Chapter 42 Upshot
Grey and Robinson drifted in the tempestuous sea, clinging to the fading hope that rescue would come before the icy grip of hyperthermia fully consumed them.
Rain lashed against their faces; their limbs growing numb.
Bound together by the metal embrace of handcuffs, they could only witness whilst the storm continued around them.
The nylon canopy of their parachute now lay limp and waterlogged beside them, trailing like a sodden shroud through the churning waves.
"Hey, Robinson," Grey called, his voice barely able to separate from his larynx.
Robinson stirred, his eyes clouded with exhaustion.
"What is it, Grey?"
"There's something down there. There's something on my leg," Grey said, his voice tense with fear.
Robinson's focus sharpened. "I can't feel my legs."
Grey gestured towards the water, where a flash of blue pulsed near the parachute.
"Look!"
Robinsion's pupils dilated in horror."Jellyfish," Robinson shrieked.
Diaphanous and deadly, its venomous tentacles brushed against the nylon of the parachute reaching for Robinson's arm.
As if on cue, another jellyfish materialized, its ghostly form drifting towards them.
Suddenly, a bloom of blue jellyfish appeared, boxing them in a deadly ring.
Trapped in a sea of blue shimmering menace, Grey and Robinson exchanged a wordless glance, eyes reflecting with resignation.
The cold was sucking away their senses, but the primal fear within them burned like a pyre.
Grey fought for air, for the release of words trapped within, but his voice remained captive to his clattering teeth.
"Rob...son..." he rasped, the word a tortured croak.
He tried to pull away, but the handcuffs held them together, a cruel tether to their shared fate.
"Gr...ey..." Robinson managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Help..."
The jellyfish's tendrils stung against Robinson's and Grey's exposed skin, leaving a burning trail.
They hissed a weak, pathetic sound, lost in the crashing gales of the Atlantic.
Movements faltered, strength fading. Grey felt Robinson flinch again, the poison spreading its creeping hold like iced fire.
Robinson's body grew weaker with each passage of time, his efforts to tread water becoming increasingly feeble, succumbing to the relentless pull of the ocean.
Only the life vest Grey had fastened to himself kept him afloat, even his body was in the latter stages of shutting down.
His vision blurred, his consciousness slipping away.
"I can't... hold on... much longer," Robinson said.
The black matte of Robinsion's hair sank beneath the surface. Grey's muffled mumbling voice, becoming weaker, gradually diminished into soundlessness.
Robinson felt himself falling, falling away from the violence of the storm, replaced by the soft whooshing of water in his ears.
A strange calm washed over him. The world around him dissolved into a dazzling array of swirling blue lights, merging into a blinding tunnel that beckoned him forward.
He felt an overwhelming sense of peace and serenity, a release from the pain of his ordeals.
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the warm embrace of the swirling blue light, unaware that it was not a heavenly vision, but the bioluminescent glow of the same jellyfish that had tormented him.
Driven by an instinct for survival, Grey yanked on the handcuffs, in a desperate attempt to pull Robinson back.
With a surge of adrenaline, he pulled harder, his own body screaming, but he wouldn't give up.
Gradually, Robinson's head broke the water's surface, his face flexed in pain and surprise, trying to clear the seawater that filled his lungs.
"I think I was in heaven! I want to go back. I don't want to be back here" Robinson said dreamily.
Grey slapped Robinson around the face.
"Get with it, man. Look!" Grey shouted, with newfound hope.
Robinson blinked following Grey's attention and saw it too - a dusky light approaching from behind the waves.
It was getting closer. It was a rubber dinghy, poking out of obscurity like a beacon of salvation.
"Help!" Grey mustered.
"Over here!" Grey shouted again.
"One o'clock," Dante said. "Look!"
When the boat first appeared, its light fell on a trail of cloth floating on the surface - the scraps of Grey's and Robinson's torn parachute.
Asp's flashlight beam cut across the pair's faces, revealing their weary and relieved expressions.
"Grab hold of this," Dante, said laying on a thin rope across the water.
"I can't feel my hand," said Grey.
