Nero's GI Joe FanFic PART ONE

Nero's GI Joe FanFic PART ONE
Last time you got to see the casting, now time to actually see if I can write.
Here are the first few scenes of my take on GI Joe and what could have been.
Hey guys and welcome to part one of my GI JOE FanFic now that casting is out of the way I wanted to get to the skinny and get some feedback. Coming up are the first six scenes of my GI Joe tale, it'll cover the set up of the team and the recruitment of some of the major players.

Hope you enjoy.


SCENE ONE:
DESIN, AFRICA
Fictional nation east of Rwanda and Burundi to the shores of Lake Victoria carved from north western Tanzania)

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Exterior, night, war torn central Africa. Refugees are fleeing along a dirt road, marching away from a village burning in the background.
Random explosions are seen rising from the village and the sound of automatic weapons fire echoes across the barren landscape.

Close up of a single family. The grandfather bandaged across his left eye and head. Young mother tired sickly, and three children ranging in age from five to infant strapped to the mother by a worn blanket; all of them emaciated.

As they walk the explosions change from small mortar thumps to deeper brasher explosions rising plums of fire into the sky.

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Close up on the grandfather’s face as he looks over his shoulder, the orange light cascades onto his bloody bandages and illuminates the fear in his good right eye.

The form of a plane is seen highlighted against the plume of an explosion. It appears very much like a Global Hawk UAV. As it flies towards camera we see this is something else. Below the rear belly there is an old fashioned twin gunned ball turret in addition to the large rotary cannon beneath the nose.

The grandfather pushes his family into the ditch beside the road as the plane screams in strafing the crowd.


Inside the plane we see a red suited/helmeted pilot face obscured by the scuffed and rugged looking helmet and shaded visor upon which we see two green circles coming from the in helmet HUD illuminating the pilots eyes,.

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Wild Weasel:
Located the strays, sending the vector to your forces, Major. Rattler One out.

With that the plane banks sharply; ball turret still firing away at the people below. The Rattler then pops several slow falling flares from its tail.
The family emerges from the ditch to see the devastation. Children crying over dead mothers, Mothers and old people cradle wounded children all in harsh phosphorus lighting from the falling flares, harsh shadows are cast over the scene as the light passes through the surrounding tree limbs.

Grandfather:
(subtitled from Rundi) We must go. We must go now!

Mother:
Father, we must help these people.

Grandfather:
The Chooties are coming and with them the snakes, they will kill us all if we stay! Your have already lost your husband, I’ll not lose my grandchildren to them as well. Now move!


Large treaded vehicles break through the trees; a swiveling twin grenade turret opens fire on top, gun ports open on the side allowing the troops within to open fire as well. Over head small one manned winged double rotor FANGs buzz overhead. These are like small versions of an Osprey as the rotors at the wing tips swivel forward to propel the copter and up to hover.

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The family dash madly through the hail of gunfire and explosions for the opposite side of the road. Taking cover they see the HISS tanks unload their cargo of native troopers.

Each squad headed by men of various races in navy blue fatigues black flak jackets and web gear with gray or black balaclavas on their face under a blue helmet. Those with the gray masks sport a black inverted chevron outlined in silver on the front of their helmets. The native Chootie tribe sport similar gear and equipment save for the masks and camo fatigues, and instead wear red berets.

Last to emerge from the HISS nearest the family, are two middle aged men one African one Australian.

Major Bludd is in brown fatigues with a black bullet proof vest, web gear, helmet, and eye patch. He wears high almost cavalry style boots. Beside him General Kinguda is dressed much like his men in camo and a red beret sans any type of web gear or body armor, he sports only a pistol belt with a walnut griped Browning Hi-Power.

Major Bludd:
Goddamned Africa. I hate this bloody continent. How the hell do you stand this festering heat, mate?
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General Kinguda:
Do you never shut up? You bitch from the minute you step off the plane onto our soil!

Major Bludd:
Well mate, let’s not forget who made it “your soil.” ‘Fore I got hear you were just a bunch of tribal types running ‘round with machetes hacking up your fellows. Now look at you, a right sight of a general you are; leading real trained and ready troopers in the field. That was my doing, mate. I think this place is mine s’much as yers.

