GI JOE Porn Story: Aint War Hell Chapter 3

PART
THREE

—–

Chapter
Nine – Nightmare

—–

It
was a familiar scene. A dining table, mostly-empty plates. On
sixteen-year-old Cooper MacBrides left was his mother, a woman
still well within her thirties and possessing the peculiar maternal
beauty a son cant help but acknowledge. On his right was
the boys father, slouched in sleep.

I
am a boy again,
Low-Light thought. This
is only a dream. This is not real.

But
it had once been quite real, and he was no more prepared to stop the
scene from unfolding now than he had been when it had occurred in
reality, nearly twelve years ago.

Mother
leaned over towards her husband. Jim, she said to the sleeping
man. He didnt stir. He couldnt. The sleeping pills
(powderized and mixed in his drink) would not allow him to wake.
Mother didnt know, of course. She thought hed just had a hard
day at work. Jim, wake up. She tried still. After all these
years, all the countless times the scene had played out with no
change, she tried still to save them all from the outcome.

Ill
make sure he gets to bed, Mom, Cooper said, his voice haunting in
its youth to the man forced again to watch a scene he wanted only to
forget.

How
young I am! A boy of sixteen. That stupid, evil boy I was. No.
The evil was not in me. It was in him. Was there another way?

Mother
started to rise, holding her plate. Dont worry about the
dishes, the boy told her. Ill clean up.

She
smiled. Thankyou, she said. She walked to him, kissed the top
of his head. Turned. Retreated to the bedroom. Light turned off.
Bedroom door shut.

She
had already taken a sleeping pill, as she did most every night (they
were hers; she would not notice how many were missing until the next
day. And then, it would be too late to stop the boy. Too late to
save the boy…). She would not hear anything after
she went to sleep. Cooper gave her a few minutes to let sleep take
her. He spent the time examining the sleeping father.

Monster!

The
man he called father was as vile as a man could be. Abusive.
Cold. Unfeeling. How many times over had he deserved the death
Cooper was set now to give him? Could he go through with it? Did he
have the nerve?

Unfortunately,
I did. I will…

Cooper
blinked, realizing that the moment must be now. He stood up and
circled the long way around the table until he came to stand behind
his father.

Monster!

He
slid his hands underneath the older mans arms and worked him out
of the chair. So heavy! The man slumped to the floor, almost
bringing the boy down with him. Managing to keep his footing, he
took a better hold of the motionless figure and dragged him
into the bathroom. It was hard work, but Cooper got him into the
tub.

Dont
turn on the light. If you dont examine him in the light, you may
not go through with it. You can save us!
Low-Lights suggestion would be ignored; it was not in his power
to instruct. Only to observe.
But you wouldnt forget the light, would you, boy? No, youre
much too thorough to miss a small detail like that.

Cooper
hit the lightswitch. Illuminated in the stark fluorescent light, the
fathers appearance was fully revealed. Every wretched line in his
face was magnified by shadow, every bit of evil flesh made blindingly
hideous by the light. Cooper looked at the
mans hands, now resting in his lap as he lay prone in the tub.
Hands so often used against the people he should have cherished. His
own suffering by those hands was almost bearable. But how many times
had they attacked her, who deserved nothing short
of worship for her patience in the terrible life she led? A son to
raise, a husband to satisfy. Her own chances for a good life, for
happiness, even for simple content, were fated time and again to fade
defeatedly into the background. And in the foreground
was this man (too kind a word… this DEMON) who rewarded her
loyalty with regular physical abuse, incessant emotional torment.

Monster!

Cooper
held the knife up to inspect it. A nick flawed the otherwise-perfect
blade. The imperfection had always been there. He wondered as to
its cause, but could not know. The knife had been given to him by
his father. No explanation had been made for
the nick in the edge. Really, though, did it matter? As long as it
would cut. That was all he needed now.

Oh,
it will. Have no doubt of that, boy.

