Chapter 109: War Footing

A single bare incandescent bulb flickers over the small desk littered with various papers; reconnaissance reports the Joes have gathered in their rebellious fight against Cobra. Vital details on enemy movements, photographs offering glimpses of New Springfield defenses, hand-drawn maps showing strategic routes and potential ambush points, and a collection of heavily used and marked-up yellowing road atlases cover the well-worn surface.

The room's walls close in, feeling more claustrophobic than in days past. Stripped with water damage from unrepaired leaks, they are covered in an array of additional documents, drawings, and maps to supplement the scattered piles on the desk. Every inch of space is a tool for the nonstop planning that has dominated Falcon's waking hours.

As he stands among the jumble, anxiously scrutinizing the Joe Team's first major offensive against Cobra, doubt clouds his mind. He finds himself second-guessing every decision, mentally replaying every choice, weighing the risks and rewards, and questioning his strategy. A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. "Come in," He replies, his voice steadier than he feels.

Scrounge opens the door.

Without looking up, Falcon waves him into the cramped room.

"Sir," Scrounge takes it all in and pauses to clear his throat, "I sent everything to my handler."

Unbeknownst to Cobra, their trusted operative secretly played a much more dangerous game as a double agent. For over a decade, Scrounge had served as a Cobra Range Viper. He had been south of the border in Central America on R&R when the world collapsed. The last order he had received from Cobra had been to regroup in New Springfield.

He had set out at once.

Along the way, he connected with a Swamp Viper, making the same excruciating pilgrimage. They were among the first to arrive.

He had the privilege of watching Cobra rise from the destruction of the old world.

With Cobra Commander's arrival, he witnessed a mighty civilization grow from the ashes of the apocalypse. He rejoined the ranks of the Range Vipers, now known as Cobra Reapers, led by the ruthless Skullbuster, the Joe formerly known as Outback. Their primary task was clearing territory and gathering supplies for Cobra. Every mission brought them one step closer to Cobra Commander's triumph. The Cobra Reapers rescued countless civilians, taking them out of hell and bringing them into the light that was New Springfield.

He was loyal to the core and wholeheartedly believed that G.I. Joe represented the ultimate threat beyond that posed by the undead. The thought of infiltrating the rebels ignited a spark of excitement within him.  

However, everything changed the day he stood before a fresh mass grave of those Cobra Commander had discarded without a second thought. Men, women, children, the elderly, and anyone considered a liability had been shot and unceremoniously thrown into the water-filled hole. Their dead eyes pierced the veil of Scrounge's mask.

The Joes had been on a scavenging mission when they heard the shots and immediately made their way in the direction they had come from. Cobra Troopers were fleeing the bloody scene, and the Joes fired on them. Scrounge picked up one of the shells that had been spent, still warm and smelling of gunpowder from being freshly fired. That chilling sight had awoken a stirring in his conscience, leading him to seek out Falcon.

That late evening meeting had changed everything for Scrounge and Falcon, starting an unlikely alliance.

Together, they orchestrated a series of elaborate deceptions, crafting faulty intelligence that Scrounge would relay to his Cobra handler. These fabricated reports included locations of attacks that never happened and detailed plans designed to mislead and manipulate Coba's movements. While Cobra was preoccupied with waiting for an attack that would never come, the Joes could strike smaller targets with less resistance. Each piece of misinformation was carefully designed to protect their true objective, disrupting Cobra from within while gradually revealing the dark underbelly of the organization Scrounge had once served.

Falcon lifted his head and locked eyes with the man standing before him. Scrounge shuffled nervously, "Sir, thank you for giving me a chance."

It hadn't been easy for Falcon. His initial instinct had been to draw his pistol and end the conversation with a single shot. But something in Scrounge's voice, perhaps a flicker of honesty, or maybe it was Falcon's own desperation, had stayed his hand, pulling him back from the edge of that decision.

"You're absolutely sure you told me everything you know?" His voice was void of emotion.

"Yes, sir."

"There's nothing else I should be aware of? I don't like surprises, especially ones that endanger my team," Falcon stared at the man, his eyes trying to drill into the Range Viper's soul.

"I've told you everything that I know. "To his credit, Scrounge met Falcon's steely gaze not with defiance but with sadness.

Now, as the dawn of the Joe Team's War With Cobra loomed heavy on the horizon, the lives of each member of the Joe team seemed to rest precariously on the fragile word of a Range Viper.

This was just one of many troubling decisions that haunted Falcon in the quiet hours of the night, stealing his sleep and peace of mind.

"This better go according to plan," Falcon replied, his tone grave.

_______________________________________

Falcon stood in the center of the garage, surrounded by tables and rolling bulletin boards. The garage was the only interior area with enough space to accommodate their towering Autobot allies, who assembled alongside the Joes to discuss the upcoming attack. The bright light of late afternoon filtered through cracks in the covered windows, casting a familiar yellow glow over the space.