General Kinguda:
Your people will be leaving as promised once this war is over, yes? YOU will be leaving?

Major Bludd:
War you call this? You think I want to stay in this little shit hole you call a country any longer than need be? Once your tribe is in place and your uncle is in as the leader of this blessed little piece of sputum, we’ll stay just long enough to ensure the transition of power an’ the establishment of those lovely mines in the south so’s we can start pumping out what little gold, cobalt, an’ uranium your barren little mud strip can provide , mate. Then every blue shirt and viper is on to the next gig. Hopefully somewhere we can get a decent drink and a whore without dying some monkey born disease o’ the jungle.


Mother:
What are they saying?

Grandfather:
I don’t know. It’s English I think. I think they are fighting; arguing. Now take the children. The river is three hundred meters through the jungle that way. Take them and follow the river downstream three days to the boarder.

Mother:
Father you are not coming with us?

Grandfather:
I will be behind you so that if they follow I will draw them away. Now go!


The family flees down the hill seeing others doing the same making a dash for the river amongst the trees as soldiers fire at them from the edge of the forest. Alone, the grandfather looks at a small faded photograph of his wife, then with hatred at General Kinguda. There is a flash back to him hiding in a treed hillside trying to quiet his grandson seeing Kingula wiping the blood from a machete as he leaves a hut followed by him holding his wife’s body, weeping. The old man produces a rusty old revolver opening the cylinder to see that there are still rounds in it. He aims over the mossy boulder he hides behind and whispers.

Grandfather:
For my family.

The old man pulls the trigger until the gun is empty. The first two bullets find their mark and hit Kinguda in the neck and chest. Bludd reacts too late as he is swigging from his hip flask a bullet hits his right elbow and vest.
Bludd falls screaming

Major Bludd:
Bloody hell! Shattered me friggin’ arm. Vipers! Medic!

He fires wildly with his left arm. Seeing the shooter is gone he looks hatefully at the body of Kinguda laying face down in front of him and kicks him in the head.

Major Bludd:
Daft useless bastard.


Grandfather runs headlong through the jungle towards the river on his heels are three Vipers.
They are In blue fatigues with black vests on and web gear they wear a modified helmet with special opaque silver visor over their faces that we see allows them full pan night vision, (imagine glass coated with phosphorus particulate.) The Vipers run with great skill due to their enhanced sight and fire after grandfather.

Viper 1:
He’s running for the river! Water Moccasin what’s your position, over?

Copper Head:
Tracking along the shoreline. (Gunfire in background over com)

Grandfather emerges from the tress splashing along the river’s edge along the rocks. He sees the Vipers stop their pursuit at the jungle’s edge. Machine gun fire up ahead draws his attention. Worry rushes over him as he hobbles ahead. Finally in the light of the flares he sees a shod foot over a rock ahead of him. Terrified he realizes it is his daughter. He runs to her cradling her; her children are nowhere to be seen. He looks to the river hearing an unusual noise; around the bend comes a fan boat, low slung in the water painted a dark green with a gunner, Copperhead, atop a twin gunned turret. The old man scowls at his coming murderer as Copperhead opens up with both barrels.

Fade to black:



SCENE TWO:
Exterior Day, Panning shot over the Rockies/ lowers down to a road below a small convoy of black vehicles drives along the paved road turning onto a dirt road. The Camera then pans upward to a large cabin on a ridge about a mile away.
Hoover a middle aged CIA officer sits in one of the black SUVs looking out the window at the trees. He looks back to General Flagg.

Hoover:
General Flagg, with all due respect sir, I can think of at least a dozen other black ops with the experience at CIA’s Special Activities Division to pull this thing together, including myself. Why Abernathy, sir?
Casting note: Ron Livingston all the way.
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General Flagg:
Clayton Abernathy developed the concept for these teams and to the best of our knowledge is the only operator from the US to have faced them directly and survived. It was your agency that deemed him a conspiracy nut and got him drummed out of the Army. Frankly, Mr. Hoover, I think we owe him.
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General Beige (Comander of the Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC):
Casting note: No one better than Cpt. Dale Dye, of well half the war movies of the last twenty years.
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Lawrence, how do we know Hawk will even consider involving himself in this again? My God, the man is from old money; he could just as soon tell us to get off his land as welcome us in.

