GI JOE Porn Story: Aint War Hell – Chapter 1

AINT
WAR HELL?

by
Maximillian von Fischgeist

—–

PART
ONE

—–

Chapter
One – Night

—–

Only
four left, he spat, shaking the cigarette pack to see if perhaps a
hidden one might join the others from some unseen corner. No such
luck. Hed started the night with well over half a pack. That had
been at zero hour. He pulled one of the cigarettes
out and put it to his lips. Closing the box and replacing it in his
jacket pocket, he glanced at his wristwatch. He was reminded with
annoyance that he couldnt see the face. Too dark. He pushed the
light button, and the time glared at him, taunting
him to stretch his remaining cigarettes over the remaining time of
his shift. 02:17. More than five hours left.

He
pulled the lighter out of his pocket, and brought it up to the
cigarettes tip. He flicked the lighter. A spark. He flicked it
again. Another spark, but still no flame. Again. Spark. Again.
Spark.

God
damn it, he muttered. He held the lighter up to his ear and shook
it. He heard a bit of fuel slosh around inside. Pushing a harsh
breath through his nostrils, he brought the lighter back to the
cigarettes tip. This time, he held the fuel button down
a second. He heard it hiss, and then, satisfied, flicked it again.
It worked. The flame fluttered to life, and he sucked on the
cigarette to get it lit.

Dropping
the lighter in his pocket, he inhaled sharply, felt the knife of
smoke jab into his chest. He held it there a second, waited for the
dull thrust to dissolve into dusty comfort. As he pushed it out, the
smoke tickled his lungs, leaving an itch that
needed to be scratched. He obliged, taking another long drag.

Then
a sound. A rustling at his neck. A cold prick on his Adams
apple, then warmth on his throat. He coughed, and thought maybe it
was something in the cigarette. The wet, gurgled sound of his cough
caught him by surprise. In horror, he realized what
was happening, suddenly felt the slicing pain at his throat. It had
been cut.

His
eyes went wide as something clamped over his mouth. He dimly felt
the cigarette crush under the new pressure and attack his cheek with
stinging heat. The pain grew smaller, until it was only a vague
nagging, a thing to worry about later.

He
felt something brush his shoulder, and something pounded against his
ear. He knew from the sound more than the remote aching. The world
was on its side. He was on the ground. The night got even darker.
Blurry and dark. Focus,
damn it! Focus!

He
flung his arm wildly back behind him, and caught a hold of something.
But before he could do anything about it, his side flooded with new
pain. The knife was there now. The night kept getting darker, no
matter how wide he held his eyes. The knife was
in his side again, but it didnt pull out. The tightening of his
tunic told him that the knife was twisting in his side, pulling the
wound wider. He almost couldnt feel the pain anymore. Almost.

He
tightened his grip on whatever he had grabbed with his hand. He
couldnt see anything but dark shapes. Trees,
he guessed. He squinted. No help. He pulled them wide open. No
help. Dark… too dark…

Low-Light
froze, hunched over the man for a moment. He had stopped moving. He
released his hand from the mans mouth and shifted his weight, the
dead hand losing its grip on his leg. Low-Light wiped his bloody
knife on the mans sleeve and then slid it into
the scabbard on his boot, snapping it into place.

He
turned the body onto its back. Lifeless eyes stared upward, fixed on
a point just to the left of Low-Lights face. He searched the body
for some kind of identification, knowing that he would find none.

Forget
it, came Scarletts whisper from behind Low-Light. He
probably doesnt even have fingerprints.

Low-Light
didnt respond. His searching hands found the cigarettes. He
pulled one out and shoved the pack in a pouch on his thigh.

He
gave the sightless eyes a quick scowl. Not my brand. Aint war
hell?

He
stood up and put the cigarette to his lips. Remembering the trouble
the man had had with the lighter, he held the fuel button down a
second, and then a flick conjured the flame. He took a drag and
stuffed the lighter in the same pouch.

Scarlett
watched the odd exchange between Low-Light and the corpse. I
think you just said more to a dead man than youve said to me all
night.

He
didnt acknowledge her. Now that the struggle was over, the sounds
of the night surrounded him again. Crickets called out, and were
answered by nearer ones who had gone silent while waiting out the
struggle. There was a slight breeze toying with the forest
canopy above. The cigarette smoke wisped eastward, then swirled a
bit southerly. The trees were deflecting the breeze in varying
directions.

