet ground with the force of a hundred mile tall jackhammer, sending a shuddering pulse throughout the valley floor.  Another explosion rocked the wreckage as it hit, spraying shrapnel and smoke in broad arcs fifty feet around.  Roadblock actually felt the warm air of the shockwave pluck him from the ground and carry him through the air, although none too gently.  Gung Ho tumbled to the ground as the big man spun through the air, his arms clawing at nothing and his legs pumping, surrounded by flaming debris.  With a dull thud he pounded against the soft ground and lay there, not moving.  Zap ran over to him, with Repeater hot on his heels, Cover Girl draped over his right shoulder.

“Dang!” the rocket specialist shouted, looking at the two men sprawled on the ground.  He looked back at the stedi-cam gunner, shaking his head.  “There is no way we can carry them all to the tree line!” he shouted.  Repeater furrowed his brow, trying to think.

“Here,” he said, pulling the wounded Joe from his shoulder and offering her as if a gift.  “Take Cover Girl and hit the trees, I’ll stay with these guys.  Drop her off and come right back, we’ll make a second trip.”

“There’s no time!”

“There’s no choice.  Go!”

Zap grimaced, but grabbed Cover Girl and ran for the trees, not looking back.

 

 

Ghostrider smiled as his white plane tore through the sky, deftly weaving to avoid the gunfire that rained towards it from behind.  The two Mambas converged on him, trying to catch him in a crossfire, but he dove, expecting them to compensate.  They did quickly, and he immediately pulled up and around barely avoiding the grouping of red missiles as they whizzed just beneath him.  Suddenly, he was above and tearing down towards them, the two large blobs filling his crosshairs.  He just couldn’t resist and unloaded a full salvo in a brutal series of orange/yellow streaks and light gray smoke trails.  The Skystriker climbed steeply just as the missiles swarmed from their hooks and struck the pair of Mambas head on with a raging fury, slamming them into so much useless scrap metal, sprinkling down from the heavens.  Ghostrider banked the plane around and prepared for the first bombing run.

 

Ace banked left as another Mamba burst into flame from a long burst of his twin cannons just on either side of the narrow nose of the Skystriker.  It fell towards the rocky ocean, its propellers no longer functional and disappeared underneath the rushing green surface of the water.  Ace marked a second kill in his kill column as he continued the tight bank and rushed back towards the valley, when suddenly two Fangs and another Mamba flanked him.  He cursed the weather and his instrument panel as he climbed quickly, two narrow, long Fang missiles roaring just beneath his firing engines.  Ignoring the moans and pleas of his tortured stomach, the expert pilot brought the plane into a full loop roaring back over his pursuers upside down and glaring down at them from behind the clear cockpit.  The two Fangs broke off as the Skystriker swooped back down and launched two Sidewinders at close range.  The Mamba dipped quickly, then rose sharply, its wake throwing off the rockets and sending them spiraling towards the ocean, and then splashing harmlessly in the water.  Ace grimaced and pressed his thumb on the button to launch his last Sparrow, but decided against it, bringing the Skystriker in close to the Mamba’s tail.  The Gyro Viper looked back from under his red tinted windshield and broke away, but Ace turned more sharply and plastered the Mamba with his machine guns, chewing it apart and spraying Mamba pieces out into the ocean.  The helicopter swerved, then dipped and plowed into a rocky formation on the coast, bursting into bright flame.

“That’s three,” Ace said confidently, forgetting the Fangs for just a second until he plane rocked with the force of their gunfire.  “Pesky little buggers,” he said softly as he spun the plane and unloaded his machine gun in the dark, cold, rainy night.  His path of fire swung far wide of the lower helicopter blasted headlong into the upper one, tearing off its rotor completely and sending it falling like a stone.  It struck the one under it with a tearing, rending CRRUNCH, and the two mangled hunks of metal plummeted towards the rocky beach.  Ace let out the breath he’d been holding and veered back in towards the island, and towards his ground targets.

