Paul Agnew
9th February 2013, 01:55 PM
Only Squares don't make with the fashionably late arrivals, and the best is always saved for last.
Cutting a long story short, the following image was snapped on Australia Day, but it's taken this long for me to get around making it 'live' so to speak. Try to enjoy your daily dose of DiC:
http://echidnaenclave.net/images/JoeStralia2013.jpg
“Hrmm…”
Topside slowly raised his left eye for the first time in what felt like an age. Evidently, this passage of time was only a figment of his imagination, as one upward cast into the sky revealed barely any change in the position of what must have been several dozen white clouds. A mental image was formed before settling down into the corner of this acceptably-comfortable inflatable raft, or had he been snarky enough, would have taken a quick photograph of the unique patters. Either way, none of the clouds appeared to have made any progress across to pastures unknown, and taking a photograph as evidence how slowly time trundled along would have only aggravated the fellow members residing within the raft.
Before embarking on what would become the job of a lifetime, John Blanchet yearned for a life of excitement, adventure, and challenges. Yeah, one could say that wrangling out-of-line pigs with his father was a task not exactly simplicity in itself, but even the stodgiest of farmers can grow tired of their choice in career. As one can imagine, when he announced plans to leave the family business, it wasn’t only the news that didn’t go down well that night.
It didn’t take long for John to enlist in the Navy, and even less time for landing the position where he was today. By a sheer draw of luck, his maiden voyage would be serving aboard what appeared to be nothing more than a small vessel delivering a few crates of miscellaneous cargo. Only after they left port was it revealed the crates contained less than a dozen living men and women. Naturally John was sceptical of the surprise intruders, but listened to their story; apparently some mission involving a new energy source had gone terribly wrong, and these supposed ‘American Heroes’ (John’s family never owned a television) were a covert team sent from on high to sneak in and rescue what was left of their stranded platoon.
They seemed legitimate enough, but it was only a matter of time before John started feeling riled up over their boisterous claims of being the toughest folk around. He reasoned that if they were so brilliant and invincible, then why did their comrades get marooned in the first place? Surely a respective group such as these ‘Joes’ (which he always felt to be a weird name, noting how most of the members had individual ((if not lacklustre)) uniforms, and the inclusion of women also under the same banner) could have sorted everything out by themselves, and be home in time for supper without breaking a sweat? Nah, they may have talked a good game, but could they put the money where their mouths were?
As the days (and waves) rolled on, John was finally given the opportunity to prove his theory; While a routine stroll across the deck, he overheard two of the soldiers engaged in a shouting match. Immediately he dashed into the crate to witness the duo almost nose-to-nose, fists at the ready, and tossing insults at each other with enough speed to make most of those pigs back home blush. John could understand the frustration of being helpless while their friends were in danger, but what threw him off was how none of the other Joes seemed concerned. They sat back on their stools, several of the men grinning while one sailor in particular with a grating accent walked around, taking bets on a small notepad.
‘Enough was enough!’ John thought to himself, and sprinted in with the intent to stop this debacle before anyone fell overboard, or worse, damaged the ship. He placed one hand on the curly-haired man’s left shoulder, whom immediately turned on the spot and delivered one heck of a powerful upper-cut to John’s jaw, while shouting a particular term he did not expect to hear from an ‘American Hero’. Had this been any other seaman, no doubt such a punch could have easily knocked their head clean off. However, John stood there as he was, barely a flinch on his lips while the blood quickly began trickling down his neck. Both men stood in silence, their mouths slightly aghast before the looks of shock turned to pain, as John swiftly grasped both men’s heads, and slammed them together like a pair of coconuts.
To keep a long story short, the Joes managed to reach their destination, and retrieve the surviving platoon members with relatively little fuss. It was only after the mission did the real fuss begin, as John was placed under arrest for striking down a pair of superiors. Had some middle-aged man named Clayton not intervened, no doubt John wouldn’t have much of a career in the Navy, let alone a career anywhere outside three brick walls and a metal grille gate. Clayton made an appeal to the judge, and suggested John serve out his sentence among the very men he tussled with. It wasn’t easy, but they eventually agreed with his idea, and John was spared.
