Disclaimer: G.I. Joe (and Ranma 1/2) do not belong to
me. Only in my dreams....
Timeline:
G.I. Joe is around five months before the events in
G.I. Joe the Movie. It has been a year and a half
ever since the episodes of Arise Serpentor Arise took
place.
Ranma 1/2 is three weeks after Ranma's battle with
Saffron.
The year is 1987
Credits: Much thanks to my pre-readers Hpackrat,
Kevin, Spornoc, Dragon Dagger, and James for helping a
LOT. Without them, finishing this chapter would've
been next to impossible.
Thanks a million!
Quick Note: For further information on all the Joe
members mentioned here, see the Joe Reference Sheet
I've posted along this chapter.
Quick Note 2: Due from my experience with smart
quotes in The Jedi of Chaos, I've tried my best to
make sure it won't appear in this chapter of Crossing
the Line. If they do appear though, please let me so
I can make the necessary corrections (and kick the
crap out of Ms Word). Thanks....
***********************
" " conversation
' ' thoughts
< > Japanese
[1,2,....] Footnotes and comments
***********************
The warrior with short, black hair sat in the middle
of his dojo, meditating. Wearing a medium gray gi, he
was completely motionless, save for his slow
breathing. A simply constructed, yet very serviceable
katana lay across his lap. He was alone, cut off from
society by the closed doors, and was well used to the
fact; he'd done this many times in the past.
Suddenly, in a blur of motion, he grabbed the katana
and rolled to his left, barely avoiding a trio of
shuriken that thudded into the spot he'd just vacated.
He came up on one knee, holding out in his left hand
the katana, still in its sheath, before him. Wary and
alert from the unexpected attack, he waited for the
assassin to reveal himself. He was not disappointed.
The closed entrance to the dojo was smashed inward in
a scattering of wood and paper. Displaying an
impressive level of stealth, a group of black clad,
tight fitting suited, masked men swarmed silently into
the dojo. The man saw that they, like him, were armed
with katanas. Upon seeing their method of dress and
their choice of weapons, the warrior easily came to
the one unmistakable conclusion.
Ninjas. Sent by who, he didn't know, but he wasn't
going to waste time by trying to find out. The
warrior's eyes narrowed and he rose to his feet,
preparing himself for the inevitable assault. He
raised his right arm, grasped the hilt, and slowly
pulled his katana out of its scabbard. Ready to
fight, and die if necessary, as a true warrior should,
he dropped the scabbard, wrapped his left hand around
the hilt, and brought the katana up vertically before
his eyes. Calmly regarding the odds against him, he
spoke but one word.
"Hajime."
He darted forward, lowering his katana into a
slashing position, and attacked, all within a blink of
an eye. The ninjas hesitated for a split second,
taken completely by surprise that their target, a
single man, would be so reckless as to initiate an
attack first against a numerically superior foe. They
paid for that as three of their number slumped to the
ground, never to see another sunrise.
Pausing for a moment, the man altered his stance and
charged ahead to attack again. It was then the fight
began in earnest. However, the ninjas were prepared
this time and met his charge with naked steel. The
warrior didn't falter in the slightest, though; his
blade was a shining blur as it slashed, cut, and
deflected, weaving an impenetrable flashing shield all
around him.
The ring of steel on steel, the groans of the dead
and the dying, the gasps of the wounded; all these
contaminated the atmosphere of just what was seconds
ago, a peaceful and quiet dojo.
He killed the first who came within reach, his
katana splitting the ninja's skull even as the ninja's
own blade lifted to strike. Instinctively
sidestepping a thrust from behind, the warrior's
blinding speed saved his life three times in a single
second, his katana knocking aside the strikes easily.
His eyes glowed without mercy, his arms and body
tireless, his entire soul the perfect weapon.
His katana darted past a blade that tried to
block, and sheathed six inches of its point in a black
garbed midsection. As it slid out of the dead ninja,
the warrior quickly snatched up the katana which its
previously living owner had dropped. Now, with dual
blades, he became a virtual whirlwind of edged death.
Every limb was always in motion, and every movement
was efficient, nothing was wasted at all.
Superior speed, skill, and reflexes all belonged
to the man. They kept him alive in countless
situations in the past, as they did now. The
advantage that his mysterious opponents held was that
they were many and their numbers seemed endless. In
fact, for every ninja he killed, two more rushed
through the door to take their dead brethren's place.
But despite that, he knew he could not give up, could
not back down, because an assassin group such as this
always never took prisoners.
But the one single thing that truly made the
difference was that the warrior had fully entered into
zanshen, the state of no mind. He had achieved an
awareness at the level suggestive of a complete sixth
sense; the total involvement in an environment that
which zanshen practitioners aimed for. He was fully
aware of everything taking place around him. His eyes
caught every action, his ears heard every sound, and
his feet felt every vibration transmitted to him
through the dojo floor.
All this information was absorbed and acted upon
instantly. His self consciousness was subordinated
unto his concentration; his mind moved freely and
responded to each attack immediately, bypassing the
thought and directly moving on to the action.
He went into a spiraling dance, his katanas
whipping all around him, his footwork keeping him free
from being boxed in, his acute senses watching his
back for any attacks from that direction. Of his
weapons, his left hand guided the parries, while the
right hand orchestrated the attacks and
counterattacks. Then both of them would switch tasks
back and forth whenever the situation called for it.
At least eleven bodies lay on the wooden floor,
and yet they still came, reinforcements arriving in
greater numbers then before. It seemed hopeless, but
the warrior still fought on, inwardly vowing to
continue on until his last breath of life��..
Somewhere very far from where the battle was taking
place, two men watched the events play out on a
monitor, both with differing expressions. One of
them, taller than his companion, remarked impatiently,
"Why is the process taking so long?"
The other one, a bald-headed man wearing eyeglasses,
said in an exasperated tone, "Because I am not using
the full output of what the machine is capable of."
Before his companion could ask the obvious question,
he explained further. "I fear that the using the
machine at full power has a good chance, possibly
ninety percent, of turning him into a mindless
vegetable." He smirked knowingly and said, "I know
that is one result that you sincerely do not wish to
happen."