How
fitting it was for a gift from father to son to be the primary
instrument during the final gift from son to father. Without any
more hesitation, Cooper brought the knife to the mans wrists. He
sliced across and then up along the arm. A satisfactory
surge of blood told him hed done it right. The bloody knife then
moved to the throat. The wrong throat, though. No Adams apple.
Creamy skin. Feminine.

What?
Low-Light wondered in fear. This
isnt right!
Fear became blind panic.
STOP!

The
hand was not to be arrested, however. A clean cut. More blood. The
same color as the red hair spilling over the womans shoulders.

No!
Scarlett!

Both
Cooper MacBrides, one horrified and helpless observer, one passionate
and ruthless participant, watched the blood flow from the wounds they
had inflicted. Death was imminent.

But
it is not supposed to be her! It was always him! That monster! Why
am I killing her?

Suddenly,
both observer and participant were one. Low-Light, now adult and in
that remembered bathroom, reached for Scarletts wrists, clamped
his hands over them in a desperate attempt to hold in the blood. But
it came anyway, leaking between his fingers.
He moved his hands to her throat, strangled with all his might, but
the blood kept coming.

Dont
die! he shouted at her unmoving form. Were so close! Keep
moving!

She
didnt move. The tub filled with her blood.

Wake
up! he pleaded. He slapped her face. No response. You have
to help me! Its not too far now. Keep moving! WAKE UP!

The
scene shattered.

White.

Images
solidified. Ceiling. Wall to the left. Everything white.

Im
awake,
Low-Light realized. The scene was over.

He
swept his groggy eyes over the room. Hospital. A man in red stood
up from his seat in the corner. Low-Light sat up in his bed and
blinked at the muck in his eyes. Little help. He brought up his
hands to finish the job.

Lifeline
(tunic messed with dried blood) stopped perhaps ten feet from the bed
and gave Low-Light a smile. Awake, I see.

Low-Light
swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms. He
was still in his clothes, which were also stained with blood. The
same blood. Hers.

Scarlett?
Low-Light asked in a husky voice.

Alive.

Low-Lights
shoulders slumped as a wash of painful relief stung him.

Her
condition is still serious, Lifeline continued. But I think
shell make it. Shes under close observation.

Low-Light
reached for his boots, which were beside the bed on the floor. He
slipped them on and began lacing them. In silence.

It
was a great thing you did, Lifeline said. Six hours ago, when
we found you, I thought she was dead already. She would be if not
for you.

Low-Light
made no acknowledgment, continuing to fasten his boots.

I
recommend you stay put, the medic offered sternly. He sounded
tired. He also had worked hard to save her. You could use a lot
more sleep.

Low-Light
finished his task and stood up. Every muscle in his body ached with
creaking tension. Last thing I want, he said, walking toward
the exit. While it would be nice to sleep off the ache, there was
the possibility – no, the surety – of the scene
starting all over again. Like every time he slept. The only cure
hed found (less a cure than an avoidance, really) was to simply
not sleep. Or at least fill himself with so much liquor that he
passed out. Like a minor death, that type of sleep. No dreams.
Usually.

Lifeline
stepped aside for Low-Light, knowing he could not keep him there.
But hed already exercised his power over Low-Light. Ive
suggested to Duke that you take a few days off.

Low-Light
stopped, threw a cold eye to Lifeline. I dont want a few days
off.

Too
late, Lifeline said with a weary smile. Use the time to rest,
Low-Light. You need it.

Low-Light
turned and started toward the door again.

Ill
keep you informed as to her condition, Lifeline said to his back.

He
stopped, turned. He felt the cold resolve of that young boy of
sixteen. So sure of himself. So ignorant. Dont bother. I
did my job. Its out of my hands now. Without waiting for a
reply, if there was to be one, Low-Light left the hospital. Indeed,
he had done his job. Others would take over now. It was no longer
up to him.

Is
it worth it?
he wondered, walking down the hall toward the living quarters.
Toward the arms of Mistress Whiskey. Toward that awful need to not
dream. Does
her life make up for all the others Ive taken? Does it make up
for what I did to him?