"Let's go over the plan one last time," his voice steady. Falcon casts a solemn glance at the group. He would never admit it, but sadness threatened to overtake him. He knew this may be the last time he saw them: his troops, his friends, his family, all alive.

"Our primary objective is to draw out their heavy armor," he continued, gesturing to a large, hand-drawn map opened across the table cluttered with photographs, scribbled notes, and various plans.

His finger traced over the planned route. "Bumble Bee and Throttle will launch their attack on the main gate here," he said, pressing his finger down firmly on a spot marked with a bright green X. The area around the mark was filled with annotations detailing potential enemy positions and escape routes.

"Simultaneously, Beachcomber and Drifter will hit the western gate. We know Cobra has most of their HISS Tanks stationed at those gates. If we can draw them out, we should be able to neutralize them here." He points to an area on the map marked in red, "We'll significantly increase our chances of success. This location is strategic, as it should position us outside the effective range of the HISS weaponry."

"It's not just the HISS Tanks we need to contend with; Cobra commands a significantly larger force, equipped with a staggering stockpile of ammunition and advanced weaponry," Falcon states, scanning the room as the faces around nod in understanding. "We don't have exact numbers, but we're vastly outnumbered, at least 30 to one, if not more.

Their air support, though limited, consists of Trouble Bubbles and various smaller craft. We know they have a variety of trucks and troop transports, but we don't know if they have other armor outside the HISS Tanks we've identified.

Additionally, we know they have at least one Decepticon fighting alongside them. We've faced Soundwave before. We've seen the damage he's capable of doing. I won't sugarcoat it - everything seems to be working against us."

Squaring his shoulders, Falcon flipped through the stack of maps and papers until he found the one that depicted the battlefield.

He placed the hand-drawn map on top of the pile, "Bumble Bee and Beachcomber will take positions here and here," Falcon instructed, his finger indicating two points flanking the side of the narrow dirt road that wound through the clearing.

He pointed to the dense line of trees at the far end of the clearing. "Mother will take over watch from here," Falcon said, looking up from the map to meet the eyes of the team's designated sniper. "You're sure you can make your shots from there," he said.

Without hesitation, Mother met his intense stare, "Yes."

Falcon held the look a moment longer before going back to the map. "Bulleit, you'll set up back here," he indicated a site in the treeline near the road. "This keeps you off the front line but still in the battle." Bulleit nodded in response.

"Greaser, Scrounge, you'll be here," he says, pointing to a location on the west side of the road, perpendicular to it. Your primary objective is to take out anyone who makes it past this point," he adds, indicating a line across the road. I also need you to watch the woodline. We don't want any Range Vipers ambushing us."

"Bowyer, you'll be here with Drifter. Pick your shots carefully."

"You know I will, Falcon," Bowyer replies.

"Forge, Smith, you're positioned in the center. Throttle and Ground, you're next to them, just next to the road," Falcon looks at Ground. I think you should leave Pound in the back."

"Sir, he'll freak out if he's not with me," he says, petting the big dog. "Besides, anyone who gets near us will be hit by a fur missile from hell."

Falcon's eyes fill with sadness as he looks from Ground to Pound.

Falcon looked at the faces of his team members. "We're bringing everything we have to this operation," he continued, determined to project confidence. "We are splitting up our ammo; each of us will have a combat load here and another set of ammunition secured at the FOB.

This means we're going into the fight with about 500 rounds per person. Most of that is 5.56. However, we have some 9mm, .357, 12 gauge shells, and .308, all of which will be spread out to whoever needs them." He gestured towards Scrounge and Smith, who had spent the day organizing crates. Scrounge and Smith will transport our explosives and ensure everything is set up correctly."

The meeting lasts nearly an hour as each aspect of the strategy is discussed. Finally, Falcon addresses the team, "Everyone knows what this fight means. We need to be prepared. Double-check your ammo and make sure your IFAKs are fully stocked. Grab some food. Get some shut-eye. Tomorrow, we bring the war to Cobra."

That night, most of the team struggled to find sleep. They dedicated the night to meticulously cleaning their weapons and topping off magazines. Others go over the plans in their heads. Eventually, each Joe succumbs to sleep.

Later that evening, Falcon walks the empty halls, checking in on each Joe under his command. He finds Ground & Pound on guard duty just outside the building.

Pound wags his tail as Falcon approaches, "How's it going?"

"It's quiet," Ground replies, scratching behind Pound's big ears. "We're heading in to wake up Throttle."

"Don't let me stop you," Falcon nods. He knows that when the sun comes up, everything will change. How? He isn't sure. Even with the added firepower of Bumble Bee and Beachcomber, their chances of success are low. Cobra has superior numbers and weaponry. He makes his way back to his bunk, takes off his boots, lies down, and lets restless sleep take over.

____________________________

In the dark pre-dawn hours, Falcon jolted awake, his heart racing against his chest. The nightmare that had disrupted his slumber clung to his mind like an apparition unwilling to cross over. He awoke with a start.

