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G. I. Joe: "Cause And Effect"
Chapter One
*** Detroit Metropolitan Police Precinct The city of Detroit has been a dichotomy of peace and war for years, much like many of the major metropolitan areas of the United States. Where large groups of people clustered together, clamoring for the available jobs, resources, property, and so on, some would try to make their lot in life work, and others simply took advantage. Standing the fine line between, were the brave protectors in blue, policemen and women sworn to serve the public good. Sunlight began to peek over the rooftops of the row houses and low office buildings that dominated the skyline in the mixed-residential Fourth District of the city of Detroit. While mostly a peaceful section of the city, it also had a very high crime rate and the drug trade was creeping into the neighborhoods quickly, thanks to gangs and their Colombian organizers from the infamous Medellin Cartel. The peace came more from the gangs allying themselves to profit from drugs, than the efforts of the cops to control them. The besieged Detroit Metropolitan Police Department was beginning to have a full-fledged fight on their hands, as they worked night and day to stem the flow of illegal narcotics onto the city streets. The authorities seemed to be winning major victories, snatching multi-million dollar shipments of South American product before it was even unloaded for distribution. But on the streets, violence against the police was heavy. The efforts of the hardworking patrolmen and detectives in the parts of the city that served as smuggling gateways annoyed the Colombians to no end. And they believed in retribution. And they believed in going to great lengths to make it happen. The shift change between overnight and day watch had just begun in the district's main Detroit Metro Police precinct house. Weary patrol officers, pairs of SWAT operators and Narcotics Division detectives dragged themselves into the precinct building for hot showers and a quick debrief by their division lieutenants before heading for home and their comfortable beds. Other officers were just coming on duty, but the long hours of counter-drug operations and responding to calls of drug-related violence on top of keeping the general order didn't make them look any fresher than the men and women they were relieving. Senior Patrolman Jason Faria, a Captain's Selectee for promotion to sergeant, steered his unmarked, police-package Chevrolet Caprice down the neighborhood streets toward the district's headquarters. Faria, a former Detroit SWAT cop, and then a former G. I. Joe who went by the code name of Shockwave, had returned to his hometown when the counter-terrorist team was disbanded in 1995. The city department had fully welcomed both his return and the experience he gained fighting Cobra, assigning him to the toughest call outs in some of the worst sections of Detroit. Faria's assigned SWAT partner, a blond-haired, six year veteran of the Detroit force, yawned and unbuckled the straps to his lightweight Kevlar body armor. Both men were tired from a long night of serving hostile apprehension warrants, rousting crack houses and arresting their proprietors. "I can't believe how many of these places we have to hit on a weekly basis, partner," Faria said to his passenger. "No matter how many times we break them up, they seem to just come back overnight." "Yup," Faria's partner said curtly. "I don't know how long we can handle this duty. Running fourteen or sixteen hour shifts and five or six raids in a week. I couldn't imagine what would happen if we're in a tight spot and someone yawns in the middle of cooking off some nine-millimeter around those crack heads and their innocent hostages." "I know," Faria replied. "But the good news is the shift's over and we have two days off to recover..." His voice trailed off, as the plainclothes cruiser rounded a corner and the precinct house came into sight. A large armored truck, marked with the colors of Detroit's local bonded courier service, careened down a side street and tore right up the cement front steps to the precinct, running over a number of uniformed patrolmen that were taken by surprise and couldn't dodge it in time. The sound of a gut wrenching crash echoed up and down all the streets in the immediate vicinity followed by explosions of the glass panes of the precinct house's windows. Sparks flew as severed high-voltage power lines that ran into the building broke free and fell to the sidewalk, dancing back and forth from their deadly energy discharges. Smoke began to pour from the front doors of the precinct house, as the truck's engine heat ignited leaking oil and fuel from its lines. "Holy shit!" Faria finally exclaimed after a moment of stunned disbelief, slamming his foot hard on the gas pedal of his Chevrolet Caprice and feeling the drive wheels squealing and vibrating as the car accelerated towards the carnage. Other cops who were spared from the impact began to rally and formed a perimeter to keep the pedestrians a safe distance away. Some of the men spoke frantically on their radios, trying to reach the city's main communications center or the desk sergeants inside. The precinct house was an older building, constructed in the 1900's and renovated several times over. The crash of the armored truck fractured a number of the natural gas heating lines that had been installed near the front of the building, and Faria smelled the pungent scent of methane as he and his partner hustled out of their cruiser to help