He
supposed it didnt. But there was no changing the past. There was
not even a certain future. There was only now, which was always
somewhere between hope and doom. For now, the hope was more
prevalent. But there was always doom on the horizon. And the
hope never lasted long. Never.

Was
it murder when I killed my father? Or was it justice? Or is it that
simple?

—–

Chapter
Ten – Pressure

—–

Good
morning, Dr. Odem.

Destros
voice was deep, commanding. Stirring. Wildcat always felt a certain
chill upon hearing it. And, perhaps, a certain thrill. It was
enough to stir Odem from his sleep. From her position behind Destro,
she watched as Odem raised a dazed head and
froze upon seeing the foreboding figure towering over him.

Giving
him no time to react or even to think, Destro continued. We shall
talk this morning of your importance to me.

Odem
sat up, ran his fingers through his oily hair. How about a shower
first? he croaked, managing a weak smile. He was a man who, in
situations of stress, turned to humor, however inappropriate it might
be. Cant make a good impression during an interview
looking the way I do. Wildcat noted the crude beard filling in,
the unhealthy pallor of his flesh. He might have been a handsome
man, but who could tell now? Stress and isolation had planted in his
eyes a gleam of untouchable distance and pulled
his skin into a strange mix of tightness and sag.

This
is no ordinary interview, doctor, Destro said. I shall come
directly to the point. Your research for controlled famine; I want
to know everything.

Odem
let himself fall back flat onto his cot. I am not at liberty to
discuss that. He closed his eyes, perhaps hoping for sleep to
once again favor him.

I
believe I can free your tongue, doctor, Destro said, motioning to
Wildcat. She turned and gestured for the outer guard to send in the
girl who was to free Odems tongue. The guard shoved the girl
(perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old) toward Wildcat,
who caught her and steadied her. She was only half-alive. Her face
(it, too, had been handsome once, but now was smeared with dried
blood and darkened by deep bruises) was turned down, which was the
direction her whole body wanted to go. The list of abuses
inflicted on the girl must have been many, and Wildcat didnt care
to speculate what they included. She wrapped her arm around the
girls neck and pulled her in a slight backward arch to keep her on
her feet.

Odem
watched groggily. Wildcat saw some of the distance in his eyes
disappear, however. He said nothing, but she could tell this new
situation made him nervous.

I
dont know this girls name. I dont care what her name is,
Destro said with a shrug. She probably has lived a very normal
life. Perhaps she is a gifted musician or a talented artist. Again,
I dont know nor care. But you, doctor… he paused for
dramatic effect. I imagine that you are just weak enough to care.
I give you now an awesome power, Dr. Odem. You alone shall decide
this girls fate. You will determine whether she lives or dies.
Its very simple. Co-operate and she lives. Defy me
and you condemn her to death.

To
drive the point home, Wildcat forced the girl to her knees (actually,
the only force needed was to keep her upright on her knees) and
leveled her pistol at the back of her head, cocking it. Hearing the
click of the gun, realizing the immediate potential
for death, the girl froze, her dark hair falling over her face.
Dont kill me, she whispered to no one in particular.
Wildcat, standing behind her, could not tell where her eyes might be
focused.

Whats
to keep you from killing her anyway? Odem asked. There was a tone
of muted anger in his voice.

I
have stated the situation, Destro answered impatiently. Hesitate
no longer. I equate silence with defiance.

Odem
sat and considered a moment.

Destro
didnt move for perhaps five seconds. Then he flashed to Wildcat
the hand signal that meant kill. Wildcat wasnt ready for it
to come so fast and found herself hesitating a second. The silver
face turned to her, and she submitted to the order.
A loud pop drowned the cell in deafness. A splash of blood stung
Wildcats face, and she let the girls corpse fall, needing a
free hand to wipe away the fresh blood. The body slumped to the
floor, the opened head coming to rest in an odd imitation of its
normal shape. Dark blood crept from the hole, spreading slowly over
the stones.