In his dream, he was choking on smoke and gas as explosions sent rock and debris flying high through the air. The Joes found themselves pinned down by overwhelming enemy fire. He watched helplessly as terrifying skeletons pierced the thick veil of smoke, revealing the dreaded Cobra Reapers led by Skullbuster. He shook his head, forcing the images back into the recesses of his mind.

He sat up, taking in the soft murmur coming from beyond the closed door of his office/bunk. As he slipped on his boots, he heard movement in the hallway. When he opened the door, he found the makeshift Joe base thrumming with life as the team prepared to depart.

In the garage, Falcon watched shadows dancing along the weathered walls, cast by the flickering light of fixtures that swung gently in the cool morning breeze. Everywhere Falcon looked, preparations were underway. He overheard conversations, and he even caught a few laughs being exchanged.

Falcon walked over to Bulleit as she checked everyone's first aid kits. As one of only three members to have served in the military and the only member other than Falcon to have served with G.I. Joe, he knew she was keenly aware of the hell-storm they were entering. She had seen Cobra's ruthless methods up close and personal. After checking each kit, she quickly inspected the infirmary and surgery suite.

"How's it looking?" Falcon asked quietly.

"Sir, everyone has an IFAK stocked with the essentials," she looks up momentarily. "Everyone knows how to use them."

"That's not what I mean."

She stopped counting supplies and stared at Falcon. "Sir, we all know what we've signed up for," she paused, examining Falcon's questioning gaze. I've passed out more meds today than any other single day since we joined up. Everyone is nervous, but everyone is committed."

"Meds?"

"Anxiety, stomach issues, jitters," Bulleit replies matter-of-factly.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do," was all Falcon could muster.

"Thank you, sir."

Falcon turned and continued surveying the preparations.

Bulleit went back to her inventory. Going over her meager supplies was distressing but necessary. She needed to know what she'd be working with when the inevitable happened.

Bulleit thought about the Forward Operating Base she had argued they needed nearer the battle location. They planned to stop there so she could stock it with everything she could spare. The FOB would be the first stop in the medivac to allow her to stabilize anyone seriously injured. She and Bumble Bee would be responsible for their transport and care. She was glad that Forge, Smith, and Mother backed her up as combat medics. Before turning off the light, she crossed herself and silently offered her version of the Combat Medic's Prayer.

Oh, Lord, I ask for your divine

strength to meet the demands of

my profession. Help me to be the

finest medic, both technically and

tactically.

As I am called to the

battlefield, give me the courage to

conserve our fighting forces by

providing medical care to all who

are in need.

Teach me to trust in your

presence and never-failing love.

AMEN

The Joes pass one another as they go in and out of the garage loaded with gear. As they walked through, each paused to look at their surroundings, knowing that this could be the last time they would stand in a place that had transformed from a simple shelter into a cherished home over the years. Memories flooded back, echoes of laughter shared over scavenged meals, late-night guard duty beneath a blanket of stars, and bonds forged in adversity during the harrowing days of the ZomPoc. These moments are etched on their souls as bittersweet reminders of what they had endured and the friendships that blossomed within these walls.

"All right, Joes," Falcon resolutely looks to his team, "it's time. Saddle up."

The group heads to their designated transportation. Engines fire up, rumbling in the dark. The blades of the Little Bird let out a whine as they warm up for flight.

In minutes, the small convoy rumbled steadily toward New Springfield. They bounced across uneven terrain, the darkness offering a welcome cover. The air was crisp, and a morning breeze brought a chill, sending cold beads of sweat down the Joes' backs.

Beachcomber took the lead. Guiding the convoy through the twists and turns of their carefully mapped route. Drifter and Bowyer were his only occupants. He and Bumble Bee had long ago given up replicating the throaty roaring sounds of Earth engines. Instead, they ran in near silence. For this mission, the group decided to drive using night vision optics. The two Autobots could drive through nearly any condition without needing light. The humans, meanwhile, relied on a collection of civilian and military NODs (Night Optical Devices) that they had scavenged over the years.

Behind Beachcomber, the muffled sound of dirt bikes fills the air, their exhaust freshly packed to cut down on noise. Mother, Forge, and Greaser rode skillfully on high alert, weaving through patches of overgrown foliage and rubble from times past, with an agility born from countless missions into the wastes.

Bringing up the rear was Bumble Bee. Throttle was behind the wheel, though the Autobot was doing the driving. Falcon rode shotgun with Bulleit, Ground, and his big dog Pound crammed into the backseat. The dust kicked up by those in front of him blended with the aged matte yellow of his exterior.

Overhead, the Little Bird was the team's early warning system. Sparrow sat as the pilot with Hook as the co-pilot, monitoring all vital gauge readings. Wrench Bender was stationed on the door-mounted .50 cal. As they flew further from the safe haven of the base, Sparrow began a delicate dance of staying below enemy radar and high enough to avoid drawing too many undead to the group below.