the injured civilians and cops. "Twenty-two sixteen to Central Dispatch!" Faria shouted on his SWAT band radio, which was on a different network than the precinct house patrol frequency. "Roll all available fire equipment, utilities and medics to Fourth District! We have a code one, mass casualty emergency! Someone's driven a truck right into the precinct house! Alert the hospitals! Send help right away!" "I'm going in to try to help get guys out!" Faria's partner shouted, brandishing a PR-24 nightstick to clear out glass from the broken front windows on the ground level. Some of the precinct's employees began to stagger out of side doors and emergency exits, cut and bleeding, while the rear door of the armored car swung open. Faria thought quickly when he saw a single male in civilian clothing slip out of the back of the armored truck. He sprinted down the last fifty yards of sidewalk that separated him from the suspect. With a hefty amount of steam in his step, he tackled the suspect quickly, smashing him down into the solid concrete sidewalk. Both men cringed and pressed themselves as flat as possible when the smoking engine block of the armored truck set off the leaky gas lines. A massive secondary explosion tore the front wall of the precinct clean off, tossing large chunks of masonry and stone across the street, along with torn and burned bodies of the cops still trying to escape from inside. Patrolman Faria clutched at his right leg, where a falling chunk of masonry had barely missed both men, but struck a glancing blow on the lower part of his thigh. When the suspect began to wriggle, in another attempt to escape, Faria returned to the task at hand. He rapidly corralled the man's wrists and jerked them back roughly, handcuffing him in a fluid, instinctive motion. He didn't want to keep his anger in check when the guy under his weight had hurt so many of his buddies. For a moment, he gave in to his anger and slammed the suspect's face hard into the sidewalk, but the man kept struggling hard. The suspect had the typical "superhuman" strength that was induced by a narcotic high. Faria almost broke one of his own wrists before he had the writhing and screaming suspect under control and secured. Unwilling to take a chance, the policeman leaped onto his feet and drew his service automatic, leveling the 10mm Smith and Wesson at the back of the suspect's head. "Whoever you are, you're under arrest for the pre-meditated murder of all those cops and civilians in there, including my fuckin' partner!" Faria snarled. His finger twitched against the cold metal trigger and the pistol shook in both hands as he forced it to stay steady and zeroed on the suspect. "You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. But I really hope you try to keep resisting arrest, you drugged out son of a bitch. Because you don't deserve to survive this little incident you caused..." *** Headquarters, U.S. Drug Enforcement
Agency In the penthouse of a lavishly appointed Federal office building, part of the complex that housed elements of the Department of Homeland Security and Department of Justice, Director Carl Stewart of the DEA reclined in his office chair, reading several reports from the field. His two key deputies sat on a sofa in the room, while a consular officer from the Department of State sat in on the brief meeting, in a plush armchair near the Director's desk. Stewart moved to put his reports down on the surface of his dark mahogany desk, and looked out the thick, tinted glass panes of his picture window at the metropolitan Washington D.C. skyline. He rubbed his chin silently as he thought about the contents of the documents. A few heartbeats of silence passed before he turned to address his aides and visitor. "I take it you've read the SITREPs from the local agencies in New York, Detroit, and New Orleans," Stewart said, looking his guest from State in the eyes, and noticing the subtle nod from the dark-suited man in return. "Every time we make any sort of headway domestically in breaking up the smuggling efforts of the Medellin and Cali cartels, things like these happen." Stewart tossed the briefing folder across the desk in frustration, letting out a grunt of disgust. "Three major cities all get attacked, by car bombers doped out on crack cocaine or heroin. The single perpetrator that was interrogated in Detroit claimed that the drug organization threatened his family if he didn't drive that armored truck into the local police precinct." "Narco-terrorism," the consular officer said. "It's dastardly. We all focus on the big enemies. The psychos like Saddam Hussein who are probably too busy screwing camels halfway around the world to really send little love packages our way. And, the drug crews come right out and try to scare our cops into submission. They're taking this to the next level, on all the fronts." "That's why I wanted to talk to you, Luke," Director Stewart said. "I'm expanding the DEA training assistance program in Panama, to prepare the local police and Gardia Civil to help take on these drug cartel bastards where they live. I wonder if we can get some real experts down there." "You mean military, Carl?" Luke asked. "We've all but pulled out of the Colombian support programs due to the threats against all Americans in that country. As much as it sucks, our military is retreating." "This narco-terrorism has got to end!" Director Stewart said angrily. "I need better help for the Panama program!" "I might not be able to dance the Washington Two-Step to get you something," Luke said. "But I have friends in the naval component of SOUTHCOM. There are SEAL personnel at Rodman that we can "borrow" for some training help. Plus, my oldest son could pull some strings to get you some of his old people. Top notch special operators, if you need ‘em." "I knew that I could count on your help, Luke," Stewart said, reaching across his desk to offer a handshake of thanks. Lukas Bryant Abernathy III, one of the heads of South American Affairs for the Department of State, returned the handshake. "My son, Clayton, is in the Pentagon somewhere. I'll arrange a meeting." *** Joint Special Operations Coordination Center