Upon arrival to his new destination of living, Clayton explained further the reason for not letting him rot in a cell. It wasn’t so much his idea, but a recommendation on the backing of both men he fought. They explained to Clayton that John held potential, and spoke of his desire to see a bit of action in his life. Reluctantly Clayton agreed, but the only way to persuade the Judge was by suggesting John still be found guilty, but repay his debt under mandatory listing in his special organisation. Naturally he wasn’t too pleased with that mark now against his name, but it sure beat the alternative fate.
It was only after John had settled in amongst his new allies that the curly haired man entered his living quarters after dark, and explained the whole story. As it turned out, the shouting match was a fairly routine occurrence between him and the moustached Marine, so much that throwing verbal (and even the odd physical) punches happened to be their particularly favourite past time! There were no hard feelings between them apparently, and was pleased to have him on the team.
But that was all several years ago. These days, John Blanchet works under the code name ‘Topside’ among his fellow members of the renowned ‘Joe Team’. Although initially a band of Americans recruited at the last minute to battle a new and frightening terrorist organisation, the Joes have expanded over the years to cover every continent in the globe, with specially trained combat divisions. The ‘Real American Heroes’ had expanded into the ‘International Heroes’. Oh yes, there was plenty of excitement and adventure to be had across the planet, but that also brought a fair share of risks. Despite their high success rate, sometimes a Joe or two wouldn’t make it home alive, and this always left an impact on the team as a whole. And while they do mourn for the losses, they also relish the successes, and never give up in their eternal fight for freedom.
Despite the years rolling on, Topside never lost that sense of excitement, which can be viewed as both a positive and negative aspect to his personality. Positive as he could be counted on when the going got tough on a mission, but negative when there came a time to simply put down those weapons and sit back for a little while. This was one such time, and it bored him no end.
‘You say somethin’, Topside?’
A nearby voice gently pierced the sound of crashing waves and chatting seagulls. Slowly turning his left eye in the same direction, Topside stopped the origin of this enquiry. Admittedly, he didn’t really need to see whom addressed him to figure out where the voice originated, as that distinctive youthful tone with a twinge of unmistakable southern accent could have only come from one team member in his immediate vicinity.
Ronald W. Tadur, or ‘Dusty’ to his comrades, was an interesting one indeed. At first glance, you’d be willing to believe he was but a rookie learning the basics on what it meant to be a Joe. However, this Infantry specialist had been a strong member of the Joe Team for nearly a decade. In fact, give him a few more years, and the new recruits would consider him one of the ‘Old Guard’, and that would no doubt make Ronald feel especially old. Up there with fellow greats still in active service such as Roadblock, Flint, and Lady Jaye, he would be. Though in fairness, while being part of the team for so long, he wasn’t part of the ‘Older Guard’, or even a member of the original thirteen Joes, and quite a few of them are still out there fighting the good fight, believe it or not.
‘No Dusty, nothing at all…’ Topside replied eventually. ‘Must be hearing things.’
‘A good try, but I know what I’m talkin’ about.’
Indeed he did. While part of the overall Infantry division, Dusty specialised in desert campaigns, and this meant a complete and total understanding of the land was required. He had to learn, understand, and commune with every type of sound out there, from the different species of vultures that may circle overhead, to the various languages spoken by any natives he should come across.
‘Yeah, that maybe so, but in this case, I didn’t say anything.’
‘But something is on your mind, right?’
Part of Topside really didn’t want to dignify Dusty with a response, as it would only lead to further exchanges of words, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood for a verbal sparring. Having already been told off one too many times by several Commanding Officers that he should take it easy for once, there wasn’t really much of a choice but to lay back and take in the sun’s rays for a few hours. But his heart lay elsewhere, akin to many a Joe, within the field of battle.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to be the one to make small-talk on this occasion.
‘Do you two mind keeping it down? How is a guy supposed to get some rest around here?’
While it was easy to spot Dusty’s particular voice out, to an untrained ear, this new commentator may be considered a bit trickier. At first you could mistake him for any ordinary member of the team, but as you got to know them individually, the distinct vocal patters could soon be differentiated. Or you could simply look over to see which of them was talking. Either worked.
