Chapter 7
The poacher waited patiently for several days before he felt confident that it was safe to move closer to the hidden Joe base. He knew that an underground base would need a ventilation system and that it would need to vent somewhere along the surface. Oh, it wouldn’t be easy to find, but Gnawgahyde was confident that he would be able to sniff it out and eventually slither his way in. He began to creep closer to the edge of the clearing when he caught the feeling of a draft on his left hand. It was ever so slight, but definitely not a breeze. A lesser tracker may not have even noticed it, but this Dreadnok had been around the block more than once. He froze in his current location and waited for the next draft to reach him. Like clock-work, forty-five seconds later, he felt the next slightly warm draft. Once again it was ever so slight, but now he had a direction in which to conduct his more thorough search. This area of the savanna was a bit lusher in terms of ground vegetation, a good cover for an intake/exhaust vent. His patience and persistence eventually paid off. Several yards to his left he found the vent. It was slightly smaller than he had hoped, but he could still hopefully follow it back to a larger point of entry. This couldn’t be the only one. The extreme heat of Kenya would demand that a base have air conditioning and surely Uncle Sam would have footed that bill for the G.I.Joe team.
He snapped his fingers and called for Bacon using a throaty guttural snort. The warthog appeared and reciprocated a similar response then began to sniff around the air vent until it caught the smell of something unique. The poacher knew that his nose was nowhere near as sensitive as his root-sniffing friend. The warthog had been instrumental in uprooting truffles for him in the past as well as wounded prey and escaped prisoners. Bacon would find another way in. Now all he had to do was keep a watchful eye out for security cameras and other hidden sensors. There was no way the Joes would leave their hidden base unmonitored on the outside. He anticipated motion sensors and knew that most could be tricked using a simple mirror. He looked down to the large knife sheathed at his side. Gnawgahyde unsheathed it to reveal his twisted reflection in its remarkably shiny blade. He smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be long now.
* * * * *
Pathfinder walked over to a large thicketed area within his sweep zone. Ambush had concealed himself perfectly in the thorny brush. So well was he concealed, that Pathfinder walked right past him the first two times not even registering the slightly darker shadowed area to his left. The concealment specialist was that good. Pathfinder never revealed that he saw him and simply dropped the remnants of a gum wrapper in front of him. He turned around a paused his walking for a split second as a hand grabbed his left boot. Knowing that the hand belonged to his teammate, he did his best to limit his reaction. The brief encounter allowed Ambush to slip him a note to the inside of his pants cuff. The whole encounter took less than fifteen seconds and to an average bystander, the transaction would not even have registered. The Cobra in disguise then turned to the left in response to an unusual sound. The sound was similar to that of the spotted thick-knee, a native Kenyan bird species. The bird call signaled that his relief was nearby. He answered the call with a slightly shriller chirp and walked back to the rendezvous site. A second Cobra trooper appeared within several moments and Pathfinder flashed him the appropriate secret hand signal, then he proceeded back to base.
As he walked past the sentries at the front gate, he slung his AK-47 over his shoulder then turned towards the mess tent as it was now time for his scheduled dinner break. Afterward, he would attend the live satellite message from the Cobra Commander. It would not be safe to retrieve and read the message slipped into his pants leg until he hit the latrine, or turned in for the night. The mission required great patience and he couldn’t risk being discovered. Dinner was fairly decent. It consisted of traditional Kenyan stew. This was a mix of some unknown meat, carrots, peppers, peas, and potatoes. His side dish consisted of Sukuma Wiki, which was simply collard greens, onions, diced tomatoes and Mchuzi, a secret Kenyan seasoning. Surprisingly, the Cobra kitchen had provided perfect Kenyan cuisine during the course of his infiltration. This told Pathfinder that there were definitely Kenyans among the Cobra recruits. The question now was, were these Kenyans part of a larger coup to overthrow the Kenyan government, part of the current government regime, or simply Cobra sympathizers?