The taller man just shook his head angrily and
muttered, "It's still going too slow. Inform me if
there any progress is made." He stomped towards the
doorway and exited the room. The bald headed man gave
an amused chuckle and continued watching the battle.
"I must say that he possesses extremely strong
willpower. At this rate, it might take a week,
possibly more, before he succumbs.."
A G.I. Joe/Ranma 1/2 Crossover
Crossing the Line
By Darksoar
Chapter Two, Part One:
Training Day
It was an hour after midnight in a small,
unimportant town in southern Texas.
The sniper was waiting for the rest of his team
to get into position. He was a tall burly man,
dressed in a dark gray jacket and matching pants, with
knee high black boots. An even length of yellow hair
ran out from the edges of a black cap, and he wore
black rimmed dark red goggles. A one-piece
communicative headset fit snugly around his cap.
His code-name for this mission was Dark Sight,
and he was in his element. On the rooftop of a
ten-story apartment, his sniper rifle on a stand
before him, he was kneeling in the darkened shadow of
the upraised entryway of the roof access stairs. With
his current position, and his own dark clothes, he was
practically invisible.
Even for such a late time, the streets were
strangely empty, with nary a soul to be seen. It was
also almost dead quiet near his position, though he
could hear the faint music of Michael Jackson's
Thriller playing half a block away. He'd picked this
particular building for a simple reason. It provided
a good, unobstructed view of the old, abandoned
warehouse which he was keeping an eye on and its
immediate surroundings.
Also, it stood at a tall enough height to help
him avoid being seen from street level.
Having arrived over an hour ago, Dark Sight had
situated himself comfortably enough, yet had the good
sense not to grow careless while waiting for the
predetermined time to check in with Alpha Team. He
was too well trained to let his attention drift during
the period of non-activity; at the moment, he was
slowly sweeping the warehouse. To compensate for the
blackness of the night, a night sight adapter was
connected to the scope of his sniper rifle. Later
that night, perhaps in the next half-hour or so, his
superiors had informed him that there was going to be
a drug purchase.
The mission of Alpha Team, which consisted of
him, GunnyBear, Wildfish, and Weapons Cook, was to
raid the warehouse which was the predetermined meeting
place. Casualties were allowed and expected, but at
all costs they had to at least take the pickup man
alive. Extreme caution was, of course, advised.
The night sight adapter worked by amplifying any
source of available reflected light, in this case
moonlight, and allowed Dark Sight to view his
surroundings clearly. At the moment, he was
methodically checking every nook and cranny within
twenty-five feet of the warehouse large enough to hide
a man. So far, he'd counted ten men outside of the
building, all bristling with AK-47s and handguns
strapped on either hip. Now he had to find out how
many were inside, and in able to do that, he had to
change scope adapters.
With the ease that was born from many hours of
practice, he worked quickly and efficiently in
complete darkness, gently disconnecting the night
sight and stowing it away in its pouch on his left
leg. Then, opening a second pouch right next to it,
he carefully slipped out another tube-shaped lens
device and fastened it to the scope, twisting until it
was firmly tightened and secure. Nodding in
satisfaction, the sniper brought his eye to look
through the scope again.
What he saw made him smile faintly. It seemed that
the walls weren't insulated enough to stop infrared
technology from penetrating them and allowing him to
see how many drug smugglers were inside. He mentally
took note of the number and then double-checked it.
After doing reconfirming the number of guards outside,
the sniper quickly went over his actions to check and
see if he'd missed anything. That was unlikely but it
was better to be safe than sorry.
Dark Sight had already gone through the proper
preparations of cleaning his rifle and checking his
ammo and gear. Using a laser rangefinder to determine
the average target range, he used that information to
apply the necessary adjustments to the rifle. A few
minutes later, he had come to the conclusion that he
would need to target at least six inches above the
actual target to allow for trajectory drop.
The conditions that night worked in his favor.
The illumination provided by the moon was just right;
meaning to say that it wasn't bright enough to enable
the naked eye to see him, but it was enough for him to
see anyone else using the night sight adapter. He was
an old hand at this, with about fifteen years of
experience, and his exceptional talent had been
sharpened by the passage of time and by constant
practice.
He was as ready as he would ever be.
Checking the time again, he noted that it was
ten minutes before he was scheduled to check in with
his three other teammates and supply them with the
intel he had gathered. After doing that, he would
wait again until they reached their checkpoints and
confirm their positions with him. Then it would be
simply a matter of patiently waiting for the person
responsible for delivering the money to show up.
/****************************************************/
At the moment, the rest of Alpha Team was behind a
car auto shop directly south of Dark Sight's position.
The three men stood in a line pressed against the
wall. Each carried a black, army standard sized
backpack, wore black and dark gray military fatigues,
carried a standard M-16 rifle in their hands and had
pistols strapped to their waists. In addition, they
also wore a headset similar to what the sniper had and
a set of night vision glasses hanging around their
necks.
"Are you finished yet?" whispered the man in the
middle of the line, a tall, burly man with black hair
and a mustache. He spoke in a low gravelly voice and
was glancing around, his nerves tight..
"Keep your voice down. I'm still calibrating
it. You've been asking me that question almost every
minute. Even for a block-headed Marine, you're
supposed to be more disciplined than this. Now shut
up and don't distract me, GunnyBear." The man in the
front, a curly red-brown haired man, was concentrating
on making some adjustments to a device in his hands.
Though shorter and leaner then his both of his
teammates, hidden under the fatigues, he, as well as
the two other men, possessed a hard muscled body that
spoke of rigorous training.
"Sure thing, Wildfish," returned GunnyBear,
amused, with the beginnings of a smirk on his
weathered face.
The third and last member of their team, a
large, bald African American with a mustache, who was
also the biggest out of the trio, spoke in a tight,
controlled voice that sounded annoyed. He began to
feel exasperated; banter such as this between these
two was a favorite past time when they were in each
other's company, but now it was threatening to
increase the difficulty of their mission. "Keep the
volume down a bit, you two; we'll be found out if you
sound like a zoo." [1]
GunnyBear gave him a sarcastic look but heeded
the advice. "Roger that, Weapons Cook," he muttered.
He frowned in disgust. "'GunnyBear', what the hell.