Scrounge and Smith, who had gone to the site the previous day, were absent from the group. Scrounge's quad had been loaded to capacity, and its rear was weighed down by a small cart filled with explosives and ammunition. They were tasked with pre-positioning caches of supplies throughout the area and setting up traps to secure their location should Cobra try to surround them.

As the vehicles maneuvered through the landscape, the Joes remained acutely aware of their surroundings. The looming threat of Cobra was far from the only danger they faced; the rumbling of their engines dislodged the stillness of the dawn, seducing the undead. Shadows began to shuffle toward the source, their vacant eyes fixed on the path of the intruders.

Time was not on their side, and the Joes had no intention of stopping to confront any of the amassing horde. With a grim determination, they continued, Beachcomber and Bumble Bee strategically plowing through any undead unfortunate enough to cross their paths. The twisted bodies of the undead crumbled beneath the weight of the vehicles, leaving nothing but scattered remains in their wake.

The Joes traveled in radio silence. The only sounds accompanying them were the roars of engines, the sharp crunch of gravel under the wheels, and the distant, haunting echo of undead moans. They watched the remains of the world fall behind them in the rearview mirror like memories from long ago. However, like the warning in the mirror, these memories are closer than they appear.

As the Joes rolled in under the cover of darkness, the moon cleared of clouds and cast a pale light, showing the silhouettes of Scrounge and Smith waiting for them.

Falcon climbed out of Beachcomber, the faint glow of the robot's instrument panel lighting his face, "How'd it go?"

Smith wiped the sweat from her brow. "We got everything we could ready. The road here is set with enough explosives to destroy just about anything that comes down it."

Falcon looked from one to the other. Their clothes were dusty, their faces fatigued and weary. "Good," he said, nodding. "Now, you two need to get some rest."

"We will, just not yet. There's still more to do," Scrounge replied.

"Not for you two. I need you sharp. Go grab some shut-eye somewhere."

Falcon's tone told the pair that it wasn't a request. It was an order. Neither put up a fight. But, first, Scrounge and Greaser provided a crudely drawn map showing the locations of the various explosives, punji pits, and other traps they had set in the hope that they might slow down Cobra's inevitable advance.

While the three had been talking, the rest of the Joes had stealthily moved to their designated positions, using the failing moonlight to guide them. Each footfall released the scent of the forest: pine mixed with earth. They continued preparing the site, digging and stocking fighting positions, and ensuring clear lines of fire.

The location the Joes chose for the assault was a sprawling parcel of open land covered in tall grasses, bordered by a wild, rushing river to one side and thick, untamed forest to the other, far beyond the outskirts of New Springfield. Falcon had pinned his hopes on the tactical advantage of the natural choke point, hoping it would work in their favor.

Each Joe began digging their foxhole, ensuring it was deep enough to offer sufficient protection during a firefight, covered, and camouflaged into the field. At the tree line, they constructed a series of trails that they could use to escape into the forest, where the dirtbikes and quad were hidden.

The Autobots excavated their positions on either side of the location, deeper into the earth. They used mounds of downed trees covered in dirt and debris, with lush green leaves and earthy brown soil adding camouflage.

The initial attack on New Springfield, designed to draw out Cobra's forces, had been planned for the early morning hours when the world was still cloaked in darkness and silence. Intelligence reports and their on-the-ground observations consistently indicated civilian activity would be at its absolute lowest, with the markets closed and people at home asleep. The primary targets for the operation were the Cobra Troopers stationed at the gates, alongside any Peace Keepers who happened to be on rotation at the time.

Falcon understood the critical window of opportunity that this timing provided. He knew it would take several minutes for the HISS tanks to mobilize in response to the sudden threat, their drivers just waking up to come on duty. To lure the enemy into their trap, Bumble Bee and Beachcomber had to loiter in the area and provoke Cobra forces into action while ensuring that no civilians would inadvertently be caught in the attack.

As dawn approached, Bumble Bee, Beachcomber, Throttle, and Drifter executed the plan. Falcon watched the dust trail over the horizon as they made the hours-long drive to New Springfield. Falcon checked his watch, "Make any final preparations. Gate Crasher is away. Countdown to first contact starts now."

It was official. The Joes had 3-4 hours before Bumble Bee and Beachcomber would return, with an angry contingent of Cobra closely on their tail.

For their part, Bumble Bee and Beachcomber had to carefully strike a balance between aggression and caution, making their presence known without crossing the line that could endanger civilian lives. The fate of their operation hinged on their ability to outmaneuver the enemy and draw them out into the open, where they could be led into the trap to be neutralized.

Falcon used the time to check on his team. Offering a hand wherever it was needed. The Joes seemed in good spirits despite what was coming. Everyone was finishing their fighting positions and trying to relax before bullets filled the air. Ground tossed a ball for Pound, who happily crashed through the brush, looking to retrieve it. Falcon nodded as he walked by. He couldn't keep the smile from his face. Pound had become more than just another trained K9 or "Fur Missile." Pound had become the Joe Team's mascot. The dog always seemed to know when a Joe needed comfort, nudging their arm with his massive head or dropping a ball in their lap.