Beyond
the trees, the night was weak, too many stars vying for control, a
fat moon drowning the darkness. Too bright. But here, the night was
alive. No starlight, no moon, no shadows. Here, the night was
fresh, confident. Ready. Waiting to pounce with
all its animal power.

The
four men Low-Light and Scarlett had overtaken in the past hour hadnt
been victims to human hands. They had been victims to the animal.
It wasnt a knife slicing open a throat. It was the animals
teeth finding the blood whose scent was so maddeningly
obvious. Low-Light led the way, watching with the animals eyes.
He moved with the animals silent assurance.

He
had learned young how to deal with the animal, learned first-hand how
it reacted to human disposition. Survival requires one thing:
Respect. Any other attitude is death. It pities fear at first. But
animals have no sense of honor, and hunger always
wins over pity. Cockiness is an insult to the animal. A flashlight
makes a big target. Indifference is the worst attitude. Makes the
animal mad. Thats what killed these four men. Ignorance of the
animal.

And
they were getting weaker the further in Low-Light and Scarlett went.
The two nearer to the perimeter were tougher, had some knowledge that
they were on their own. The third one was the worst. Sitting with
his back against a tree. Almost asleep. This
last one was just lazy. No thought for his job, just a bored hope
for the end of his quiet shift. Counting his cigarettes, of all
things.

Time?
he asked in a low voice.

Scarlett
checked her watch. Two twenty-one. Ahead of schedule. She
watched him continue to scan their surroundings, exhaling the smoke
through his nose. Those thingsll kill you, you know, she
offered dryly.

In
response, he sucked slowly and deliberately on the cigarette, and let
a stream of billowing white flow from his mouth.

She
blinked away his gesture. We have one more man to take care of
and two miles to our target. You want to go in two ways or
together?

He
shrugged. Your command, your call.

Yes,
it is, she said in a reprimanding tone, but I want to know what
you think is best.

He
took a last drag from the cigarette and dropped it on the dead mans
chest, stamping it out with his boot. Together.

Any
particular reason?

He
straightened, looking beyond her. Then he relaxed. She took a
glance in the direction he was looking, but, as expected, saw
nothing. She was used to it. Hed been doing that all night. He
seemed to be taking cues from something that eluded her awareness.

Well?
she prompted.

If
I make it and you dont, I dont plan on anything but a quick
kill.

You
think hes not worth any trouble, is that what youre saying?
She considered it. Terminating the target would be the easiest way
out. Mission accomplished, very few questions asked.

If
they really wanted him dead, they wouldve sent me alone.

Scarlett
nodded. He was right. Termination was an option here, but not the
objective. One man could infiltrate this small outpost, squeeze off
a well-aimed shot, and head home all within an hour. And Low-Light
would probably be the man theyd send. But
theyd handed it to her, meaning a simple execution wasnt the
true goal, though it would be acceptable if necessary. They wanted
the target recovered. Theyd even given her free choice of
partner, and she chose Low-Light for his uncanny abilities in the
dark. (Or had she chosen him for his expertise with a sniper rifle?)

Okay,
she whispered. We go together.

—–

Chapter
Two – 8 x 8 x 8

—–

Eight
by Eight by Eight. Thats how big the cell was. Remick Odem based
his estimation on his own height (511). Standing upright, feet
flat, arms stretched over his head, his fingertips fell just a couple
inches short of scraping the ceiling. As the cell
was roughly a cube, he quickly decided on the measurement 8 x 8
x 8.

Hed
undertaken this experiment during the daytime, when muted light
managed to breathe in through the thick, fogged glass in the tiny
window on one wall. He guessed its thickness to be about two or
three inches. Unbreakable by fists or bare feet, anyway,
which were his only physical tools. These conclusions summed up his
first days work in this place. That had been a Thursday.

That
would make today… Odem let his voice trail off as he counted the
number of times that dull sunlight had come and gone. Six times?
Yes, six. He was sure of it. The first was on Thursday. Tuesday
night. Thats what this is. Tuesday night.

He
had kept in the practice of talking out loud. From the beginning,
hed been sure to talk to himself. It turned his mind toward the
mundane, which was for the best. Silence, he felt, would make this
waiting unbearable. Whatever it was he was waiting for.

