Chapter One

Getting Started

1.

There was no doubt about it: cooking chicken was harder than shooting a .50-caliber machine gun. At least really good chicken. The kind of perfect delicacy that Roadblock's ten-inch wide hand's were masters at creating.

Tonight those hands would be creating one of the big gunner's favorites: Chicken Cordon Bleu. Not a particularly difficult recipe, but one that took a perfect balance of soft hands and a focused eye.

That was a reason Roadblock loved cooking. He spent so much time with his giant machine gun, having to be rock solid, flexing every muscle that he had, and honestly unable to accurately aim that insanely violent steel pipe. Here, he could be the opposite, practicing soft movement and perfect placement.

But first, he had to be a little tough, and flatten the chicken breasts with the meat mallet. This task always proved to be a bit difficult for him, but he was getting better. This time, he didn't crack the countertop.

Tonight meant so much to the big Joe machine gunner that instead of buying slices of ham, he cooked an entire ham, then sliced it himself. The pieces were deli perfect, and Roadblock laid them on the chicken breasts, then added the Swiss cheese slices—the most expensive brand available at the store.

How many times had Roadblock made this dinner? He couldn't remember. It was one of the first things he learned at chef's school, before he left and joined the Army. He never regretted joining the army, but he sure wished he could have completed chef's school. He had to teach himself all his gourmet recipes, and despite his friends' praise, he could never be sure that he got the ingredients right.

After the chicken was rolled, he began cooking it, frying it in a big Army skillet; that was one benefit about the Armed forces—bulk sizes.

Cooking the chicken was the delicate step. Roadblock had burnt so many chickens that he squinted now just thinking about it. As the feast cooked, he wiped his hands on his "Kiss the Chef—NOW!" apron that Rock 'n' Roll had given to him. That guy was happy with just burgers and soda. Roadblock felt sorry for him.

After turning the chicken over, the big gunner stirred the sauce. The mushrooms smelled perfect, but they needed a little more white wine. It was time to ready the plates—five plates, each with vegetables and parsley, practically begging for their main course. Roadblock checked the meat again. It was perfect, as usual. How could he have doubted himself? Each plate received their Cordon Bleu, and each delicacy was smothered in the special mushroom sauce.

The girls were gonna love it.

Roadblock flicked the stove off and filled a big tray with the plates. It was easily picked up by the monstrous G.I. Joe machine gunner. Just as he was going to exit the kitchen, he realized he was still wearing his apron; he flung it onto the counter with his left hand. The tray bonked the door open and the cheering started.

"Hello, ladies, you're in for a treat, 'cause I promise you gals, this dinner is

sweet!"

2.

Damn! His helmet wouldn't fit. Again. The latch…wouldn't…fit! Damn! It snapped off! Oh, he could take it down to the repair shop, but those jerks would just tell him his head was getting too fat…again. That's what they always said. They were uncivilized morons.

Besides, he didn't want anyone to see his face. If he didn't have his helmet, he'd have to find a mask. Probably another hood…and the last time he wore a hood, he got reprimanded and nearly shot for impersonating Cobra Commander. It wasn't even blue.

No, he was Wild Weasel, Cobra's Ace Pilot…and owner of the worst fitting helmet. What did Destro do when his face wouldn't fit quite right?

Taking the helmet off, he once again used a screwdriver and some glue to re-attach the mangled clamp. This process had been performed so many times, the clamp couldn't survive many more "repairs," but it was all he could do.

Click. Ah, the sound he prayed for. His identity was safe again, locked away in his red and black flight suit. But this was only step one. Step two was even more difficult.

The upper-platform entrance into the hangar closed behind him as the sight before him brought on both a smile, and a deep growl.

Excitement came from seeing his favorite jet once again—his personal Rattler attack jet. He had flown dozens of Rattlers during his stint with Cobra, but this one was special—it had lasted seven battles, and scored nine kills. It was his lucky ace plane, even if one of the kills was a Cobra Condor shot by accident, it was still a kill. This Rattler was indestructible.

The frustration didn't come from the aircraft in the hangar, but the hangar itself. It was cracked, warped and constantly leaking water. The planes and helicopters were kept in sad shape because they were drenched, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. This hangar was on Cobra Island, a little rock sitting in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Tropical storms and hurricanes had been tearing the little island apart. The beautiful main underground hangar had caved in during the last hurricane, so all remaining aircraft had been moved up to this broken little warehouse, which, in Wild Weasel's opinion, couldn't possibly survive the next storm.

But tonight's frustration exploded when Cobra's Ace Pilot noticed a flaw on his perfect plane: the intakes were uncovered and taking in massive amounts of dripping water. "Hey, Officer!" he yelled down to the floor commander, "What happened to the tarps covering my Rattler's engines?"

The commander looked up at the engines, then, showing no interest, looked back at his information notebook. "We were ordered to transfer them to other vehicles in the hangar."

Wild Weasel ran down the stairs from the upper-platform's entrance. "Are you trying to ruin my jet? Who ordered you to move those tarps?"

The officer looked back at the pilot with cold eyes. "Our orders came from a higher rank than you!"

Cobra's Ace Pilot realized he would have to do a little research in order to get an answer. It only took a short walk across the hangar find his tarps resting atop the Dreadnok Thunder Machine, sitting by the main entrance.

"You were ordered by Zartan?" asked Wild Weasel in disbelief.

"Exactly." Replied the Cobra Officer, "And no one says no to him. Excuse me." The floor commander walked off, leaving the Cobra pilot in teeth-grinding rage.

3.