I'm going to kill whoever came up with that damned
ridiculous code-name," he grimly promised in a low,
ominous sounding tone of voice.
Wildfish didn't offer any comment as he was
focused on finishing the proper adjustments on the one
piece of military equipment whose value was
incalculable on this particular mission; night vision
binoculars. Standard military issue, state of the art
tech, its function was similar to the night sight
adapter that Dark Sight had employed, but it had the
advantage of superior range and clarity. It also
retained the same function as a normal set of
binoculars.
Although Wildfish didn't say anything, years of
serving with him allowed GunnyBear to guess with fair
enough accuracy what the smaller man was thinking.
His teammate probably wanted to say something along
the lines of GunnyBear's code-name coincidentally
sounding like his favorite TV show. How in the world
did Wildfish discover that particular secret of his
was something GunnyBear really wanted to find out.
At the same time, long familiarity with the
burly Marine allowed Wildfish to suspect that
GunnyBear was currently trying to puzzle out exactly
how in the world did that particular secret become
known to him. He didn't exactly smile, but his lips
twitched upward and then resumed as a straight line.
Next time, GunnyBear had better make sure he locked
his door before drinking beer and watching TV at the
same time.
If the guys back at HQ ever found out that
GunnyBear enjoyed watching a cartoon which featured
talking bears drinking juice and bouncing around on
their asses, they'd never allow him to forget it. [2]
Silence reigned for the next couple of minutes.
During that period of time, Wildfish finally completed
the necessary calibrations. Cautiously edging around
the corner, he started a slow and precise reconnoiter.
Weapons Cook and GunnyBear patiently waited for him
and kept alert to any sign of potential trouble.
A few minutes passed by in complete silence,
then a voice quietly came to life within all of the
three men's headsets. "Alpha Team, this is Dark
Sight. Do you read me, over?"
"Dark Sight, this is GunnyBear. I'm reading
you. What is your report, over?"
"The Wolves are alive in the Den, I repeat, the
Wolves are alive in the Den. Over."
"Roger that, Dark Sight. Acknowledged, the
Wolves are alive in the Den. Transmit gathered intel
on Wolves, do you copy? Over."
The voice paused for a moment, then said,
"Acknowledged. Six on ground with AK-47s; Four on the
roof armed with same; infrared detects three more in
the building, most probably the top dogs. Over."
Still scanning, Wildfish replied, "Dark Sight,
Wildfish. I concur with the number outside. I count
ten, that is T-E-N, standing guard."
The sniper's voice said, "Wildfish, Dark Sight.
Confirmed, ten guards out. Repeating, three hot
bodies in."
Wildfish eased back from the corner and quietly
conferred with his team and Dark Sight for a few
minutes. It was decided that when the pickup man
would show up, which was probably in the next half
hour, Alpha Team would wait until he would enter the
building. Then, on a signal from Dark Sight (after he
received confirmation from everyone that they were all
set), all of them would open fire simultaneously at
preselected targets. Wildfish and Weapons Cook would
stage an assault from both sides while Gunny Bear
would attack from behind. When all of the guards were
down, they would deal with the remainder inside by the
strategic application of tear gas.
Of course, all the members of Alpha Team
understood that once the first shot was fired, the men
in the building would definitely stay inside the
warehouse and return fire from the relative shelter
inside. Thus, it would fall to GunnyBear to throw in
the tear gas as soon as possible. Once that happened,
Alpha Team would wait for the gas to take effect and
then burst in. It was a mission, and so they would
accomplish it. Each member was well equipped,
extensively trained, and confident in their skills and
experience. It would help that they would have the
advantage of surprise and would be able to fire the
first shots.
And now, three minutes before they started
moving out, they took this opportunity to exchange a
few whispered words.
Shifting his grip on the standard M-16 he was
holding, GunnyBear gave it a disdainful look. "Wish I
had my M203 40mm grenade launcher attached to this
piece of junk," he muttered.
Weapons Cook agreed with him. He shook his
head, showing disapproval of his own inadequate
weapon. "I hear ya, loud and clear. This li'l heap
won't kill no deer. My mah-deuce is big and strong;
this little stick is just plain wrong."
Wildfish spared a glance at them, shaking his
head almost pityingly. "You two are pathetic. You
depend too much on a single armament, and such over
specializing is never a good idea. I, on the other
hand, am extremely proficient with a wide variety of
weapons." The way the last sentence was said
indicated that it wasn't a boast; he was just stating
a fact.
GunnyBear shot him one of his most sarcastic
glares and briefly contemplated slugging Wildfish in
the ribs while he wasn't looking. A second later, he
reconsidered and shrugged off the temptation. He
settled for snorting gently in reply and whispering,
"Extremely proficient my ass. It's too bad that you
don't share a bonding love like Weapons Cook and I
do."
Wildfish caught the perturbed, bothered look on
the African American's face and choked back the
impulse to roar in laughter. He smirked. "Oh, I
didn't know the two of you were.... close like THAT."
Weapons Cook butted in, speaking with a slightly
annoyed, though controlled tone of voice. "Shuddup,
don't go actin' like some fool. Or else I'm gonna be
losing my cool."
GunnyBear looked confused for a moment then
reviewed back on his earlier sentence. His eyes
widened in sudden dismay and he suppressed an urge to
slap his forehead in self-disgust. A burst of anger
sprung up and ignited his temper; however he was
forced it down somehow, knowing that the mission came
first. Perhaps he would get a chance to get some
payback later....
Shrugging his shoulders and ignoring Wildfish's
smirk, he glanced down at his watch. At seeing the
current time, his entire demeanor instantly
transformed, becoming serious and professional in a
split second. Turning towards his teammates,
GunnyBear made a zipping gesture across his lips and
raised the night vision goggles to put them on. Both
of his teammates immediately understood and followed
suit. The burly man made a fist and swung it in a
small circle above his head. Alpha Team, sans
sniper, broke away from the auto shop and spread out
in three different directions, heading towards their
respective checkpoints.
/****************************************************/
Fifteen minutes later:
Like a statue, Dark Sight was motionless. The
only sign of life at all from him was his steady, slow
breathing. From his spot he was continuously sweeping
the warehouse, making sure that no additional guards
arrived or any other surprises made themselves known.
