GI JOE Porn Story: Hits of the Year Chapter 7

February 24, 2000
Sheremetyevo Government Barracks, outside Moscow
20:00 hours, local time

Duke could not stop fuming over the debacle he had witnessed in the conference room of the Presidential Palace. President Putin just took the Americans’ advisory role and all of the overtures made to the United States for recognition and increased foreign aid, and stomped them flat to make buddy-buddy with Destro and the Ukraine.

The bureaucracy seemed to be the same everywhere. The people in charge surely did not, repeat, did not listen to the people who knew the realities of any given situation.

Scarlett was trying her best to soothe Duke’s anger, but he was just too incensed. Her hand brushed gently on his shoulder, but it was shrugged off. Scarlett’s face drooped into a pout, as she looked her husband in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, Duke,” she said softly. “I know Putin’s screwed us and essentially hung us out to dry. But all of Russia hasn’t turned against us yet. We can get to other people in the government, or leading members of the political coalitions that vote in the Duma.”

“But how long will that take?” Duke asked, growling under his breath. “We don’t have time to play the Russian equivalent of the “Beltway Two-Step”. Lady Jaye is dead! The rest of Flint’s team is downrange, in enemy territory! If they’ve been burned, they might already have bulls eyes on their backs, with no exit plan!

“And,” Duke continued, “if conflicting commands are coming from Moscow, the Russian military defenses along the Ukrainian border wouldn’t be worth a wad of spit against a concentrated Cobra offensive to secure the rest of the mineral and oil-rich areas of the Southern Crimea. That’s only one potential target. We can’t cover a couple thousand miles of frontier strip with four Joes! Who knows what else Ol’ Rag Face has in mind?”

“I don’t know what just the four of us could do, Conrad,” Scarlett said. “But we will try.”

Duke’s satellite phone buzzed to life. A call was coming in from Washington, which he answered halfheartedly. He set the secure unit to speakerphone mode so that the entire team could listen.

“Duke? It’s General Hawk.” The voice was unmistakable. “How did things go?”

“Sir, it was surreal,” Duke reported. “Destro sweet-talked that nave fucking man better than a Three-card Monte player in Chicago. President Putin is simply an old school sonufabitch. He hasn’t progressed at all from his hard-lined, Communist Russian sensibilities.

“Although he’s forced to court the US out of pure financial need, when the carrot is dangled in front of him for an Eastern European deal, he’d rather cut us out. His own Minister of Defense and the Intelligence Chief of the FSB told him about Cobra. Hell, I told him about Cobra!”

Duke paused a moment before adding, “Destro basically told Putin to take all of our opinions and shove them up our asses! And I think Putin’s the kind of guy to do it. I see us getting expelled from Russia inside of a month, along with a lot of American and European influences. They might even try to seize the hundreds of millions in private and government investments the West has already put into Russia.

“He’ll replace us with Cobra, who must have friends in the Russian Mafia by now, and they will topple him from the inside. Can you imagine the old USSR reunited under Cobra? The Cold War would be nothing compared to us squaring off against that!”

“I know,” General Hawk said, putting down a CIA intelligence estimate regarding Cobra and the Ukraine. Some of the think tank spooks at CIA and an independent group of conspiracy theorists at Rand Corporation were already writing their doomsday scenarios to scare the military and government brass. “Believe me, Duke, I know.”

General Hawk fully understood that the political game in Russia was tenuous, and he thought about which people in the Russian political scene were in a position to help the Joes keep Cobra off track. A lot of influential men could still exert political power in Russia, but not too many had a grasp of significant amounts of it to challenge Putin’s powerful nationalist supporters in the new Duma.

The new Russian federal infrastructure still had enough in the way of independent division to protect Putin’s power base, as the attempted hardliner coup against Mikhail Gorbachev and newly-elected President Boris Yeltsin proved for the previous Russian leader.

Yeltsin’s command of his supporters, his ability to plan a resistance, and the support of the Muscovites stopped the would-be Communist revisionists cold, including the sitting Defense Minister and head of the KGB, who led two of the most powerful Russian political organizations. It surely didn’t hurt that the coup plotters had no real plan and ended up being inept.

President Putin wouldn’t have the ability to unify all of Russia, if he threw in secretly with Cobra. The country would likely fall apart violently as the layers of influence fought one another in a new struggle for political supremacy. It was the right stewpot for Cobra to get their hands into.

“Then spread the word to the people before President Putin and Destro can get up on their little soapbox, Duke,” the general said. “The Russian news services and the American ones covering Eastern European affairs can get the word out to all of Europe and Asia. Tell them what you think Cobra is up to. If you can beat them to the story, you can get the ears of people that can check and balance Putin’s decision-making, like the Parliament.

