So we’ve seen the intro and recruitment of HAWK, DUKE, STALKER, and SNAKE-EYES. We have seen Cobra in action in the central African nation of Desin, and seen where MAJOR BLUDD got his trademark arm brace. Now it’s time to meet the COBRAS.
SCENE SIX:
PARIS
A luxury villa on the out skirts of Paris.
A small gathering over drinks. Two identical men dressed in fine suits banter with a beautiful raven haired woman as she pours a drink. A large powerfully built man in an English cut suit, his back to us, leans over a Louis the XVI table looking over document before him his head is down obscured by his broad shoulders.
Xamot:
Our contacts in San Salvador have confirmed the opposition forces are willing to deal with us for a company strength installment of personnel and MARS C-67 small arms.
Tomax:
If this proves fruitful the inroads we could make into the coca trade would prove… (together) a windfall for third quarter profits next year.
The tall man stands now and looks toward the twins. His head is fully covered by a segmented stainless steel mask permanently molded into a stern expression. As he begins to speak we see the lower jaw is allowed to move by a joint near the turn of the jaw. The effect is eerie nearly doll-like down to the cold blue eyes which stare from behind the mask.
Destro:
Drug trade. My forefathers would slit my throat to dabble in such distasteful practices.
The woman glides toward Destro with a lithe grace. She hands him a drink and nuzzles close to his chest, straightening his tie.
Baroness:
Oh, come now Destro. Are we not already involved with the poppies through our Taliban and central Asian markets? If we are to make inroads to the South American continent we must be willing to make sacrifices to your ethics. It is after all one of the only natural resource rights they have to barter. What else have they save some small petroleum deposits and lumber?
Xamot:
We’ll have the rights to that as well, of course.
Destro finishes his drink and walks to the large windows looking out over the lights of Paris.
Destro:
War is the most natural state of man. Through it we advance at rates far greater than the languidness that peace allows. By fueling war and discontent in the third world I have had three of my former scientists earn Nobels in physics, ecology, and chemistry. They have taken their knowledge honed under my service and bettered the first world. I don’t care what happens to the third world, their miserable lives serve no purpose unless their mutual will for self extermination and thanotos, drives the engines of progress for their betters. Drugs will cross over, however. They will affect the first world. Therein lays my disdain for the trade. Not to mention the undo attention it will draw towards us. The Europeans and Americans are so blindly focused on the illegality of those substances, that our involvement may be discovered and through that, my dear Baroness, the very existence of your organization.
Baroness:
Such a humanitarian, my beloved, but if our goals are to be met then we must make inroads into the new world.
Tomax/Xamot:
Precisely.
Destro:
What of medical research and development, tapping the unexplored potential of the rain forests.
Tomax:
Such endeavors are available, sir.
Xamot:
Provided you can front the cash for them as we at Extensive Enterprises lack the manpower and resources at present. MARS is always welcome to play in our playground, so long as it does not hamper our development plans.
Destro:
Aye, God forbid we should delay the loggers and coca crops. (Scoffs.) I’ve had enough of this. Leave me you insufferable parallaxes.
Xamot:
As you wish Laird Destro.
Tomax/Xamot:
Good night all.
Baroness:
Destro darling, you know that certain concessions must be made to afford the continued success of our endeavors.
Destro:
And what is His idea of success. Will the man not be happy until his hand is in every illicit pot in this wretched little world? Our little cabal supplies close to ten percent of the black market trade in weapons worldwide, and mercenaries to more than twenty nations at current. We aid and abet Russian mafia to smuggle arms into and out of their country, because it is easier to avoid one superpower than two. We funnel training to the Islamists to further their pursuits and keep the US busy chasing shadows. We foster resistance and discord in Asia in exchange for land and mineral rights; Africa for diamonds and now South America for drugs. I question his motives. I never expected them to match my own, but it seems more and more he simply craves mayhem.
Baroness:
Through mayhem the system’s flaws become apparent. When the system can no longer contain the mayhem as you call it, the people will rebel.
Destro:
And does he think they will turn to him? Surely not. Or does he see himself as simply the only remaining alternative? We have a few more years at best before we are discovered. Once we are, he would be foolish to believe that the powers that be will simply do nothing! Even the American President, as spineless as he appears, will be forced to do something. As you said the system needs a semblance of order to remain and they will destroy all in their wake to maintain the status quo, my dear Baroness. Your idealism and naiveté are touching, but only go to show you’re sheltered intellectualism. You forget “the people” as you refer to them are a mindless rabble who crave the illusion of security as much as their leaders, and will resent you and your Commander all the more for robbing them of that.