Despite all that time waiting, he possessed almost
inhuman patience and discipline, as was required for a
sniper.
A voice crackled gently into his ear. "Wildfish
at checkpoint."
Dark Sight replied, "Acknowledged. Select
target and follow."
"Roger that." A pause, then, "Acquired Target
Number 1, right side of door."
"Acknowledged."
Only a few seconds passed and then a low voice
reported in. "Weapons Cook at checkpoint."
Alpha Team's sniper grinned faintly. He
suspected that Weapons Cook had to fight the urge to
report in using a rhyme. "Acknowledged. Select
target and follow."
"Acquired Target Number 2, left side of door."
The sniper thought to himself, 'That's good. We
have to take down the ones closest to the door so the
others won't be in a rush to dash inside for cover.
There's a decent chance that they will spread out and
make easier targets. In any case, that makes three
targets accounted for, including mine on the rooftop.
In order to ensure that the rest of the team, I have
to be at my fastest and knock those three down so they
won't be able to provide cover from higher ground.'
A minute passed, then two, yet there was no
communications from the last remaining Alpha Team
member. But the sniper had expected that; it made
sense that it would take GunnyBear more time and
caution to circle around towards the rear of the
warehouse. As he patiently waited, his ears caught
the sound of a car nearby. He looked down and to the
right, keeping his gaze on the road expectantly. Sure
enough, a blue car drove past the apartment, heading
straight towards the warehouse. It stopped about
fifteen feet from the entrance and the engine was
killed. The door on the driver's side opened and a
man wearing a suit got out, carrying a briefcase.
Dark Sight would've bet his life on the odds of
that being the deliveryman.
Two of the guards went to meet him. After
sharing a few words, one of them escorted the new
arrival inside the warehouse while the other one
resumed his post.
'The stage is set, the players are ready. He'd
better report in soon....'
/*************************************************************/
GunnyBear was fiercely tempted to curse out
loud. He had to settle for doing it silently though.
'Damn those two good for nothing asses for doing such
a sloppy reconnaissance. I'm gonna knock their blocks
off when I get the chance!' Trust them to give him
the hard part. Completing the mission took priority
over everything else however, so he was forced to
shelve his anger and focus on the task at hand. At
the moment, he was in an alleyway directly north of
the warehouse, hiding behind a garbage bin between two
buildings. It had taken him a considerable amount of
time and stealth to get there. About twenty feet in
front of him was the rear of the warehouse and his
objective. There was only a slight problem though.
There were three more guards posted there, and they
were all spread out. It was highly unlikely, even
with his skill and training, he would be able to get
them all before they raised an alarm or returned fire
and killed him, either of which was most definitely
not an option. GunnyBear clenched his teeth angrily
and crouched down against the wall, trying to think of
what to do. He was aware that he had to do something
soon; the pickup would soon arrive and he had to be in
position when it did.
His brow furrowed in thought; it would make his job
much more easier if he could use the full automatic
firing mode. But as tempting as that idea was, he
discarded it as foolhardy. In order to do that, he
would have to take off the silencer. He would be able
to take out all three before they could alert the
others, but then again, the sound of his rifle firing
would serve as a most effective alarm. And as it
stood, he and his teammates were outnumbered, so they
needed to grab every possible advantage, which meant
whatever plan he thought of, stealth had to be
considered as a primary factor. Unfortunately, it was
a hindrance in regards to his current predicament;
with single shot, at best he could get one before the
others got under cover, raised the alarm, and began to
try and pinpoint his location, which wouldn't be that
difficult and also wouldn't take that long. When that
happened, he would be screwed because they would
return fire, keeping him pinned down, and eventually
get him sooner or later.
No, it was obvious that a better plan was needed. He
had to do something to distract them, or to make them
bunch up together in a group, but what could he do?
At that moment luck decided to smile upon him.
GunnyBear suddenly heard a sound of movement. He
stifled the reflexive urge to poke gun out from behind
his cover and fire away. Cool logic washed over him
and he then realized that whatever it had been, the
sound was not that of a foot scuffling against
pavement or anything like that. He immediately
relaxed after a moment's consideration. It wasn't any
of the henchmen walking in his direction, he realized,
but rather some sort of small creature, most likely a
stray cat searching for food in the trash bin.
Nothing to be worried about, in any case. The Alpha
Team member let out a slow breath as relief crashed
down upon him, he hadn't realized how tensed up he
was. Then his eyes widened as an idea dawned upon
him. He went over it and decided that, lacking any
other feasible options, he might as well give it a
shot.
The henchmen patrolling the area were startled by a
sound coming from the alleyway directly in front of
them. They immediately responded; one flicked on his
flashlight, trained it on the area, and motioned for
the other two to check it out, who wordlessly agreed.
They raised their AK-47s and started advancing
carefully. All of them were on the edge, and were
more than a little trigger-happy. Then came another
noise, similar to the first, and as they got closer,
it sounded like something or someone bumping against
made out of metal. That made their anxiety leap to
roof-level and they just barely refrained from pulling
the trigger.
The flashlight holder frowned in confusion as he
played the beam all over the alleyway, he could see
nothing at all. In fact, the only place that he
hadn't checked was..... It seemed that his fellow
guards had the same idea as he did. They instantly
focused their attention at the one possible hiding
place available in such a tight and narrow space.
Behind the trash bin.
However, before they could take a step forward, there
came a lazy meowing sound. All three of the men
looked at each other in a dumbfounded manner, blinked
once in eerie synchronization, and looked back at the
area near the trashbin. With perfect timing, out into
range of the flashlight's beam walked a black and
white, scrawny cat. Apparently unafraid of the light
nor of the nearby presence of three hulking humans, it
looked up at them once, meowed again, and leisurely
padded past them out of the alley.
Said three hulking humans stood there for two seconds
and then started chuckling. Ribbing each other about
being freaked out by nothing, they turned around and
began walking back to their stations. Feeling more
relaxed, they let themselves grow a tad bit more
careless than they should had.
Now that was a BIG mistake on their part.