“Try to talk to the Minister of Defense, the Minister of Interior, and Gregorievich, head of the FSB. Get them to speak out, if you can. President Putin is not an absolute leader. The Parliament can still be swayed to vote against him if he tries to run with a plan to press dtente with Cobra.

“Russian news hounds are very progressive, and good people from Reuters, CNN, UPI, the Associated Press and Sky News are bringing them into the modern day. I’ll call the Reuters, CNN, UPI and AP wire services here, and let them know to sic their local news hounds on you for commentary on the summit.”

“Okay, sir,” Duke said. “We’ll do our very best to get the word out.”

Duke hung up the phone and sighed. Even Scarlett’s tender loving care could not assuage his exasperation. This sort of stuff was for diplomats and big screen movies, not a career non-commissioned officer from humble roots and years of living up to very strong ideals of right and wrong and fair play.

An apartment in southwestern Moscow
20:30 hours

The CNN news chief in Moscow, Harry Milland, was up late from a coaching session with some rookie TASS field reporters, and did not know that a summit in Moscow had even taken place. Like all of the other news agencies in the Moscow area, and in all the major Russian cities, no one had been advised by the President’s spokespeople that anything was going on. Thus, the bureau chiefs were running their usual humdrum stories about domestic issues, and how the government wasn’t paying its Armed Forces due to a lack of hard currency.

Milland was about to pack up his laptop computer, after dispatching the approvals for the daily reports and updates from his Moscow bureau correspondents. He wanted to settle in for a night of reading a good book and wanted to hit the bottle of Kentucky bourbon that the Vice-President of the European news division sent over as a good luck gift. That is, until the CNN chief got a call from Atlanta, the cable news company’s world headquarters.

The slightly stocky career reporter shifted his frame in the stiff-backed, wooden office chair and reached past the bottle of bourbon to the telephone handset. He sighed for a moment before picking up the connection.

“CNN Moscow Bureau. Harry Milland here,” the early-fifties correspondent said.

The voice of an International Desk producer on the other end of the line greeted Milland. “Hi, Harry. It’s Mike Procter. We need to talk – right now.”

“What’s going on, Mike?” Milland asked, pushing his bourbon away and re-opening the lid of his laptop computer.

“Something’s gone down in Moscow, completely under the media’s collective noses,” Mike began. “We’ve just received a tip from a trusted U.S. government source that a Ukrainian diplomatic mission is in town for a summit meeting with President Putin.”

“Holy shit!” Milland exclaimed, stubbing his toe on the thick table leg of his desk as he leaned towards the phone. “Are you sure? We should have heard something about a delegation’s arrival! I have correspondents all over the city looking for news!”

“Apparently, they arrived in secret; most likely flew in via the Vnukovo air force base to avoid civilian contact,” Mike said. “Perhaps they contacted President Putin through outside channels to arrange the visit. I don’t know anything definite over here, but Atlanta wants you to get the scoop right away.”

“I’ll start asking questions,” Milland said, reaching for his Rolodex, ready to fish out numbers for his local media colleagues and some low-level government officers that he had befriended.

“Wait, Harry, there’s more,” Mike said. “And this part is important. “Our source alleges that the Ukrainian delegation was accompanied by James McCullen Destro.”

“Destro? The arms dealer?” Milland said with a gasp. He had profiled the dubious figure and his Scottish manufacturing concern, MARS, some years back when stories were flying around his native Los Angeles about the man’s involvement in the terrorist group called Cobra. “There’s been nothing on the wire about him since nineteen ninety-five.”

“I can’t answer that,” Mike insisted. “But we’re going to run a preliminary story domestically. The senior news director is putting the anchors on it, because he thinks this is going to be big. We’re trying to get someone in the U.S. government on camera, but I want everything you can find, pronto.

“There’s an American military advisory team, based at the Sheremetyevo Government Barracks. Our contact told us that they would have a prepared statement and comments regarding the summit, since they were present in the presidential complex when it happened. Take everyone you can drum up and get them over there. Post feeds to all the other Russian metropolitan agencies before Reuters, AP or Sky News gets the drop on you.”

The Moscow-based news chief was stunned and confused. Shouldn’t they be contacting the Presidential Complex’s public affairs office for those comments?

“I don’t get it, Mike,” Milland said. “Why are we looking for American soldiers? Shouldn’t we get in touch with the Kremlin’s office of media affairs? Or even President Putin’s staffers and public information director?”

“Harry, we don’t know if you’ll get any story from the usual sources at the top,” Mike said. “You know as well as anyone that politics is still a very strange game over there. The President’s office wanted the summit to be a secret, otherwise they’d have issued a release beforehand. They’re likely to stonewall you in order to protect the truth.”

“You’ve covered the White House before, Harry,” Mike added. “You know as well as I do, that Moscow doesn’t have a “Junk Story Friday”, where they throw out the trash, and hide their diplomatic shit in plain sight. This scoop is hot; we have to get the word out, and the American advisors are the top source available. Their honcho, a Master Sergeant Hauser, sat in on the actual meeting; run him through your twenty questions and see what shakes out.”