(JSOCC) The first shift's watch officer tuned Major General Clayton Abernathy's small television to CNN and dropped off a short stack of newspapers that included notable titles like The New York Times, Washington Post and Stars and Stripes. The young Army lieutenant looked around, wondering where the general might be ten minutes after his usual arrival time, but didn't question it. All of the brass ran on their own schedules, often attending meetings well before their office hours or long into the night, despite the routines that they try to set for themselves. A smile crossed the watch officer's face when Petty Officer 2nd Class (Yeoman) Mara Delgado, the general's principal assistant, entered the office's anteroom, her arms piled high with folders and trying to balance her morning cup of coffee along with her burden. He moved quickly to lend a hand, steadying the Petty Officer's load and offering to take the folders to her desk. "Why thank you, sir," Mara said softly, giving the watch officer her usual disarming smile as she relinquished her load. "Not a problem, Petty Officer Delgado. You're always quick to help me too, so it's only fair to return the favor." The watch officer knew Mara was married and that he really had no chance with the striking, raven-haired beauty. But when she cast her gentle glances or a friendly wink at him, it was enough to make his chest flutter just a little bit. He never dared make an improper advance though. Who knew where her Navy SEAL husband might be lurking? Mara Delgado was once a promising American naval petty officer, who had taken a wrong turn in her life and become a Cobra Eel, the enemy equivalent of a naval commando. A team of G. I. Joe operatives in the South Pacific had rescued her, after a horrific battery of genetic and surgical experiments were conducted on her to develop underwater "super soldiers". After Mara's rescue, and a subsequent bout of severe emotional depression at being unable to live alongside the man she had fallen in love with, Chief Petty Officer Hector "Shipwreck" Delgado, she accepted the offer of a marine research laboratory in Seattle. She had struck a deal with the scientists to live there and help them understand the bio-mechanics of how aquatic animals breathed underwater and the extent of Cobra's research in bio-engineering that had manipulated Mara's physiology. The scientists grew to sympathize with Mara's plight, and recruited the best gene therapists in the world, along with the world's most competent re-constructive surgeons at the Bern Institute of Corrective Surgery in Switzerland. Among the group of luminaries, they were able to reverse Cobra's changes to Mara, but not without significant dangers. Mara accepted all the risks, because she had finally been given a ray of hope to return to the world everyone else occupied. When she emerged from the recovery room after her final procedure, the man she had fallen in love with was right there at her side, waiting to see her. Shipwreck had never forgotten about her, as he had promised. They got married soon after, and when the Joe Team disbanded in 1995, General Hawk had pulled strings to get her re-enlisted in the Navy and a security clearance high enough to allow her to work with him at his new post in the Pentagon. The watch officer and Mara both stood at attention when they heard the hallway door open and close, as Major General Abernathy walked in, apparently haggard from an early morning meeting elsewhere in the building. "Good morning, General," the watch officer said in greeting, snapping a sharp salute as Abernathy walked by. The general silently nodded in acknowledgment. Mara stayed quiet, instantly assessing Abernathy's mood, and returned to her chair after the general's inner office door was shut. "He's having a helluva morning already, sir. Do you have any important information for him? I'll pass your reports on when I bring in the messages and coffee." "Don't we have to just go in and report?" the watch officer asked. "Not that there was any overnight flash traffic or anything." "I can read the general pretty well," Mara said. "He's not going to be in the mood for anything but a national security crisis right now. Let's get his day settled in. I'll call you in the communications center if he wants you to report in person." "Thanks, Petty Officer," the watch officer said with a smile and wave. He left the main office, bound for the JSOCC Communications Watch Center, about three corridors away. Not long after the office's other permanent employees arrived, the general morning buzz quieted down, and a number of messengers came and left with daily mail to cross Mara's desk, her intercom buzzer rang. Ready with a steaming cup of coffee and General Abernathy's favorite condiments, Mara gathered up a handful of pink message forms and knocked on his inner office door. "Come on in, Mara," General Abernathy said, casting a smile of greeting when his assistant entered. "Your messages and a cup of