Why
did I hesitate?
Wildcat wondered. Indeed, a swell of strange distress rose in her
chest. Why
do I feel remorse? I have killed before. But there was always a
reason, a need. Not with this girl. I have murdered for no reason!

Wildcat
needed an excuse to take her gaze from the death at her feet. She
found it by looking at Odem. His eyes, now wide with horror, were
staring at the mess. Why? he whispered. You didnt give
me time… His quiet voice trailed off.

Shall
I bring in another? came Destros cold voice, made inhuman by
the sound-distorting metal that hid his face. Need we continue
playing this pointless game?

Odem
shook his head. Whatever you want to know.

Wildcat
saw Destros dark eyes staring out from the silver, fixed on Odem.
Ive already made clear what I want to know. You may begin now.
And when youre done with your introduction, you will produce your
poisons for testing.

Odems
eyes remained fixed on the dead girl. Id need my notes for
that.

Then
you will tell me where I can find them, Destro said, the
impatience finally beginning to succumb to the realization that his
work was to be much easier than expected. As Odem began, shakily, to
talk, Destro dismissed Wildcat with a nod of his head.
She withdrew, closing the cell door.

Major
Bludd stood from a chair and approached. He had been sitting nearby,
waiting, assumedly listening in. He extended a callused hand (his
left; the right arm seemed to her a mechanical – entirely covered in
a casing of black metal – mystery, and he seemed
to favor the left) toward her face and brushed some of the girls
blood from Wildcats forehead. Not a pretty scene, eh? he
said with a hint of a smile.

Wildcat
felt her jaw tighten and noticed the anger welling up in her. Her
ears grew warm with the angry blood swirling in her veins. Im
not here for this, she said through clenched teeth. Im not
a common butcher!

Bludds
good eye (the other was hidden behind a patch) narrowed and his smile
faded, replaced by a hardening of his ugly features. You are what
you are ordered to be, Wildcat.

She
stiffened. He relaxed. Youre a young woman with so much
future ahead. Take a day off. Perhaps you need time to consider
your commitment to this organization. And your loyalty to me.

She
nodded silently.

Bludd
reached for her face again. Two hard, almost-inhuman fingers (and
these were of the more human of the two arms!) stroked her cheek.
She felt revulsion, but didnt move. Use the time to think long
and hard, girl, Bludd wheezed. His eye gleamed at
her with urgent warning. And dont disappoint me.

Is
that a threat? she demanded as proudly as she dared.

Bludds
vague smile returned, but the softening of his face made it no less
ugly. Oddly, he appeared only more repulsive. As with all things
in this world, it is only what you make of it.

—–

Chapter
Eleven – Kindred Spirits

—–

Another
one, miss? the wiry bartender asked Wildcat, removing the latest
empty glass. She languidly swept her gaze toward him and nodded. He
hesitated a moment. Maybe youve had enough, huh?

Im
fine, she said. She was not accustomed to heavy drinking, and she
had undoubtedly hit her limit, but there was nowhere else to go for
the moment. So what if she passed out at the bar? So what if she
made a stumbling fool of herself among this dwindling
crew of motley strangers?

Go
ahead, Paul, said a smooth voice from behind her. A small man (he
was about her height, but she was 5 9, and she tended to think
of a man her size as small) leaned against the bar beside her. He
was bright-eyed and not bad looking, but the leer smeared
over his face gave him a predatory look. Ill treat the lady to
whatever she wants.

She
tossed him an icy glance. No thanks.

He
shrugged. Suit yourself, lady. You want to turn down free drinks
and some friendly company, fine with me. Let me know if you change
your mind.

The
man retreated as the bartender produced another scotch and soda. She
tapped her fingernails on the glass, thinking of nothing in
particular. She had achieved exactly what shed set out to achieve
this night: Her mind was now rendered incapable of forming
a truly complete thought.

