[l0neW0lf]

A few months ago I wrote what was supposed to be a one-shot story set in the G.I. Joe Universe. The question was, what kind of socio-political framework would need a G.I. Joe world aimed at modern audiences?

That first story was intended partly as a tribute to the franchise?s legacy, and partly as social commentary. But then I realized it needed a follow-up. So I wrote one. And then it evolved into something bigger.

G.I. Joe: The Blacklight Protocol is an anthology of standalone stories set in a shared continuity. Each entry can be read independently, but together they form a larger narrative arc that slowly unfolds, building toward a conclusion.

The first two stories follow an original character who also stars in another tale. These act as a sort of prequel. After that, the Blacklight Protocol itself starts, bringing new stories and, eventually, a final chapter.

Characters with completed stories so far include: Storm Shadow, Tomax & Xamot, Spirit Iron-Knife, Buzzer, and my original character. I may add others over time.

What to expect? My favorite parts of G.I. Joe - besides the action figures, of course - are the Sunbow cartoons and the early Larry Hama comics, when there were real countries, real enemies, and the Joes and Cobra were part of a broader, believable world. I?ve tried to capture that same sense of authenticity, with grounded geopolitics, ?what-if? scenarios, military tactics, gear, and vehicles. But I?ve also tried to capture the humor and lightheartedness of the cartoons, and there are nods to the toys as well. My characters are the Sunbow versions in an authentic, modern world, essentially.

For now, I?ll post small excerpts and provide links to the first two full stories on AO3, Wattpad, and my personal website, where they?re available as free EPUB downloads. Everything is 100% free - no monetization, no tracking, nothing.

Starting with the prologue, I?ll likely begin sharing full content directly here on HissTank. The reason is that the first two stories feature strong stances that could be interpreted as political views. However, these are just part of the character?s journey. That being said, I believe there are elements in them that might be relevant to some. Sometimes all it takes is really just one word. If I can reach even one person, that's mission accomplished.

The world has changed a lot since the comics and Sunbow were made. My goal was to create a G.I. Joe world that could feel relevant to younger generations as well. I hope I succeeded.

One last note: if any artist out there would like to contribute original cover art, feel free to reach out. I?d really like to feature fan-made art alongside the stories.

[l0neW0lf]

The Day I became a Joe

"I check the altimeter on my watch: 1200 meters. It’s going to take around 20 seconds to get to break-off so I wait, the adrenaline pumping hard in my veins. At 500 meters I hear the alarm from the watch, to hell with it, I say to myself, I’ll show you guys what I’m made of. Pretty sure they’ll check the deploy altitude for each of us. I have a surprise for you..."

Links:

Wattpad
https://www.wattpad.com/1498120262-t...-g-i-joe-story

Archive of our Own
https://archiveofourown.org/works/61...ters/156296560

Full download
https://sites.google.com/view/virtualxp/books

[l0neW0lf]

On second thought, I probably overthink stuff. I'm sharing the full stories in order.

[l0neW0lf]

I
Hawk is inspecting the new recruits, scanning us from head to toe with his cold stare and aquiline nose.
The first thing he tells us when we introduce ourselves in front of the General is:
?Being the best is not a guarantee of becoming a G.I. Joe. It?s the bare minimum requirement.?
When he passes by me, I don?t move a muscle. The other recruits in line show some sign of weakness - a nervous twitch, a drop of sweat, a barely perceptible tremble - but not me. Hawk seems to have a special gift for spotting people?s vulnerabilities. When he gets in front of me, he glances briefly but lingers longer than usual, as if to assess my resolve. I don?t flinch, cold as a reptile, focusing instead on his countless scars. Apparently, the General doesn?t like sitting behind a desk. Finally, he moves on, giving a nod to his lieutenant, Beachhead, who responds with a silent gesture of agreement.
Hawk leaves, telling us we won?t see him again until the swearing-in ceremony. Or so he claims.
?If any of you make it, of course,? he adds, ?and judging by the look on your faces, I highly doubt it. Anyway, there are plenty of other military units waiting for you out there?.
He puts on his helmet and disappears. By the time he turns the corner, he?s surrounded by multiple officers carrying dossiers on a tablet. The G.I. Joe have a new mission, and as always, it?s up to him to assess the intel and assign roles and rules of engagement.