coffee, sir," Mara said, setting his things on the desk blotter. "Did you have a rough morning? Want me to order up a couple of muffins and a bowl of fruit from the building commissary?" "I think that's a great idea, Mara," Abernathy said. He accepted the stack of messages and glanced through them. "Anything odd on my schedule today?" "You've got an unusually light day, sir," Mara replied. "Just a briefing with the Joint Chiefs at seventeen hundred hours, and your weekly meeting with the Jugglers at twenty hundred hours. Your whole day is free otherwise. Lieutenant Smith said there was no flash traffic out of the message center during the overnight watch." Abernathy stopped scanning his messages when he noticed that his father Lukas had called at a rather early hour. "Mara, you know anything about this call from my dad?" "No, sir. He called personally and spoke to the overnight operator in the message center. Shall I get him on your line?" Abernathy read the message over quickly. His father usually never called himself unless it was family business or he wanted something outside of official channels. The content of the message was an old family code phrase that Lukas had taught his sons to use in an emergency. "No, thank you, Mara. Just call the motor pool and tell the mechanics not to start working on my car. I'll need it ready to go right away. And, keep the hounds off my back, okay? I need to stop by my father's office over at State, and I don't want anyone sniffing around my business for a couple hours." "Something the matter with your father, sir?" Mara asked. "Would you like me to call ahead, or take care of anything else?" "Just keep my office running until I get back. Like I said, I don't want any Jugglers or their assistants sniffing around for a while. Hopefully this message from my dad is nothing, but it could be important." "You got it, sir," Mara said, reaching for the doorknob. "I'll cover for you." *** A hacienda in the Medellin
foothills The rising morning sun lit the rolling lowlands around Medellin with an orange hue, casting arcs of color and shadow across the countryside. Lush green pastures and open grasslands with scattered trees formed an idyllic backdrop for the wealthy and affluent among the Medellin locals. Their bright white, yellow and beige haciendas dotted the up-slopes of the foothills and were connected by simple dirt traces to preserve as much of the natural environment as possible. One such hacienda, a multi-level, palatial structure all in white stucco, rose out of a hillside. Surrounded by greenery, the main house also had a number of outbuildings and an attached barracks-like building for housing estate workers or guards. Both workers and guards did not exist in short supply around the hacienda; a full staff of caretakers and house staff cared for the property and its residents. Additionally, tough security men dressed in black battle dress utilities or tropical weight button-down shirts and khaki slacks constantly patrolled the grounds with AK-74 assault rifles or compact 9mm sub-machineguns. Yellow-orange light shined into the hacienda's inner rooms through a wide variety of open-air windows, protected from the elements by hand-hewn wooden shutters and the broad overhang of the hacienda's roof. The exquisite home was typical of the plantation-like regal estates of the area, but still very personalized to its owner, at great cost. That owner, Tomas Arriscaldo, stirred himself awake at the sensation of the soft morning breeze blowing into his master suite windows, pushing aside the thin white curtains which were hung to make the airy bedroom more private. A small beagle, the favorite pet of his youngest daughter, yipped and scampered happily around the bed, eventually licking his master's face when he saw the man waking. Tomas Arriscaldo was a self-made man, starting out as a knuckle-dragging street thug in the streets of Medellin, and working for some of the first drug lords in the cartel during his teens. For many in his line of work, the drive to make a living and help feed his family drove him into the lucrative drug business more than the romantic sense of becoming a powerful criminal. Economics being what they were in that part of South America, not many jobs paid as well as being in cahoots with the drug lords. But Arriscaldo found himself a lot better at the trade than his contemporaries, rising quickly through the ranks of the cartel, and soon finding himself at the top of the heap working one of the most lucrative illegal drug markets in the world – the United States/Canada distribution operation. It was Arriscaldo's idea to initiate the attacks on American metropolitan law enforcement agencies in retaliation for the massive drug busts that threatened to cut off his livelihood and distribution network in the United States. But the ongoing drug-related violence was thousands of miles away from his morning routine, and he preferred to keep it that way. Arriscaldo slipped from between the sheets of his bed without stirring his wife, who happily slept off the previous night of lovemaking with a contented grin on her smooth-featured Latina face. With the beagle loyally trotting on his heels, the wealthy drug kingpin headed for an intercom panel on the wall next to the bedroom door and pressed a buzzer button on the device. "Good morning, patron," replied the voice of Arriscaldo's major-domo, the underling in charge of all the laborers and caretakers in his hacienda. "Shall I send someone up with your usual breakfast?" "No, Ramon. I shall take my meal in the office on the main