Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist 

Chapter Nineteen
Eleventh Hour

    "I really musst find a better speech writer!" complained the Cobra Commander as he let several sheets of paper fly from his hand. Destro, just entering the room, would've found amusement in the scene, but he was still consumed by his lingering anger over having lost such a perfect opportunity to be the world's master.

    Cobra Commander's conference room was busy, doubling as it was now as a television studio. Several men rushed about (one of them knocking over the camera tripod, causing more activity to repair than was necessary) in preparation for... what?

    The Commander, tuning out the disturbance around him, turned his attention to Destro. "Ah, Desstro. I haven't had a chansse to thank you for your rather mersssenary cashiering of Major Bludd."

    A Shakespearian reference if Destro had ever heard one (which wasn't often; how many people were pompous enough to speak with Shakespearian overtones?). But Destro was not Iago to the Commander's Othello (and Bludd was certainly no Cassio). After all, Othello was written as a noble creature. No; if there was a living embodiment of Iago, it was the Commander himself. And his Othello, that noble creature he sought to discredit, undermine, and eventually destroy, no matter the cost (and no matter if it discredit, undermine, and destroy Commander/Iago in the process), was the world.

    "As always, I serve Cobra," Destro answered impotently. "Bludd was a danger to us. It was my duty to report his disloyalty." Not enjoying playing the lackey, he quickly changed the subject. "You are preparing to make a statement?"

    "Obvioussly."

    "You are moving forward, then? There is every probability that Bludd will sell any knowledge he might have."

    The Commander's hooded head lifted in its version of curiosity. "What knowledge doess he have, Desstro?"

    Ah! thought Destro. He officially doesn't trust me. Good. Let it be in the open. "What Bludd may know, I cannot say."

    "Cannot ssay or will not ssay?"

    The ensuing moment of silence was interrupted by one of the Commander's men. "Everything is ready, Commander," he said before returning to his tasks.

    The Commander shrugged. "If Bludd knew anything important, he would already be holding it over my head. Before we hear from him again, he will sspend ssome time licking his woundss."

    "What are your plans?" Destro asked. His bluff had been called. He knew for fact what the Commander could only suspect: Bludd could not stop Cobra from undertaking this project. Destro had been careful not to allow Bludd to remove anything from the greenhouse. The one flower he'd taken had been immediately given to Wildcat, who had promptly turned it over to Cobra Commander. Destro had quickly scrambled to recover from that embarrassing exchange. He had distanced himself from (by turning in) Bludd and his damnable agent. Bludd had escaped into hiding. Wildcat was still in the employ of Cobra.

    "I am moving forward," replied the Commander. "And alsso I am doing a bit of houssecleaning. We have alerted the Pentagon already. As they move to sstop a few diverssionary activitiess, we shall do our real work."

    Destro was appalled. "You have alerted the Pentagon?"

    "You will be pleassed to know that I have taken your advisse regarding Wildcat," the Commander continued. "She is oversseeing one of the diverssionary activitiess."

    "My advice was to kill her," Destro spat. "Not put her in a position to cripple us further. If she is captured, she can lead them to this base."

    The Commander gathered his speech from the conference table. "I doubt that will happen. She is one of mine now," he said with an eerie confidence (an attitude that Destro had, until recently, taken for fanatical blindness) that made Destro shudder (at least inwardly). "And if it doess happen, sso what? This base is exsspendable. We could eassily evacuate. I have already had all sscientific evidensse removed from here. The Odem ressearch team has been relocated to a base even you don't know, dear Desstro."

    Destro had nothing to say, didn't know exactly what to think. His estimation of the Commander had been shattered in a staggeringly short period of time. Two weeks ago, Destro had been on the threshold of world domination. Somehow - how did it happen? - he had allowed things to slip bafflingly out of control, and he cursed himself for it. Years of study of mythology could not better win his sympathy for Sysyphus. Like that defeated man, Destro suddenly found that having pushed that large boulder up that impossible incline was all for naught. It would have to be done again. And again. And again...

    If the Commander succeeded, there was little hope that Destro would have a chance to unseat him. Like any truly desperate man, he could now only rely on that one thing that was so elusive to those who needed it most: Luck.

    Knowing that the last words were to be his, the Cobra Commander fixed a steady, dark gaze on Destro. "After tonight, they" - that faceless, evil entity THEY - "will be powerlesss," he said (Destro imagined a smile underneath the hood, but could not imagine a face to which the smile might be attached). "Let them come."

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Concluded in Part Twenty!
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