Flagg:
I was Hawk’s CO for nearly ten years, I don’t know a man as devoted to his profession or his country. He was right three years ago, and you all called him crazy. He has every right to be angry, but this team was his baby, his concept; from organization to instillations. And if I’m the one doing the asking and I’m the CO he will agree.

The convoy arrives at the large cabin circling in the large gravel parking turnabout. The men dismount Hoover darts to the door.

Flagg:
You won’t get him that way Mr. Hoover. He knows we’re here. (Now shouting) Colonel? Hawk? We’ve come to talk about Group Delta, Hawk. I need a good XO to head this thing up with me Clay! What do you say?
Silence. The group of men stares blankly at the house. Only Flagg looks to the trees.

Hoover:
(Impatiently) Colonel Abernathy, if you have no interest we’ll be on our way, my men at SAD will be more than happy to head this up.

Hawk:
(mid to late 40’s grizzled and unshaven appears behind Hoover an SF issue knife at the base of his skull) I leave this to you, CIA will screw this up and more of our boys would die out there. You never did pay close enough attention, Tommy.
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Flagg:
Hello Clay.


Scene continues later on the veranda of the cabin all parties seated save Hawk and Hoover


Hawk:
I was hunted on the ground for two weeks by these bastards. I told you time and again that they were no ordinary mercs. They were leading the indigenous forces the same way the Green Berets did the Montagnards in ‘Nam. Force multipliers, training them and then leading units of them into combat, backed with the latest kit, tech, and mech MARS had to offer. The two I got a hold of said the organization was called Cobra. I handed you the info on a silver platter. What more did you need? What happened Hoover? Did one of your SOG boys from Special Activities Division cross over?

Hoover:
No. NSA SIGLINT intercepted traffic going across the wire into Darfur via a know Al-Quada training officer here in the US, he mentioned the name Uf”Wan; Snake, and derivations of Cobra. One of the known associates of the Darfur contact was Sebastian Bludd; former major in the Australian SAS. The man you ID’ed as the commanding non indigenous mercenary. We started digging into his background and found that Bludd has several Swiss accounts in various aliases totaling over thirteen million dollars. We started to follow the money and it eventually lead back to a company called Extensive Enterprises, which has holdings in no less than six countries that we tracked Bludd’s activates to in the last ten years. In each case the counties had recently undergone a revolution or uprising resulting in the usurpation of a democratically elected government by rebelling paramilitary forces who were assessed as being far better equipped and trained than your average pig farmer had a right to be and in each incidence this Extensive Enterprises came away with exclusive contracts to mine the nations resources with a percentage cut of the profits as payment. Further digging showed the CEO’s of EE, twin Corsican brothers if you can buy that, Tomax and Xamot Fraticelli. Interestingly were themselves former Foreign Legion and later mercs, who had once worked with Bludd in South America. The company has extensive dealings with MARS, who supply all their security contracts and have had several face to face meetings with the man with no face himself Laird James McCullen Destro XXIV. Who…

Hawk:
Has had a long association with Baroness Anastasia DeCobray who has worked for an as yet unknown well funded terrorist group for the better part of a decade and is on our own terrorist watch list. I put nearly all this together for you in my brief three years ago with little more than evidence I gathered in the field and internet searches. How much tax payer cash did it take you assholes to fact check me on that?

General Beige:
Colonel, you can stand there all day and say “I told you so,” but the fact is we have evidence now that we are willing to act upon. The Joint Chiefs took this to the President and the new administration is looking to pursue a new tack in the war on terror. A much less public route. This Cobra group are not terrorists per say, but they are acting as facilitators to groups who have a vested interest in harming America. That means they have to go. Going back over our records you had the most well devised plan to counter them and we are here to give you and General Flagg the shot you asked for. Do you want it or not? I for one am not going to sit here and listen to you bitch anymore about the past. I don’t give a damn how decorated you are or who your grandfather was. Yes or No colonel?

Hawk:
I have conditions.

Beige:
Name them while I still feel charitable.

Hawk:
Minimal CIA involvement.

Hoover:
Now wait a damn minute…

Beige:
Shut up Thomas.