The bureau chief was convinced. News hounds loved a direct eyewitness to a political event. They usually could relate the story in a more vivid and impartial manner than a primary participant, who would spew political rhetoric or a convenient sound bite to suit his or her own agenda, opinion or position.

“I’m on it,” Milland said. He opened up his desk drawer and found the keys to his car, an aged and beat-up Komsomolyets that had been passed along by his predecessor. Without hesitating, the Moscow bureau chief spread the word to his contacts and subordinates, snatched up his press pass, and raced in his locally built sedan the thirty kilometers between his apartment and the Sheremetyevo Barracks.

Shipwreck sat in the bar alone sipping a drink. He was trying to convince himself this was a good idea, but it really wasn’t working. He knew, though, that he couldn’t dodge Zarana forever. He looked at his watch and was surprised at how late it had gotten. He started to wonder if they were even going to show up when the door opened and the three Dreadnoks walked in. They looked around the empty bar and smiled. Smug Bastards. Shipwreck thought while suppressing a smile.

Zarana cocked her head towards Shipwreck and the trio walked over to where he was sitting. Zarana took the seat across from him and shortly after he felt the barrel of a gun press up against his leg. He tried to appear calm, cool and collected. Smiling at Zarana he said, “So is that a gun up against my leg or are you just happy to see me?”

“Shut up. You can do this the hard way or the easy way. I have no qualms with blowing your head off in here. I’m tired of chasing you around this God-forsaken place, so as long as you end up dead in the next few minutes I don’t really care how it happens.”

Shipwreck grinned, “Zarana, if you’re going for my head you do have to aim a tad bit higher. Unless, of course, you had another head in mind.”

She pulled the gun away but quickly brought it out in the open, aiming directly for his head. Shipwreck involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the gunshot. When none came, he opened his eyes again. Zarana was glaring at him “Get up and slowly walk out of this place, she said through gritted teeth.

Shipwreck shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You can’t? And why not?” She asked

Shipwreck nodded to the area behind the trio, “Because I don’t think they will let me.”

Zarana looked puzzled for a moment and then she slowly turned her head around. A half-dozen Ukrainians were standing behind them with guns drawn. “What the bloody hell?” she asked.

Buzzer and Torch whipped around in their seats. “Oh shit!” Buzzer yelled out.

Zarana turned back around and regained her composure. She once again aimed her gun at Shipwreck. “Tell them to lower their weapons or I’ll kill you for sure.”

Shipwreck let out a breath. “If you shoot me, Zarana, they won’t hesitate to kill the three of you. You’ll accomplish your little mission, but you’ll be dead. I don’t think you’re the type to be a martyr for Cobra.”

“I’m sure the hell not,” Torch replied as he stood up.

“Sit your ass down or I’ll shoot you myself!” Zarana shouted, her voice strained. She glared at Shipwreck again. “He’s bluffing. These guys won’t shoot us.” To answer her statement, the Ukrainians simultaneously released their safeties.

“Uh, Zarana, I really don’t think they’re bluffing,” Buzzer replied as he stood up also.

Zarana didn’t know what to do. She didnt want to admit defeat. Plus, Cobra Commander had promised a hefty sum if they had succeeded. But Shipwreck was right; she wasn’t about to become a martyr for Cobra Commander’s cause. She began thinking of ways to weasel the blame away from her. She could always blame the two buffoons sitting next to her. It wasn’t that big of a stretch to think they could be responsible for sabotaging a mission. After another few seconds she also rose. “You win this time,” She admitted.

“Oh come on, Zarana, you can’t come up with anything wittier than that?” Shipwreck asked. “I want you to leave the Crimea. If any of us sees you again here, we will shoot first and ask questions later.”

Zarana just nodded and the three of them left the bar. Shipwreck wasn’t entirely convinced that they would leave the area so easily, but knowing the cowardice of the Dreadnoks, it still was a good possibility. The Ukrainians walked out of the bar to check on the Dreadnoks, and after a few moments they returned. Shipwreck smiled at them and shouted out, “As promised my friends, the night is on me, so drink up!”

Brant and Samantha made their way through the arena looking for their seats. The Dorca Sporta was crowded as Sokol Kiev took on their crosstown rivals. As they made their way closer to the glass towards Sokol’s goalie Samantha expresses her amazement. “How did you ever manage to get seats this good? This looks like the sporting event of the season.”

“I wish I could take credit for the seats, but unfortunately I can’t.”

Before Brant could say anything more he felt a tugging on his sleeve. As the tugging on his arm continued he heard in French, “Down in front. Did you miss the notice about not moving while the puck’s in play?” Samantha grinned as she realized who bought the tickets. Beth continued to pull Brant towards the seat next to her. He moved over one so Samantha could sit next to Beth.