Almost
a week now, and not a clue as to his captors intentions. They
were obviously planning to allow his isolation to gnaw at him.
Isolation, starvation, the stench coming from the small well in the
corner that served as his toilet.

Odem
allowed himself a weary smile. A man could learn to endure most
inconveniences if he kept his wits about him. The horror of an odor
was relative, after all. A couple more days, and the smell might not
exist at all. But wit couldnt replace certain
needs, food chief among them. Each morning he awoke to find a
tauntingly small (and bitterly stale) loaf of bread by the heavy iron
door. He was always at work trying to make the meager rations last
for more than thirty minutes.

Odems
stomach burned with acidity. It was the one truly oppressive element
in this bizarre nightmare. I wonder if the stomach can devour
itself, he mused aloud. Can stomach acids erode the stomach
lining? Yes, thats what a stomach ulcer is, isnt it?

His
voice bounced around in the tight area, taunting him with the need
for open space. No!
his mind screamed. No
thoughts of anything not in this place! The only way we… we
meaning my mind and I? Ive never thought of myself as we
before. Mental note: Deprivation of activity and food makes us
(mental snicker) wiggy!
Where was I? Ah yes, the only way “we” can survive this
is by becoming something that thrives on these conditions. From now
on, life is THIS. We must never think that life has been, can be, or
ever will be better than this. This is bliss. A cube
8 by 8 by 8 is how life is supposed to be. This is the
world. And we are kings in it.

I
stopped talking, Odem reminded himself. Cant stop talking.
I talk, therefore I am. His voice echoed from walls he couldnt
see. He knew they were there. A scientists understanding always
trusts what MUST BE. When the window refused him light,
he KNEW night had fallen. Darkness had come, but that was all. No
other changes had occurred. The walls were still there. No,
not walls. The edges of the Earth. The world is a cube, 8 by 8
by 8. And no one can take that away from me. These 8 cubic feet
are MINE! The world is MINE!

The
world is mine, he whispered. Mine. Feet are no longer feet.
Eight is no longer eight. This world… he stopped, decided on a
correction: MY world is bigger than can be imagined. The corner
to my right… he pointed …is called There. And
it shall always be There… His voice trailed off. What
am I saying? Why am I talking? What the hell did I just say? The
corner to my right is called There? What the hell is that supposed
to mean?

He
closed his eyes (an evil waste of effort, really… working the
muscles in the eyelids just to experience the same effect as keeping
the eyes open) and cradled his head in his hands. Keep talking.
Just keep talking, and maybe, eventually, something will
make sense. Dont look for sense. Dont need sense. Just wait
until the moment when everything clicks and you suddenly realize that
everything makes sense. His mind worked against his mouth: But
that realization will never come. What youre looking for is
impossible, Dr. Remick Odem, old boy. Nothing makes sense until
there is such a thing as Sense. Are you following me? Pay attention
now. Id hate to lose you. Nothing makes sense until there
is such a thing as Sense. If you deny the existence of Sense, you
have negated it forever. Still with me?

Yes,
God damn it, he breathed. Im still with you. If I ignore
it, it doesnt exist, is that it? And if it doesnt exist, there
will be no moment where everything suddenly makes sense, right?
He was interrupted by the discomfort caused by his elbows
jabbing into the sides of his knees, a predicament rooted in his
sitting Indian style. He corrected the situation by laying on his
side.

Just
shut up, he told himself. Maybe we can get some sleep
and when we wake up, everything will make sense.

His
anticipation of another long, aching night of mostly sleeplessness
was corrected suddenly by a sound. He froze, hoping to be able to
determine just what the sound was. Then it repeated. A muted pop…
no, several! He stayed as still as possible, analyzing.
Gunfire perhaps? Could be. No way of being certain, really. The
sound didnt come again.

He
decided it must have been gunfire. One or two single shots, then a
burst (a machinegun), then a few more stray single shots again. And
then the evenings entertainment had ended.

I
am ill, Odem told himself (selves?). People may have died by
gunfire, and I can draw nothing from it but entertainment. Yawn.
Can it be? Am I actually tired? Yawn. I am! Im
getting sleepy!

He
laid his head down on his arm, closed his eyes, and hoped that sleep
might find it in its heart to take him. As sleep did indeed show its
kindness, Odem vaguely (but, vainly, he knew) hoped that the death
that may have come from those muted, distant bullets
would somehow find a way to take him. But then, before he could even
consider the philosophy of that thought, a tunnel of swirling warmth
swallowed him whole, surrounding him in the beautiful Nothing that is
Sleep.