Hawk:
Minimal CIA involvement. Langley is a leak factory when it comes to true black ops, the last thing I want is some senate subcommittee or newsman breathing down my neck. Two: I choose the team and I want Executive Orders and pardons in place for the missions and my men. Three: funding will be handled as Flagg laid out in our brief, I want “Jugglers” in place to see to it we get what we need who will not have full knowledge of what they are doing, but are sensible enough to know not to ask. Last: Flagg and I have full command. No meddling from the Joint Chiefs, JSOC, SOCOM, DOD, or the CIA. And I want my people to be well compensated for turning into ghosts.

Beige:
(Sarcastically) Is that all?

Hawk:
Take it or leave it, sir.

Beige:
Done. We want results Abernathy. We get them; you stay in business. You don’t; we shut you down. Deal?

Hawk:
You turn us loose; sir and you’ll get what you want.

Hoover:
General, the director will never go along…

Beige:
Damnit Hoover you breathe a word of this to Director CIA, NSA, or any of your other little spook cronies and I’ll have your ass buried in human sewage up to you goddamn eyelids in Leavenworth. You get me?

Hoover:
Sir…

Beige:
Do you get me? We are subverting about a dozen statues in the formation and funding of this thing and don’t think I won’t pull you down with the rest of us if the press finds out. Pardon or not.

Hoover:
Yes, sir, General.

Beige:
All right Hawk, give me two days to arrange funding and transport and you can go anywhere you need to find your team. Good luck, son. (standing to leave) Oh, by the way you’re getting a bump. (tosses a star onto the table.) Welcome back Brigadier General Abernathy.


Hawk and Flagg remain as the others leave.


Hawk:
You think they’ll keep their word, Larry?

Flagg:
Beige and Austin are good men. They’ll at least try. The President, will disown us if the media finds out about us and hush up the pardons he issues. The Chiefs will play ball. As for Hoover, I’d feel safer liquidating the son of a bitch.

Hawk:
We’ll have to keep him close.

Flagg:
Well, in any case; congratulations, General. You now have field command of your own private army, navy, and air force. Just don’t let it go to your head.



SCENE THREE:
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA.

Two men, one black one white, mid thirties, sit at a table in a nondescript briefing room both wear their class A uniforms the white man is heavily decorated wearing on one sleeve the rank of First Sergeant on the other the red arrow head inlayed with a black sword insignia of Delta Force.
The other man holds the rank of master Sergeant, also heavily decorated, a member of the Green berets wearing a red flash 7th Special Forces Group.
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Hawk enters. Both men stand at attention.

Hawk:
At ease, Hauser, Wilkinson.

Duke:
Sir.

Stalker:
Permission to speak freely, sir.

Hawk:
Hell, Lonzo you don’t have to ask that.


The men relax and shake the General’s hand.


Hawk:
How long has it been?

Duke:
About five years, sir. I see you got your star.

Stalker:
Longer than that, good to see you, sir.

Hawk:
Good to see you both. Do you know each other?

Duke:
Only by reputation, sir. They tend to keep my group cloistered from the rest of the base, but I’ve heard only good things about Stalker, sir.

Stalker:
It’s hard to call a man Duke with a straight face unless he earned it, sir. A pleasure as well. (They shake)

Duke:
Only my momma calls me Conrad.

Hawk:
Boys I want you to be my top kicks in a new team I’m putting together. This is all above Secret so none of this leaves this room if you decline. Global Interdiction Joint Operations Expeditionary Teams, are the technical title, the code name is Special Counter-Terrorist Group Delta. This will be a strictly off the books black ops unit. You will answer to me and General Lawrence Flagg, no one else. You will have to resign your commissions on paper only and appear to be employees of Darkriver, and Alliance Securities respectively. In truth you will be my commanders in the field of two teams of the finest special operators we can assemble. You two were the first and only on my lists for these positions. You will be guaranteed presidential pardons for all activities foreign and domestic. We will be hunting snakes gentlemen. CIA has finally gotten confirmation of the existence of Cobra, a group you both have heard rumblings about over the years. Our job will be to find, identify, and dismantle Cobra by any means necessary. This will earn you a place in special ops Valhalla, gentlemen. We will be given all the intel, materiel, and transport we need to accomplish our mission. We answer to no one. Can I count on you? Neither of you have families to leave behind, I’ve served with you both and there are no other men I trust more than you.