floor. I do not wish to disturb Esmeralda's sleep." "Very well, patron. Do you need anything else from me?" "Yes, Ramon. Advise the security men at the gate and the inner perimeter that I am expecting a visitor. Allow him to come right up to the hacienda. You bring him to my office personally upon his arrival and see to any of his needs. We have important business to discuss." "Si, mi patron. I shall see to him." Arriscaldo selected for himself a set of matching lightweight, white linen jacket and trousers, and wore an open silk shirt, allowing his muscular, olive-skinned chest to show. He made his way into the plush office just off the hacienda's main entrance and drew up the Venetian blinds to allow more sunlight to shine on his carved wood desk. A tray of his favorite breakfast foods and pastries was already waiting on a side table, along with a number of local and international newspapers neatly folded and within reach. Arriscaldo leaned back in his chair and sampled the fresh pastries and slices of fruit on the tray, turning on a wide-screen television mounted to the back wall across from where he sat. Just as he tuned into the CNN morning news stream on his satellite television receiver, a knock sounded at his office door. "Si!" the drug kingpin called out. "Come in!" Ramon, the major-domo, pushed the heavy, twin wooden doors open and walked softly across the floor to stand before his employer. "Patron," he said, "please allow me to present Señor James McCullen Destro." Arriscaldo stood to greet his visitor as Ramon stepped to one side with an unnecessary flourish. James McCullen Destro stepped into the plush office, reaching out a hand to shake his host's. Despite the hot weather, Destro kept his trademark silver steel mask securely attached to his head, covering the features of his true face. The rest of the Scottish laird was comfortably dressed for the region of the world he was traveling in. A lightweight linen suit draped over his broad shoulders and muscular arms, with a coordinating pair of trousers and comfortable loafers. He had opted not to wear a dress shirt, allowing his chiseled chest to be covered only with a thin, cotton tee shirt. "Welcome, Laird Destro," Arriscaldo said in lightly accented English. "I trust your trip was uneventful?" The men traded handshakes. "Quite," Destro replied curtly, waiting to hear the office doors close behind Ramon. Their business required privacy. "Would you care for some refreshments?" Arriscaldo asked, showing Destro the tray of finger foods that had been set in the office. "A drink, perhaps?" "You can drop the pleasantries, Tomas. We have business to discuss, and I am on a very tight time schedule. The less time I spend around here, the better." "You needn't worry about your reputation with law enforcement, Señor," Arriscaldo said. "The cartel owns anyone that could possibly finger you. My people have been covering you ever since your Gulfstream landed at the regional airport in Medellin." "And what about the American drug police that are watching you, Tomas?" Destro asked. "I would hate for them to make a connection between us." "No unwelcome visitors can approach close enough to this hacienda without finding themselves in a very dangerous position. You needn't feel so worried." "Being cautious has kept me in business for a very long time," Destro said evenly. "Associating with the world's most powerful criminal organization – or terrorists if you wish – guarantees your future in business," Arriscaldo countered. "I have some sources that provided me information about you." "Touche," Destro said, taking a seat across from Arriscaldo. "Please, indulge me. The business proposal, if you please?" Arriscaldo has something of an ego, Destro mused, his eyes scanning the fullness of the room in a blink of an eye. While the office wasn't gaudy by any stretch of the word – it had to be comfortable and tailored to the tastes of its owner – it still had a much different flair than the selfsame office Destro occupied in the dank Scottish castle he considered his base of operations with M.A.R.S. "As you know," Arriscaldo began, munching on a pastry and fingering the pieces of fruit on the tray next to his desk. "We are both businessmen, but plying a trade that is frowned upon by many of the world's nations." "Yes, yes," Destro said, mocking boredom. "Get on with it, will you?" "I know that you have access to certain – very powerful – weapons systems. Particularly things that can do quite a bit of damage." "Sure. What of it?" "I am planning to damage the American economy in return for their police damaging mine. To do so, I require something powerful. A torpedo, to be precise." "The rumors concerning your deviance are true," Destro said, softly applauding. "You want to cripple the Panama Canal, don't you? Hurt the world's busiest shipping routes so that your northbound, overland drug shipments can continue? It's quite a notion." Arriscaldo nodded, an inward smile crossing his lips. "And, how do you propose to deliver this torpedo? There is much to consider if you wish to cripple the canal." "That is for me to know. Can you provide it?" "Yes," Destro said, rubbing his chin. "I have some contacts in the Ukraine that just might be able to connect you with the item you desire. But it won't be cheap, I assure you. That sort of technology is very touchy. I can get it to one of your Atlantic side seaports if you can grease it with the customs people to let the item in undetected." Arriscaldo walked over to a filing cabinet, where a combination lock kept the contents safely locked