—–

Chapter
Three – Replay

—–

Surprise,
she is a fickle mistress.

Low-Light
and Scarlett had been the favored party most of the night, but it was
that proverbial eleventh hour that, once again, had proved so
crucial. Lady Surprise had defected to join the enemy.

A
summary of the events surged through Low-Lights head:

The
last man fell without much complaint (the extent of his complaint was
a quick gasp, and then a low, defeated sigh as Low-Lights knife
expertly released him into death). Low-Light and Scarlett pressed
on, and soon came to their destination; a small building
of hasty design but efficient construction. Ugly and temporary, but
perfectly capable of serving its function: A private prison for one
Dr. Remick Odem, supposedly the countrys pre-eminent expert on
bacteriological warfare. Where experts were concerned,
Low-Light kept his own council. After all, was he not the consummate
assassin? And wasnt it perfectly possible that there was someone
(if not hundreds of someones) better?

The
installation was compact and shrouded in the dark forest (a nice one,
this, and right in the middle of government-protected Yellowstone!
How many such audacious projects Cobra might have in the United
States was yet to be determined by army Intelligence.
They were bold; Low-Light had to give them that), which was both its
strength and weakness. It could hide, but so could attackers like
Low-Light and Scarlett. The odds were even. Or should have been.

Scarlett
had quickly spotted Odems cell. She and Low-Light had flattened
to the ground to discuss strategy (and avoid possible detection by
whatever guards may be present in the installation. That there was
no surveillance equipment was a blessing, though.
This fact was included in Snake Eyes preliminary reconnaissance.
According to his report, there was no recognizable electronic
equipment, most likely as a precaution against detection. A park
ranger was easily avoided, or killed. Same with the occasional
overzealous hiker or camper. A spy satellite, however…). Hes
not so protected as I expected, Scarlett noted, a tone of
annoyance tinging her voice. Low-Light had seen it too. A large
window covered only by thick bars, through which Odem could
plainly be seen, sitting up on his cot, apparently contemplating
whatever it was pre-eminent experts on bacteriological warfare
contemplated. She continued, providing his ears with the
vocalization of his own thought: Somethings not right.
Low-Light
nodded, knowing full well that her intuition was to be trusted. She
had not lived so long in this line of work as a result of guessing
wrong. Neither had Low-Light.

Its
never right, though, is it? Scarlett mumbled, already
tackling the situation. It was Low-Lights turn to watch his
teammate work as he wondered at the method. Scarlett softly drummed
her fingers against her forehead, as though the gesture would
rattle her mind into some rapid state of thinking. Her fingers
stopped, frozen in mid-drumroll, and she snapped her gaze to
Low-Light. Recover or terminate?

She
was asking for his assessment. He still watched her frozen fingers,
wondering if they might take up their fluttering again. Terminate,
he said, and watched for the fingers to take action. They did not.

Why?

His
reply sounded to him in memory as it had when hed said it: More a
series of pressure changes in his head rather than the clear, cool
explanation hed meant to give. Because its an option. And
its easiest.

Scarlett
lowered her hand, and sighed. Ill make sure were covered on
the way out. Ill leave the easy part to you.

She
had disappeared then, leaving him to negotiate what would be a rather
simple task. He took up a comfortable position, hidden behind an
explosion of dark bushes. Silently, deftly, he prepared his rifle
and brought it to his shoulder. Through the sight,
Odem was suddenly inches away. The sounds of the night faded,
submitted to Low-Lights concentration. He was one with the
tunnel-visioned world in his rifles sight. There was glorious
silence and only that small field of view. The world was at his
command.
Crosshairs centered. Odems head blossomed into rosy death, and
as he fell out of the limited view, only a red mist lingered in the
air.

Lowering
the rifle and rejoining the world around him, Low-Light was assaulted
by the sounds of the night returning. Breeze rustling the trees.
Crickets screeching their peculiar language. The excited cackling of
a nearby bird. A similar reply farther off
in the darkness above. Tiny insects buzzing with their lust for
human blood. Low-Light ducked down and swatted at the only-heard
insects, knowing he would not deter them.