Duke:
I’m in, sir; where ever and whenever you need me.

Stalker:
Same, sir.

Hawk:
Thank you boys.



SCENE FOUR:
THE PENTAGON.

A man in full dress blue stands before several generals giving an elaborate briefing. He is dressed in a way even more immaculate than military standards recommend. He exudes overconfidence and vanity. His ego is palpable.

Flint: Mid thirties, Army 75th Rangers Chief Warrant officer.
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Flint can be heard in the background pointing out the ways in which the current and past campaigns in Afghanistan have been carried out in an inefficient and convoluted manner. The faces of some of the generals teeter on the verge of rage.

Duke, Stalker, and Hawk dressed in civilian attire sit above and behind on a balcony the dais shielded from view.


Duke:
That is the most arrogant son of a bitch I have ever heard in my life. Did you hear what he just said to Patreas?

Stalker:
Was he wrong?

Duke:
No. Not really.

Hawk:
I need someone with the brains to set forth a battle and infiltration layout and the confidence to tell me to shut up when I’m wrong. Tactically this kid is brilliant.

Duke:
Well, he’s the only Rhoads scholar I’ve ever heard of joining the military. Oxford, Harvard, decorated veteran of Iraqi Freedom, helo pilot certified on the 60, 6, and the 53, passed up full commission to go warrant and serve as a specialist. He’s pissed off every command he’s been under, but never demoted. Ended up here as an assistant to the J3 as punishment from his last duty station with SOCCENT; nothing specific on file, but the scuttlebutt involves the CO’s daughter.


Below Flint wraps up his brief to little fan fare and a great deal of murmuring and jilted looks. He gathers his files and walks away. Off stage he is met by
General Hawk.


Hawk:
Fine briefing Chief Faireborn.

Flint:
Thank you, sir. (He salutes curtly and then walks passed.)

Hawk:
A moment, Chief?

Flint:
Yes, sir. What can I do to help you, sir?

Hawk:
For starters drop the attitude before I smack you in front of God and everybody here and take your pompous ass down a peg.

Flint:
Sir, army regs state disciplinary action against a senior officer who physically accosts an underling such as me will be sever. You wouldn’t want that now would you? Sir?

Duke:
I don’t see a thing.

Stalker:
The lights are in my eyes.

Hawk:
Technically I’m no longer a general, best you’d get is an assault charge and me booted outta the B wing. No loss to me, son.

Flint:
Well, if you’re no longer a general officer, screw you. I’ve got another brief with the DOD security services.

Hawk:
That has been cancelled.

Flint:
By whom?

Hawk:
By me. We need to talk Dashiell.


Hawk and Flint walk around the park in the center of the Pentagon. Duke and Stalker hold back a ways.


Hawk:
Tired of working for the bean counters yet?

Flint:
Look, I get offers from you think tank types at least three times a year, I’m not interested.

Hawk:
Do I look like I’m from MIT? I want to know if you want to get back out in the field to plan a campaign for me.

Flint:
I’m not special ops, I want no part in overthrowing some poor third world dictator on the shit list because he called the administration ass holes on a conference call and now we can install some puppet who promises us exclusive trade rights to outsource ten thousand more jobs.

Hawk:
Glad to hear you have such a high opinion of what we do. Look, your career is on borrowed time. J3 is an honor for most people, but you got here because no one can stand your ass. I am beginning to see why that is. I’m offering you the chance to actually do what you signed on for.

Flint:
Piss off my father?

Hawk:
Save lives. Have you ever heard of Cobra or MARS industries?

Flint:
Oh, shit. You’re Clayton Abernathy that colonel from Delta. I was in that briefing when you melted down and called the National Security Advisor a [foo foo]. I knew you were familiar. How’s retirement?

Hawk:
Sucked. I’m not retired anymore. I’m putting a team together, top clearance, way above secret, full access to all the military’s hardware and some of the best operators in the game today.

Flint:
To go after a conspiracy theory?

Hawk:
No theory. Even the blind dickless wonders at CIA believe it now so that makes it official. The team’s purpose is to go after Cobra anywhere in the world, ID their resources and players, and then dismantle the organization with extreme prejudice. Come on Flint, these guys are responsible for the escalation of half the brushfires in the third world to total slaughter like Rwanda and Darfur. This isn’t a mission to protect only America. This will actually do some good. You would be my chief strategist. You’ll never get another offer like that with your reputation.