For Topside, this Joe required no introduction; they had already met in a rather unorthodox method, and he had certainly left a lasting impression both metaphorically and physically. The voice belonged to one Brian M. Forrest, or more commonly, under the code name ‘Wet-Suit’. Loud, cantankerous, and rather ruthless for someone in his vocation, it took little time or effort to get on Wet-Suit’s nerves, even after so many years of active service. Despite enlisting roughly a year or two after Dusty, he was still the kind of guy you keep away from, unless it’s on the battlefield. Make no mistake, Wet-Suit was a master at underwater demolition, and you could always count on him to get the job done. Perhaps that’s all he felt mattered, so there was little room or need for etiquette, and it definitely showed.
As time changed, so did uniforms. While Dusty generally kept the same basic survival gear and clothing, Wet-Suit underwent quite a change not too long ago. Gone were the brown curls, only to be replaced with a more conservative straight run of slicked back hair down to around his ears. Several kilos of extra weight was shed in a rigorous training routine, bringing the fat levels on his face (and body) to what both medics, Stretcher and Life-Line, considered risky and ill-advised. But doctors had never stopped Wet-Suit in the past, so these men had little chance of getting through regardless. In what some considered an equally unwarranted move was the complete redesign of his attire, trading green and grey in for black and bright yellow. Wet-Suit was pretty happy with the new choice of pallet, though it was expressed to him on more than one occasion that maybe orange could blend easier with the murky depths.
‘But we are resting, Wet-Suit ol’ buddy…’ Dusty grinned. ‘…What more could you ask for? It’s a beautiful day in a beautiful location we rarely get a chance to visit, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, if hot sand is what turns you on.’ Wet-Suit grumbled.
‘As it happens, scorching hot deserts are my specialty.’
‘Aww, go stick your head back in the sand if you love it so much.’ Turning away, Wet-Suit faced the horizon. ‘Then I won’t have to put up with your incessant babbling.’
‘Suit yourself. Though I must say, there is plenty for us to see and do around here.’
‘Good Dusty, go do it all, and then tell me about it later.’
‘But Wet-Suit, look at it this way! Normally we’d be back on the next flight back to headquarters, but Duke was kind enough to give us the day off after doing such a great job on our last mission. He said we should make the most of it down here, and enjoy ourselves before heading back to the grind tomorrow.’
‘If you’re going to keep rambling…’ Wet-Suit frowned. ‘…Then tomorrow cannot arrive any faster.’
‘What a spoilsport, am I right guys?’
Topside didn’t need to respond, as another part of his body had beaten him to the punch. A soft growl emanated from the front of his lifejacket, signifying that he was hungry.
‘Feedin’ time, Topside?’ Dusty grinned. ‘Have to admit that I’ve worked up quite an appetite myself too. Say Tracker, you wouldn’t happen to also carry an esky in this here raft of yours too?’
Sitting between Wet-Suit and Dusty was the fourth and final member of the small crew, a middle-aged man with short blonde hair named Christopher R. Groen. As with many Joes, if you said the birth name, most rookies would blink in confusion. However, the code name was what snared them nearly every time, and Groen went under the name ‘Tracker’. Much like Wet-Suit in that both were experienced in the field of S.E.A.L. (Sea, Air and Land) training, but with two major differences; Tracker was a new member of the Joe Team, and preferred his missions above the water as opposed to submerged. Not to say that he couldn’t do it, but that’s what Wet-Suit was for. When an agent, spy, or enemy of peace made off, all Tracker had to do was pump up his orange inflatable raft, and set out after them in absolute silence. Some may laugh at the prospect of his raft, but Tracker had a remarkably high success rate, so there was no arguing that he was inept to pull off an assignment. And the raft could be modified to suit a variety of situations, such as in this case it provided a cool place to sit and relax under the sun.
If Tracker had but one peeve, it was, believe it or not, the code name he had been given. The purpose of these names was initially to differentiate between each member of the team, or in some cases, take a defining aspect or ability they particularly excelled at. Even with his superb skills (and ‘Tracker’ being the obvious title he deserved), it never really stuck well with him on a personal level, resulting in his attempts to remove it from his comrade’s minds with the swiftest haste possible. Even going so far as to label his surname and number ‘34’ on a red sleeveless shirt to get the point across. Though nobody seemed to know what the number stood for, or if it had any significance whatsoever. When asked, he turned a blind eye and muttered something about rules…
‘Sorry Dusty.’ Tracker spoke up for the first time since the four Joes had settled in for the day. ‘No esky in the trunk.’