The first days of training are brutal. We sleep in massive barracks packed with fifty recruits. I never thought so many people would want to become a Joe. The competition between us becomes fierce right away.
On the second night, they wake us up in the dead of night, just after we?ve finally fallen asleep, exhausted, while we are in the heaviest part of our slumber. The barracks are flooded with blinding lights, and the general alarm blares, piercing through the muffled haze of sleep.

Sergeant Slaughter, wielding a megaphone, shouts like a madman, ordering us to get into battle formation immediately while lacing his commands with unspeakable epithets. Some recruits stay in bed, pulling the blankets up to their necks and curling into fetal positions. A day and a half of training has already broken them. The sergeant gestures to his lieutenant, Gung-Ho, who grabs the stragglers and throws them out. We never see them again.
The rest of us scramble into uniform and start running laps around the base for nearly an hour before being sent to the training course. The guard spotlights are trained on us, explosions thunder all around, and a platoon of Marines fires blanks inches from our feet as we navigate the obstacles. Some recruits drop out, but I keep running, massive beads of sweat streaming down my face.

Sergeant Slaughter orders us to scale a wall barehanded while Barbecue, wielding a massive flamethrower, roasts the backsides of those who aren?t fast enough. Luckily, I?m not one of them. I?m the first to clear the wall.
A river of mud greets me on the other side, with barbed wire strung barely thirty centimeters above the ground. It wasn?t there yesterday. They must have set it up during the few hours we were asleep. I throw myself to the ground, trying not to be blinded by the spotlights, while bullets from M27 IAR machine guns rip through the air just inches away. Breathing in the acrid scent of gunpowder, I slither like a snake under the wire, emerging first on the other side.
I sprint toward the green sign marking the exit from the training area. For a fleeting moment, I think I see a satisfied smirk on Slaughter?s face. But when he notices I?m watching him, he barks at me to wash up and get to bed.
?The training starts in a few hours,? he shouts.
?Wasn?t this training?? I say to myself. But I keep my mouth shut, mutter a quick ?Yes, sir,? and hurry off before he can say anything else.
For tonight, it?s finally over. But I can?t sleep, the roar of grenades and bullets still ringing in my ears. The other recruits come in in a disorderly manner, half burned, some with cracked ribs, others with their skin completely torn by the barbed wire. A few of them keep complaining, muttering they are going to leave the next morning. I cover my head with the blanket to block them out and try to close my eyes.

But I still haven?t introduced myself. My name is Robert. Robert La Marmora. To some, I?m a mafioso. To others, just a pizza eater. An Italo-American born and raised in the alleys of Little Italy, with roots buried deep in a land I?ve never seen. My grandfather was a guinea, as they called him here, a proud Italian who fought for the Fascists in World War II. Captured by the Americans, dragged across the ocean in chains, he ended up staying in the land of his captors, working jobs no one else would take, eventually building a life here with a shy Italian girl that used to go to Church every morning. My father though? He wanted to mix his blood. He married an American woman who left him when he needed her the most. That?s where I come in.

My life, like the lives of millions of my peers, has been insignificant up until now. But I grew up with the dream of doing something for my country. Becoming a hero. So, after enlisting with the Marines, a few months ago I applied to join the G.I. Joe special forces. They accepted my demand, and now here I am.

Next: Sgt. Slaughter weeds out the new recruits. Also, meet Roadblock, the weapon expert.

[l0neW0lf]

II
Since the age of reason, I?ve asked myself why so many things around me are falling apart like this. I?ve always found the education we were given in school unsatisfactory; the teachers rarely seemed motivated and didn?t take us seriously, as if we were all destined from birth to remain insignificant. Everything I know, I learned on my own, taking advantage of every opportunity offered by the internet and artificial intelligence. I became a nerd. I wanted to go to college, but I didn?t have the money, so I enlisted right away to escape a life of hardships. A life of crimes, perhaps. I?m a mafioso after all, and nobody has ever believed in me.