 

 

Destro’s eyes were narrowed behind his helmet as he witnessed the aircraft exchanging violent blasting fire.  He’d already counted four Mambas down to the Joes’ none, and it seemed that a third conflict that he couldn’t quite see was going down near the coast.  And suddenly, there it was straight ahead; a lone white Skystriker humming under the cloud cover, it’s fuel tanks replaced by bomb racks, with no air cover in sight.  He drew nearer and nearer, and slowly descended within firing range, Destro glaring at the cockpit, just imagining locking eyes with the cocky young man most assuredly behind the controls.  He drew in a breath as he prepared to be swallowed by the roaring flames of the falling bombs.

“Destro!” the scream yanked him from his dream state.  “Do you have a death wish?” The Baroness stood outside the HISS, drenched already from the pouring rain.  The large man looked down, smiling softly.

“I stand my ground, dear Baroness.  They will not get the Citadel while I live.  If they want it, they’ll have to go through me.”  He sat down at the turret of the HISS, flipping some quick switches and bringing up numerous LCD screens throughout the console.  He wrapped two large, leather fists around the controls, squinting down into the monitors.  His head rose slightly as he calculated range and velocity theories quickly in his head, bringing the power of the shells and the wind resistance into factor.

“Destro my dear!  What are you doing?” The Baroness looked up at the sleek, white jet as it ripped through the sky down towards the valley.

“Standing my ground.” He hauled back on the triggers embedded in the twin levers of the turret and the barrels roared to life, blasting dark smoke and red flame in a sharp, straight arrow from the large round opening.  The Baroness clapped both hands over her ears as Destro adjusted his aim and let loose again, the whole tank almost rocking with the force of the blasts.

 

 

“I’ve got you, Snakes…I’ve got you,” Ghostrider muttered, glaring into his display at the numerous ground targets reappearing in his monitors.  He had the radar tuned to the special frequency, allowing the smart bombs to home in and strike even as he was pulling away.  The Skystriker roared over the downward slope, not even seeing the small group of Joes waving from there as they chased off the nest of Cobras who had been hiding in the trees.  Two sharp claps of thunder echoed in the valley, awfully low, and awfully loud, but expected in a rainstorm.  His thumbs hovered over the releases as he suddenly realized that it wasn’t thunder.  A pair of white/yellow streaks flashed above the valley, shot from below and drilled through the air right for him.

“Did a tank shoot that--?” he thought, but the thought was incomplete as the HISS shells pounded into the belly of the plane, rocking it like a small boat on rough seas.  Ghostrider jerked in his pilot’s seat, and cracked his head on the inside of the canopy, then slumped over, his arm dangling so very close to the ejection lever.  The second volley blasted into the right side of the white plane, tearing its wing to shreds and sending it in a wild, uncontrolled spin.  At least Ghostrider was unconscious and did not witness his last moments of life as the X-14 plowed into the tall mountain behind the Citadel and blasted into hundreds of pieces, showering flaming debris over the large bunker and the HISS tanks below.

 

Slipstream kept the throttle down as another three Mambas formed on his tail, moving in, chin turrets roaring.  He had taken out the last one that had him locked, but many more had taken its place and bore down on him with angry vengeance in mind.  The Conquest swam through the air like a graceful fish in water, dipping in and out of paths of tracer fire, Slipstream dodging and weaving inside the cockpit in tune with the motion of the airplane.  He swerved and banked, but the Mambas remained close behind, although thankfully he was moving too much for them to get a solid lock to use their missiles.  Sparks glanced across his right wing as bullets thudded into the metallic surface, but with no serious damage done.

“Dang, man,” Slipstream said to no one in particular.  “I may make this whole trip without popping a single flare or chaff!”  He laughed at his little joke, when realization settled in, bringing a gentle, but malevolent smirk across his face.  With an ease of the throttle, the Conquest slowed somewhat, the Mambas moving in closer behind.  Suddenly, his threat indicator lit up again, but instead of moving he slammed his fist on the button marked “Counter Measures”.  All at once, bright flares and steaming hot chaff exploded from the rear of the plane, meant to confuse missile radar and throw off heat seeking rockets.  This time, they served another purpose by exploding and scattering blinding light across the cockpit of the center Mamba, washing over the stunned pilot inside.