Asp was in no mood for being a good Samaritan, it was not his way.
"Don't be a pussy! Or we will leave you behind," he said.
With fresh impetus, Grey's outstretched hand tugged on the rope with his last reserves of strength, drawing him towards the boat, followed by the combined weight of Robinson.
Soon, Grey found the side of wet rubber, and the Bloodies hauled them aboard.
Grey rolled onto his back, heaving, coughing up seawater. With Robinson getting a nice side portion of Grey's vomit all over him, much to his delight.
The cold continued to engulf them. Robinson lay motionless, his eyes closed; his lips colored blue.
Dante pressed two fingers into Robinson's neck, checking for a pulse.
"He's alive, but he will live," Dante said sombrely.
Grey continued to retch bile and water, as did Robinson, aggravating the stings on their skin.
Between gasps, Grey managed to say "T-thank...you.".
Robinson gave a weak cough, whimpering through gnashing teeth.
"I've never seen you save a life before, Asp!"
"You get what you pay for, I guess. You can both suck my dick later" Asp replied coldly.
"Dante see to em', give em' a shot. While try and get us out of this shit!"
Dante inspected the inflamed swelling on roughened skin from the jellyfish stings. Then he rummaged in his pack for a syringe.
"These look nasty. You're gonna have to hold still for a bit."
Grey watched Dante suctioning a stonking sharp needle labeled 'Big Daddy' with apprehension.
"You're not sticking that thing in me!" Grey recoiled.
Peeling away the soaked cotton of Grey's thigh area. Dante laughed.
"Just be prepared for a little shock."
Grey shut his eyes tight as Dante inserted the needle, feeling a sharp prick and a rush of pain shooting through his body.
He let out a stifled cry, trying not to lose face in front of the assassins.
"What did I say, it wasn't that bad was it?"
After Dante had administered the much-needed shot, Grey felt a slight improvement, his composure returning.
Now, his focus shifted to Robinson, realizing the extent of his companion's condition.
"Give it to him," Grey urged, "he needs it now."
Robinson was drifting in and out of phases of unconsciousness at this point, his breathing was shallow and his pulse was weak.
He awoke one minute later, confused and disoriented, by the site of Dante standing over him with what looked like a knitting needle.
"Easy there, I just have to do something to you!"
Dante's voice rang through Robinson's haziness.
"Where... What...?" Robinsion's throat felt like sandpaper.
"Relax, you're safe now," Dante said, his voice reassuring.
He brought the needle closer to Robinsion's thigh.
"Meet Big Daddy," Dante said with a wicked grin.
"Truth serums, torture you name it! Big Daddy's seen it all!"
"Quit playing around," Asp shouted from over his shoulder, taking note of Dante's horseplay.
Robinson gasped. "No, Dante, let me die!"
Upon impact Dante sent a jolt that passed through Robinson's body, his eyes snapped open.
He jolted uncontrollably like an electric eel, seawater spraying from his lips. The adrenaline pumped through his veins. His skin burned with a thousand tiny stings.
He held a firm hand on Robinson's shoulder, grounding him as his world slowly swam back into focus.
"You took a nasty hit from those jellyfish it looks like, but you'll be alright. Big Daddy here gave you a little boost."
He waved the discarded syringe with a faint smirk.
Robinson's eyes followed the gesture, landing on the menacingly sharp needle.
"I... I thought I was going to..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Grey, who had been watching the exchange, spoke up.
"You did good, Robinson. You hung on tight." Grey's eyes held a genuine warmth.
Dante dipped into the supplies, wrapping Grey and Robinson in a thick, olive-green military blanket.
The rough fabric felt comforting against shivering skin.
As if sensing their need for sustenance, Dante reached into his kit and produced a couple of MRE (meals ready-to-eat), dark brown chocolate bars.
"Here," Dante said, his voice surprisingly gentle for a stone-cold killer.
"Get some energy back in you."
"Can you open it for me?" Grey said, shuddering uncontrollably.
"Am I going to have to feed you both like a couple of babies?" Dante laughed.