“I should’ve known you were behind this. How do you manage to catch hockey while you’re working?” Samantha replied back in French.

Beth took a sip of her beer and continued to converse with Samantha in French while keeping her eyes on the game. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s in my job description: Save the world and still have time to watch hockey.” Beth then stood up and banged on the glass as a Sokol defenseman leveled an opposing forward with a vicious hit. As he slowly got to his feet Beth yelled at him in Ukrainian. The player turned around, staring daggers at her. She smiled and pointed at him. “That’s right, Konstantinov.”

Samantha just stared at her while Brant shook his head. “My Ukrainian is not the best, but did I hear you correctly? Did you ask him what is it like getting beaten like a two ruble whore?”

“Yep,” Beth replied in English. “Little puissant has been getting away with shit all this period. About time someone leveled him.”

There was stoppage in play as the linesman went to scrape some of Konstantinov’s blood off the ice. Brant stood up. “I’ll go get us some food if that’s okay with you, Ms. Hockey Nazi.”

“Enforcing the rules does not make me a Nazi. And get me a beer while you’re up there.” Brant rolled his eyes, wishing not for the first time that he wasn’t subordinate to her. Beth did not fail to notice him muttering and shaking his head as he walked back up to the concourse. Beth reverted back to speaking in French. “Has anyone ever told him that that stiff British upper lip doesn’t belong up his ass like a stick?” Samantha giggled again as Beth took another sip of her beer. “So, how did your little trip to the American embassy go?”

“The American ambassador oozes charm at toxic levels. I think I have a cavity just from listening to him compliment everyone in sight. It was sickening to watch him suck up to Cobra Commander.

“For the most part things looked on the up and up. I did spot Cobra Commander and Gorman talking in a side hallway. I could assume that they were having a normal conversation between leader and security head, but I can’t be sure. I heard something about papers and embassies before they noticed me and split up. When I asked Gorman about it he told me that he was reassuring Cobra Commander that it hadn’t been embassy staff that died in a late night car crash. He chalked it up to Cobra being concerned about the safety of potential allies but I doubt that.”

The only acknowledgement that Samantha received was a slight nod of the head by Beth. She was silent for a few moments as Sokol fought off a powerplay. When they cleared the puck from their zone she spoke. “Do you think anyone is on to you?”

Samantha shook her head. “If anyone is they’re not showing their cards to me. Speaking of which, how did you square things with Gorman?”

Beth squirmed in her seat and Samantha wasn’t sure whether to chalk it up to the question or Sokol’s goalie who looked shaky in handling the puck behind his net. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with. What was your impression of Gorman?”

“He seems to be alright. Definitely more the pencil pusher than operative type. Quick on the ball though, didn’t miss a beat when I asked him about Cobra Commander.”

“Nothing wrong with being a pencil pusher. All those pencils would be lonely without people like him to move them around.”

“Which is why I’d love to know what you told him. It seemed like he wasn’t even looking for me in the crowd.”

Before Beth could answer Brant reappeared with some food a beer for Beth. As he handed her the beer she smiled. “Perfect timing.”

Samantha noted Beth’s body language and knew something was up. Going into adoring wife mode she smiled sweetly at Brant as he handed her some food. Just as he was about to sit back down she said, “Oh, I should’ve asked for some coffee. It’s so cold down here. I hate to ask you, but could you be a sweetheart and get me some?” Brant noticed the look in her eyes and sighed. He got back up and made his way to the concourse. Samantha turned back towards Beth and watched her drain her original cup of beer. She started on the second bottle as Samantha leaned towards her. “What did you say to Gorman?”

Beth pretended to not hear her question as she banged on the glass again. When she sat back down she immediately said, “I think the other Joes might be in trouble. We picked up a transmission from Shipwreck to Dial-Tone warning him that Cobra was on their trail.”

Samantha looked concern. “Is there anything we can do for them?”

Beth shook her head and took another swig of beer. “No. They’re supposed to be a covert team, so they’re on their own.” Samantha sat there quietly and Beth could see that she was extremely worried. “You look awfully shaken for someone who supposedly has no emotional attachments to them.”

Samantha glared at her, “That’s not fair. You know I will always have feelings for him, I mean, them.”

Beth smirked, “That’s right. You’re just not going to act on them.”

Samantha decided to end the conversation. “You could stop avoiding my questions and just tell me what you told Gorman.”

Beth drained half the glass before she even acknowledged Samantha’s presence. She refused to take her eyes off the ice as she said, “You don’t want to know.”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I engineered a little car accident, the one that Gorman mentioned to you. Blew a car up, sprinkled it with items that would identify you and Sergei as passengers and stuck it where the Americans were bound to find it. As of right now everyone thinks you’re dead.”

