My G. I. JOE novel is on sale at Amazon now (available for free if you're an Unlimited subscriber!) Here's a preview of the opening chapter. If you check out the book, I'd love to hear what you think.
PROLOGUE
A fine game of poker, ruined by a kicked down door and an invasion from America’s highly trained special missions force.
Their mission? To defend a crooked, crumbling institution and ruin a lazy Tuesday afternoon game of No River Hold’Em. That’s what any self-respecting Viper would tell you.
McMichael was the first to move, to flip the table over and use it as cover. He’d been stationed in this factory for months now, him and a dozen Vipers overlooking one of their emperor’s pet operations. Didn’t seem like a dangerous assignment; keep an eye on the plant, make sure the reconnaissance aircraft funded by the Benzheen government ended up where it belonged. (Cobra clutches, naturally.)
How’d the Joes find out about this one? It had to be the tenth invasion of a Cobra op in recent weeks. McMichael just knew Serpentor would be on fire during his next address. Months had passed since anyone had heard from him, in spite of the Vipers receiving numerous assurances that all was well with their emperor.
Good to know, McMichael thought to himself as he fired the first shot of the resistance. Can’t imagine that Commander clown taking charge again. No way would that not be a disaster.
McMichael had heard the stories; some scuttlebutt about the emperor and a whole mess of Cobra assets passing from this earth with their boots on. Something about an operation gone horribly wrong up in the Himalaya or the Karakoram or somewhere crazy like that.
He chose not to believe it. Kept fighting this fight with the confidence his emperor would reward him; that these horrible losses were only a myth. McMichael focused on the invading force, identified his opponents.
A walking tank named Roadblock, strong enough to lift a fifty-cal, breaking just a moderate sweat. The far less intimidating Dial-Tone, surely sent out by their commander as some form of punishment. Stalker, one of the original Joes, partially responsible for the M.A.S.S. Device debacle. Footloose, a supposed fruitcake who’d somehow managed to survive an encounter with Storm Shadow.
And, leading their charge, a largely unknown entity known as Lieutenant Falcon. Scarce intel on this guy, but data intercepted prior to his recruitment into the Joes indicated he was something of a slacker.
Not true on this day, as McMichael witnessed Falcon volunteer to draw Viper fire, charging straight into their barricade. His push coincided with Hunter tossing a fragmentation grenade from behind the poker table barricade. McMichael caught the sight of Stalker shouting a warning to his allies, leaping atop the pineapple. Didn’t they teach those chumps Viper protocol? Leap away from the thing, dummy.
Hunter’s greatest moment was undermined in less than a second, taking a shot from a Joe just as he poked his head up to examine his handiwork.
Fletcher and Vicks thought this new guy an easy target; stood to offer the kind of greeting Vipers are famous for. Ended up with clean headshots directly into their visors as comeuppance.
Dority, McMichael’s remaining ally, watched them fall on both sides. “Cripes!” he squealed, eyes no doubt buggy under his helmet.
“Stay cool,” McMichael admonished. “Don’t give these Joes any easy victories.”
“I’ll show you easy!” he answered back, dropping his assault rifle to the floor. Hands raised, Dority’s spineless form emerged from the makeshift barrier. “Don’t shoot! I surrender.”
Pathetic, McMichael mused. Going out like a common blueshirt. Doesn’t Viper status mean anything anymore?
“Hey, guys,” came a baritone voice from the other side. “My mom musta said a prayer for me this morning. That Viper forgot to remove the safety clip!”
McMichael sighed. Typical Hunter screw-up.
“I count one more snake,” announced the new Joe with a pretty boy face. “You gonna be smart like your friend?”
Last person McMichael ever wanted to be compared to, a yellow coward like Dority. But an extended firefight was pointless by now; he knew the better part of valor.
“Fine, fine. Don’t shoot,” McMichael said, knocking over the remains of the table as he lifted his arms. “But you’re not even gettin’ a rank and serial number, chumps.”
“We’ll see how tough you are later,” Falcon sneered, snatching McMichael by the back of his uniform and shoving him into line with the surrendered soldiers from another wing of the plant.