Another
sound ripped through the night, overshadowing the others. A gunshot!
He snapped his head up and looked toward the sound, which was joined
then by another burst of gunshots, only instantly preceding the
familiar TWANG of Scarletts crossbow. This
time, he saw muzzle flash and had the shots location more or less
mapped out. He bolted, in a roundabout under cover manner, toward
the general area where he guessed the action had taken place. There
was no more gunfire.

He
spotted a figure crumpled beside a tree which shielded the figure
from the area where the muzzle flashes had so boldly defied the
night. Low-Light whipped out his sidearm and belly-crawled his way
to the figure, hoping his guess as to its – her – identity
was wrong. His heart leapt against its ribcage prison as he
recognized Scarlett.

He
stopped beside her. A few quick glances reported no follow-up to the
gunfire. Low-Light assumed that Scarlett had hit her mark during the
exchange. His fingers groped for a pulse at her neck. He had his
answer before he found a pulse, however, as she
moved. Her face turned, her glittering eyes (Low-Light didnt have
time to think about how they were lit; maybe there was a hole in the
overhead foliage to let in moonlight) aimed at him. The eyes had
that brilliant, fevered look. Shed been hit. But
how bad was it?

Shh,
he hissed almost silently, which was as loudly as he dared. The same
light that illuminated her eyes revealed a gleaming wetness at her
stomach. Instant estimation: Belly wound, not immediately fatal,
but bloody. Hed have to bandage it, but not
until they could get some distance from here. Shed live until
then.

He
slipped his arm behind her neck and lugged her to her feet. He
stumbled slightly, not calculating the extra weight correctly, but
they retained balance. He noticed that she was conscious enough not
to make any undue noise. It couldve been that she was
still in shock, and didnt yet really feel the pain, but Low-Light
believed that she was quiet because she knew that noise would doom
them both to death.

How
far they shambled along in tandem, Low-Light didnt really know.
His recollection of the events faded, and he was again in the NOW.
He leaned against a tree, Scarlett leaning against him, both still on
their feet. He chanced that it was safe now to stop.
After theyd caught their breath (her excuse was legitimate; she
had a bullet in her – hopefully not more than one. His was less than
admirable; as much as he worked on being strong and resilient, there
came times when cigarettes demanded their due),
hed work on the wound.

He
checked his watch. 03:22. Theyd been running now for maybe a
half hour. And now they were behind schedule. Their transportation
would wait until 04:30. There were perhaps ten miles yet to cover.

Low-Light
patted his thigh, looking for the cigarettes hed pilfered from a
dead man. A gift from the dead to the soon-to-be-dead? Low-Light
shook the grim thought off with a hard blink of his eyes. He needed
no reminder of death. It was imminent enough.
What he did need was a cigarette.

—–

Chapter
Four – The Enemy

—–

The
light in the room was dim. A small lamp clinging to a corner
provided a stale, yellow glow. A silver face, given a sinister
golden tint by the whispered light, stared up at the rough ceiling.
What did it see there? What did it ever see?

The
man seated at the table on which the metal mask rested should have
known, but even he sometimes wondered. That silver face was its own
entity. It was tradition. It represented a long line of… what?
Proud men who attacked life rather than succumb
to it? Noble men whose duty it was to uphold the reputation of their
family and safety of their lands? Or mercenaries who killed for
profit? Each bearer of that silver face had swept his way into
conquest under the name Destro, but what did the name mean?
Where exactly was the glory in hiding behind a false visage, behind
an assumed identity?

What
special place would History hold for the name Destro?

And
if I knew, would I alter my ways? the deep-voiced man at the table
asked softly of no one in particular. Indeed, he was alone in the
stiflingly tiny room, his makeshift office. Alone except for that
face. That link to so many unknown selves who must
have sat in a similar room, haunted by similar questions.

He
felt some cold relief as a knock sounded at the door; the coded knock
of a trusted associate. He was free now to let pride swallow
philosophy as he took the silver face in hand and used it to conceal
his own. Face in place, identities merged into the persona
of Destro, he intoned crisply, Come.