I watched friends lose their minds overnight, destroyed by drugs. I?ve often wondered why the state allows them to spread. What kind of freedom is there in becoming completely unable to choose? Because that?s what happens with drugs: you just stop choosing. You become a slave to the next dose, living in its shadow. Your physical abilities decline, your mental faculties deteriorate to the point that you can?t even understand the simplest cause-and-effect relationships. No, I really don?t understand why a country that calls itself civilized allows this poison to spread, even among children, through TV stars and singers, these ministers of this slavery cult. ?The 'explicit lyrics? warning, you say? Do you really think that red sticker is meant to keep kids away rather than draw their inquisitive minds like a magnet?

I?ve read all about the MK-Ultra experiments, the CIA?s top program designed to develop mind-control techniques. Funded by American taxpayers' money, it saw an unknown number of unsuspecting victims subject to all kinds of psychological manipulation, psychoactive drugs, and even electroshock. I know all about spies and suspicious deaths, cover-ups and misdirections, and how the program used the hippies, rock and other alternative lifestyles of the '70s as a cover for its operations. I know because nothing has changed. A friend of mine was one of those hippies still getting high in the outskirts of our cities. He died of an overdose a few months ago. His mother called me, desperate because she couldn?t bring herself to identify her son's body. In the end, I went. He was unrecognizable, the drugs had eaten him alive.

Sergeant Slaughter blasts his whistle in our ears. From fifty we?re down to twenty. There are other recruits in other barracks, and all together we?re just over one hundred. But we keep dwindling. Just a few days were enough to decimate us. But those who made it this far are tough as nails. I feel a certain camaraderie with them, I recognize them as my kind.

I?m starting to understand the reason for all these trials. It?s not just training; we?ll have plenty of that anyway, and these were all individuals who were already exceptionally fit physically and mentally to begin with. This is about finding those who, with sheer willpower, can rise above any difficulty. Those who are willing to go beyond the human.

The Sergeant?s attitude, after the first culling, has shifted from hard to calmer, almost respectful, I?d say. He knows that what he has in his hands is top-quality material. Whether we?re good enough for the G.I. Joe is still to be decided, but without a doubt, the U.S. military can make good use of each and every one of us. As for me, I?ve never had second thoughts. I only want the Joes. I don?t care about any other unit.

We?re trained to fight in any situation and not to back down from any adversity. Beachhead makes us crawl through the mud for hours without saying a word, while Roadblock is our guardian angel as we try all kinds of conventional weapons, from assault rifles to machine guns.

The M16A4 feels heavy in my hands, with a sharp recoil after each burst. The M4A1 is lighter but still kicks hard.
?You may need to retrieve some AK-47 on site?, Roadblock tells us, ?so you might as well learn how to use it?. It?s pretty straightforward and reliable, but its stock digs into my shoulder as the rounds come fast and furious. I?d rather take an FN SCAR-L with me - steady and balanced - or better yet an M4, but hey, in life you can?t always choose.
As we train on the LMGs a huge grin appears on Roadblock face.
?Everybody out of my way?, he shouts, ?I?ll show you rookies how it?s done?.
I try to imitate Roadblock but it?s no use: the M249 SAW forces my arms to strain with each burst, spitting rounds like it has a life of its own. The RPK-74 and PKM are powerful as well but yet again, they feel too weighty to me. I try to keep my arms steady on the M2 Browning but it?s a lost cause; the thing is a monster, its power almost too much to handle. When you need a wall of fire these are all solid choices, but it?s just not my thing.
Roadblock grins at me bringing an M2 around like it?s a toy.
I?d rather use some SMG, I prefer to stay on the move. The MP5 is my first choice: it feels light and lethal in my hands. I also like the Uzi, it is nimble, and the P90 ? well, the P90 is so damn cool. The CZ Scorpion EVO 3 has a smooth kick, while the PP-19 Bizon?s odd shape is deceiving: it shoots fast and hard. MP5 it is.