/****************************************************/
Back on the rooftop, Dark Sight was thinking to check
with GunnyBear. It had already been almost a minute
and a half since the deliveryman had arrived; it
wouldn't be long before he took his leave. Once that
happened, the mission would then be officially
considered a failure, something that wouldn't be
approved by the higher-ups in charge. He decided to
wait for thirty seconds more then he would contact the
Marine.
However, it turned out to be unnecessary. A few
moments later, the sniper heard the familiar gravelly
voice break into his headset. "GunnyBear at
checkpoint; pardon the delay. Encountered some
trouble back here, but nothing I couldn't handle."
Dark Sight replied, "Acknowledged. Select target and
follow."
"Acquired Target three, near the car."
"Acknowledged." And then, "All right, track your
designated targets and await my command to fire." He
had to give credit to GunnyBear; he was disciplined to
refrain from accusing and blaming him and Wildfish on
the airwaves for not doing a 'better job' on
reconnaissance. That in itself gave Dark Sight
credible suspicion that his teammate would rant and
rave about it later in private. He'd have to deal
with that later, and knowing the propensity of
GunnyBear's temper, he was afraid that the Marine
might soon be causing a headache in the not so far
future. But enough of that, now he had to focus on
the present situation.
After receiving three affirmatives, Dark Sight nodded
to himself in satisfaction; the mission could properly
be
gin. A faint smile of what might have been eager
anticipation showed itself briefly, and then he seemed
to switch his entire body language, becoming cold and
hardened, ready for business. "Show time," he
muttered into the headset, looking through the
eyepiece; he swung slightly to the left, tracking his
first target, squeezed the trigger--.
/****************************************************/
The raid itself was short, quick, and completely
one-sided.
The first four guards, one on the roof and three
below, were downed roughly at the same time. In the
single second that it took for the others to fully
realize that they were under sudden attack, another
roof guard had succumbed to the precise and quick
shooting of Dark Sight. As the rest threw themselves
flat on the ground and frantically rolled towards what
little cover was available, Alpha Team shifted their
positions to gain better angles on new targets.
The surviving drug henchmen managed to inform their
bosses inside the warehouse that they were being
ambushed. Due to the fact that Alpha Team were using
silencers, night vision, and had the advantage of
firing the first shots, any of the guards who either
tried to run to get behind the neighboring buildings
for cover or get inside the warehouse joined were
easily picked off. Even though the guards on the roof
threw themselves flat, Dark Sight had them in his
sights before they could get behind any sort of cover.
One henchman managed to make it to the side of the
warehouse. With his concentration on weaving
erratically to the right and left during his run in an
attempt to avoid getting shot, he never noticed
GunnyBear until it was too late. He clutched at his
chest and fell on his back, joining the demise of
three other henchmen who were near a particular
alleyway. Grinning and bending under window height to
avoid being shot by the drug smugglers inside, the
burly Marine carefully made his way to the front and
staged a successful sneak attack on two guards who
were hiding behind the deliveryman's car. Ignoring
their angry glares as they slid to the ground, he
shrugged nonchalantly and looked around for any
survivors.
A quick check revealed that they'd gotten all of
them. Wildfish and Weapons Cook had cautiously
emerged from wherever they'd hiding, taking cover
behind the car. With handsignals and gestures, they
conferred with their teammate, who was in a crouch
against the left side of the warehouse. They knew
without a doubt that the leaders of this bunch were
ready to shoot anyone who tried to enter. Thus, the
idea of kicking down the door and bursting in with
guns blazing was immediately discarded on the grounds
of being 'tactically unsound'. Attempting to shoot at
them through the windows was crossed out as well;
they'd be closely watched as well, accompanied by
itchy trigger fingers. However there was a much
easier way to accomplish the mission.
While the other two men covered him, GunnyBear
crouch-walked to the nearest window, which happened to
be right behind him. Working rapidly, he laid his
M-16 on the ground beside him, swept off his backpack,
placed it down, and opened it up. He reached inside
with both hands and brought out a pair of knock out
gas grenades. Without hesitating, he proceeded to
throw them, one at a time and as hard as he could, at
the window. As soon as second grenade smashed through
the glass, GunnyBear was already digging into his
backpack for two more. Once those made the flight
into the building and he was already supplying his
hands with a third set, an authoritative voice called
out from inside, "Okay, that's enough! We surrender!"
Grinning smugly, he grabbed his equipment and stood
up. He repeated the message for the rest of Alpha
Team's sake then headed towards the warehouse front.
Giving a thumbs up to Weapons Cook and Wildfish, he
went and opened the door, standing back for a brief
moment to allow the gas to vent out. When he judged
the visibility inside was good enough to see by, the
Marine promptly walked in, not affected by the
remaining gas at all.
Four figures, all of who were fully conscious and
apparently suffering no ill effects from the gas,
stood at the back of the building holding various
types of guns. GunnyBear casually threw a mock salute
towards the man who had ordered the surrender,
smirking victoriously.
"Sorry Flint, you lose."
Dressed in black slacks, gray polo, and missing his
favorite beret, Flint smiled ruefully. "I guess I
do," he admitted, "Nicely played, GunnyBear, or should
I say, Leatherneck?" He reached into his pocket and
pulled out a radio, flicking it on. "All personnel,
Flint here. Simulation Smuggler-Raid is at an end.
Drill finished."
Sighs of complaints arose everywhere as the 'dead'
drug henchmen got up from where they had been
'killed'. They'd been wearing T-shirts that were
splattered with red paint circles where they'd been
shot by Alpha Team. All the rifles and handguns of
the participants had been modified to shoot paint; so
when a person was 'shot', except for a temporary
sting, it didn't hurt. The sting was to inform
whomever it was that they'd been shot, and so had to
act accordingly, e.g. falling down 'dead'.
Some of them turned to Roadblock and Wetsuit AKA
Weapons Cook and Wildfish respectively, complimenting
them on a raid very well executed. Dusty, Iceberg,
and Airborne had been the rear guards who had been
distracted and then shot from behind by Leatherneck.
Wild Bill, Blow Torch, Clutch, and Frost Bite had
posed as the guards on the roof while Lift Ticket,
Sci-Fi, Crank-Case, Barbecue, Recondo, and Rip Cord
played the guards in front.