The
door opened and a man entered, dressed in dark clothes. He was about
six feet tall, obviously well-built; his coat and loose-fitting pants
couldnt hide that. Sandy blond waves rolled motionlessly atop his
head. He sat at the end of the bar opposite
Wildcat, who watched him closely. She recognized the man. Her
breath came short in a moment of panic. Was this absurd coincidence
or something more sinister? He hadnt acknowledged her, or anyone
else but the bartender. He ordered quietly, and the bartender
supplied him with bourbon over rocks, which he sucked down quickly,
motioning for another. While the bartender refilled his glass, he
lit a cigarette, pulling an ashtray closer to him.

Wildcat
took her drink in hand and stood up. She made her way to where the
man was sitting and set her drink and herself down. He didnt look
at her, more concerned with the new bourbon brought to him. Wildcat
leaned closer to him and spoke quietly, conspiratorially:
I know who you are.

He
didnt reply. He downed the bourbon and requested another. She
found herself staring at his downcast eyes, those eyes that had
inspired so much curiosity in her. They were pale blue, almost grey.
Beyond that, there was nothing at all striking about them.
They might as well have been glass. There was no life in them.

As
a new drink was set on the bar before him, he finally looked at her.
And who am I? he asked disinterestedly.

She
sipped at her drink and smiled. His dead eyes flicked downward,
taking in her body and then moving back up to fix on her eyes. If he
liked what he saw, he made no admission. Cooper, MacBride, or
Low-Light, which do you prefer? she asked coolly.

He
shrugged, and took down some of his drink. Whatever you prefer.
He slid his pack of cigarettes toward her. Smoke?

She
shook her head, allowing none of the disdain she felt for cigarettes
show. She shifted her voice into a register of sweet sarcasm.
Youve already tried to kill me, and more boldly than with
cigarettes.

He
drained the bourbon from the ice in the glass and smashed his
cigarette into death in the ashtray. Surely I wouldnt want to
kill a pretty girl like you without good reason. Wildcat couldnt
be sure if the statement was supposed to be humorous, as hed
said it with no hint of humor. If it was so important to me to
kill you, whats to keep me from finishing the job now? Humor?
Again, she couldnt tell.

Im
sure we could find a better way to pass the time than killing each
other. She finished her drink and set it down closer to him than
to herself, flashing him a flirty glance. He sighed and gave a small
shrug. He looked to the bartender and held up her
glass, silently conveying the message that he would buy her next one.
Both drinks were refreshed and Low-Light started on another
cigarette.

How
many of those you had tonight? Low-Light asked, nodding at her
glass.

She
blinked, counting in her head. Six or seven. This will make
either seven or eight.

Youre
not going to feel good in the morning, he observed. Youre
not a drinker.

Was
her drunkenness so obvious? Well, she supposed it was. He had
downed four drinks in five minutes. And how many are you planning
on having?

Many
as it takes, he said.

How
much does it usually take, she pressed.

A
lot.

An
alcoholic on top of everything else. Not really surprising. How did
he function, though? He was the most respected night sniper in her
awareness, belonging to the most prestigious unit of the armed
forces. How was he able to retain his position with
the spectre of alcoholism looming over him? She pushed her drink
away, suddenly losing desire to finish it. She would not move down
the dark road he traveled. The smoke from his cigarette wisped her
way, and she turned from him. When he was no longer in
her field of view, she felt a surge of disgust for him. He was not a
man. He was nothing. He was a lifeless thing,
walking among the living, feeling none of their passions. He killed
arbitrarily, and washed away the guilt by destroying himself slowly
with liquor and isolation. He was a coward, a hider in the shadows
of the night.

Saying
nothing more, Wildcat stood and started toward the restroom. There
was a disconcerting churning in her stomach. Her mouth began to fill
with saliva. She stumbled across the floor, hoping she could keep
the sickness down long enough to make it to a
toilet. She pushed the door open, rushed to a stall, and lurched to
the floor. She gagged and heaved as the liquid contents of her
stomach splashed into the porcelain bowl. After a couple more bouts
with her own physiology, the onslaught ended, and she
sat back, pressing her eyes closed as tightly as she could. It
didnt prevent tears from trickling down her face. She wasnt
sure if they were borne of the physical stress of retching or from
the knowledge that her assessment of Low-Light had really been
an assessment of herself.