We train on all kind of handguns as well. I like how the M9 feels clean, its recoil quick and sharp, I like it better than the Glock 17 or the otherwise excellently built SIG Sauer P320. The Colt M1911 is always a solid choice, but the Desert Eagle steals the show, if you can handle the recoil that is. And when all else fails, the shotgun might just be your answer. We train on the Remington 870 and the Mossberg 500 - these two hit like a freight train - while the SPAS-12 makes you feel every round, its blast nearly knocking you back.
If it shoots gunpowder and spits lead, Roadblock is the man you?re looking for. We couldn?t ask for a better instructor.

Next: Sci-Fi walks us through some classified high-tech stuff, but the past keeps haunting Robert.


[l0neW0lf]

III
Sci-Fi is our guy when we?re shown experimental prototypes: the M70 Swamp, a portable cannon that shoots quick-expanding foam, designed to block a target's movement and capture them; the KZ-51 Soundwave, a compact pistol that uses high-intensity sound waves to disorient targets, sending their inner ear into chaos without causing lethal damage; the Enforcer D-12 Gauss Cannon, a portable electromagnetic accelerator capable of launching metal projectiles at speeds approaching that of light. It?s devastating, but its energy consumption is so high that you get just a few shots before the battery?s fried. Then there's the Nanobee BX-6, a launcher that fires explosive micro-drones. These nano-devices swarm the target and detonate on impact, releasing an intense burst of directed kinetic energy, enough to rupture flesh and damage light armor. We also get to try the K9 Pulse Ring aka DroidHunter, a rifle that fires electromagnetic pulses in rapid succession. It?s specifically designed to incapacitate all generations of battle droids but it can disable pretty much all kind of robotics and drones.
Sci-Fi talks about each of these like they?re old friends, and he explains how they?re designed to be used in real combat situations. He has a lot of patience with us and sounds like a genuine nice guy, one with whom a nerd like me could easily spend hours talking about Kurzweil's singularity or imagining a cyberpunk ?Gibson-like? future for our cities.

We follow Lowlight in silence during our night sniper drills. Armed with the experimental X-Specter, a stealth sniper rifle with a cloaking module that makes it almost invisible to both the naked eye and thermal detection, he explains that if you master the art of sniping under low visibility conditions, everything becomes easier in the daylight. He handles weapons like the M40A6, Barrett M82, Remington MSR, AXMC and so on as if they were extensions of his arm. He dismantles and reassembles them with his eyes closed, quickly changing optics and modules with disarming speed.
Lowlight explains us how wind, gravity, temperature, and humidity affect the trajectory of the bullet. He teaches us all about the camouflage needed to reach a vantage point without being spotted by the enemy.
?Adapting is your most important asset?, he says. ?You must observe your surroundings and blend in, using every little detail to your advantage. Mud, leaves, camouflages that match the buildings you?re hiding on?.
In pairs, we practice synchronized shooting with the spotter, switching roles. We hold our breath for long minutes to avoid alerting the detection drones that Lowlight sends against us.
He teaches us patience. He teaches us how to hunt.

When night falls, I?m usually exhausted, but before I fall asleep, I keep seeing the movie of my old life. I think about my father, the sacrifices he made to let me become who I am, how he raised me to respect the rules and the others. I think about his humiliated face the day he told me he lost his job.
?Until ten years ago, government and state laws protected workers,? he told me. ?Today, companies can freely exploit hordes of highly educated slaves?.
The paradox of modernity, he called it, just days before he left: workers are becoming more skilled but can?t hold onto a job. Part-time contracts with ever-decreasing wages, no essential benefits like health insurance or retirement plans, all the while the cost of living keeps rising.
?The truth is that behind lofty terms like flexibility and lifelong education they hid the destruction of every basic workers? right. Unions have disappeared, they have no power anymore. Back then, even those who had no qualification could hold onto a decent job for life. Now, you must constantly train yourself, and as soon as you manage to land a job, just as you?re getting used to it, you?re already losing it. And try buying a house with today?s interest rates.?
I still see the image of my father?s bruised face hanging from a rope, his tongue dangling, feet swaying. He never got over the shock of being laid off and abandoned by my mother afterward.
As I said, old nightmares keep coming.