Back inside the warehouse, a red-bearded man (who
played as one of the four men) with a northern accent
turned Leatherneck. "Hey GunnyBear, couldn't you have
watched where you were throwing those canisters? You
nearly hit me on the head with them!"
The recipient of that question glared in reply.
"Hey, you're lucky that the 'tear gas' is only
ordorless and harmless gas. Now that the drill's over
Snow Job, quit calling me that 'GunnyBear' crap. It's
Leatherneck, now and forever. When I find out who
came up with that ridiculous codename, I'm gonna have
a few words with him."
"Even if it's General Hawk or Duke?" teased
Airtight, the Joe's resident C.B.R. [3] specialist,
who had played as the deliveryman. Leatherneck turned
his glare on him, which turned out to be so menacing
that Airtight gulped and took a step back. "Hey, take
it easy old-timer, we wouldn't want you to suffer from
a heart attack due to poor anger management, now
wouldn't we?"
In a flash of motion, Leatherneck grabbed the smaller
man by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward,
shaking him like a rag doll. "Have some respect for
your elders, you punk!" he roared. Snow Job and Zap,
an anti-tank weaponry specialist who also played as a
third drug leader, reacted quickly and grabbed onto
the arms of the hot-tempered Marine and tried to pull
the two of them apart. Not an easy feat considering
Leatherneck was built like a bull and possessed more
strength than either of them.
"What did you call me, you pipsqueaking two-bit
joker! Say that again, I dare you!" [4]
"Sergeant Metzger, cease and desist! That's an
order, mister!!" When his words produced no immediate
results, Flint felt a minor headache coming into
existence. Being familiar with Leatherneck's
bullheaded relentlessness, he knew that it would be a
while until he calmed down.
At that moment, a distraction of sorts arrived; Low
Light (Dark Sight) and Wetsuit walked in to see what
was happening. Upon seeing Leatherneck's actions, the
sniper just grunted and crossed his arms over his
chest, choosing to be an observer. Wetsuit just shook
his head in mock dismay; out of all the Joes, he was
probably the most familiar with his friend's temper.
He stepped forward to give the others a hand in
restraining the enraged Marine.
Leatherneck caught a glimpse of the Navy Seal
approaching. Turning his head fully in Wet Suit's
direction, he saw Low Light as well. He suddenly
remembered the trouble he had encountered because of
the sloppy recon (in his opinion) done by those two
and his anger suddenly found a more viable target.
Releasing his grasp on a relieved Airtight, he growled
at Wet Suit. Now was a perfect time for some payback!
Wet Suit recognized the look in his eyes and had one
second to murmur "Ah crap," before Leatherneck broke
free of Snow Job and Zap with a sudden burst of
strength and charged right at him. The sounds of a
struggle followed very soon after that and it got the
attention of some of the other Joes standing outside
the warehouse. Upon entering, they saw the two men
rolling over and over the floor, grappling and
wrestling with each other.
Airtight said to no one in particular, "With a temper
like that, it's no surprise how he ever became a drill
sergeant." Everyone within earshot of that comment
nodded in agreement. Needless to say, it took a while
to separate the two combatants and in the process,
Flint's headache took the opportunity to grow a little
more intense.
/****************************************************/
G.I. Joe Headquarters "The Pit"
Main Gymnasium,
The next day
9:00 am:
Any other day, the court would be filled with a bunch
of Joes engaged in a rousing game of basketball.
Today was an exception; in accordance with the new
training regime designed by the combined efforts of
Sgt. Slaughter, Flint, and Beach Head as per Hawk's
orders, multiple intensive sessions of hand to hand
combat were being held simultaneously. The general
himself was observing onsite with Beach Head.
"How are the hand to hand combat sessions been
going?" Hawk winced in sympathy as he saw Snake Eyes,
who was in charge of said combat sessions, use a judo
move to throw a hapless TripWire over his shoulder and
down onto the thankfully cushioned mattress.
Beach Head flipped through the various progress
reports and began speaking. "Snake and Slaughter have
pretty much gott'n dis part of training under wraps,
Gen'ral. Not a bad start, considerin' it's only been
a week ever since ya gave Flint 'd order ta revise our
trainin' program. He's managed ta drag Stalkuh, Quick
Kick, and that cold guhtt'd fish Torpaydo into it as
supervisors. Ah'll bet that once Skahlett gets back
from her leave, they'll put her ta work as soon as
poss'ble. Those of 'd men who ahn't out on those
trainin' misshans are here doin' their level best ta
beat each uther down. Based on these," tapping his
finger on the progress reports, "They're performin' at
ah decent 'nuff level." He paused, then said, "Word
from Flint just came in this mornin'. He's got
Luthuhneck helpin' him settin' up sev'ral war games
and specific situation sim'lations for his group ta
run. Seems that they've just finished 'd first one
just last night and he reports that based on 'd
results, they'll be focusin' on increasin' d'
efficiency of doing recon and teamwork." [5]
"I see. Send a message reminding to give those men
an intense workout, and then some. Push them to their
limits," Hawk said, looking around him and studying
how the separate sessions were going. Beach Head
waited patiently, knowing that the he wasn't finished
talking yet. The Ranger occupied his time by
following the general's lead and also began watching
the various Joes as they trained.
Finally, the general said, "By the way, regarding
Scarlett, any news from her?" The Joe in question was
on leave for a month. She was in Japan, looking up
some of her old senseis and also wanted to expand her
knowledge of the martial arts. It had been two weeks
ever since she'd left, but Hawk wanted to keep tabs on
his Joes, on leave or not. With Cobra still at large
out there somewhere, a hostage situation wasn't
completely out of the question.
Beach Head replied, "Dial Town informed me dat
yestheday Ms. O' Hana called up an' left a fax for her
fav'rit' Joe, Snake. She told Dial Town she wuz jus'
bein' a reg'lur tourist and also said ta inform
ev'ryone dat she'd bring back pi'churs." At that,
Hawk smiled and returned to watching the training
sessions.
In the far corner, Gung Ho and Bazooka were
wrestling, each trying to pin the other to the ground.
Alpine, who was a good friend of Bazooka, was
alternating between shouting encouragement and
dreading the moment when it was to be his turn.