Baroness:
You dishearten me, my love. The world has made you so cold. Let me warm you.
The Baroness tosses her dress over a nearby mantle.
In a dark room somewhere a monitor goes blank as the image of the Baroness and Destro embracing is occluded by the dress.
Zartan:
Pity that. A lovely woman, your Anastasia, crazier than most, but still quite something to look at.
Cobra Commander:
I don’t care about her stability so long as she keeps Destro in his cage and in my pocket. That man’s libido, thankfully, continues to trump his intellect, but that will only last so long. One day we will have to deal with him.
Zartan:
You need only ask and I or your silent friend over there will be glad to oblige. (He motions to the darkest corner of the room where Storm Shadow stands. His white gee barely visible through the darkness.) My only regret is that poor Anastasia may also have to be dealt with, as well.
Cobra Commander:
Yes. Her affection has become too genuine towards him since I gave her the assignment. I fear if pushed her loyalties may too easily shift to Destro. When the time comes Zartan, she will be the one I expect to end the problem Destro presents. If she does, I still retain a loyal lieutenant. If she hesitates; well, that’s why you aren’t dead yet isn’t it?
Zartan:
Commander, so long as the checks clear, you have my undivided loyalty.
A picture in picture emerges on the screen, a TeleViper reports.
TeleViper:
Commander, we have the major on the line from Desin, sir.
Commander:
Put him through.
The screen shows Bludd amongst dingy hospital surroundings and a flurry of native doctors around him.
Bludd:
Oy! Get the hell out of here! Useless bleeding monkeys! Pardon me Commander; I’m amazed they didn’t call in a witch doctor. I’ve just finished me third surgery yesterday, they tell me upper arm bone shattered, with spiral fractures to the shoulder joint. Almost lost me arm to these “doctors.” I’ll be in a bloody brace. Useless tribal hospitals.
Commander:
I don’t give a damn about your arm Major. I just want your report.
Bludd:
Progress has slowed the Choots are havin’ a national week of mourning for that [foo foo], Kinguda. All hell will turn loose when “President Maimba,” lets rip on Thursday. Scrap Iron is in charge in the field while I’m laid up here. The twins will be able to move the equipment in country next month as requested. The main mine will be online by year’s end. The Desingazi tribe, what’s left of them, will be either flee to Burundi, or whatever the hell the shithole is to the south, or suck it up to become the underclass until we sweep back in here in ten years to help them overthrow Maimba or whatever Chootibi warlord’s taken his place and renegotiate EE’s profit share on the mines to eighty percent.
Commander:
Thank you Major.
Bludd:
Wait a tick, sir! There is still the matter of compensation; I got crippled on this one!
Commander:
Fine, add another fifty-thousand to your fee.
Bludd:
Fifty-thousand will barely…
The screen goes dead.
SCENE SEVEN:
NAVAL ANPHIBIOUS BASE CORONADO
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Duke enters a large aquatic center. There is a cluster of SEALs near the dive pool. Duke motions to the one leaving the group.
Duke:
Excuse me sailor?
Wet Suit:
Yes, sir.
Duke:
I’m looking for Warrant Officer Leialoha.
Wet Suit:
Look no further than a fathom down, sir.
Duke:
English, son. I’m army.
Wet Suit:
Dive pool, sir; trying to break his record.
Duke:
Record?
Wet Suit:
Yes, sir. He’s seeing how long he can hold his breath.
Duke:
How long’s his record?
Wet Suit:
Oh, ‘bout six and a half minutes I think, sir. Boy’s got gills, can swim fast as hell even without the fin and rebreather boys call him Torpedo.
Wet Suit whistle to the group near the pool to follow him, he realizes Duke is here on business.
Duke stands over the edge of the dive pool, watching the digital timer like a score board across the hanger-like structure. The young Samoan broaches the surface.
Torpedo:
Time?! (Still wiping the water from his eyes)
Duke:
Five minutes fifty-eight seconds, a good thirty off you record.
Torpedo:
Goddamit. Knew I didn’t get a good enough inhale, freakin’ Forrest.
He hears Wet Suit’s laughter echo and stare him down with a classic ESAD glare.
Duke:
Everyone’s getting older, son.
Torpedo realizes that his supporters are gone, and that he is alone with this man in civilian clothes.