Water was one of God's great gifts to the Earth, but it was often an obstacle to man. Mankind loved to conquer obstacles, no matter how much whining or crying people did about the difficulties. If there weren't challenges to conquer, there would be nothing to be proud of.

For Torpedo, water was his challenge. Swimming in full gear made it that much more difficult, and rewarding. How long had he been swimming in the pool? He couldn't remember. After a while he just tuned the pain out. There were a lot of Joes who struggled to gain size and brute strength. Not Torpedo. For him, it was all about staying sleek and durable. When you're floating out at sea, unable to see land in any direction, size wasn't going to get you to a shoreline.

Still, being the Joe's best swimmer wasn't getting him much mission time. His land-fighting skills were a bit rusty—too rusty for Duke's taste. Torpedo was a SEAL, and even a rusty SEAL was a darn good troop, but he was also a G.I. Joe SEAL, and rusty didn't cut it.

Figuring it was time to change focus, Torpedo took one more lap, then stopped at the pool edge and lifted his goggles. He needed to get out and run the obstacle course, and he definitely needed to work the rifle range.

Before he could climb out, a hand reached down to him. The Joe SEAL looked up to see the Joe Coast Guard Officer looking down at him. Torpedo grabbed his friend's hand and was pulled up out of the water.

"Cutter! To what do I owe this honor?" he asked as he wiped himself off.

"That was quite an impressive swim."

Torpedo started bagging his gear. "Thanks. Not a record-breaker for me, but definitely reminds me that I'm getting older." The SEAL suddenly got very nervous. "So…what's up?"

The Joe Coast Guard Officer smiled. "I came to ask you to a little party."

Torpedo tensed up even more. "Party" usually meant "Briefing" here at G.I. Joe Headquarters, a.k.a. the "PIT."

"Uh…can I have a little time to change myself?"

Cutter lifted his hand. "Don't worry, it's not until eighteen-hundred hours. I just wanted to warn you ahead of time."

The tension clamped even harder. "Warn me of what?

Cutter's eyes grew very stern. "That if you want a chance at this mission, you better spend the next two hours busting your butt off at the obstacle course and rifle range."

Wow. Torpedo's friend was always good at predicting enemy movements, but reading minds… The Joe SEAL realized what his friend was doing for him and made a mental promise to buy him a beer. "Yes, sir. I'll head over there immediately."

"Get moving." With that, Torpedo tore off his flippers and ran to his quarters, still sopping wet. Cutter smiled and shook his head.

4.

Lampreys. Nobody knew who Lampreys were. Oh, everyone knew the big boat that they drove. "Look out! It's a Cobra hydrofoil!" But did anyone ever say "Oh no! It's piloted by a Lamprey!" No. No one cared about Lampreys. Well, if no one was going to care about Lamprey First Class Niles Skellar as an individual, than he was going to make sure they never forgot his hydrofoil, or more accurately, his Moray.

Everyone had called them just "hydrofoils" for so long, that there were plans on calling the new Cobra sea troops "Morays," obviously forgetting that they had already called their top sea assault craft by the same name. Bah. Lamprey 1st Class Niles Skeller wouldn't forget. He was destined to be a Moray pilot.

The docks spread about the bay of Cobra Island were nothing like the beaten wooden docks on the Scottish Coast where Skellar grew up. He swore he would never be a poor fisherman like his father was, but he could never get the lure of the ocean out of his blood. When Cobra offered him powerful sea craft, along with a rudimentary sense of security, he couldn't resist.

As he walked across the concrete and steel docks towards his Moray, he knew he'd never have to fish another day again. Despite the heavy rains, his hydrofoil shone the brightest. He had cleaned it so many times that the other craft looked disgusting next to it. Rain was no friend, though, and he wished he had a tarp to throw over the top of the Moray. For some bizarre reason, though, all the tarps were confiscated into the new hangar. Someday he'd have to go there and see why, although Skellar couldn't imagine what use tarps would be on planes kept inside a sealed building.

"That's a mighty pretty boat you've got there, mate." Skellar spun around to see…a Dreadnok?

"What do ya want, umm…?" It was impossible to remember the names of all of these morons. Most people are scared to death by Zartan's henchman, but this Lamprey had a Moray to protect.

"Monkeywrench is me name. But no needs ta get feisty. I'm just admiring yer boat is all."

Skellar stepped into his line of view. "Well, now you've seen it. Leave me be." But it was too late. Niles could see the determination in the Dreadnok's eyes.

"Well, now, ya see, I wish I could be doin' that, but I was sent down here by me boss Zartan ta find a nice boat ta be using' for a mission…" Monkeywrench reached over Skeller and pointed at his Moray, "And seein' how yers is the prettiest, I think I'll be pickin' yours."

The Cobra Lamprey looked down and started to chuckle. "So, you think that I'm going ta let some stupid Dreadnok take ma Hydrofoil out to sea and trash it?"

Monkeywrench was shocked by Skellar's gall. "Who do ya think you are, tellin' a Dreadnok he can't do what he wants with yer stupid boat?"

Niles could hear the squeaking of his rubber gloves. "I'm a Moray pilot." With that, he slammed his fist into Monkeywrench's stomach, blowing the air out of the scruffy hoodlum's lungs. A left-handed uppercut quickly followed, but much to Skellar's dismay, the Dreadnok didn't fall back.

Monkeywrench's left hand grasped the Lamprey's neck, and slammed his helmeted head into the side of the hydrofoil. As Niles fell to his knees, he could feel his impending doom.

"That was a mighty big mistake you just made, there, mate."

Skellar never agreed, although he did worry about the dent he just made on his perfect Moray before he slipped into unconsciousness.