Flint:
And if you fire me?

Hawk:
How thin skinned do you think I am?

Flint:
You quit.

Hawk:
Yeah I did; before they court marshaled me. Frustration is a mother isn’t it?

Flint:
It is; if you know what you suggest would save some lives, yeah. You willing to listen?

Hawk:
I can’t say I won’t smack you around a bit, but I’ll try you on for size.

Flint:
Alright then. So what is this team called anyway?


Change to Duke and Stalker’s perspective.

Duke:
What the hell is that asshole laughing about?



SCENE FIVE:
THE HIGH SIERRAS, CALIFORNIA.

Hawk, Stalker, and Duke drive in a civilian Jeep into the mountains along seldom used trails overgrown and wild.(This scene is a straight up homage to GI JOE issue 27)

Stalker:
Daniel (Yes I gave Snake a name) and I served together in the 82nd, sir. Since then he has served with Delta, and CIA’s Special Operations Group and cross trained with every Special Forces group in NATO. Master of nine martial arts, master proficiency with all small arms, edged weapons, demolitions, infiltration, sabotage, hostage rescue, UDT, SAR, HALO certified, one man commando insertions. He lived in Japan for most of his late teens and early twenties trained in some really out there stuff. I’ve never seen anything like him. We used to call him Snake-Eyes. All he had to do was look at somebody and they’d fell over dead. Best guy I know for LRRP, and generally all the shit no one likes to talk about. The son of a bitch is the most lethal person I’ve ever known. He’s also the one man I’d trust to have my back if the world was ending, present company excluded.

Hawk:
Why is this the first time I’ve ever heard of this guy?

Duke:
He was Delta by the time he was twenty-eight, before my time there. He was recruited by SOG two years later. As far as I’ve heard he retired after he was disfigured during a mission. He suffered severe facial burns and lacerations and moderate damage to his voice box in a UH-60 crash over Afghanistan. He managed to save some of his team despite his injuries. He’s undergone several reconstructive surgeries. Quit SOG soon after the last one. Most of his file is above classified. His last known whereabouts were in Japan the last couple of years, but a mutual buddy at Delta says he moved up here last year. Says he’s gone native, a real survivalist. Fits what the folks in the valley told us about the guy living up here.

Hawk:
Family?

Stalker:
None living. They died in a car crash in 2000. Mom, Pop, his twin sister, and her little boy all killed; it was a drunk I think. We were serving together at the time, he took it hard. He didn’t talk much after that; transferred out a year later.


The men emerge from the jeep in front of a rough, obviously handcrafted cabin. They approach the door and a wolf emerges snarling. Hawk reaches for a pistol.
Stalker gently touches his hand.


Stalker:
I wouldn’t do that, sir.

He stares at a figure on the edge of the door with an M-14 aimed at them only a small portion of him is seen as he uses the door frame as cover; the man’s face is shadowed under a boonie hat. His exposed chin is marred badly.

Stalker:
Hello Snake, we just came to talk. This is Duke Hauser and General “Hawk” Abernathy. I trust them both. Got a minute?

Snake-eyes lowers his weapon and motions for them to come in while he pats the wolf. The animal instantly backs down and sits placidly at the side of the door, still staring at the visitors intently.
Stalker walks passed and starts to reach down to pet him Snake-eyes just shakes his head.

LATER:
The sun is setting over the ridge.
The men leave the cabin. .

Hawk:
What do you think?

Duke:
Who can tell? He made a decent pot of coffee.

Stalker:
There’s your answer.

They see Snake-eyes in the door kneeling petting the wolf with a pack over one shoulder. He stands and walks to the jeep. Snake-Eyes throws his bag in the back and gets in the back seat never saying a word.

Hawk:
That’s four.

The wolf watches as the SUV drives away.


I'll cut it there. So chime in guys, what do ya think? Tomorrow we meet Cobra and the rest of the Joes. The action is coming. It's 5:30 AM here so I am out
3 Yes
0 No
nero
3/26/2010

1 Comments


HackingInSpace - 7/2/2013, 10:45 AM

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