Torpedo:
So, what I forget to pay somebody or something?
Duke:
Have you ever thought about doing something more exciting than SEAL Team Eight Eddie?
MARINE CORPS RECRUIT DEPOT
PARIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
PT Grounds a very large man dressed in Drill Instructor casuals dominates the recruits. Hawk approaches cautiously in full Army Multicam ACU’s standing out like a sore thumb among inhabitants of this small island of Marines .
Gung-Ho:
Move it! Move it! Move it! You are some sorry looking littlesum’bitches ain’tcha. Get your ass over that wall, boy or I’ll ship your busted ass pieces home in a crate marked “Fail.” What are you checkin’ fer shit on yer shoe? It’s just you. Move!!!
Hawk:
Gunnery Sergeant LaFitte?
Gung-Ho is easily six feet six inches tall towers over the five foot nine inch Hawk. He turns almost angry, and then softens upon seeing the General, a quick crisp snap of a salute. He turns to the other DI.
Gung-Ho:
Bennie you got these little shit stains?
Bennie:
Go on, baby. You know I got this. Move bitches!!!
Upon walking away from the recruits Gung-Ho’s whole demeanor changes, he becomes calm and quiet, almost soothing in voice and manner.
Gung-Ho:
It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. The colonel said someone was coming by to see me today, wasn’t expecting a non-marine.
Hawk:
Well, we can’t all be perfect can we gunny?
Gung-Ho:
(smiles) U-Rah.
Hawk:
So I hear they call you Gung-Ho.
FORT BENNING, GEORGIA
Stalker in Multicams and gear rides in a UH-60 with a very fidgety small man.
Ripcord:
Will I actually get to jump?
Stalker:
What? Into combat you mean?
Ripcord:
Hell, yeah Sergeant. They train the hell out of us and then we ride a damn chopper in almost every time. Airborne my ass sometimes, you know?
Stalker:
With what our assignment will be its a lot more likely.
Ripcord:
All right then. What’s the point of parachutes if you ain’t gonna jump outta a perfectly good airplane, my right?
Stalker:
You’re something.
MEANWHILE:
Duke wanders down the firing line on the rifle range as a platoon of Ranger Snipers fire in controlled staccato rhythm. A small lean Staff Sergeant paces steadily behind the shooter and spotter at the end of the line. The man’s dark eyes are intense. He stares down range without raising his binoculars. He lays down beside the young corporal.
Low Light:
Breathe. Steady the shot. Feel it. The breeze is west. Adjust. Now pace your heart beats, match up your breathing. Exhale every third beat. Release on the exhale. Smooth. Got it? Feel it?
Ranger:
Yes, sir. (Exhales and fires)
Spotter:
Center head.
Low Light:
Good job, Corporal.
Duke:
Staff Sergeant McBride?
Low Light:
Yes, sir?
Duke:
I’m First Sergeant Conrad Hauser, I’ve been sent here to offer you a position in a special unit.
THE COSE QUARTERS COMBAT TRAINING AREA.
Hawk watches from an overhead catwalk as a group of Ranger recruits being put through a simulated building clearing live fire exercise. The men are rushing the course, charging through trying to beat their best time. They burst through the door to the final room and confront the target behind a dummy hostage.
Ranger Recruit:
Tango! One hostage! (fires) Tango down! Secure! Get the hostage.
Suddenly the door they pushed open closes behind them and they freeze as a flash bang grenade lands at their feet exploding with a deafening bang. The team is trying to recover as the smoke clears, a figure emerges from the corner behind the door. A thin man with an olive drab balaclava pulled over his face approaches the team leader. He pulls down the balaclava.
Beach Head:
Congratulations. You saved the hostage for a total of three seconds before you all died. What didn’t you do Redding?
Sgt. Redding:
Check the blind spot, sir.
Beach Head:
What did I tell you? Your enemy is committed. If they can, they will kill you, never assume he is not willing to die to do it. You check every corner, before you say the room is secure. Assumption won’t just kill you; it’ll kill your boys. Remember that, Sergeant. Reset on course three and run it again.
Sgt. Redding:
Yes, sir.
Beach Head joins Hawk on the catwalk.
Hawk:
I didn’t see you behind the door before they burst in.
Beach Head:
I was behind the tire wall looking through the slat. Slipped in when I saw they didn’t check it. I trust these boys sir, but I’m not hiding behind a door with a grenade in hand during a live fire with a bunch of twenty year olds.
Hawk:
Smart man.