Next to them in a miniature boxing ring, Rock 'n Roll
and Footloose were wearing protective gloves and were
shuffling in circles, throwing jabs and straights,
trying to knock each other down. All though both had
similar training, Rock 'n Roll had more experience,
was also bigger, stronger and soon had the younger man
on the ropes.
Quick Kick was in the process of teaching Slip Stream
the basics of Karate. Only the incredibly fast
reflexes of the Air Force lieutenant enabled him to
dodge and block most of the attacks. Although Quick
Kick was going easy on him, Beach Head witnessed Slip
Stream misjudge his opponent's recovery speed and
receive a roundhouse kick to the chest for his
troubles. He shook his head and continued on with the
inspection.
On a practice matt in the center of the room, a
cursing and in the process of being totally humiliated
Shipwreck was currently being tossed around like a
ragdoll. His cockiness and self-confidence were the
only things that he could blame for placing him in
such a situation. How could he've known that Lady
Jaye turned out to proficient in Judo? If he had
known, he definitely would've snuck away to train with
someone else. Now the sailor regretted it because he
knew that by the next morning, he would have bruises
in places he had no idea he had. The Joe's head
honcho and the Ranger were hard pressed not to laugh
at the spectacle.
On a similar note, the H.A.V.O.C. [6] driver Robert
M. Blais, otherwise known as Cross Country, was doing
his best in trying to pit his unarmed fighting skill
against the unmovable mountain known as Sgt.
Slaughter. As far as Cross Country was concerned, it
was completely a waste of time because at the moment,
the Joe's biggest, strongest drill instructor had his
head under a massive armpit in a secure hold and was
shouting questions along the lines of what was he
going to do now and he was going to 'die' in the next
minute unless he got free. Blais was now yelling that
he had enough and that the sergeant could let him go
now. Of course he was ignored and Slaughter was
maniacally laughing his ass off.
Hawk managed not to smile at the sight; it seemed
that Slaughter was in a good mood today. He turned to
Beach Head, who was jotting down something in his
notes, and said, "Wayne," using his real name, "I'll
be in my office going over those reports which you've
already compiled. Continue on with your
observations."
Beach Head saluted and handed his commanding officer
the finished progress reports. "Ya got it, Gen'ral."
"Carry on." Hawk nodded back and walked off, heading
to wards the exit, steadfastly ignoring the various
volumes of pain being emitted around him. He exited
the gymnasium and started heading to his office.
About halfway there however, a sudden thought caused
him to change his destination. The inspection of the
training program was finished; he could now check up
on other part of the operation that he'd placed Duke
in charge of.
After walking one flight of stairs up, he came to a
room which had a sign labeled, "Communications".
Opening the door, he stepped in and was greeted by the
sight of technicians busily working at various
computer consoles and radio and telecommunications
equipment. One or two happened to look in his
direction, saluted him briefly, and went right back to
work. The others were too absorbed in what they were
doing to notice that General Hawk was in the room.
A satisfied smile appeared on his weathered
face; their reaction (or lack of it) didn't bother him
at all; it just more proof that they were very
dedicated to their jobs and weren't slacking off. He
preferred it that way. They got a lot more work done
by focusing on it and by not having to stand up,
salute, and wait for him to give them the command 'As
you were'. Proper military etiquette was nice and
all, but Clayton Abernathy was a battlefield
commander, and was at his best leading his men into
combat by being at the front. In his opinion,
efficiency and dedication counted for more than
practicing proper military etiquette.
Mainframe caught sight of him and called out,
"General Hawk, I've got something that you might be
interested in." The G.I. Joe top commander headed on
over to the senior computer specialist's station.
"Okay, show me what you got." He looked around and
only saw a busy Breaker, but no Dial Tone.
Seeing where Hawk was looking, Mainframe replied,
"Oh, he went to get something to eat at the
cafeteria." He directed Hawk's attention to his
console. "Check this out, General," he said, his
fingers flying swiftly over the cumbersome keyboard
while he explained. His computer monitor began
displaying lists of names, all in green, changing as
he typed.
"Due to Cobra's habit of using undercover agents to
do a good portion of their dirty work, I created a
program and implemented all the possible names that
their agents have used in the past, or at least the
ones we found out, along with their height, weight,
hair color, eye color, blood type, etc..., all of
which could be disguised or falsified, but it's a
starting point, at least. I know the odds of Cobra
agents using the same identity more than once is
pretty nil; but I figure it couldn't hurt. The basic
premise of the program was to check against the
passenger listing of any airliner, cruiseship, or any
other sort of travelling that requires a ticket all
around the world. Of course, I had to input several
Priority One NATO codes so the program could access
them automatically ......" he trailed off, pressing
the TAB key, and using the numeric keypad to navigate
through a series of menus and submenus.
"Anyways, here we are. I made the program so it
would loop infinitely, meaning that it automatically
checks those listings every thirty minutes and updates
them if necessary. I've even made it so it'll alert
me when it finds something; that way I won't have to
bother with it. I figure that it's a long shot," he
shrugged, "but who knows? We might get lucky. My
boys have been doing their best; Breaker, Dial Tone,
and their boys been trying to pick up the radio
frequencies that we found out in the past are commonly
used by Cobra. I've also requested Slip Stream, due
to his hacking of computers back in his high school
years, to give me a hand whenever he's not too badly
bruised up by Quick Kick." He smirked at that, then
continued, "Despite all that, it's like trying to find
a needle in a haystack the size of an ocean, but much
harder, because those danged snakes are purposely
lying low somewhere. But we'll be doing our best to
smoke 'em out, you can bet on that sir."
Hawk nodded approvingly at his positive attitude.
Like Mainframe said, it was a long shot, but better
safe than sorry. He patted him on the shoulder and
said, "Good job, Blaine. Keep at it, and tell Dial
Tone the same. Let Duke and me know when you come up
with something you think is worth paying attention to.
Carry on."
/****************************************************/
International Airport of Narita, Japan
Same day (relatively)
2:30 pm
<Ms. Yoko Ichikawa? So, you're here on vacation?>
The immigration officer smiled at the young woman who
stood in front of his cubicle. She didn't return the
smile, settling for nodding coolly. The airport
official assumed that she was probably tired due to
the long flight originating from LAX in California.