Finding tennis balls had become a game for Joes. Anyone heading out scavenging for supplies always kept their eyes open for balls. Surprisingly, they never had trouble finding them, leading to Pound having the most extensive collection of tennis balls in the world.

Falcon walked along the wood line when he heard a voice call out, "Heads up!" just as a massive pine branch crashed before him. He looked up to see Bowyer looking down at him, "The hell you doing up there, Bowyer?!"

He watched in astonishment as the archer jumped from the branch, swinging down on a rope he'd attached to the tree. Bowyer, always the showman, landed like Robin Hood, "Sorry Boss, didn't see you till it was too late."

"I said to take positions on the ground!"

Bowyer pulled his balaclava down, revealing a beaming smile made of the whitest and straightest teeth Falcon had ever seen outside of a Hollywood movie. "Yeah, well, sir, I figured since Mother gets a tree, I should as well. I'm nearly as good a shot with a rifle, and c'mon, I'm an archer. We're what tree stands were invented for."

Before Falcon could answer, Bowyer climbed back into position, high above the battlefield. Falcon knew he was right, but it still didn't sit right. With a grunt, he continued on. With the mention of Mother, Falcon began scanning the tree line. He knew that looking for the team's best shot was futile. Still, he had to try.

He made his way from the tree line to the massive and empty fighting position of Bumble Bee. Falcon had seen the two Autobots do astounding things over the past months. However, watching them pull whole trees from the earth, roots and all, and stacking them to make walls had been unlike anything he'd seen before. He was glad they were allies.

He was apprehensive when Throttle and Ground initially brought Bumble Bee to the base. Until that moment, the rumors he had heard of extraterrestrial robots on Earth had been little more than wild stories shared by inebriated service members in dive bars. But witnessing an actual Transformer standing before him was a surreal experience that shook him. The yellow and black facade of Bumble Bee was impressive and intimidating. Falcon hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he was standing on the precipice of something that would change the world.

The shock deepened when he learned that Cobra had its own Transformer—the Decepticon known as Soundwave. His team had been caught entirely off guard. The implications of an enemy aligned with such formidable technology were frightening.

In stark contrast, Beachcomber's arrival had an entirely different energy. The Joe's welcomed the new bot with open arms, almost immediately embracing him as one of their own.

Today, both Bumble Bee and Beachcomber would put their lives on the line. He was compelled to reflect on and question his Decepticons, his mission, and the weight of responsibility that came with his leadership role.

Falcon continued inspecting his troops and their preparations, making constructive suggestions and offering encouraging words as he went. All the while, his thoughts hung heavy over his head.

___________________________

New Springfield

The imposing wall surrounding New Springfield towers nearly thirty feet into the night sky, casting long shadows across the cleared ground below. Each public entrance was fortified by gatehouses rising twenty feet above the wall. Every 300 yards, additional guard towers rise ten feet above the top of the wall. Heavily armed troops, clad in blue uniforms, maintain a watch around the clock to protect Cobra's towering achievement to progress in the new world.

In the cool night air, on the cusp before sunrise, two Troopers stationed in one of the gatehouses for the main entrance look out into the night, waiting for their shift to end. New to the Cobra ranks, the Troopers have spent the last month navigating the tedium of their assignments, switching from one tower to another each night. The repetition of their task has begun to take its toll, sapping their energy and enthusiasm.

Tonight marks the conclusion of their monotonous nights atop the wall; they are due for a promotion to on-the-ground assignments, where they can leave New Springfield and take the fight to their enemies.

Their radio is silent, and the majority of New Springfield is asleep. The city's field workers have only begun to stir as they sleepily prepare for their long day. Still, they won't appear at the gate below for at least another hour. By then, the Troopers can hand over their watches as the next shift arrives.

As they scan the horizon, the stillness of the dark sky is suddenly interrupted by a movement in the distance. One of the Troopers nudges his companion with an elbow, "Hey, did you see that?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Over there," the Trooper insists, pointing into the inky blackness beyond the wall. "I thought I saw something moving. It was just a flicker."

The second Trooper reached for a pair of high-powered night vision binoculars, directing his gaze intently toward the point. He carefully adjusted the lenses, but after several seconds, he shook his head. "I don't see anything. It was probably a bird."

"I'm telling you, I swear I saw something," the first Trooper insisted. "Should we call it in?"

Exasperated, the second Trooper turned to face the first, "Our shift is over in 15 minutes. Do you really want to go through all the hassle of the paperwork, not to mention the after-action interview, when they send Vipers out there and don't find anything?"

"Not really," the first Trooper conceded.

"Then can it," the second Trooper said, their eyes returning to the vast emptiness of night before them as they resumed their watch in silence.