Beach Head:
No, sir. I just make sure they learn from my mistakes. Ramadi ‘04, lost three boys that way.
Hawk:
I hear you.
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA.
Duke Stands in front of a massive bald African-American Sergeant almost six foot ten in height with a large SAW slung low on a lanyard. He is wearing nearly one hundred pounds of ammo satchels alone and has arms like tree trunks.
Duke:
So, Roadblock. Eh?
Roadblock:
Yes sir. You must be Conrad Hauser out of the 82nd. You’ve done some wild stuff.
Duke:
I’ve been a few scrapes over the years. Just call me Duke, by the way sergeant.
Roadblock:
What can I do for you, Duke?
Duke:
I was going over your file; you’ve been three tours in Iraq and two in Afghan. Impeccable record, Silver Star, Bronze Star with cluster. Your CO says you have recently been accepted to Le Cordon Bleu in France?
Roadblock:
The Army is my life, but cooking is my dream, sir.
Duke:
Good dream. I was wondering if you might be willing to put it on hold for a couple of years. A team is being put together and we could use your skill behind the gun. The pay from this would pay for tuition and leave you with plenty of start up money for your own restaurant. Interested, Sergeant Hinton?
Roadblock:
I’m listening.
SCHOFIELD BARRACKS
HONOLULU, HAWAII.
Rock ‘n Roll:
Man, why would I want to leave this? I put in twice for cross training with the SEALs just to have an assignment like this. Look at this, man. I went into the wrong service, man.
Stalker:
I get you, Craig. The truth is I need a gunner I can trust, baby. You covered my ass better’n anybody I ever worked with. I gotta have you on this team.
Rock ‘n Roll:
I give you a two year option on the condition that you have this General set me up in a unit of my own choosing and I swap branches free and clear.
Stalker:
I think that can be arranged.
Rock n’ Roll:
Sweet. Sweet. I’ll pack my board. Where is HQ for this fandango?
Stalker:
Missouri.
Rock n’ Roll:
Aw, shit, dude.
FORT CAMPBELL, KENTUCKY
HEAD QUARTERS OF THE 160TH SPECIAL OPERATIONS AVIATION UNIT THE NIGHT STALKERS.
A MH-6 little bird flies at break neck speed scraping the tops of the trees. Suddenly halting and dropping into a miniscule clearing and disembarking a group of Delta operators
Random soldier 5th SFG:
(as he disembarks) Thank Christ!
Hawk sits behind the pilots looking a little pale himself.
Hawk:
Bill you and Lift Ticket are the best in the business. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you with me on this.
Lift Ticket:
I’m sold. What do you say Wild Bill?
Wild Bill:
Well, hell, boys. If my right seater is in this rodeo, I’m gonna slap the
bull’s ass too.
Hawk:
So yeah, major?
Wild Bill:
Hell, yeah, son!
The chopper rockets skyward backwards, violently twisting in mid air and dashing off in a different direction, whipping the tops of the pines with the skids.
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
THE ARMY/NAVAL HOSPITAL
Hawk:
Doc can I have a word with you?
Doc:
Hello, Clayton. How’s your wife Hawk?
Hawk:
Filed for divorce last year, living with one of my old grounds keepers in Idaho with a third of my money.
Doc:
I’ve got two of those, minus the grounds keeper. Always liked Samantha, though.
Hawk:
So did the gardener.
FORT GEORGE G. MEADE, MARYLAND
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY HEADQUARTERS
Stalker sits in a communications room hunkered down beside a young man who seems quite out of place amongst the other staffers. He is dressed awkwardly in his uniform and from his build it is obvious he has seen action in the field, he is large and strongly built.
Stalker:
This is a nice place you got here Breaker.
Breaker:
It’s okay, boss. I miss the field. But every promotion has its goods and bads, you know?
Stalker:
You were the best tech and com guy I’ve ever worked with. How bad do you want back out there?
Breaker:
Boss, I’d eat my keyboard at this point.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
HEADQUARTERS CIA OPERATIONS DIVISION
Hoover:
Shana I need someone I can trust to liaison with these people. I will be there in a wholly analytical capacity, I’ve been out of the field too long to get back in now, but every training officer we’ve got says you are the best NOC the Farm has produced in fifteen years. I want you to be my eyes and ears on this team. You’d report to me and me alone.
Scarlett:
Mr. Hoover I appreciate your confidence, but I lost my taste for the black ops game after operation RESOLUTE in Afghan.