This was something that G.I.Joe would have to figure out before the jailbreak in order to avoid a possible international incident. The plot continued to thicken. He finished his dinner, returned the tin plate to the wash bin and headed to the televised “Commander message” of the day. These transmissions consisted of mostly anti-government propaganda. Including reasons why Cobra would be successful and reinforcing what Cobra would provide for their recruits in return for their continued loyalty. Cobra Commander’s message was really quite charismatic and convincing. Pathfinder began to understand how people in lesser societies and impoverished regions could be sucked into the promises of grandeur that the Cobra organization offered. As he looked around the room, he could see other recruits nodding affirmatively to the supreme snake’s promises. The whole experience lasted about twenty-five minutes and concluded with all in attendance standing and saluting the image of their commander-in-chief.
It wasn’t long before he could finally turn into the privacy of his bunk for the night, but as he exited the conference room and hung the left to his barracks, he was stopped rather abruptly by the hulking form of the Cobra alligator rustler. Croc Master had been walking towards him and had stopped deliberately in front of him.
Pathfinder knew that this particular Cobra operative was not one to be taken lightly. Having learned the correct way to avert his eyes while still presenting an air of confidence, he fashioned his right arm into the correct salute, stepped over to the side, and hoped that the unusual man had merely walked up to him accidentally. The crocodile expert returned a similar salute and afterward reached with his left hand to remove the breathing tube from his mouth. He leaned forward and glared at the grunt in front of him. This chance meeting was clearly no coincidence.
“I have been observing you these past three days,” Croc Master spoke in a gruff, yet garbled voice. After each sentence, he placed the rubber mouthpiece back over his lips to take a breath. “Your work ethic is impeccable!” Another breath. “How is it that I have not seen this sense of urgency and devotion in you before?” He breathed in yet again.
Pathfinder was taken a bit back. Was this a test? Did they know that he was not who he was pretending to be? He needed to respond quickly and correctly. “Master of Reptiles, the words of our great leader have really started to hit home with me these past few days and I feel like Cobra is the family that I have been missing my entire life.”
The latex lining his red goggled eyes crinkled a bit at the response. Oddly enough, the next thing he knew, the alligator wrestler was embracing him in a strong bear-like hug, but a hug nonetheless. It was over almost as quickly as it happened and Croc Master removed his mouthpiece one more time.
“I am so pleased to hear this brother. Come back with me to the command station. I may have a special mission to entrust to you.” He smiled crookedly, replaced his aerator, and motioned for him to follow. The Joe’s message would once again have to wait.
One of the best things about the Cobra organization was the fact that most operatives never exposed their face and there was no visible database of what different members looked like. ID photos if issued were taken in full uniform with face masks. The same photo was used even if a trooper was promoted to a new branch of service. The chief identifiers for specific soldiers were based on uniform tags and physical attributes such as the style of walk, verbal tics, etc. Pathfinder had done well to study his mark before attempting to take his place. The trooper he replaced had the same body type, weight, and height as well as eye color. He spoke with a slight southern accent and lisped his p’s and t’s; an easy emulation. He didn’t speak much and had no other ties to the organization, as he had just recently joined. Cobra troopers were not employed to make friends. They had a job to complete, and that was their prime objective. You didn’t advance within Cobra if you had friends.
Pathfinder stayed in stride with the alligator trainer up to the command center. He paused for a second as Croc Master stopped. Thinking that he was expecting him to open the door for him, and not wanting to anger his superior, he jumped into action and consequently tried to pull open the main door. Croc Master glared at him for a second or two, and after noticing the keypad, The Cobra impersonator averted his eyes. He heard at least six distinct digits being entered before the hiss of an airlock released the door as it opened inwards. The gator trainer entered first and motioned for him to follow behind. The room was filled with large computer monitors and a half a dozen Tele-vipers were busily clicking away on their keyboards. The enemy group had worked quickly to outfit the previous Marine command center with their own technology. A smaller room had been built off to the side; its door guarded by two larger Vipers with RDT-7 assault rifles. The Tele-Vipers did little to acknowledge our entry, as only one turned around to regard us. Chances are they had seen us coming through one of the numerous outside cameras and had already checked our clearance codes using the online server.