‘Well that’s a shame.’ Dusty faked a sigh, already knowing what the answer would have been before he asked. ‘Anyone got plans for some food?’
‘How does a round of fish burgers sound?’ Wet-Suit asked.
‘Alright then, but will they be crumbed fish, or beer-battered?’
‘My favourite…’ Wet-Suit held up his trusted yellow spear rifle with a grin. ‘…Raw.’
Dusty grimaced. ‘Not entirely healthy, but I’m sure Sandstorm wouldn’t mind, right boy?’
Sandstorm, the grey Coyote whom Dusty had raised since a pup, barked in agreement.
‘Well, that’s one satisfied customer. Guess you’ll have someone over for lunch.’
Silence returned to the raft once more, apart from the rubbery squeak as Wet-Suit gently removed the spear rifle from his grip.
Dusty spoke up once more. ‘Say Tracker, I’ve got a question for ya.’
Tracker rolled his eyes, not only for being asked what was sure to be the same question as everyone else had, but how he had forgotten to use his real name… again. ‘As I told you last time, no.’
‘Wait, that’s not what I meant. I was gonna ask ‘bout them visors.’
‘Yeah? What of them?’
‘Well surely on such a beautiful day like this, why are you still wearing them? None of us are on mission, so what are they doing in front of your eyes?’
Tracker paused before replying ‘Dusty, let me tell you a little secret. There’s more to these visors than purely a fashion statement.’
‘Such as?’
‘If I raise my left hand and press the lower button on the visor like so…’ As he does. ‘…The setting automatically changes from night vision to a dark shade.’
‘Hey, instant sunglasses!’ Dusty smiled, finishing the answer. ‘That’s pretty clever. Got any more tricks in there?’
‘There have been talks of upgrading to a virtual user interface, along with Wet-Suit here. Should it work, then a computerised display will appear before our eyes to indicate various information we’ll need for our missions. Sort of like a personal computer.’
‘That’s pretty novel.’
‘Exactly what I said…’ Tracker added. ‘…Though I doubt it will be perfected anytime soon. The kind of technology and power source required for such a system simply aren’t small enough yet to be feasible, I recon.’
‘Give it time. Pretty sure if you were to go back fifteen years ago and tell scientists that we’d be fighting wars with lasers today, they’d probably try and throw you into the funny farm.’
‘If we end up doing that…’ Wet-Suit grinned maliciously. ‘…Can we send Topside back? Should they really think he’s crazy, then I have a feeling he’d be right at home.’
Topside opened his left eye once more. ‘Fifteen years ago?’
‘No, the funny farm!’
‘Oh har har, very funny, bell-head.’ Rolling his eye, Topside feigned a laugh before turning his head away from the trio.
‘So I guess he’s out.’ Dusty turned to the others. ‘Still, we can’t let today go wasted, now can we? Especially when you consider the cultural significance.’
‘Are you serious?’ Wet-Suit frowned. ‘What’s so different about today? It’s simply yet another instance where we get up, have a long-winded meeting with Cpt. Grid-Iron, and get out there to stomp some snakes.’
‘Last time I checked, today is Saturday.’
‘So? Weekends make no difference.’
‘Not any Saturday…’ Dusty faced him proper. ‘According to the local newspaper, it’s the twenty sixth day of January. Here in Australia, that signifies it’s a special day for locals.’
‘Really?’ Wet-Suit scoffed. ‘Next you’ll be telling me they named it something crude like “Australia Day”.’
‘Actually, you’re not far off. Australia Day is a special annual event that commemorates the arrival of the First Fleet many centuries ago. Now, according to Skymate…’
‘Now you’re really making me laugh.’ Wet-Suit shot back. ‘You’re seriously going to take Skymate’s word on anything? He wasn’t even born in Australia!’