“No—!” the Aero Viper shouted as his Mamba roared to the right on reflex, it’s propeller ripping through the metal fuselage of the battle copter right next to him.  Jet fuel sprayed from the second Mamba just as another chaff burst from the Conquest, sparking brightly in the dark night.  Slipstream punched his afterburners, tearing away from the three aircraft as a yellow fireball swallowed them whole.  He adjusted his radar, and banked right, heading back towards the valley.

 

 

“Cover Girl’s safe!” Zap shouted in between heavy breaths as he ran up to Repeater, who was looking solemnly at the sky, specifically at the mountain that loomed behind the Citadel, on the west coast.  “What’s eatin’ you?” he asked, bending down to scoop up Roadblock.

“One of the Skystriker’s got slagged, man,” he said quietly, still looking.  Zap’s shoulders slumped.

“Know whose?” he asked, not that it mattered.

“No…but there was no ejection.  Just crash and burn.”

Zap shook his head sadly, and then snapped to attention, briskly saluting the smoldering mountainside.  Repeater did the same, and then they bent and picked up their unconscious buddies, letting the silence speak for itself.

 

 

“C’mon!” Blackout shouted from inside the hold, his torch flaring and digging deep into the twisted plate metal of the crushed exit.  A melted, fused line of molten steel followed the path of the torch down and around, but it was only about halfway there, and he knew they were out of second chances, especially when the second roar of a sonic boom echoed through the valley.  He’d heard the first one and planned for the worst, but there were only a couple explosions, far away.  He thought he knew what happened, and was upset at himself that he was actually a little relieved.  Now, another roar shook the ground, and he wondered if this was it.

 

 

 

 

“Just a little further,” Ace said slowly, his eyes focused on the radar in front of him.  A pair of light blips appeared suddenly, one a little below him and another further back.  His mind raced.  He was coming in over the treetops, from a way he figured they wouldn’t be looking.  If they had any SAMs, or any air cover at all, he should come from the back of it, over the trees to the north and be there before they could do anything about it.  It was a chance, but one he felt like he had to take.  He hadn’t heard the confirmation from Two or Three yet, so he assumed the targets were still hot and he was ready to cool them off.  The smaller blip suddenly moved in on his six, falling a little ways back, but Ace shut it out of his mind.  He wasn’t going to get another chance; he had to take this one.  Brisk claps of thunder exploded from below and he winced as the jet bucked wildly from the impact from below.  The plane faltered, and Ace glanced out the side of his cockpit, immediately spotting the small black helicopter.

“A Fang, for crying out loud!” he shouted, the X-14 wobbling just slightly.  His mind searched for solutions, wanting to turn back and smoke it, then resume.  But the confrontation would be noticed.  The surprise would be negated, and he couldn’t risk that.  Another blast rocked the white plane and it lurched to the left, and then quickly compensated.

“At least he’s not using his rockets,” Ace muttered, but regretted even thinking it as the Fang drew back behind him, and his threat indicator blinked on.

“No no no…” he said quickly, but couldn’t avoid it any longer he grabbed the flight stick and prepared to bank…when the Fang exploded in a shattering blast of orange.  Ace quickly kept the plane straight, but craned his neck back, seeing a faint shadow behind the gray cloud that hung in the air and the fluttering black debris.  As is on cue, his radio crackled.

“One, this is Three, your six is clear,” Slipstream’s voice never sounded so good.

“Thanks buddy,” Ace replied, “just for that, I’ll let you deal.”  The Skystriker accelerated, leaving the Conquest hanging behind for cover, and then suddenly he was there, over the trees, and approaching the valley, his ground radar lighting up with all the targets.  Heavy fire exploded from down below him as the Stingers and HISS tanks fired hurriedly, desperately trying to take him out.  His surprise ploy had worked, though, and they hadn’t expected the approach from this side and it was far too late for them to do anything.  The white plane whizzed through the gunfire as if it was standing still and deftly swerved the red missiles as they blasted up into the heavens.  His thumb flipped up a small lever and with a thin smile he punched down on the release, every muscle tensing.  His ears perked for the noise and heard…nothing.  He looked down at the stick, verifying the switch and punched the button again.  Again, there was nothing.  No whistle, no bang, no nothing.