away. With a quick twist of the dial, he opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather satchel. "Take this," Arriscaldo said, placing the satchel on the desk in front of Destro, "as a down payment, in good faith for your delivery. I trust ten million American dollars in non-sequential bearer bonds is something your financiers can handle?" Destro tested the heft of the satchel and inspected the funds certificates inside. "Yes. This should do just fine." "Get this straight, Señor," Arriscaldo warned. "Despite the powerful friends you have around the world, know that I am not one to be trifled with. You might think of South America as a place where your lowest henchmen can peddle junk AK-47's to my people, and that we are not worthy of much concern. My friends and I are quite powerful, and we are driven to revenge more than you might think." "Are you threatening me?" Destro growled, pushing the satchel across the desk. "If so, then this deal is off." "No, Señor. I am merely stating facts. But these facts are of little concern so long as the item comes to me." "Very well," Destro said, taking the handles of the satchel and rising to his feet. "I shall contact you with the details of when to expect your shipment." "My thanks, Señor. It is a pleasure doing business with you." *** International Annex Offices, U.S. Department of
State The traffic around the Washington Beltway had been rather light for Major General Abernathy as he circumnavigated the seat of American federal power on his way to visit his father's office. Situated in a relatively affluent Maryland community that could be considered a suburb of the D.C. metropolitan area, the State Department's annex was staffed by a bureaucracy of foreign relations experts, assistants and deputies that could no longer be housed in the main complex of offices within Washington's city limits. Abernathy's black, late-model Ford Crown Victoria seemed to fit right into the general population of the employees parked in the annex's spacious parking lot. Many of the government types that worked in the area tended to like buying nondescript, American-made Fords and Chevrolets for tooling around the city and commuting to and from their homes. As the general scanned the rows of Caprices, Luminas, Tauruses and Crown Victorias parked in the visitor's lot, he wondered how many of them were performance vehicles, fitted by the government with Police Interceptor packages and the ability to put his factory-standard vehicle to shame on the highways. Absently, he almost passed an empty parking space, and slammed on the brakes abruptly to stop. A quick reverse followed, and he was finally at his destination. Gathering up his small, leather briefcase, the general walked into the security entrance of the Annex, adjusting his garrison cap on top of his head. Uniformed guards of the Federal Protective Service instantly moved aside, holding the visitor entrance doors open for Abernathy as he strode up to the reception desk, where he was greeted warmly by the Annex's executive receptionist through an intercom speaker. "Good morning, General... Abernathy," the buxom blonde behind the desk said with a smile and flirtatious bat of her eyelashes. "Welcome to the International Annex, sir. I received a message to expect your arrival. May I please verify your identity?" General Abernathy pulled out his Pentagon security ID, which had his image and personal information, as well as a very important color code – the one that basically opened all doors to him at the Pentagon. As soon as the receptionist noticed that he was assigned to the JSOCC and had an E-Ring/Level Five clearance, she was convinced. Reaching under her desk to press a buzzer that also unlocked the Plexiglas security door between her desk and the visitor lobby, the blonde waved Abernathy through. "Go to the first set of elevators and head to the staff receptionist on the fourth floor, General. She will bring you to your father's office." When Abernathy stepped off the elevator, the fourth floor was abuzz with activity. People moved about, chitchatting with one another, in stark contrast to the cold and empty main lobby. For a moment, the general stood outside the elevator doors in his Army greens, surrounded by a sea of moving white Oxford shirts and multicolored neckties, and conservative, gray women's suits. The people around him parted to give him a way through, and the staff receptionist waved at Abernathy from her desk. The receptionist had a visitor's badge in hand, and clipped it onto the lapel of General Abernathy's uniform jacket when he approached. She got up from her rolling chair, and gave him a pleasant smile. "Please follow me, sir," she said matter-of-factly. "Your father is right this way." When the staff receptionist knocked on Lukas Abernathy's office door, it swung open with no effort. Lukas was already on his feet and walking round his desk, extending his hand to greet his son. "Thank you, Marjorie," the charge d'affaires said. He clasped Clayton's hand in between both of his and shook it vigorously. "You look well, Clay. How are Anna and the kids?" "Anna's doing well, Dad," Clayton replied. "Scott and Jennifer miss their grandpa." "You should bring everyone by the new house, son. We've finally settled in at the big farm outside Middletown. Just an hour from here, you know." "I know, Dad. But if you'll pardon my saying so, your message made me think you didn't want to have a social visit." "Always the hard charger, Clay," Lukas said with a chuckle before returning to his chair. "I do need to talk to you." "What