Low-Light
had watched her make it to the restroom. He wondered who she was
exactly. He hadnt recognized her. Yet, she said hed tried to
kill her. That surely put her in the ranks of Cobra. She was
younger than him, perhaps twenty-four. And easy on the
eyes. What circumstances had pressed her into such an entity as
Cobra were beyond his speculation.

The
bartender brought him another drink, and Low-Light said: This is
my last. Ill get her bill too. He sucked down the bourbon and
paid the bartender. Giving life to another cigarette, he made his
way out of the bar.

He
stopped on the sidewalk and took in the varied sounds of New York
City. He leaned against the brick wall of the bar, wishing the night
had gone differently. He had aimed tonight for solitude. Instead,
he had come across an enemy agent who knew his identity.
She had been trying to drink away some ill, and he recognized in her
some hint of himself at a younger age. He had discovered liquor as
an escape at the age of twenty-one (the irony of a murderer waiting
for the legal age to drink was almost amusing).
At first, it had worked. The thrill of tipsiness had wiped away the
days anxieties. He vaguely remembered the tingling of his cheeks
and the pleasant numbing of his lips when hed first began using
alcohol. Now, when he drank, he felt no change until
he blacked out. There was no pleasurable sensation, no thrill. Only
an all-too-serious pressure to keep drinking until the world finally
shrank in defeat to slumber.

He
tossed the finished cigarette into the gutter, and wouldve turned
to make his way back home, except the girl emerged from the bars
door. Her eyes found him. She drew near. Her eyes were red and
shimmering from recently released tears.

She
reached into her coat and he was mildly surprised to see her remove a
pistol. She urgently jammed the barrel into his stomach, her
questioning eyes all the while contrasting with the harsh action.
Im not afraid to do it, she breathed over the sound
of the gun cocking.

His
heart quickened, but not with fear. He pitied this poor girl.
Understood her. You would do me a favor by pulling that trigger,
he whispered. He meant it. He was almost elated at the idea of
dying here and now, dispatched by this unexpected kindred
spirit. The only thing that tainted it was that this girl would be
further pushed into whatever doom had a hold of her now.

You
would have killed me a few nights ago. But Im not afraid of
you… Her quavering voice trailed off. Her eyes sparkled with
new tears.

He
knew then that it had been she who followed him and Scarlett. She
had been the shadow that did not finish the job. He realized also
why she hadnt. Her objective had been to see them safely get
away, so they would report the death of Remick Odem. What
better way to hide a prisoner than to have him officially killed? He
had killed a decoy that night. It all made sense now. Remick Odem
was not dead. More important, he was probably nearby. This woman
had been connected with the operation and probably
still was. If she was in New York, Odem was in New York. So close
to G.I. Joes own hidden base on Staten Island!

Low-Light
slowly brought his hand up and curled his fingers over the gun. He
gently pushed it aside. She relented and her shoulders slumped.
Get away from this while you can, he said quietly and with a
tender compassion that surprised him. Whatever it
is youve done, its not too late to start over.

She
shook her head gently, and forcefully blinked the tears into
submission. Her lips parted, but whatever she was going to say never
came. She turned and walked away from him. Her pace quickened and
he watched after her until she turned a corner and disappeared.

Isnt
it too late, though, for people like us to start over?
he thought. And
so I add hypocrisy to my list of crimes.

—–

Chapter
Twelve – Briefing

—–

Alright,
people, settle down, called Duke over the din of several
conversations. Lets get professional. A wave of quiet
started at the front of the room and washed its way back (where sat
Low-Light, always tending to sit at the back of any room) until
all attentions were set on the speaker. All members of G.I. Joe sat
in attendance to this hastily-called briefing.