A motley assortment of losers, McMichael reasoned. More than deserving of whatever fate their emperor doled out, the day he chose to free them from custody.
Would he join their destiny? Would he allow himself to stand before his king with no defense of his cowardly actions?
McMichael made his choice. He was last in line, prodded by Falcon into joining the circle of surrendered goons south of the airframe assembly sector. Bet the Joe wasn’t expecting an elbow to the gut; maybe a hasty attempt to poach that rifle.
The disgraced Viper succeeded with the elbow, fumbled during his attempt to grab the rifle. Falcon had too tight a grip, wouldn’t surrender a single inch to the Viper. Instead, the Joe ended their tug-of-war with a fast kick to the chest, the Viper skidding across the plant’s floor.
The commotion drew the attention of every Joe, but Roadblock was the closest. Rushing towards McMichael, he stated earnestly, “Are you suicidal or just dumb, son? ‘Cause I say it’s got to be either one!”
McMichael was on his feet just as Roadblock reached his body, dukes up. Was he looking forward to this beating? Heck, no. But the story of his bravery would reach Serpentor’s ears. Would not only spare him from the execution, but elevate his name to the ranks of Cobra’s bravest.
He lifted defensive hands, anticipated that first blow. “Roadblock, wait!” said the approaching Falcon, palms up. “Do me a favor and back off, okay?”
The man-mountain shrugged, allowed Falcon to pass.
The Lieutenant reached for McMichael’s uniform, removed the grenade and knife from their holsters. “Take these for me, will ya?” he asked Roadblock.
“No fooling? This really what you’re doing?” the modern-day Goliath replied.
Falcon assumed his fighting stance, didn’t take his eyes off McMichael while bouncing. “Man wants a throwdown, I feel obligated to provide it. Think I can shatter that visor in one punch?”
McMichael didn’t participate in the trash talking. Just took another shot at that gut. Falcon blocked, delivered a stern knee to the Viper’s chin. His follow-through was snubbed however, the Viper using his body weight to shove the Lieutenant back several inches. Didn’t recover in time, took a right cross to the side of his boyish face.
Falcon’s arm went up in time to block the next punch; when the Viper was close enough, McMichael received several quick jabs to his upper ribs. As the Viper winced, Falcon pressed the advantage, finally landed a solid vertical punch with his rear hand.
The visor didn’t shatter. A solid crack formed, though, and the impact was thunderous enough to send McMichael back to the floor.
“Okay, Joe, not so shabby,” the Viper taunted, this self-confidence not entirely justified by his preceding performance. He regrouped, found a way to pull himself off the ground.
“I’m just in first gear, you sloppy snake,” Falcon replied, back in his fighting stance, ignoring the drop of blood on his chin. McMichael had no further retorts, just a guttural scream he unleashed as he drove his entire body into Falcon’s midsection.
The Lieutenant had only seen this attack a dozen or so times back in the Sarge’s boot camp. He pivoted to the left, caught just a fraction of the impact. Used his height advantage to get a good grip, slip the Viper into a headlock.
“You havin’ fun yet, you web-toed flunky? ‘Cause I’m still bored…”
Falcon wasn’t entirely truthful; his heart rate was elevated a decent amount, and at least a few beads of sweat had materialized on his brow. He was so keyed into the action, in fact, that he didn’t notice the timid approach of the Joe team’s Communications Expert.
“Ah, Lieutenant?” Dial-Tone enquired.
“Very b-busy, my man,” Falcon said with a grunt, tightening his grip around the Viper, deliberating whether that helmet would just pop off if he pressed hard enough.
“Lieutenant,” Dial-Tone persisted. “I’ve just received some urgent news from base.”
“Y-yeah?”
“Yes, sir. It…it’s about Duke, sir.”
Reflexively, Falcon turned to his fellow soldier. Calmed down enough to process the despondency on his face. Saw the sullen expressions on all of the Joes.
Falcon didn’t need to hear another word. The time, mercifully, had come.
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