Samantha stared at Beth, amazed at how nonchalantly she spoke. She broke as she said in English, “You’re kidding.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a fervent wish, one that Beth couldn’t fulfill. She closed her eyes and finished her beer. She continued to reply to French to Samantha’s English questions. “No. I’m not kidding.”

“So everyone thinks I’m dead? How could you do something like that after all we went through with you?”

Beth ignored the second question. “Just everyone in the government and military. The official AP story is that the bodies were burned beyond recognition. As I said I slipped a few items that would survive enough to lead to the conclusion that you were one of the crispy critters.”

“My god. What did you use for bodies?” While she wasn’t sure about wanting to know the answer she knew she had to ask the question.

“Bodies.”

Beth had continued to avoid looking at Samantha during this part of the conversation. Samantha grabbed her chin and forced Beth to look at her. “Whatkindof bodies?”

Beth swatted Samantha’s arm away but continued to face her. “Dead ones. I paid off a guy at the local morgue to let me roam around for a few hours. I grabbed two that were unidentified and slated to be buried in a pauper’s grave. I took them and stuck them in a car similar to Sergei’s car. I doused it liberally in gasoline, lit it, pushed it off a cliff while the flames were just starting, and smoked a cigarette while the thing crashed and turned into a giant fireball. Happy?”

For a few minutes Samantha was speechless. All she could was stare at Beth. Eventually she regained the ability to speak. “What the hell happened to you? What kind ofof”

“Monster am I?” Beth finished Samantha’s thought for her, “Please, as far as some people have been concerned I’ve been a monster for nearly two decades. Let’s just say I’m finally living up to all the hype. Look, this isn’t the neat and clean world of GI Joe where everything was on the level. The world’s changed and to be perfectly honest saints never join the Agency. Ugly things need to be done on occasion.” Beth closed her eyes and turned away from Samantha. ” Maybe it was better that you never joined us,” she said quietly.

Samantha continued to stare at Beth, unsure whether to feel sorry for the woman she once was or the woman she’d become. “Oh kiddo”

Before Samantha could finish her sentence Beth turned on her, anger flashing in her eyes and finally spoke in English. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not a child anymore! I’m no longer the kid who survived a major car accident with two broken legs and no family to speak of. I grew up a long time ago. If you showed up more than once every four years in my life you’d notice that.”

That settled the internal argument for Samantha as her anger at the person Beth became outweighed any pity she might’ve been feeling. She got up and started to walk out of the arena, ignoring Brant as he came down the steps with a coffee in his hand. He looked between Beth and Samantha, shrugged his shoulders and opted to follow Samantha out. Beth continued to sit there, staring at the game. A few minutes later some of the patrons heard a shatter as the glass bottle in Beth’s hand shattered, causing blood to flow from the resulting cuts in hand. “Fuck.”

Sheremetyevo Government Barracks, outside Moscow
21:00 hours, local time

Situated along one edge of the perimeter of Moscow’s sprawling Sheremetyevo International Airport, the Government Barracks was little more than a fenced-in cluster of plain, military-like structures. It sat on a series of rolling slopes that were unusable for development of the central airfield or the numerous buildings and hangars that supported the commercial jetliner traffic that passed through the airport.

Originally built by the Interior Ministry to house a battalion of Moscow Militia soldiers for security duties, the barracks had been re-classified as a guest facility for visiting members of military organizations. With the airport’s permanently attached company of Interior Ministry policemen in residence, at times the Barracks kept guests in just as well as it kept unwanted visitors out.

The Joe Team’s assigned quarters was along the edge of the compound, slightly higher than the ground level and raised on a wooden platform and stilts to account for the uneven grade of the hillock that served as its foundation. Outside the airport perimeter, a parking lot served as the media’s staging area, with wary MVD troopers watching the crowd of correspondents assembling as they manned the fence line.

Duke stood on the barracks building’s wooden platform, watching the growing activity across the broad boulevard that ran along the airport fence line. The word had spread fast around the international media community in Moscow. About thirty reporters and an equivalent number of cameramen and photographers were scrambling around at the street level, trying to set tripods and portable lights on the sloped ground below the barracks building. Cars trying to pass the assemblage honked and squealed their brakes, as the people quickly took up places on the paved shoulder and spilled out into the boulevard, blocking traffic.

Many of the local correspondents were ready to take the story onto live local television, along with simulcasts to other major Russian cities to feed the information to the metropolitan news outlets. The simulcasting of the press conference around the world and on the Internet was all the better to serve the political purpose of the counter-event.

The Parliament members would just be sitting down to dinner after another long work day in the Kremlin. Many would look to CNN or a major local network for the events of the day, and instead see Duke plastered all over the top stories, proclaiming the occurrence of the secret summit between Destro and President Putin. It would be likely that the Parliament members would become quite incensed that they were not consulted in session to approve the summit, and the Cabinet of Ministers would be equally distrustful of Putin’s judgment.