The
door glided open (it hadnt been locked; the fact that the door was
closed was lock enough) and new light flooded into the dimness.
Silhouetted in the doors frame was an ugly figure. If Mary
Shelley had lived in this time, she might have based the description
of her doctors monster on Sebastian Bludd, who stepped into the
room and closed the door. The details of his appearance coalesced
with the shifting of light back to its normal yellow haze. One dark
eye, the good one, glittering a peculiar amber
in the dim lighting, stared at Destro. The other eye, a misshapen
milky blue marble embedded in a pink-taloned gray claw of dead flesh,
was focused in no particular direction (probably because the eye no
longer had the power of focus). Ah, what a gory
sight the original wound must have been. What had caused it, Bludd
never said. But, then, Destro never asked. Bludds jet black
hair, highlighted by the soft glow to match the good eye, was a mess
of contradiction. It was dyed, Destro knew. The hair must
have been naturally quite gray, but Bludd was hellbent on keeping it
darkened. Why he then ignored any styling of the hair (beyond
keeping it generally pretty short) was a mystery. The result was
like black wildfire, caught and held in mid-eruption as
though by a clumsy Polaroid snapshot.

Bludds
lumpy face, scarred and battered, forever locked in a twisted sneer,
hardly moved as he spoke. You wanted a report when it was done,
he said, his Australian accent grinding the words like an insect
underfoot.

Destro
pressed his hands together, pyramid-base to pyramid-base. I heard
the shots. Our bait was taken?

It
was. You remember, of course, our monetary arrangement for the men
Ive sacrificed?

Destro
cleared his throat, and wondered how it sounded to Bludd, whose
interception of the sound was on the other side of that second face.
Of course, he replied in a soothing tone. Ever the mercenary,
Bludd was concerned now with his payment. Destro knew
he didnt care about the loss of the men on the perimeter – after
all, appearances had to be maintained for the assassins. Bludd
equated everything with money. He wanted compensation pay for five
pieces of equipment. That these particular tools were
made of flesh and blood was of little consequence. Our friends at
Extensive Enterprises are handling the transaction. The money should
already be in your account. Did you identify the assassins?

The
redhead and the one called Low-Light, Bludd answered, noticeably
relieved by Destros promise of payment. Everyone knew that Destro
did not promise falsely. And we got a bit of luck. The redhead
may not make it out alive.

Destros
arms tensed, his body froze in a sudden grip of horror. But he
managed to keep the usual reason in his voice. You had strict
orders not to kill.

Bludd
smiled. Not a pretty sight. Reminiscent of a knife wound being
pulled taut. Only the pretty was hit. One of them, at least,
will get away safely.

Destro
considered the situation. The bait (one Mr. Havershaw, former Cobra
agent whod lost favor with his superiors over what was reportedly
a small matter… again, Destro hadnt asked), altered in
appearance to be a twin for Remick Odem, was dead. Havershaws
assassins had made their kill, one of them having been injured –
perhaps fatally – in the process, and now were assumedly fleeing.
Assumedly? Destro never relied on assumption. Have you ordered
pursuit of the… redhead – Bludds term was infectious
– and Low-Light?

Only
a shadow. He was quick to add, With specific orders not to
hinder. Only to observe, at a safe distance.

The
pyramids of Destros hands melded into a locked double-fist. Then
we have come to the end of this charade. And now the real work can
begin. He leaned back in his chair. Anything else important
of which I should be aware?

Only
that our transport out of here is on its way.

They
will make a thorough search of this place once we have fled. Burn
the body, but leave some remains. A corpse must be found, but must
not be identifiable as not being Odem. Destro unclasped his hands
and rested them flat on the table, keeping his steady
gaze on Bludd. Our failure here must look authentic. In
what will be taken as haste to escape with our lives, we must be sure
to leave the usual false leads, as though we didnt have time to
properly cover our tracks.

Bludd
turned to leave and spoke over his shoulder. Im already on
that. We leave in 20 minutes. He opened the door and dissolved
into the brightness from the hallway. The door shut, and once again,
Destro was alone.

Transport
was imminent. Odem was still alive, though soon would be officially
dead. This risky gambit would be a success. Destro hadnt been
comfortable with the idea from the beginning, but could not dispute
its cleverness. The Odem kidnapping had been
quite bold. The only way to cool the heat of such an undertaking was
to have him recovered or killed. Well, now he had been killed.
Officially. Living on unofficially, he would, sooner or later (and
now they had plenty of time to work on him), provide
Cobra with the means to hobble the United States.

Cobra
would be the dominant force in North America. And at its head,
wearing a silver face, the man called Destro would build an empire to
humble any that had come before.

There
was just one small obstacle: The Cobra Commander…