‘That’s debatable, along with whether or not this really is a day to celebrate. Having spoken to a few of the local Aboriginal Elders…’ Dusty recalled. ‘…It was more of an invasion day if anything. So that can be a real downer for some.’
‘You mean like a Cobra invasion?’
‘More or less, but incredibly successful and involving British convicts. You’d be surprised how disturbing Australia’s past was if you pull out an encyclopaedia sometime for a use other than coasting food and drinks.’
‘Why bother, Dusty? Your old pal Skymate could do as good a job in half the time.’
‘Glad we can agree on something.’ He beamed.
Tracker winced. It didn’t take a master of his particular talent to see the increasing levels of conflict in the air, and he needed to sooth the atmosphere before it wasn’t only the sun reaching boiling point.
‘So, how about those drinks?’
Both Wet-Suit and Dusty stared at Tracker. For an instant, he speculated they were about to pounce on him from both sides if their expressions were anything to go by. Thankfully, both softened more to a grin, followed by nods of agreement.
‘There’s a bistro not too far down the beach. After a quick feed, we may even go for a quick swim.’
‘Hey, don’t see why not.’ Dusty smiled. ‘Did you need those visors to know about the bistro?’
‘Nope. Passed by it on the way here.’
‘Clever. So which one of us is going to dare waking Topside over here?’
‘Don’t bother…’ After what felt like an infinity (though was in reality less than an hour), Topside opened both eyes, stretched his arms up, and finally leaning forward to stand up.
‘Pity to see you’re up.’ Wet-Suit shortly followed. ‘It would have been funny to give you a rude awakening with my spear rifle. Guess it’ll have to wait for another time.’
‘Yeah.’ Topside muttered a response.
‘Well, that’s settled then. C’mon and lead the way Tra-erm, Groen.’ Dusty corrected himself this time around.
As the four Joes set off down the gently slope towards the beach, a thought crossed Wet-Suit’s mind. He immediately stopped in front of the others.
‘Wait. It’s all very well that we go down and get something to drink, but what about the special cargo back there?’
‘Don’t worry, Wet-Suit…’ Dusty smiled. ‘…Something tells me we don’t have to concerned about the cargo for quite some time. And even if worse comes to worst, I’m sure Sandstorm will keep them good company.’
‘Suppose you’re right. Let’s go.’
It was barely a few more steps forward that a soft noise managed to reach their ears, almost like a muffle. Upon hearing it, Topside threw Tracker a cursory look, who nodded in kind.
Wet-Suit wasn’t one to let opportunity pass him by. ‘What’s the matter, Commander? Here I thought you reptiles loved bathing in the sun.’
Several metres back up the slope in front of the raft were half a dozen Cobra soldiers buried at various depths in the sand, including Cobra Commander.
‘Yeah, but we promise that if you’ll be good and try not to escape by the time we get back, you get a nice, tall drink to quench that thirst of yours. Maybe.’ Tracker grinned over his right shoulder.
‘Mmmph! Ghhrr!’ The Commander attempted to scream, but the sand layered across the lower-half of his face cloth rendered coherent speech impossible.
‘Don’t worry Commander, I’ll save you…’ Nearby, Cobra’s Crimson Guard No. 1 shouted his way. It didn’t take a genius to tell when his illustrious leader was in peril. ‘…As soon as I can get free of this sand!’
‘Rpppf fhhh-Uh!’ Cobra Commander took a much-needed gasp for breath as Sandstorm trotted over and gently removed the sand from around his head. ‘Ah, that’s better.’
He stared up at the Coyote.
‘Nice doggy, now if you dig the rest of me out, I promise you a fulfilling and glorious career in the coils of Cobra.’
Sandstorm blinked, and turned away from the wriggling head.
‘What?! How dare you turn your back on the great Cobra Commander! You’d better dig me out of here immediately, you miserable mutt! Otherwise I’ll…’
As if on cue, Sandstorm coked his hind left leg.
Cobra Commander’s cold reptilian hear sunk.
‘Oh… Oh no, you’d better not doing what I think you’re about t-AUUGH! Curse you Joes!’
Upon hearing the Commander’s screech, all four Joes turned to look back over their shoulders and laugh at his plight. Nothing further need being said, they kept walking together across the beach…
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