At 21:00 local time, Duke stepped up to the edge of the safety rail that ringed his wooden platform, and cleared his throat. Camera flashes and spotlights from the boulevard bathed him in white light as he prepared to speak.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Duke began, taping a hastily typed statement to the safety rail. “My name is Master Sergeant Hauser of the United States Army. I am going to read a brief statement before taking questions.”

Duke raised a blown-up file photo of Destro, depicting the arms dealer shaking hands with Cobra Commander. The photo had been in the Joes’ computer archives for a long time, taken by a spy who was long dead. Destro’s silver mask was circled in red ink.

“This man is James McCullen Destro,” Duke told the reporters. “Many of you know him as an international businessman and the head of the Scotland-based Military Armaments Research Corporation, or MARS. He is also recognized on American homeland security watch lists as a major figure in the global terror organization called Cobra.

“At oh-nine-hundred hours this morning, local time, Destro was among the members of a diplomatic delegation from the Ukraine, which arrived to meet personally with President Vladimir Putin. I witnessed the events of their initial summit meeting.

“I am not at liberty to divulge the details of the summit meeting at this time, but it is in the best interests of the Russian people to know exactly who is being allowed into their country. None of the members of President Putin’s cabinet, or leading ministers of the Duma were present during the meetings. It is in your best interest to start asking why.”

Duke paused for dramatic effect, allowing the correspondents to have a moment to segue with comments of their own, spoken in rapid-fire Russian, French or English. Additional camera flashes went off, as still photographs of the top kick were taken as he stood in his unmarked camouflage utilities.

Duke raised his hand to regain the crowd’s attention, catching a supportive smile from Scarlett in the corner of his eye, along with a thumbs-up from Stalker. “Thank you, everyone. I will now take a few moments of questions.”

The questioning began immediately, with domestic and foreign reporters taking their turns to ask Duke questions about the content of the meeting, and his opinions about the relationship between the Ukraine and Cobra. He answered all of the questions as a Cobra fighter should. He told the truth.

Meanwhile, in the Ukrainian Embassy

A Cobra Tele-Viper, who served as Destro’s Russian translator, was also a highly trained Signals Intelligence operator. The SIGINT man was watching the CNN and local news feeds from the Ukrainian Embassy’s National Affairs Section, which was Cobra’s euphemism around the facility for ‘intelligence gathering‘.

Upon seeing Duke’s face on most of the television monitors, and hearing the lead questions of the interview, he grabbed the phone to have one of the low-level staffers find Destro. The Tele-Viper knew that his superior wouldn’t like the news.

“What is it, Staff Sergeant?” Destro growled. A sleepy complaint from the Baroness came over the line muffled, followed by a giggle as the arms dealer did something to quiet the Cobra intelligence officer.

“Laird Destro, sir,” the Tele-Viper said. “We’re getting something big on the local news feeds. Russian simulcasts and the international media are getting ready to carry it worldwide. I’m running tape on it, but I strongly suggest you have a look at it personally, sir.”

Within two minutes, Destro was also watching the television from the former Ambassador’s plush bedroom in the embassy. Annoyed at being beaten to the media punch, but not out of the fight, he called his mole in the Presidential Complex at home and gave him instructions to connect with President Putin.

Komissar Dzerzhinsky Prospekt, Moscow

Situated on one of the lesser-traveled ring roads that encircled the central city of Moscow, President Putin’s residence, his dacha, was a stately looking home that dated back to the Tsarist era. While the bones of the home itself, at the center of the property, were over a hundred years old, much of the estate was thoroughly modern.

A high, cement wall surrounded the entire perimeter of the property, and a standing patrol of handpicked security men was on guard at all times. A number of unmanned protective measures also protected the dacha, such as intrusion alarms and motion sensors. Moscow MVD militiamen in police cars frequently stopped outside the dacha on their patrol routes, sometimes followed by military UAZ-469 utility trucks.

President Putin and his immediate family enjoyed the relative isolation of the city dacha, and despite the political position and long working hours, they still made time to take their meals together and in private.

Normally, the functionaries in the Kremlin took care of any after-hours business of the President’s office, so that Putin wouldn’t be disturbed while with his family. So, when the telephone rang in the dacha, the family immediately assumed it to be a relative, or bad news coming. The Russian President was eating, listening to music and reclining in a comfortable chair in the dining room of his dacha when the call came.

“What the hell is going on?” Putin bellowed into the telephone when his personal assistant handed it to him. “I am trying to have dinner!”

President Putin’s secretary, who passed along the cordless phone, simply said that the call was urgent, and from the Presidential Complex. So Putin took the phone and listened to the aide at the other end of the line. The aide was excitedly relating the events of the press conference taking place at Sheremetyevo.