The Trooper can't keep his eyes off the spot in the distance.

Little does he know that he and his partner will be the first casualties of the coming attack.

_____________________________

The sun had yet to break over the horizon as the Joe team traveled toward New Springfield, using the lingering blanket of darkness to mask their approach. They could sense the subtle changes in the air as dawn began its daily battle to reclaim the world. They knew daylight would come, snuffing out the night.

They traveled in an all-encompassing silence. Neither Joe nor Autobot spoke. The Autobots had turned off all lights, exterior and interior, hoping to maintain the element of surprise.

They had stopped only once. They had detected a Cobra patrol five miles out. The Autobots had quickly jammed their communications while the Joes went on foot and dispatched the Vipers before they could sound an alarm.

Since then, Throttle and Drifter sat in the enclosed cockpit of Bumble Bee. They leaned back in their seats, eyes closed, but sleep eluded them. Their minds churned, reviewing each step of their mission and the myriad of possible problems. As Bumble Bee navigated the winding roads, keeping pace with Beachcomber, the near-silent hum of their engines blended with the rhythm of their anxious souls.

Suddenly, Bumble Bee slowed to a stop and pulled alongside the waiting Beachcomber.

Beachcomber's electronic voice came over their radio speakers, breaking the silence, "Alright, Joes. If Cobra hasn't picked us up on their sensors, they will soon. We should split up from here."

Throttle and Drifter sat for a second before Drifter reached for the door handle, "Well, good luck." He looked over at Throttle. She was the best driver he'd ever seen in action, and he offered her his hand, "It's been an honor."

Throttle grasped his hand firmly, "The honor's been mine."

A smirk tugged at the corners of Throttle's lips for a brief moment. Laughter erupted, and Throttle punched Drifter in the shoulder playfully. Their camaraderie swept their anxiety away, leaving only smiling faces.

Catching her breath, Throttle's smile widened, "Give 'em hell."

Drifter nodded as he opened the door. The cool morning breeze rushed in, invigorating him as he stepped out. He turned toward Throttle, his smile beaming, "Same." He gently shut the car door behind him and made his way toward Beachcomber.

As he settled into the passenger seat, he adjusted his neck wrap, pulling it up over his mouth and nose, then pulled down his goggles. He took a moment to check and load the SAW mounted securely on the dashboard.

"How're you feeling, Beach?" Drifter asks his Autobot partner.

"I'm ready to get this party started," Beachcomber replies excitedly.

"Let's hit it," Drifter says with a nod.

Then, they were off. Speeding headlong toward New Springfield. The rest of Falcon's plan hinged on their success in drawing Cobra out and away from their stronghold.  

______________________________

The room was dimly lit, the numerous screens lining the workstations adding a soft glow to the face of the TeleViper working the overnight shift, tasked with monitoring the vast expanse of Cobra's defenses. Monitoring security feeds from both inside and outside New Springfield.

The TeleViper sat at his terminal, four screens scrolled through various camera pictures and sensor readings. It was a monotonous job, made even more so by the quietness of the night.

He was one of four TeleVipers on duty. They spent their time in utter silence and were expected to be wholly focused. If anything got past them, there were severe consequences.

Like every night, the hours ticked by second by uneventful second. Save for his sighting of decaying and decrepit zombies lurching aimlessly toward the city's edges. With practiced efficiency, the Televiper had dispatched a Viper team with just a few keystrokes, eliminating the undead threat before they became a bigger nuisance.

Since that brief moment of activity, all had been quiet.

He brought his steaming cup of black coffee to his lips, savoring the bitter taste as it washed down his throat. The night shift demanded black - no cream or sugar to dull the edge, just pure, unadulterated caffeine to keep him alert and focused on the array of screens before him.

Without warning, his monitor erupted with a flurry of warning lights, piercing the silence. "Sir!" he called out, raising his voice to get the attention of the officer on duty.

An officer quickly approached, "What do you have?" he asked, his eyes darting to the display on the Televiper's monitor.

"Perimeter sensors have been tripped a mile out," the TeleViper replied, pulling up a grainy security feed that flickered with static. "We have two vehicles approaching at high speed."

In an instant, the officer reacted. He slammed his hand down on a button, unleashing a piercing alarm that reverberated throughout the Cobra facility. An automated voice echoed ominously over the intercom, "We have enemy incoming! This is not a drill! Report to battle stations!"

The officer turned sharply, his frustration evident. "How the hell did they get that close?" he demanded, scanning the screens that flashed with real-time data.

"I don't know, sir. The long-range sensors are operational," the Televiper responded, anxious as he looked over his shoulder at the officer. "There's no indication of sensor failure or reports from the sentry teams."

"Figure it out. The Commander will demand a full accounting," the officer ordered curtly before pivoting toward the open doors. Sleep-weary Televipers clad in hastily gathered uniforms poured into the room as they ran to their terminals.

