GI JOE Pornography Story: Christmas With Frontline Chapter Two
Author’s
note: After writing “Christmas With Frontline”, I realized
that I had forgotten two of the Frontline members: Brick and Shooter.
Let it not be said that I don’t try to fill in plotholes…
—
Christmas
With Frontline
“The
Lost Members”
By
J.T. Magnus, “Turbo”
—
“Have
a good night wherever you were, Lieutenant?”
Second
Lieutenant Steven Johnson, codenamed “Brick” in a
smart-mouthed referance to his build, came to an abrupt stop in the
top floor of the Pit, the Motor Pool.
“Major.”
“You
know, I may be new at this, Brick, only a month and all,” Turbo
shrugged, “But I’m pretty sure I didn’t sign any off-base passes
for last night.”
“You
didn’t.”
Turbo
was a half-head shorter than the lower-ranked Frontliner, but
attitude made up the difference as he stood toe-to-toe with Brick in
the middle of the Motor Pool.
“In
that case, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hand you over to
Beachhead for the next month.”
“I
don’t do Christmas.”
“Doesn’t
cut it. I wanted an explanation, Brick, not an excuse. I try to be a
nice guy, but if you’re gonna take advantage of it, I’ll have you
back in the regular Army so fast we’ll have to send you your bags on
a seperate transport.”
“It’s
personal, Sir,” Brick answered back, making sure to add the
‘sir’ his commanding officer hated so much before stepping around him
and continuing on to the elevator.
After
all, how could he explain that the last Christmas he had celebrated
had been the night his sister and his best friend had died and he
couldn’t find anything ‘merry’ or ‘happy’ about the day after that?
—-
In
Washington D.C., Lieutenant Shuta Go, a sniper on exchange from the
Japanese military, stood in the office of the Pentagon’s Special
Operations Commander.
“Thank
you for meeting with me today, Lieutenant. I’m sure there’s other
things you’d rather be doing,” the three-starred General behind
the desk greeted.
“If
I may ask, Sir, why did you ask for me?”
The
General nodded, “This has already been cleared with your
commanding officers, so it’s your choice, but we’re forming – well,
have already formed, actually – a small-scale quick-response special
forces unit, with an emphasis on anti-terrorism operations…”
There
was a pause, then the general finished, “And we’d like for you
to be a part of it. It’s not illegal, or uncommon, in fact, a similar
unit in the eighties and ninties had members that were on loan from
the British and Russian militaries.”
The
general didn’t mention that technically it was the same unit, that
wasn’t exactly something Lieutenant Go needed to know yet.
“Take
your time to think about it if you need, Lieutenant.”
Shuta
closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His father, a scientist,
had died when he was younger and he had been raised by his uncle,
Metarutaka Go, a retired Colonel. He had swore to be the best at
whatever he did, and an elite group of soldiers wanted him as one of
them.
“If
my superiors have given permission, General, then I would be
honored.”
General
Clayton ‘Hawk’ Abernathy nodded.
—-
January
9th, 2002
Two
weeks later…
—-
Lieutenant
Shuta Go, having decided to call himself ‘Shooter’ in a corruption of
his real name, climbed out of the humvee and thanked the blonde
Master Sergeant who had driven him to the three quanoset huts that
appearantly served as the base for ‘Special Anti-Terrorist Task Unit
Delta – Sub-Unit Foxtrot’. Shooter looked around at the surroundings,
nothing but desert for miles around. Not even a motor pool, where did
they keep their transportation? His distracted thoughts were
interrupted when, out of nowhere, a soldier wearing a ski-mask and
covered in paint started to run past him, then stopped and saluted.
“Lieutenant,
sir.”
Shooter
looked at him for a moment.
“Master
Sergeant Sneeden, sir. ‘ Beachhead’.”
“Sergeant,
I am looking for Major… Magnus?”
“Respectfully,
sir, someone else will have to take you to ‘im.”
The
lieutenant was a little surprised, “And why is that, Sergeant?”
“Well,
sir, if I can’t keep away from him and his team for the next…
fifty-seven minutes, mine loses.”
Any
futher explanation was cut off by an incoming projectile that landed
between the two and cover them with green paint.
“Damn.”
A
younger soldier in olive-drab t-shirt and jungle-pattern fatigue
pants raised up from his perch atop one of the quanoset huts.
“You
going to run or give up now?”
Beachhead
reached a hand behind his back, then raised both hands in the air,
“Ah give…”
The
younger soldier slid down the side of the hut’s curved roof and
dropped to the ground, “Glad you could see it our way, Beach’.”
“This
is Lieutenant… Uh…”
“Go.”
The
new addition to the small group tilted his head slightly, “Go
where?”
Shooter
closed his eyes, unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time he had
that joke since he arrived in America, after a while, he had
formulated a simple response, “Away.”
“Oo,
sorry. Lieutenants can’t order Majors.”
“Lieutenant,
this is Major Magnus, we call him ‘Turbo’.”
The
younger soldier, the major, nodded slightly, “‘Shooter,’ right?
General Abernathy told us to expect you. Beachhead will show you to
your quarters, right?”
“Yeah,
Major,” Beachhead answered, checking his watch, “One other
thing…”
“Yeah?”
“Boom.”
Seconds
after he said that, there was a small explosion and red paint covered
all three of them, adding to the green on the two lower-ranked
soldiers.
Beachhead
smiled under his ski-mask, “Set it up before I surrendered,
Georgia… The ‘old folks’ still win.”
“Damn,”
was Turbo’s only comment.
Wiping
paint away from his eyes, Shooter wondered what he had gotten himself
into.