Croc Master continued across the room and headed towards the guarded doorway. At his approach, the two Vipers stepped together, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door and pointing their rifles at the two of us. The Crocodile wrestler removed his aerator and sneered.
“Really boys? Don’t act like you don’t know who I am!”
The larger of the two Vipers shifted uneasily at the berating and managed to stammer an audible reply.
“The Doctor is not taking any visitors at the moment. He gave us strict orders not to let anyone in. That includes.” He swallowed hard. “Even you…..Sir.”
Croc Master hissed at the reply. He did not take lightly to being dismissed after he had been summoned originally. Much like the reptiles he managed, he had a rather unpleasant demeanor. He would much rather strike first and act questions later, but he also knew the pecking order of Cobra. As much as he was in charge of the events taking place out in the open of the captured Marine outpost, he was simply the subordinate of the well-hidden Doctor. However, in the same respect, the good doctor was also merely a figurehead for the supreme Cobra Commander. Pathfinder had observed this type of power dynamic before within other terrorist factions around the world.
“How long?” his garbled voice inquired.
“Have a seat, you’ll be the first to know,” the second Viper leaned in and delivered the response. The master of crocodiles sneered one last time and then turned to the chairs lined up on the wall. Two other operatives were already seated there reading through Cobra propaganda. He then turned to me.
“Go back to your barracks.” Breath in. “I’ll call for you when I have my audience.” Breath in. “And don’t go to sleep! Or be late when I do!” The venom in his gravelly voice indicated his level of disdain for the Viper guards and whoever was on the other side of that guarded door. Pathfinder once again flashed the appropriate hand signal, saluted, averted his eyes and made a B line to the exit.
As he walked back to his barracks, he began to wonder which of Cobra’s prestigious doctors was behind that guarded door? He would know soon enough, but in the meanwhile, he could only anticipate and prepare. None of them were particularly known for their exceptional bedside manner and Pathfinder was no stranger to the stories of the brainwave scanner. He would have to be at the peak of his game if they hooked him up to that contraption. Regardless, he still needed to read Ambush’s note.
Upon entering his quarters, he did an initial electromagnetic frequency scan for any anomalies. He couldn’t risk any hidden cameras or audio recording devices being planted there during his absence. After ensuring the security of his room, he reached for the folded note that had been slipped into his pants cuff. When he unfolded it, he recognized the Delta code usually reserved for this type of communication. His eyes opened widely upon deciphering the message. The situation was considerably worse than they had all thought. Help would be coming, but not as soon as initially planned. He was to remain under deep cover and limit his outside communication to once every three days. He was also instructed to cut off any interaction with PFC Kordos and the other captured Marines.
He was truly on his own for the time being. This would be the longest the jungle assault specialist had ever been asked to stay undercover, but his secondary military specialty was reconnaissance, so it was not something he couldn’t handle. His wrist comlink flashed a message. You can turn in for the night; our meeting has been postponed till morning. The undercover agent knew exactly who had sent the message and promptly sent the correct response in which he thanked the alligator trainer for granting him permission to rest. He also told him that he would be anxiously awaiting his call tomorrow.
He grimaced at the hard facts, then walked into the bathroom, lit a match and burned the evidence.
“Well, at least the food is good.” After he spoke the words aloud, he was finally able to turn in for the night. He checked his door, shut off his light, but kept his firearm under his pillow just in case. This was Cobra he was dealing with and he couldn’t trust the lot of them more than he could trust a sidewinder to not strike at him while crossing the Sahara. As he settled into his single bed, he allowed himself to clear his mind and to slightly decompress before closing his eyes. Morning would be fast approaching and he never wanted to be late for his assigned duties.
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