"We have a Class One Emergency!" the officer shouted. "An enemy incursion is less than a mile out."

At the sound of the alarm, the Cobra stronghold had sprung to life. Bright lights flickered to life in the barracks as the alarm blared, its message repeating with relentless insistence. Troops sprang into action. Cobra soldiers dashed from their bunks, hastily putting on their gear as they ran into the halls.

HISS drivers jumped from their bunks, pulling their boots on, untied, in their haste to reach their armored vehicles. The low rumble of engines began to fill the air as drivers prepared to engage the approaching enemy.

Outside, the massive searchlights on the guard towers ignited and sparked to life, illuminating the dark terrain with their blinding beams. The lights crisscrossed, cutting through the night and scanning the area for any sign of threats.

________________________________

The towering walls of New Springfield loomed ahead, their silhouettes stark against the glow of the city within. The soft illumination of street lights and the odd light of early-rising residents gave New Springfield a gentle, almost serene glow.

Suddenly, blinding lights pierced the night air, sweeping back and forth.

"Here we go," Drifter murmured as he prepared to fire on the guard towers.

Beachcomber aimed straight toward the side gate.

Before his finger could squeeze the trigger, the blinding lights found them, ruining his night vision. The spotlights were immediately followed by the ping of rifle fire. As guards opened fire on trespassers.

Bullets bounced off Beachcomber's armored exterior, and the metallic thuds and pings echoed in the early morning air.

Instinctively, Drifter pivoted and began to fire at the lights. He trusted that Bumble Bee and Throttle were doing the same at the main entrance.

"The gates!" Beachcomber shouted.

Drifter's eyes darted to the entrance, and a narrow shaft of vertical light appeared. Then, it widened as the massive gates began to open. He redirected his fire toward the opening.

The first HISS Tank pulled out of the gate and immediately took fire from Drifter. The rounds of his SAW ricocheted off the tank's heavy armor, leaving little more than a mark. Beachcomber fired his roof-mounted weapon, hitting the exiting tank in the tread, disabling its forward movement.

"That'll give us more time," Beachcomber called out.  

The HISS Tank's turret began targeting Beachcomber. It fired, and a crater opened before Beachcomber, forcing him into evasive maneuvers. The gates continued opening as the second HISS pushed the first out of the way.

A similar situation unfolded as Throttle, and Bumble Bee attacked the main gate.

Bumble Bee had lowered his windshield, allowing Throttle to mount a SAW to the dash. She fired it at the tanks attempting to exit the gate, and they took heavy fire from a growing number of Cobra troops on top of the wall.

"How many?" Throttle shouts to Bumble Bee.

"My... scanners... are picking up... four," came his broken response, made up of random audio clips.

Throttle clicks her radio, "Welcome Wagon One to Welcome Wagon Two. Status?"

Drifter responds near-instantly, "We have three!" comes the reply.

"Let's fall back," Throttle responds.

Bumble Bee and Beachcomber each turned toward their escape route, back toward the waiting Joes, careful to ensure the HISS Tanks followed.

________________________

After ensuring everyone was prepared as best as possible, Falcon stood on the bank of the fast-flowing river, watching as water rushed past. He was surrounded by nature, which was beautiful even at the end of time.

He knew that in less than an hour, the peacefulness of this place would be lost forever. Slowly, he made his way back to his spot overlooking the area. Falcon found his mind going where it went whenever he entered combat. A compartmentalized part of his brain opened, where he would eventually lock away the day's events and traumas.

As he settled into his position, Falcon thumbed the PTT button on his shoulder mic, "All positions, radio check." The speaker crackled to life as each Joe member called in.

The growing anxiety in their voices mirrored his own as he methodically checked his trusty shotgun. He counted seven rounds in the tube and one in the chamber, alternating between slugs and buckshot. The heft of the weapon had become a familiar comfort. He placed the shotgun within easy reach and picked up his reliable M4A1 rifle, equipped with a Masterkey shotgun. Slipping the 30-round magazine loaded with 5.56 ammunition into place, he reassured himself; the carbine was far better suited for engaging enemies at longer distances, and he felt a sense of readiness settle over him.

As he surveyed the battlefield from his vantage point, the scene appeared deceptively tranquil. The rhythmic sounds of the rushing river and the gentle chirping of birds as the sun began to slowly peak above the horizon created a serene backdrop.

However, that peace was abruptly shattered by an urgent call crackling over the radio, "Gate Crasher to base. We are being pursued by a dozen Snakes." The message sends a surge of adrenaline through the ranks of the Joes, indicating the fast-approaching fight. Bumblebee, Throttle, Beachcomber, and Drifter led the attacking Cobra forces into the first kill zone.

In anticipation of the battle, the Joes carefully prepared traps and defensive measures along the banks and waters of the river, throughout the dense woodline bordering the far side, and in the field. Acutely aware of Cobra's superior armor capabilities, Scrounge had crisscrossed the roadways and paths into the area with homemade anti-tank mines and tank traps, hoping to effectively halt the advance of the HISS Tanks.