In that case, he could easily understand her
reluctance to wastefully expend more energy than
needed. Stamping her passport in the necessary
places, he closed it and handed it back to her.
<Enjoy your stay, Ichikawa-san.>
<Domo,> she said, placing her passport in her
backpack and then started pushing her cart which
contained one single piece of luggage, a gray
suitcase, towards the pair of electronic doors that
led to the Arrivals Lounge.
At five feet five inches tall, Yoko Ichikawa was a
second generation Japanese who'd spent most of her
life in San Francisco, California. With short, black
hair tied back in a braid, brown eyes, and possessing
an athletic, exercise toned body, she was very
independent by nature, and came across as a cool
tempered, calm person. Yoko had just graduated from
Bryn Mawr with a B.A. in Marketing and Finance; now,
she had travelled to Japan on an invitation from her
grandfather (on her mom's side), who said over the
phone that he needed to tell her something very
important about their family's history.
Since she was in Japan, after honoring her
grandfather's invitation, and if she had time she
would go see her aunt Tomoko, her mom's younger
sister. Yoko would have to call her later and see if
she could spend a few days at her house in Juuban.
Stepping through the opened doors, Yoko directed her
cart to one side, so as to not impede the path of
anyone else behind her, and stopped for a moment. She
studied the Arrivals Lounge, looking for her
grandfather, who should be somewhere waiting in the
crowd. The entire area was full of mostly Japanese
people, but she spotted a few Europeans standing out
like islands in an ocean. In the middle of the Lounge
were two rows of orange hardened plastic seats which
were all occupied. At the far right, against the
wall, were about two dozen pay phones while on the
left were several booths for various car and apartment
rentals, tour groups, refreshments, and others.
After searching for a minute, her eyes finally caught
a glimpse of her grandfather, a handsome, white-haired
man in his late sixties who was very fit for his age,
making his way towards the front of the crowd. Upon
seeing his granddaughter, he smiled warmly and waved
to her. She smiled back and pushed her cart in his
direction. Upon reaching him, she halted the cart and
called out <Grandfather!>, giving him a loving hug,
which he returned.
Yoji Arashikage released her and took a good look at
her. Yoko had certainly changed since the last time
he had seen her. From the way she walked and by that
hug they had shared, it let him know that she had not
been lax in keeping up her training, not in the least.
She was a little taller, her hair shorter, and her
face showed all the signs of a mature woman in full
bloom that had only been hinted at four years ago.
Quiet self-confidence was also present, which could be
attributed to her impressive mastery of the martial
arts. [7]
For her part, Yoko was looking her beloved
grandfather over as well. Save for a few more lines
and wrinkles on his weathered face, he looked exactly
the same as she remembered. Despite his age, she
could tell that he kept up his personal training in
the Art and secretly hoped that he would show her some
of the various styles and forms he'd learned in his
lifetime. His eyes were bright and quick, to match
his sharp intellect and wit, which hadn't dwindled in
the slightest despite his advancing years. In fact,
in the past twenty years, Yoji Arashikage had probably
slowed down only by the smallest percentage. Yoko
attributed that to an extremely healthy lifestyle and
constant exercising, but she was certain there was
something else to it. Whatever it was she didn't
know. Maybe her grandfather would let her on in his
secret; she knew that when she reached his age, the
idea of being as spry as him was definitely very
appealing.
<And how is my favorite granddaughter doing?> he
asked with a twinkle in his eye. Yoko blushed a
little at his endorsement of her; that was his
standard line whenever they met with each other. It
was his way of teasing her. However, when Yoji saw
her reaction, he instantly knew what she was thinking.
The older man smiled to himself; little did she know
that he was being truthful. It generally wasn't a
good idea for a grandfather to pay special attention
to a specific grandchild, especially when there were
others, but he couldn't help it.
Like him, some of his other grandchildren also
studied martial arts, but Yoko was different, very
different. She stood out from them like a wolf among
sheep. The depth of her devotion to the martial arts
far outstripped that of her cousins. While her
cousins used it as a way to keep in shape or for basic
self-defense, Yoko took it to the next level. At the
tender age of twelve, she became fascinated by the
philosophy behind the physical movements and
techniques. It had taken her a couple of years, but
by the time she had begun high school, she was well on
her way to integrating the philosophy of the Art into
her lifestyle. He'd learned all this from the
occasional letter he'd received from his oldest
daughter, her mother.
<I've been doing okay, Grandfather. I just want to
stretch my legs a bit after being cooped up in the
plane.> Her eyes brightened as an idea occurred to
her. <Do you think I could do some katas in your
dojo? That's one thing I've been looking forward to.>
Her grandfather laughed. He'd guessed that would be
one of the first things she would ask. <That sounds
like a good idea. I'd love to see how much progress
you've made since I saw you last. Although I hope you
can wait though; it'll take at least half an hour to
get to my house. Well, shall we take our leave of
this crowd? I'm parked at lot 2-A; it's a short way
from here. These old legs of mine can use the
exercise.>
Pecking him on the cheek affectionately, Yoko took
hold of the cart's handle and replied, <Lead the way,
Grandfather.>
End Chapter Two Part One
Author's Notes:
At long last, the next chapter is here! Hallelujah!
:D Seriously though, real life can be such a b**ch,
chomping down on my writing time like that. Oh well.
I have absolutely no idea of how military
terms/protocol are supposed to be properly
used/followed in field missions;
the training exercise was based on what information I
could glean from the Web.
Part two is in the works as you read this. Hopefully
it'll be done sooner than this chapter was. I did the
best job I could with the "smuggler raid". Please
tell me if there are any improvements/suggestions that
you guys may have in mind.
Thanks!
***Footnotes***
[1] My rather pathetic attempt at emulating
Roadblock's...peculiar way of speaking.
[2] One guess on which TV show this is!
[3] Stands for Chemical, Biological, and Radiological
Warfare
[4] His filecard says that he is indeed a practical
joker
[5] Pardon the mangling of Beach Head's speech
[6] Stands for Heavy Artillery Vehicle Ordnance
Carrier
[7] Can anyone familiar with the old Marvel G.I. Joe
comics guess who this new lady will be?
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