Hoover: I understand. It’s hard loosing most of your team like that. Just think about it okay?
Scarlett:
I’m going to have to say no, sir. I’m happy with my new position at the Farm.
Hoover leaving.
Hoover:
Oh, by the way Scarlett, Snake-Eyes has already signed on. Just so you know.
Scarlett looks up slight shock in her eyes.
SCENE EIGHT:
MISSOURI NATIONAL GUARD ARMORY AND DEPOT
OUTSIDE BUFORD MISSOURI.
Several older National Guard Trucks pull through the small perimeter fence and head for the largest maintenance garage on base. Hawk and Hoover, Duke, Stalker, and Doc stand in a row watching as the JOE team come off the trucks with their gear as the large doors close behind them.
Flint:
Well, it’s not what I was expecting. Wow, one whole garage to ourselves, huh? Let me help you down there, honey. (He reaches up to take Scarlett’s hand)
Scarlett:
Touch me, or call me “Honey,” again and I’ll stuff you nuts down your throat.
Flint:
I do so love red heads and that temper.
Torpedo:
This place is so new you can smell the paint and pine sol. (looking around)
Rock ‘n Roll:
Yeah, but there’s not even a lake around here. This place totally blows, man. We’re like landlocked for fifteen hundred miles in every direction. There’s friggin’ tumble weeds out there, man.
Roadblock:
I should’ve brought my utensils; damn mess back there looks like they serve beans with every meal.
Gung-Ho:
How are you at cooking Cajun, buddy? I got some’a my momma’s recipes for etouffee.
Roadblock:
Oh, baby, I’m from the gulf coast of Mississippi you know I can crank that out for you.
Gung-Ho:
You bunk with me alright? Us baldies gotta stick together.
Roadblock:
You know it.
Silently Snake-Eyes is the last man off the final truck. He wears his class A’s and has his face bandaged wearing shades. Scarlett looks to him, but he does not acknowledge her.
Flint notices the glance.
Flint:
What’s up with his face?
Scarlett:
Same thing that’ll be up with yours if you ask that again, smart ass.
Flint:
Are there more like you at home?
Scarlett:
Three brothers, you’re just Mark’s type. Want his number?
Flint leans toward Torpedo
Flint:
Hey, King Kamehameha, what’s up with Red and the invisible man over there?
Torpedo:
Don’t be an asshole, dude.
Hawk:
All right. Now that you’ve all unloaded I want to welcome you to Missouri. As on base cover you are all E-1’s to E-7’s covering the motor pool. We do ask that when you are topside you wear your ACUs and cover. Aside from that we are strictly non regs. You have all handed in your commissions to the military proper, for some of you I know that was a sacrifice, but I promise you gentleman, it will be worth it. You are now all listed according to government records as veterans now in the employ of various security agencies with global offices and will be given covers accordingly when on assignment. You are now all under my command, you are members of the Global Interdiction Joint Operations Expeditionary Team, we will refer to ourselves as JOEs for short. Your country owes you a debt. After your tour with us you will have the option of any duty station you wish within the US armed forces, or you may retire with full benefits. I cannot stress the level of secrecy you will need to employ when interacting with your families. With them you are members of your various security agencies. Understood?
All:
Yes, sir.
Hawk:
Our mission is simple. We are to investigate, identify, and dismantle the organizations known as Cobra, MARS, and Extensive Enterprises. Do not fool yourselves into believing this will be easy. To our knowledge Cobra employs some of the finest former Special Operations personnel money can buy, and some of the most well trained mercenaries that can recruit. These are dangerous people. Then, so are you. It is more foolish to hope that all of you will survive this mission. Odds are against you. With luck we will succeed.