Minutes after the radio call, the first explosion ripped through the air. A series of rapid, staccato blasts erupted as the cleverly concealed surprises were triggered, reverberating through the earth and sending shockwaves that could be felt even in their location a mile away.

Seconds passed, each one feeling like an eternity. Just then, a cloud of dust billows in the distance as Bumble Bee and Beachcomber race onto the scene, engines roaring.

"Friendlies approaching fast," Falcon announced over the radio.

As planned, Bumble Bee and Beachcomber had immediately accelerated, racing towards the battle location as soon as their trap was sprung.

"We've stopped all the armor and the transports that were tailing us, but they didn't send it all out," Drifter reports over the radio, his voice tense. "They might send more."

As the Autobots arrived, Throttle and Drifter leaped from the vehicles, adrenaline coursing through their veins.

Without a word, Bumble Bee and Beachcomber quickly transformed, their frames shifting and clicking into giant robot forms.

They wasted no time getting behind their fighting positions.

"Eyes open," Falcon calls out over the radio, his mind running through dozens of tactical scenarios, "Cobra will start sending troops this way. We need to be ready."

The distant sounds of approaching enemy forces lingered on the horizon.

The morning sun was still low in the sky.

The battle had only begun.

________________________

Cobra Commander sat in his office in New Springfield, gazing out at the billowing smoke climbing into the early morning sky. The sudden attack on the city gates caught him off guard.

It marked the first direct assault on his expansive stronghold of New Springfield by anyone.

But this wasn't executed by just anyone; it was done by people calling themselves G.I. Joe.

His office door remains open. Crimson Guard stand diligently at the corners as advisors rush in and out, providing constant updates. He attentively listens, occasionally gesturing with a dismissive wave when he's received enough information. Against the calming blue backdrop of dawn, he contemplates how the stark contrast of the gray and black plumes stands out against the serene morning sky.

"Commander," the voice of a Viper Officer grabs his attention.

"Yes, Major?"

"Commander, Sir, we have received reports that the HISS column has been disabled." He looks nervously at a tablet before continuing, "Our forces have suffered minor losses."

The officer steals a furtive glance at his own reflection in the Commander's mask. He is relieved that his helmet conceals his expression. "Our troops are gearing up to confront the enemy on foot."

"Very good," Cobra Commander turns to look back out the window. "Major, deploy the Stingers to the battle and reposition the remaining HISS Tanks at each gate," he pauses briefly. "Unleash the FANG. It is time for these 'Joes' to understand they are no match for the might of Cobra."

"Understood, Commander," he turns to carry out the orders.

"Major, before you go," the Commander's tone sends a shiver down the officer's spine.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Make sure we have heavy civilian casualties at the gates, particularly women and children. Have the Televipers set up a continuous live video feed and broadcast it over every frequency we control. Hack the ones we don't. I want to show the world how dangerous G.I. Joe is."

"It shall be done, Commander."

"I expect nothing less."

The Viper Officer turns on his heel and exits the office.

Cobra Commander continues looking out the window, "Seige," he calls out.

Crisp black boots snap together in attention, "My Commander," the Crimson Guard Officer answers.

"Bring me Agent X-99."

"As you wish," The Seige gives a sharp salute and leaves the office.

Cobra Commander sat quietly, waiting, as Officers continued to update him on the fast-evolving situation. When the HISS Tanks had exited, he ordered surveillance drones to accompany them to provide real-time data. Deep below the Cobra Command Center, DataVipers sat in their secure bunker, controlling a swarm of remote-operated drones that hovered high above their troops.

The Commander had watched the retreating Joes. His DataVipers had found the location of the Joe ambush. He had sensed the trap before it sprung. Yet, he allowed everything to unfold, letting the Joes think they had the upper hand.

It wasn't long before Agent X-99 arrived.

"Father, you sent for me," Agent X-99's smooth voice called out.

"Yes," the Commander said, looking up at his son and most loyal agent. "Are you aware of the unfolding situation?"

"Yes, Father," came Agent X-99's reply.

"What's your assessment?"

"The information provided by our informant inside the Joe team has proven accurate," he paused, "However, the documents given by Scrounge have again proven to be unreliable."

"He will need to be dealt with."

"Of course, Father."

"And what of the HEAT?"

"Skullbuster and the Stalls are loyal to you, Father. I do not trust the others."

Cobra Commander ponders this, "I want you to gather them. Bring them to the battle. Upon arrival, you will assume command from Major Onesi and Tombstone. You will do as you see fit."

"Perfect, Father."

"I expect treachery from the Joes on both sides."

"As do I, Father."

"If anything were to happen to your team…" the Commander trails off.

"We have contingencies in place, Father," answers Agent X-99.

"Good. You are dismissed."

Without a word, Agent X-99 turns and exits, leaving the Commander to strategize the next steps of his scheme.