is it?" Clayton asked. "What's this cloak and dagger all about?" "Just because you don't tell me everything about your exploits around the dinner table anymore, doesn't mean I don't know where you work and the nature of what you do." "What I did, Dad," Clayton said. "I'm not in command of the Joes any longer. I just run the Special Ops Coordination Center at the Pentagon." "That may be so," Lukas said, offering his son a cigar from a humidor full of Cubans, which the younger Abernathy declined. "But I know that they're all out and about, and they are the best we have for performing – how shall we say – sensitive missions?" "Yes, Dad," Clayton replied. "Many of them have chosen to disappear, though. They want their privacy, and a chance to put their lives back together after fighting Cobra for so many years." "Well, a friend of mine at the DEA needs to know if you could find some of them. I need some top-shelf operators to help win some payback." The charge d'affaires dropped copies of a number of classified DEA files onto his desk. "Read those. The DEA's main targets in the Cali and Medellin cartels, working out of Colombia, are poisoning America. And now, they've gone to all-out terrorism in order to set the stage for their business operations. "If I recall, your outfit was the only one that really kicked terrorist ass since the eighties. Your people knew the business inside and out, and all the players to boot. Colombia is still a political frenzy internally, and a dangerous place for American intervention. But I have SEAL friends in Panama that are ready to help." Clayton's forehead wrinkled as he read the news transcripts and DEA data. He knew about the attacks in the three American cities, and the news media's interpretation of the goings-on. Seeing the new intelligence in front of him made the general seethe with anger. "So why not send them in?" Clayton asked. "Because everyone in the area knows the SEALs are at the Rodman naval station, training Panamanian police and military for their domestic counter-drug mission. If they were identified over the Colombian border, it would be a mess that would come right back at us in the form of more terrorist actions. No one would know if some ex-Joes were to turn up and slip across the border. Plus, they can be disavowed if anything goes wrong." "Yeah, of course, Dad. You want people you can leave high and dry if the shit hits the fan. That's not my people. I brought all my Joes home." "We have a duty, son. The DEA will back anyone you can send. The SEALs will get them in and out. They just need to take the initiative and get whoever ordered these attacks on American soil. The terror war is hot again, Clay. We need the best. And we need to send them in quietly. I know you can do that." "You know that I am part of the Jugglers, Dad," Clayton said. "It's not very easy to pull the wool over their eyes, and they have their fingers into everything in the armed forces. They could try to undermine this little effort of yours and Director Stewart's. And who would get hurt? My former colleagues would. I can't live with that." "I know the Jugglers are out to serve their own political goals, Clay," Lukas said. "And I know how deeply their influence goes inside the Beltway. I also know that you can make this happen without them finding out. You've dodged every bullet they've sent your way for the last eighteen years. You can do this. I have faith in you, son." "Okay," Clayton replied with a sigh. "I'll try to get you some of my old people. It's probably best that I don't tell you anything more until I've scared them up out of hiding and sold them on the idea." *** Clayton and Lukas did have a father and son chat for a few moments before the elder Abernathy sent his son on his way with the DEA files safely stowed in his briefcase. The receptionists gave the general their friendliest smiles as he passed them by, and after a solitary walk back across the parking lot to his car, Clayton was navigating his vehicle back towards the Pentagon. Before pulling out of the network of streets around College Park for the Beltway, the general turned on his hands free cellular phone and dialed several sequences of numbers, coded access numbers to the private line in his office at the JSOCC. All the while, his mind was on old memories, and old friends. "JSOCC Commander's Office, this is Yeoman Delgado," Mara said, answering the ringing telephone extension on her desk. "This is Abernathy. Go secure." Mara switched the line over to her STU-20 telephone scrambler and changed handsets. "You're secure, General. What can I do for you?" "I'm coming back to the Pentagon. I need you to start looking for a way to get me out to Dugway Proving Grounds in Utah. I'll need forty-eight hours, maximum. Officially or unofficially, I need to get out there as soon as humanly possible." Mara fell silent for a moment. "I can get you out to Provo via Chicago from Dulles on a commercial flight. Shall I set it up under your cover identity?" "Please do, Mara," Abernathy replied. "Have the Jugglers been sniffing around?" "No. I haven't seen anyone but your staff around. Is something wrong, sir? Some sort of emergency?" "Not yet, Mara," General Abernathy said. "But I do need to look up a few old friends. And I have to leave Washington without getting on the Jugglers' radar. See what you can do for me, okay?" "Yes sir. I'll start right away and get it all set up. See you when you get back to the office, sir." *** Dugway