Duke
began. Recent discoveries have given us reason to believe that
Dr. Remick Odem is still alive. We had believed that we succeeded in
removing him from Cobra custody – odd choice of words, Low-Light
thought; the higher-ups must have been agitated that
he and Scarlett had gone for straight-out assassination instead of
recovery – but new information has refuted that.

Low-Light
was relieved that Duke didnt connect his name with either the
mission (even though everyone knew, by now, all about it – he had
never had to work so hard to avoid offered hands to shake; that the
mission had turned out a failure might give Low-Light
the breathing room he was used to) or the new information, as
the circumstances of his having come upon it could invite
embarrassment. Drinking alone with a seductive Cobra agent? No,
that was not something to advertise.

Whats
the big deal about this doctor guy? piped up Steeler, who (also a
bad kid at the back of the class) sat a few seats over from
Low-Light. The hard-talking, blue-collar-class tank driver leaned
over to Clutch beside him. Governments probably pissed
cause he invented the cure for politics or something.

The
few snickers at Steelers joke fell silent as Duke answered with a
smile. Thats a good question, and saves me the trouble of
having to find a clean transition to the next part of this meeting.
There were some laughs, and Low-Light was amused to see
Steeler cross his arms in indignation at having been one-upped.
Ill turn the floor over to Airtight. Hell explain the
importance of Dr. Odems research.

As
Duke stepped aside, Airtight rose from a chair at the front of the
room and moved to the center of attention. He wore casual army
fatigues, but couldnt resist throwing oddness into his appearance
with a yellow scarf that hung limply from his shoulders.
His brown hair reached wildly in all directions, and though he
appeared as if hed existed the past couple days on a steady diet
of nothing but coffee, he retained his usual energy. Ill get
right down to it, he announced. If Cobra has access to Odems
formulas, things could be pretty bleak for us. His theory is called
controlled famine. At its most innocent, it could be useful for a
real estate shark. At its worst, I believe its nothing less than
a fundamental stage in the toppling of a government.

Low-Light,
like everyone else in the room, was drawn in by this statement. He
assumed Odem must be important, but was interested in learning
finally just how important.

Airtight
scratched his forehead and went on. He spoke quickly and excitedly.
The process of controlled famine uses two chemical agents. Ones
a poison and the other is an antidote. The poison neutralizes
plants, apparently killing them, but they dont
really die. What the poison actually does is replace the plants
normal processes of production with a chemical substitute that
effectively re-programs the plant to store its energies while it
seems to wither and die. When the antidote is introduced, this
chemical effect is reversed, and the plant is rapidly revived and,
within only a few hours, is back to full productive capabilities.
While appearing to kill the plant, the poison is actually preserving
it and keeping it ready to produce. How long the plant
can stay, quote unquote, dead under the poisons influence before
the introduction of the antidote is not known, as we do not have
access to Odems notes and formulas.

Okay,
Airtight, scoffed Steeler. So whats the punchline?
Airtight was well known for his elaborate practical jokes.

I
wish there was a punchline, Airtight answered, looking suddenly
very serious. Ill give you an example how this could be used.
Say Im in Northern California and Ive got access to this poison
and antidote. Im looking to get my foot in the door to
the winemaking business, and Id like to start up with the smallest
amount of capital possible. I find the vineyard I want, one that
turns a good profit, use my poison, and – he slapped his right
fist into the palm of his left hand – BAM! Overnight, this
guy suddenly has acres and acres of dead grapes. He tries for a week
to nurse his precious vines back to life, but theyre good as gone.
He can try to tear it all out and start fresh, but the seasons
almost done and theres no time to start over and
no way to make the money necessary to re-plant. So, I graciously
come forward, with a generous offer of about half, maybe I can get
away with a third, of what the vineyards worth. He has to take
it. I move in Monday, save my inherited vines with my antidote,
and on Tuesday, Im rubbing my hands together, surveying my
suddenly-healthy crop of wine grapes.