“The Fang!”  Ace shouted, almost slapping himself in the forehead.  “It must have scorched the release when it hit me!”  Desperation soaked into his body like a dripping sponge, and suddenly things got worse.  His jet buckled and a small BLAM echoed from underneath.  Something had given way and the Skystriker was plummeting fast.  Ace scooped up the radio with a swift hand and flipped the button.

“One to Three…this is Ace!  Slipstream, I have a malfunction, the bombs are not away!  I have a fire in my undercarriage and am going down, please respond!”  But there was no reply as the plane dipped and roared towards the wet muddy surface.

 

Slipstream cursed as he heard Ace’s message, but was not that far behind, and did not have time to confirm.  The edge of the trees was coming up quick and his fingers danced over the controls, quickly shifting to the correct infrared frequency.  The edge of the trees was there and his lightning quick reflexes moved to the flight stick, and smoothly flipped up the metal lid above the master switch.  The green brown blur was over the valley now, going fast too fast but there was no choice he was the only one left who could and before his brain could even think it his thumb slammed down on the switch and he could hear the releases click open and the swift whistle of falling bombs.

“BOMBS AWAY!” he shouted, finally taking a breath and pulling the Conquest into a steep climb.

 

 

Repeater jogged hurriedly, the breath screaming from his lungs as he swerved around the heaping wreckage of the Mamba and dashed towards the trees and towards safety, which still seemed so far away.  The Skystriker had screamed overhead, but had not dropped anything, and Repeater wondered what was going on, but not for long as the Conquest came up fast behind its buddy.  He almost saw the racks of bombs as the plane whizzed overhead and was very quickly over the middle of the valley, where Stingers and HISSes sat, frantically firing at the speeding plane.  The whistle immediately pierced the air, even over the sound of the slamming rainfall and Repeater’s turned into a frantic sprint, Gung Ho hanging loosely over one shoulder.  The trees were closer, but were they close enough?  He had no idea, and could only hope as he threw himself forward towards the running figure of Zap just ahead.  The sound was deafening, a blistering, shattering, deep rumbling growl; it started off guttural, but as if clearing its voice it became a sharp, forceful, slamming blast.  The hard dirt and solid earth beneath gave way under the punishing assault of the numerous cluster bombs as they detonated in a white-hot mountain sized explosion.  Repeater and Zap could only close their eyes as they felt the wave of heat rushing at their backs.

 

 

“I’m through!” Blackout shouted happily as the door creaked with a rending tear and gave way, slamming to the hard dirt, now covered by a few inch layer of mushy wetness.  Mud splattered in an arc around the large hunk of metal as it crashed to the ground.  Hawk looked up, and saw the green/brown Conquest streaking in, small cylinders visible under the glaring halogen lamps.  They tumbled clumsily through empty space towards the ground and vehicles below, almost like they were floating through space.  Hawk spun around, squinting in the dark and spotted the trees, many, many feet away.  Far too far.  His mind raced as the bombs dropped and he gave one frantic, loud, chilling order.

“EVERYONE INSIDE THE WHALE NOW!!!!”  They poured into the vehicle and crouched down as the world blew apart around them.

 

 

“C’mon, baby,” Ace pleaded to his beloved Skystriker as it threatened to shake apart under his tight control.  It trembled and shuddered through the air and Ace spotted what was quite simply the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long, long time.  The asphalt was cracked and broken, there were no flagmen, no whole towers, but it was a runway, all the same.  Cobra or not, an airfield was an airfield.  With a twist of the wrist, he banked the plane wide to the right, and then guided it to a shuddering, violent halt on the cracked and broken runway, easing it to a full stop, with no damage done.  Even as he vaulted from the cockpit, shadowed figures dashed towards him, weapons at the ready and shouting.  Ace couldn’t hear them behind the rumbling thunder of the bombs, but raised his hands, ready to become a Cobra prisoner.