"When The Truth Isn't Skin Deep"

Prologue

The Silent Castle, Scotland

James McCullen Destro sat at his ornate mahogany desk, situated in what would've been the great hall of the 14^th Century Scottish castle that his family passed down among the generations as the ancestral home of Clan Destro.

This night was not unlike most nights spent alone and at work, monitoring the reports from his Military Armaments Research Syndicate - MARS - executives, fanned out around the world pushing both his legitimate and illegitimate arms brokerage efforts. If he wasn't looking after his own private army of slick arms dealers, weapons engineers, and Iron Grenadiers, Destro was flipping through stacks of the world's newspapers.

Despite having staff dedicated to feeding him timely information, he often looked to personally glean from the articles one nuance or another that might impact his competition, his business or his relationship with the Cobra organization as a member of its core committee of leaders.

Destro's secluded mountain fortress was known as "The Silent Castle" for many reasons, but even to the Scottish laird, the night seemed more quiet than usual in his great room. His ears didn't pick out the methodical clomp-clomp-clomp of the black leather jackboots belonging to his personal security detail; although he knew if they weren't patrolling, they were still no further than the sound of his voice when he needed them.

Out of the jumble of daily notations that streamed across his computer screen, provided by his people even though he still liked kicking back with a newspaper, Destro noticed something odd - rather, something in the daily stream was missing. He reached for his desk phone and it dialed directly down to the castle's nerve center, which was akin to both a high-tech communications hub and the castle's repository of intelligence and "combat information".

"Colour Sergeant Donegan here, m' laird," the Iron Grenadier in charge of answering Destro's personal line said in greeting. "May I help ye, sir?"

"Yes, Donegan," Destro began. "Have there been any communiques intercepted from Cobra Commander's last known base in Badhikistan?"

Donegan tapped at a keyboard in front of him, the sound discernible through the phone, before the Iron Grenadier spoke again. "Negative, m' laird. A number of calls from other remote Cobra cells, requesting assistance but garbled at each source, went unanswered by the Badhikistan enclave. Shall I initiate inquiries?"

"Yes, Donegan. Find out anything you can from our own network. Do not employ Cobra assets for now, in case our presence in Badhikistan has been totally compromised."

Something didn't feel right, and for Destro, he trusted his feelings and instincts well - they had kept him alive for so long, especially in the face of numerous very close calls. He just couldn't put a finger on it quite yet.

"Donegan, while you're at it, set the castle's defenses at Condition One and maximize internal security. See if you can also make contact with my Anastasia... er - I mean the Baroness DeCobray."

"As you order, m' laird," Donegan replied. Destro nodded without further words and hung up the telephone, rubbing the chin of his beryllium steel mask thoughtfully as his eyes traced the path of the information ticker passing across his computer screen.

Not much time passed when Destro's office phone rang again. Sergeant Donegan's voice was shaken when he spoke.

"M' laird, this is Sergeant Donegan in the data center. We have a situation."

"Go on."

"We received a distress call from Trans-Carpathia. The Cobra enclave there came under attack by unknown forces. The Iron Grenadier detachment withdrew in good order, and wasn't detected in its movement to safer places. However, the castle was destroyed by the same unknown invaders."

"Damn," Destro swore softly. "How is our security?"

"We've doubled all guards and placed the main defenses on high alert, m' laird."

"Did the Iron Grenadier detachment commander have anything to say?"

"Yes, sir. His rear guard engaged some of these red-garbed attackers. Many of the Iron Grenadiers in the team were his best snipers and marksmen. They scored direct hits with large-caliber rifle fire and rocket-propelled grenades on these guys but didn't faze them. It- it- was like they were superhuman."

"I see," Destro said. He thought quickly, and trusted his own instincts, which told him that his own domicile wouldn't be safe, even with beefed up security.

"Call all of the executive leadership, Donegan. You have the list. Tell them to prepare for a Directive Black at any time. And see if the shipyard at Faslane has made the final corrections to the Cataclysm design prototype. I want her to be fit to go to sea without trials."

"As you order, m' laird."

Until the next installment...