Airtight
stopped a minute and took a drink of water. All this talk of wine
makes me thirsty, he quipped. There were a few chuckles.
Airtight continued. Okay, now, let me give you the example of
what I think Cobra has in mind. The agricultural exports
of the United States feed about one-sixth of the non-American world.
Thats not all that important. It draws in less than five percent
of our GNP. What is important is that, agriculturally, we are pretty
much independent, providing almost all of our own
food, without reliance on the rest of the world. What if, suddenly,
farming in the Midwest collapsed? I mean totally collapsed. No
wheat, no corn, no rice. Worse, lets say even the grazing lands
for beef and dairy cows are decimated. Throw in a lapse
of production in cotton and tobacco. If handled in an organized
manner, which Cobra is capable of, the poisoning of every vital crop
in the United States could be carried out in a matter of days. We
wouldnt survive long on what we have stockpiled, and
suddenly, were forced to spend ridiculous amounts of money on
importing the most basic crops. Couple this chaos with a military
strike, and the U.S. is in quite the spot. And maybe Cobras goal
is even simpler than that. The billions of dollars we could
spend on importing food might be less attractive than the slightly
more reasonable ransom Cobra might ask for.

Duke,
still standing off to the side, spoke up. We could try to stop it
by stepping up security around the country, effectively imposing
martial law in every area that contains a staple crop. He shook
his head. However, not only is that difficult for
numerous reasons, but heres the bigger problem: If Cobra cant
have the U.S., whats to stop them from implementing this scheme
somewhere else? We cant run around protecting the entire worlds
agricultural industries, and the last thing we want is to start
a worldwide panic.

You
dont leave us any options, Duke, noted the always-calm Lady
Jaye. What do you propose we do?

Airtight
took his seat and listened with the rest of them. Youre right,
we have very few options. It has been four days since Cobra
successfully moved Odem to an unknown location. We must assume that
theyve had time to get his formulas and possibly produce
them. I dont think they will have had time, however, to properly
test the poison and antidote. That gives us a little time, but I
dont know how much. Duke held up his right hand, thumb and
index finger extended. We have two small advantages.
First, Cobra doesnt know that we know that Odems still alive.
They probably are not in a desperate hurry. The index finger
dropped, leaving only the thumb. His eyes briefly met Low-Lights,
and the hand gesture suddenly struck Low-Light as a personal
signal: Thumbs
up, soldier.
The glance broke off and Duke continued. Second, we suspect Odem
is being held somewhere near or in New York City, which, if true, is
helpful.

So
were back to square one, Lady Jaye observed. Recover Odem.

Duke
nodded. Correct. Our job is now to ferret out Cobras possible
locations in New York. Discreetly, of course. Assignments will be
made tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred hours. Those of you not on duty
tonight might want to rest up. Tomorrow, things get
tough. Dismissed.

The
group stood and milled about, several conversations blending into one
confused symphony of disharmonious sound. Low-Light remained in his
seat, waiting for the room to clear before he exited. Duke
approached and Low-Light stood up, but Duke walked by
without any acknowledgment. Following Duke was Snake Eyes, who did
stop. He was, as always, covered in black. The masked face silently
regarded Low-Light a moment. Then Snake Eyes took Low-Lights
right hand in his and squeezed it. Low-Light felt something
sharp in his palm and as Snake Eyes released his grip, Low-Light saw
that hed been passed an object. The tip of an arrow. One of
Scarletts. Low-Light looked back up. Snake Eyes gave him a sharp
nod and then turned and headed for the door.

Low-Light
had heard that Scarlett was recovering (as promised, Lifeline kept
him informed, ignoring Low-Lights indifference) and had started
receiving visitors. The message Snake Eyes had delivered was obvious
enough: See
Scarlett.
He dropped the small arrow tip into his shirt pocket and made his
way out of the room. But he didnt head for the hospital. His job
concerning Scarlett was done. He had no further obligation to her.