Next: Things get heated as Flint brings the recruits out for a deadly drill. Will they survive or will they crack under the pressure??

[l0neW0lf]

IV
When I see Warrant Officer Flint waiting for us outside the barracks early in the morning, I immediately understand it won?t be a walk in the park. Despite his calm, controlled appearance, Flint might just be the toughest of the Joes. He doesn?t need to shout to be obeyed. You find yourself in front of him, and without even realizing it, you?re already at attention, obeying his every order, hanging on his every word.
We follow him to the airport where a Shadowstrike C-97 is waiting for us. This beast of a transport plane has full stealth capabilities and can reach an altitude of 20000 meters. I have bad feelings about this.
As we board the futuristic plane, Ace briefly glances at us, nodding silently. He?s the quiet type, very professional: piloting the Shadowstrike must be no joke.
?Alright ladies, let?s see how you handle a HALO jump?, says Flint when we?re all aboard.

We reach the drop altitude after a good half-hour. There?s a thick tension among us, fueled by Flint?s silence and his almost threatening presence. Throughout the trip, he just stares down at us without saying a word. Until we prove not only our attitude but also our loyalty, to him we?re just potential terrorists trained by the United States. He?s a sort of modern inquisitor but instead of just sitting behind a desk he travels the world risking his life in deadly operational zones.
Suddenly, Ace steadies the flight path and the rear cargo ramp is opened. A cold wind fills our lungs. We quickly put our mask on: at 11000 meters the oxygen level in the air is too low to breathe and the atmospheric pressure is very low, which can lead to hypoxia and other critical issues.

?Check your oxygen masks and gear?, says Flint while putting his mask on. ?And if any of you tries to open the chute before 500 meters it?s game over for him?.

Lightnings illuminate the night, and strong gusts of wind make the Shadowstriker sway, holding position only thanks to Ace?s insane skills. I suspect they checked the weather forecasts beforehand and purposely waited for this dreadful night. If they?d just wanted to do a routine jump, tonight they would have totally aborted and postponed due to the bad weather. But emergencies don?t check the weather forecast.

I look at my companions. By now, I?ve learned to know them. And to respect them. But tonight, they are all terrified of jumping down. I am as well. But without waiting a single moment, I grab the assault rifle Flint is handing me, salute him, and throw myself backward, looking him in the eyes with a daring look. It?s almost like I can see his silent approval before the darkness swallows me. Lightnings crackle all around me, unleashing a devastating power. Seen from the window, when we?re cozy inside the comfort of our walls, they are almost reassuring. But from a few meters away, in their element, they appear like the supreme arbiter on damn judgment day.
The halo jump requires the parachute to open only at low altitude. I switch to regular breathing when I reach around 3500 meters, then I wait until I see some lights on the ground. It must be the target of our drop. In arched position I angle my body slightly to get as close as possible to it. And then I wait. I check the altimeter on my watch: 1200 meters. It?s going to take around 20 seconds to get to break-off so I wait, the adrenaline pumping hard in my veins. At 500 meters I hear the alarm from the watch, to hell with it, I say to myself, I?ll show you guys what I?m made of. Pretty sure they?ll check the deploy altitude for each of us. I have a surprise for you.
I wait till the watch shows I?m at 300 meters and the alarm is sounding like crazy. I hear Flint shouting in my earphone:
?Deploy now?.
Yessir.
I open the parachute when I?m almost starting to see the leaves hanging from the trees. There?s not much time to slow down the fall, so I make a hard landing. When I finally put my feet on the ground, I feel disoriented.
?You must be out of your mind?.
?I wanted to avoid detection from enemy radar, sir?, I reply quickly regaining my composure. I check my weapons and start running towards the training course where Sgt Stalker is waiting for me. Sort of.
?Move, move,? he shouts without even greeting me. For these men, it?s just another day. I wonder what kind of dire things their eyes have seen.