To my right is First Sergeant Conrad “Duke” Hauser. He will head team Alpha. On my left, Lonzo “Stalker” Wilkinson; leader of team Beta. Your team assignments will be fluid. You will move between teams as the mission requires. This means you will all need to work together as a cohesive unit. In the field we will be on a code name basis only, even amongst friendlies. Amongst you is Gunnery Sgt. Ettienne R. LaFitte, of the USMC, Gung-Ho and Staff Sergeant Dwayne Sneeden, call him Beach Head; you will be our chief training officers. Chief Warrant Officer Dashiell R. Faireborn, US Army Rangers, call him Flint, will be or chief tactician. Shanna “Scarlett” O’Hara, CIA, will be our chief in-field intel specialist. Specialist Alvin “Breaker” Kibby, is our infield communications and electronics expert. Major William “Wild Bill” Hardy and Captain Victor “Lift Ticket” Sikorski of the Night Stalkers are going to be our primary Helo team. More flight staff will follow as we work with various units. The rest of you are our primary strikers. Rip-Cord, Sgt. Wallace A. Weems, Roadblock, Sgt. Marvin Hinton, Rock ‘n Roll, Sgt. Craig S. McConnel, Torpedo, Navy Warrant Officer Edward W. Leialoha, our primary sniper and range instructor Staff Sergeant Cooper McBride, code name Low-Light. Lastly we have our primary incursion, recon and commando Snake-Eyes. Behind me we have Agent Thomas Hoover, he will serve as our primary intel analyst here on base, and Captain Carl W. Greer, just call him Doc, will be our team trauma surgeon. This is only the initial team before you. With success and as needed we will grow.
This facility will be code named the Pit. We will operate from here, using this as our base of operations. From this location we have access to most of the Air Forces primary transport facilities and a small local airfield has been purchased for our three G5’s by Uncle Sam. Duke, if you would.
Duke: Yes, sir.
Duke steps to a nearby circuit breaker his eye is scanned and he then flips one of the breakers and the floor of the garage begins to lower just in front of the trucks. The team descends over one hundred feet before reaching a much larger hanger in which there are several helicopters and some striker assault vehicles, as well as disassembled UAVs.
Flint:
Yeah, this is much better.
Stalker:
Sub floor one is our hanger bay. Two is our training area, including pool, and gym. Three: Weapons training and firing ranges. Four is our Command center and CIC. Five is our barracks recreational area and chow hall. Everyone is assigned their own apartment complete with kitchen and bath facilities. Six is our Medical bay and seven is the brigg and interrogation area.
Torpedo:
General Hawk, how the hell did they make this so fast?
Hawk:
This complex was started in 1965 during the Johnson administration as a command bunker for the president, in case Air Force One was crossing mid country when the Big One started. It was one of the few the press never found out about and was retrofitted during the last administration. The joint chiefs turned it over to the program for further retrofitting two years ago, but with the new bunker finished under the White House they were willing to give this one over to us. Not a bad pad, some of us have already been here a few weeks. The Team also consists of a maintenance and tech staff of nearly one hundred. The Armory above is mainly staffed by them, and they live topside. The motor pool is one of four entrances; one other smaller one on base and the others are emergency evacuation points that come out of the landscape within a two mile radius. The buildings above camouflage the exhaust ports, air intakes, and communications arrays for the lower facilities here. Some of this is manmade, and some just runs into a heavily reinforced natural cave complex. I think in total the whole thing took over ten years to build including the retrofits.
Rock n’ Roll:
Sweet.
Duke:
It gets a little claustrophobic sometimes, but we’ve brought some large LCDs into the living quarters that will serve as mock windows for you. We are just about bomb proof here saving a direct shot from a nuke or a bunker buster down the shaft from the motor pool.
Hawk:
All right orientation is over; settle in. Training begins tomorrow.
Montage of the JOEs unpacking.
Stalker is seen taking his green beret off and looking over to the small statue of the Virgin Mary on his nightstand.
Duke flops into a chair at his kitchen table going over paperwork while sipping a beer.
Flint comes into his room and smirks. (He is not unpleased) He jumps onto his bed.
Roadblock fills his bookshelf with cookbooks and goes through his kitchen cabnets.
Gung-Ho unfurls a USMC flag across his wall. (we see him shirtless for the first time revealing his trademark “eagle globe and anchor” tattoo on his chest.)
Torpedo plays solitaire in the middle of his living room floor.
Wild Bill sleeps.
Ripcord goes up top and calls his Mom on his cell phone.
Doc looks over an empty medical suite; prepping it for a trauma. (There is worry on his face.)
Rock n’ Roll plays a guitar on his bed with headphones attached to the amp, his clothes scattered about behind him.
Scarlett hangs awards on her walls, and looks over to a picture on her nightstand showing her and a man in a boonie and shades as well as several of her deceased team members.
Breaker is playing X-Box.
Lift Ticket walks around outside and waves to Ripcord still on the phone.
Snake-Eyes places a picture of his family beside his bed and opens a draw on his nightstand, he picks up the bible from inside and places the same picture
Scarlett had inside it, we see his eyes behind the bandages there is sadness there. He closes the bible.
Hawk stands looking over the railing into the CIC.