Putin had to shout more and more into the telephone to get a word in edgewise, finally slowing the government aide down enough to get the story straight.

“Who got interviewed on the television? Starshina Hauser? What is he saying? Put Mister Yankov on the telephone, right now!”

Putin waited for a moment, while the lower-ranked aide’s voice was replaced by Gregor Klimovich Yankov, the President’s chief of staff, who worked even longer hours in the Kremlin and Presidential Complex than his boss did.

“Yeb tovayu matz!” President Putin swore, after Yankov put the contents of the press conference into perspective. “That fool American is trying to influence the people and my government colleagues against me!”

“Is there any possible way to quash the story?” Putin asked after a moment’s thought. Yankov replied in the negative, telling Putin to put Moscow Channel One on his television. “Shit! It’s broadcasting live here on the local channels and outside on all the international outlets!”

President Putin’s temper rose, as the English-language Moscow One on his television broadcast the sound of Duke’s voice as he read through his notes to the press. “Can we send troops to break up the interview?” Putin asked Yankov. “No? You’re right, tovarich; that is not how we treat the free press in a democratic nation. And we should not give the Americans a reason to turn other countries that we trade with against us for treating their advisors with contempt publicly. Perhaps I should lodge a complaint with Ambassador Michaels and convince him to rein in those impetuous soldiers.”

When Yankov agreed with the President from the Kremlin, Putin thought that it would be best to make a personal appearance at the government barracks, to try to ease the situation before flying off the handle at Ambassador Michaels over the breach in protocol.

After a few moments of fuming, and a strong glass of vodka, Putin came up with an idea. “I shall make it so that this is the first and last time Duke can speak to the public directly before we can get our own message across. This news release could generate some concern in the government, but I think I can influence my supporters in the Parliament to vote appropriately.”

“Summon my driver and a Spetznaz escort over to my dacha first thing in the morning, Yankov,” President Putin instructed. “I want to go to Sheremetyevo and deal with Starshina Hauser and his G. I. Joes before we prepare our statements and go on the air at the Kremlin. Da. Spasiba, Comrade.”

Dial-Tone was in the dining room continuing to work on the instruments. He had gotten all but two of the radios working, and he knew those two were a hopeless cause. However at the moment, it seemed like a better alternative than working with Flint. Since their conversation before lunch neither one had spoken to each other. Dial-Tone figured it was best to just stay out of his way. He fiddled around uselessly with the busted radio until the doorbell interrupted his work.

Probably some late night door-to-door salesman. He thought as he walked to the door. He then wondered if they even existed in the Ukraine. He opened the door to one of the Ukrainians that they had been training.

“Dopomahaty! Tovarysh po zbroyi! Miy brat atakobah Kroh!” He shouted.

“Whoa! Slow down.” Dial-Tone answered, “I haven’t had a chance to pick up the language yet.”

Flint heard the commotion and came to the door. When the Ukrainian saw him, he repeated himself for Flint while Dial-Tone looked on in exasperation. Flint put a hand on the agitated mans shoulder and said, “Zaspokoyuvaty. Prymusyty dopomohty vyty.”

Flint turned to Dial-Tone and said, “His brother is in trouble. Said Cobra attacked him. He wants us to come with him to help him out.” He walked back into the house to get his gun.

Dial-Tone chased after him, “Flint, are you sure this is a good idea? Did he give you any specifics, how many there were? There are only two of us, and I don’t think we could take on a large portion of the Cobra Army.”

Flint wheeled around to face him, “Dial-Tone, you are more than welcome to stay home. This man needs help and I’m going to give it to him.”

“I don’t understand. This is the same man you spent half the day yelling at. Why the sudden affection for him?”

“I don’t give a shit about him or his brother, but I do about Cobra. If his brother encountered them, I want to know where they are, and how many there are of them. I’m sick of uselessly sitting on my ass, and now I have an opportunity to do something.” He checked his weapon and walked back to the front door.

Dial-Tone was stuck in a moment of indecision. He knew he should go and help Flint out, but he still had a nagging suspicion that something was wrong. He watched Flint walk outside to join the Ukrainian. Looking down at his gun, Dial-Tone sighed and followed Flint out the door.

Twenty minutes later they were in the Ukrainian’s living room, staring at the near lifeless body of his brother. Flint thought for sure they were too late; the man had apparently been on the losing end of a massive fight. His body looked broken and battered, and each breath he took seemed to be a struggle. The man slowly opened his eyes and began whispering slowly to his brother. Grigory turned to Flint and spoke to him.

Flint continued to be a translator for Dial-Tone. “He’s asking for water. Can you get him a glass? I want to stay here and talk to him while he’s coherent. Grigory says there’s a well out back.”