I feel reckless. After the jump, adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I charge into the obstacle course, dodging attacks from robots modeled after some classified robotic fighters in the hands of terrorist organizations, from what I?m told. These versions were reverse-engineered from the originals and equipped with paintball guns designed to leave us marked - and humiliated. Our weapons, instead, fire electromagnetic pulses that the droids' sensors detect. A direct hit to a weak point lights up the droid and disables it instantly; otherwise, it keeps fighting, albeit with impaired performance that reflects the damage sustained.
I found one of their weak spots just below the neck during the first drill with the robots, and since then, I?ve become their terror, so to speak. I proceed swiftly, crawling, jumping walls, flipping, shooting every target that comes in my way with lethal precision. I reach the exit with only a few splashes of paint on my sides. If they?d been bullets, they wouldn?t have hit me. What a hellish night! And yet, I made it.

For the extraction we board a Tomahawk piloted by Wild Bill. The Texan pilot is a real ace at maneuvering any kind of helicopter. You see him in front of you with that cowboy hat while he hums a country tune, and you wonder what the hell someone like him is doing in the special forces. But after seeing him fly in poor visibility, maneuvering his chopper through strong turbulence and relentless rain, you understand that in the air, he has few rivals. When we?re all aboard, he lifts his hat to greet us and with a ?he-hoo? he takes off.

Despite the inclement weather, Wild Bill is in a good mood. Flint, on the other hand, still wears the same hard, unreadable expression. A nearly imperceptible smile appears on his face when he sees me climb onto the troop transport helicopter, but perhaps it was my imagination.
On our way back to the base, he shows us the training scores on the Tomahawk's internal monitor. Mine is the highest: 96% shot accuracy, 73% destruction rate of the targets, 100% points for stealth deployment. And I?m the only one who isn?t completely covered in paint. The score places me just outside the all-time top ten, adds Flint, who holds the record. I didn?t beat him but I did beat my comrades and in any case, just jumping out of the Shadowstrike with that weather was really something.

Next: Trouble in deep waters. Plus, let?s meet the most irreverent Joe!

[l0neW0lf]

V
I grew up watching the movies that shaped the myth of the American Dream, the ones where hard work, grit, and a bit of luck could take anyone from nothing to something. I read the books that defined generations, stories of triumph, rebellion and hope that resonated all over the world. For years, I believed our country had the right to stand as the judge of world balance, convinced that we were the shining example of what was possible. I always thought the United States was a beacon in the darkness of history. Sure, we didn?t always use orthodox methods, but without us, universal rights and freedoms wouldn?t even be on the table.
For decades, the United States has empowered vulnerable peoples to resist their oppressors. Sometimes they turned into enemies, but for each new enemy there were at least five new friends. It was always a calculated risk.
Our country has always welcomed everyone with open arms. We are what we are because, unlike others, we have never slammed the door in anyone's face. No race, no ethnicity, no gender should be discriminated against: those who are worthy and prove it, have the right to become one of us. But what remains today of that dream? Walls at the Mexican border, raids against immigrants, increasingly harsh anti-immigration laws. With today's rules, many G.I. Joes wouldn?t be fighting for our country. For our dream. Under today?s rules, my grandfather, an Italian who happened to be in America decades ago, would never have been able to stay in the land of opportunity. In his country, he would never have had the money to start a family. He would never have gotten married. I would never have been born. I wouldn?t be here today, trying to become a Joe. Swearing allegiance to an idea. So what am I being trained for? Whose dream is this?