Proving Grounds, Utah Out in the open wilderness of Utah, surrounded by miles and miles of nothing, was one of the largest U.S. government facilities in terms of square acreage. Dugway was sprinkled with all manner of eclectic buildings, from simple wooden shacks to house test equipment, to steel-reinforced cement control bunkers, and expanses of open firing ranges for some of America's most secret, non-nuclear "wonder weapons". However, the facility was slowly but surely being drawn back to face the chopping block of the congressional Base Realignment and Closure Commission. The only saving grace was the need to safeguard a number of chemical and biological weapons research programs that needed the isolation until the Rocky Mountain Chemical Weapons Arsenal could be returned to active duty. In a tiny fenced complex, just a few hundred meters off the main access road to the center of the proving grounds, and facing Utah state highway 196, three small metal Quonset huts sat in a neat row. The fences were festooned with warning signs and the ubiquitous white "United States Government Property" placards. Vehicles passed along the access road fairly frequently, going right past the three Quonset huts without so much as a nod from the drivers. However, one nondescript car, a rented Dodge Stratus from the regional airport in Provo, pulled to a stop in front of the locked gate. The single, male occupant fished a small metal key from his pocket before stepping out of the car and walking right to the compound's gate. Without missing a beat, Major General Clayton Abernathy unlocked the gate to the last headquarters of the G. I. Joe Team. Nicknamed Pit III, it was the final resting place of the long-suffering elite combat unit. The gate swung open with a rusty squeak. Dust devils swirled across the open path to the thinly paved parking area in front of the Quonset huts. Abernathy covered the distance quickly, his mind reaching back into time, to see the friends and colleagues that once worked at Pit III under his command. Selecting the second Quonset hut, the general walked right inside, finding the hand-made Indian horse blanket that Spirit Iron-Knife often sat on while serving his lonely vigil over the Pit's entrance. He folded the blanket aside and thought back to the override code that unlocked the touch pad latching system that the blanket concealed. Abernathy punched in the sixteen-digit security code that he alone knew. While he waited for the touch pad to accept the numbers, he checked the batteries in the Mag Lite flashlight he carried. Just in case the power systems below decks took a while to come back to life, the flashlight would come in handy. The locking bolts under the heavy steel door slid back slowly, and a hiss escaped from the unsealed entry. The stench of musty, trapped air began to escape while the door slid aside, allowing Abernathy access to the steps that led down into the Pit. The general walked the path alone, descending into the depths of the old base. It was certainly the most sophisticated of the Pit series of subterranean command centers. The third PIT was laden with security measures, both obvious and not so obvious, all developed from lessons learned during Cobra's campaigns to infiltrate and destroy the previous two headquarters. Both of the former headquarters complexes had been built under Fort Wadsworth, New York, quite literally below the foundations of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Abernathy's dress shoes made a leathery clop-clop-clop as he descended the stairs into the depths of the Pit III. Inert gas hallway lights flickered on one by one, as the emergency generator warmed up after so many years of lying dormant. The base was built with quality and reliability in mind. Even after five years of inactivity, the hidden headquarters showed little sign of disuse, other than some dust. The information systems room was just off a main hallway, near the old command and operations center, a few doors down from the austere office that was set aside for the general. Most of the desks and chairs were gone, along with the terminal workstations that weren't bolted down or against the walls of the room that housed the Joes' massive Cray supercomputer. General Abernathy located one of the surviving terminals and powered it up. The screen glowed a soft green before the video kicked in, providing him with a standard multi-colored Windows access screen. After gaining entry into the system, he called up the personnel rosters and instructed the supercomputer to network into the global defense grid and survey his old unit's military personnel records for candidates who were still on active duty or who could be pressed back into service quickly. Using one of Mainframe's custom-written operations planning tools, all he had to do was enter some search parameters and select the target records, and the Cray did the rest. Settling down to munch on a Power Bar and take a drag from the bottle of spring water in his overcoat's pocket, the general sat against a bare wall, expecting a long haul, while the Cray processed his request. About halfway through the protein bar, the terminal beeped that the query was complete. Clayton hoisted himself to his feet, glancing around for some paper to feed one of the printer units, and found nothing. The Joes had been thorough in cleaning out the room for its mothballing. Always ready with a Plan B, the general loaded a diskette into the terminal, and downloaded the results of the computer query. After he shut everything back down and left the Pit to lie as cold as a tomb once more, he would review the data on his laptop during the flight back to Washington. |