Dial-Tone nodded and walked towards the back of the house. He looked into the darkness and barely made out the shape of a well about twenty feet away from the house. He waited near the door, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Once his eyes were adjusted, he slowly made his way outside. He still had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

After a few feet he stopped. Movement by the well had caught his eye. He waited another couple of seconds but didn’t see anything else. He cursed himself for being so skittish. He reached the well, and lowered the bucket down into the hole. As he was bringing it back up, he heard the sounds of hushed voices a few feet behind him. He tensed, but continued with his efforts. He didnt want to give the impression that he heard his would-be assailants.

He brought the bucket back to the top of the well, just as he heard someone charge towards him. He grabbed a hold of the full bucket and stepped away from the well. Thrasher flew past him, wildly swinging a bat. The bat went flying out of his hands and Thrasher lost his balance. His forward momentum took him over the small wall and into the well. Dial-Tone expected to hear a splash, but he saw that Thrasher had gotten stuck and was trying desperately to get back out. Despite the situation, Dial-Tone could not help laughing. The sight of Monkeywrench charging him brought him back to the problem at hand. He didn’t have time to draw his gun, so he swung at Monkeywrench with the bucket that was still in his hand. The water-filled bucket made direct contact with Monkeywrenchs head. Monkeywrench looked dazed, stumbled around for a few moments and then fell to the ground.

Dial-Tone took the opportunity to run to the back door. “Flint! It’s a trap! The Dreadnoks are here!” He tried to enter the house but was pulled back out by Thrasher who had managed to free himself from the well.

Inside the house, Flint had been listening to the hurt Ukranians story. He was on his knees, and had leaned in closer as the mans voice began to fail him. Dial-Tones warning startled him. He looked up at Grigory and reached for his gun. The hurt Ukrainian suddenly sat up, grabbed Flints gun and hit him on the side of his head.

Flint crumpled to the ground. Grigory shed his mask as he kicked Flint in the shins. Zartan turned to the other man and smiled, “Well done brother.”

Zandar too removed his mask. He cocked his head in the direction of the backyard, where there was a good deal of commotion, “You think we should help those two out there?”

Zartan shook his head, “If they can’t take down a computer geek, then they deserve to have their asses kicked. Now come on, help me get him into the car.”

In the backyard, Dial-Tone struggled for breath. He beat at Thrashers arms that had a strong chokehold around his neck. He suddenly remembered his gun and released his right hand from Thrasher’s arm to reach down for his pistol. He was afraid that Thrasher would notice his movements, but Thrasher was too busy screaming at him for knocking him down the well. Dial-Tones hand clasped on the gun. He pulled it out and quickly stuck it against Thrasher’s side and fired.

The effect was instantaneous. Thrasher let go and Dial-Tone fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Bloody Hell, you shot me!” Thrasher screamed out.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dial-Tone answered after getting his breath back. He looked Thrasher over and determined that his injury was serious, but not life threatening. He turned again to face Monkeywrench who was very groggily getting to his feet. Dial-Tone pointed his gun towards him and said, “Unless you want to join your buddy in pain, I suggest you just sit your ass back down and leave me alone.” Dial-Tone wasn’t entirely convinced it was his new-found aggressiveness that caused Monkeywrench to indeed sit back on the ground, but figured the blow to the head was a large part of it. He checked on both Dreadnoks one last time and then went back into the house.

Zartan and Zandar had succeeded in dragging Flint to the side of their car. They roughly dropped him on the ground and Zartan opened the rear passenger door. Zandar bent over to pick Flint up when Flint suddenly came alive and punched Zandar hard in the side of his face. He then jumped up and knocked Zartan to his knees with a sharp kick in the ribs. A kick to his head, and Zartan joined his unconscious brother on the ground.

Flint stood over the brothers and gloated. “That’s payback you assholes. Next time do a better job of checking to see if your victim is really unconscious.”

Dial-Tone ran out of the house. “Flint are you okay?”

“I am now, how about you?”

“Fine. I have to admit it was pretty exciting to be back in a fight again.” Dial-Tone grinned. Flint cracked his first smile in days. “DT, I think you’re completely insane. How many are in the back?”

“Just two. I had to shoot Thrasher, but he’ll live. Monkeywrench is dazed and confused, so I think he’s all right for a few minutes. What are we going to do with them?”

“Find some rope and tie them up. I’m debating dropping them off in front of the president’s mansion, but I think I’ll just leave them here. They could report their failure to Cobra on their own.”

Dial-Tone nodded and went to find some rope. They worked quickly, and were done within a half hour. Zartan had come alive as they were leaving and cursed at them as they walked out of the house.

Flint clapped Dial-Tone on the back, “You did good, DT. I didn’t think you had it in you. And you know what – I’m starving. How about we get something to eat, my treat?”

Dial-Tone stopped and looked at Flint. He then shook his head and laughed. “And you think I’m insane.”