We board the Killer W.H.A.L.E. There are only ten of us. We go below deck. Cutter looks at us with cold eyes, the eyes of a seasoned sailor who's seen it all. The Pacific is in a storm, but he doesn't seem worried. One of the guys starts vomiting right away, and Wet Suit gives him a nasty look. Former Navy Seal, tall and lean, his gaze lost on a horizon only he can see, he?s the perfect soldier prototype. The sea can be unforgiving, and it makes you rough very quickly.
This is our first dive in operational conditions, a true baptism of water. Until now, we?ve only trained in a very deep Olympic pool. The first time we went there, they made us put on the heavy gear and threw us in.
?Get out,? we were told afterward. Wet Suit and Torpedo had to dive in to pull out a guy who hadn?t resurfaced. He was taken away, face purple, almost dead.

From one corner we hear someone laughing at the color on our faces. We turn back at once and we see Shipwreck half asleep in a chair.
?Ship, get those damn feet out of the computers?, Wet Suit shouts at him.
?Calm down man, it?s not like they?re gonna use ?em with gloves on?, he says laughing. Then, he lowers his hat over his eyes and says nothing more. Polly, his parrot, instead, keeps laughing at us.
?Wrah! Losers!?
Wet Suit throws us the diving suits and spear-rifles. Our mission is to infiltrate a wreck and disarm a bomb before the timer runs out.
?What timer?? we ask.
?This one,? the Joe replies, showing us the screen of a Cressi-made underwater wrist computer commissioned by the U.S. special forces. He hands one to each of us, throwing it without too much ceremony. I strap it on and quickly get familiar with the device?s main functions: barometer, stopwatch, radar map of the seabed. A blinking red dot somewhere below us is our target.
?And oh, another thing: the bomb is real and armed?.
For a moment, silence hangs in the air. Then, three recruits pull off their gear and set it down.
?We?re done,? one of them says, his voice steady but his hands trembling. The other two nod, their faces pale.

Though it?s true that the waves don?t hit you underwater, we still need to get to the operational zone. That?s what scares us all. From the porthole, we watch Cutter guide the Killer W.H.A.L.E. with a steady hand, while the rain slides off his hat. The hovercraft leaps several meters when it rides the waves, then crashes back onto the water?s surface. With each jump, it seems like a miracle the craft doesn?t break apart. That?s thanks to the Alnamium-TC12, we are told, an advanced titanium-based alloy enriched with nanotechnology carbon and silicon, which the amphibious vehicle?s bottom is made of. Wet Suit looks amused while surveying the terrified faces of the crew. I too must brace myself not to show fear. Jumping into the stormy sea scares me more than a sky full of lightnings.

Arriving at the rendezvous point, Cutter stops the engines, and Wet Suit opens the hatch.
?You have twenty minutes?, he says, ?good luck?, and we?re all alone in a dark and violent ocean. I jump into the water first and start struggling against the waves. I slam into the W.H.A.L.E. several times, knocked by the force of the waves, then finally manage to submerge. Slowly, the surface disturbances disappear, leaving way for an eerie but tranquil darkness. I turn on the underwater torch, casting a powerful beam on my dark surroundings, and see shadows lurking all around me. Perhaps I should turn it back off.

The water is cold and thick but I feel a sense of bliss as I descend, leaving the chaos of the surface world far behind. Minuscule particles suspended in the water obscure much of the light, making it impossible to see more than a few meters in any direction. As I focus inward, channeling the calm and strength I need to complete my task, I hear the faint sounds of marine life echo, eerie and indistinct. Could be anything. I keep my speargun at the ready.
I keep checking my wrist computer. I must be careful to follow the schedule and stop every twenty meters, or I risk gas embolism and other nasty problems due to decompression. On my way back, after disarming the device, I?ll have to do the same, ascending at no more than ten meters per minute. How can I be so sure of that? Well, I don?t even want to think about failing; doubt is already a defeat, and I don?t allow that word in my vocabulary.
But truth is, we?re running out of time.

Next: Is it the end of the line for Robert & Co? Will Polly sing a song for his fallen comrades?