Dante unpeeled the rapper, passing it over. Grey took a tentative bite; the bitter-sweet taste was a sharp contrast to the saltwater still filled within his lungs.
He looked at Robinson, his face sallow against the green of the blanket.
"Eat some of this Robinsion; Thank god we are still alive," Grey said.
Robinson bit a piece of the end. They both worked through the chocolate, until temperatures stabilized, which also brought with it the perils of dealing with the stinging jellyfish bites—Robinson was going through it too.
At this point. Aps had other things on his mind, steering the dinghy through rough waters.
The small outboard engine strained against wind and current without a compass or direction.
Surveying the horizon of nothingness. He was getting a sinking feeling that things would only get worse; the waves got choppier, and the boat threatened to overturn at any moment.
Grey and Robinson huddled together in the warmth of the blanket.
"Here, I'm here. Here," a mousy voice called out.
"I'm sure I heard a woman's voice," Dante remarked.
The voice called again, this time quieter, as though life was being drawn out of it.
"Forget it. It's just the ocean playing tricks on you," Asp said.
Secretly they all heard it. Still, the boat carried on, its torch plowing the Atlantic.
A spectresque contour, barely discernible between the waves flashed in front of them. The glint of a red uniform. The unmistakable sheen of blonde hair. A woman was strapped into an airplane seat; she was drooping, her seatbelt impaled into her stomach.
Asp brought the dinghy alongside her, rocking the chair. Then the water erupted, suggesting something had just awoken from its slumber.
Silver flashes tore through the surface, tiny predators swarming in a terrifying frenzy.
Piranhas had found her. The woman's chair was lopsided now. Inhuman screams tore from her throat; razor-sharp teeth gouged into her.
"Get her out do, do something," Robinson yelled.
Asp reversed, scrambling away from the gruesome tableau.
"I can always lighten the load of this craft. Starting with you Robinsion. One more body gone means nothing to me!" Asp replied.
Grey and Robinson were mortified; they thought the jellyfish encounter was bad—she was fucked beyond rescue.
The piranhas, blood-hungry vortex carried on, swirling around the woman's thrashing body like she was trapped in an overpowered jacuzzi.
The woman's choked, gurgling, then faded into a wet rasp.
Then, silence. All that remained was the sickening churn of piranhas.
"There is nothing we can do for her," Asp declared with finality.
Another yell rang out, in the vicinity of Asp's path, this time it was stronger,
"Help! Over here! Help!"
"That voice sounds familiar," Grey thought. To himself, it was decidedly Russian.
"It looks like we are not only survivors," said Dante.
"Help! Over here! Help.Now!"
Turning in a clockwise direction to the east, Asp could make out orange life jackets.
Two men bobbed up and down on the surface, waving their arms - Petrov and Uncle, Asp helmed over to the cries and switched off the kill switch.
Under the glare of his torch, Asp could see their faces contorted in despair.
Petrov floundered in the water, spitting out brine and saltwater. Uncle, appearing slightly more disciplined, maintaining stiff support of his struggling comrade.
"Grab me up!" Petrov shouted, prying out his arms.
"Sorry, boys," Asp said, looking around the dinghy.
"It looks like we got a full boat here!"
"You will do it now, I order you." Uncle spat, his sense of Qi had well and truly been sapped out of him by now.
Asp's hand hovered over the outboard motor's kill switch, igniting the engine's wisp. It vibrated through his fingertips.
"I told you, I ain't got any more room for passengers," Asp repeated, his voice firm.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"You treacherous dog. Mother Russia is going to fuck you up!"
Asp coughed and spluttered the engine to life, and the dinghy began to move away.
"Have a nice evening Gentleman."
"China will hang you all for treason!"
"Why don't you file that in your report for President Wang while you're at it, Uncle," Asp said on the way out.
The look on their faces intensified; they were being left behind. Petrov's pleas for help grew even more desperate, Begging. Both men slumped back into the life jackets.
In the last glimmer of receding light from the boat's aft. Grey passed them wrapped in a tattered blanket.
Their eyes locked, a silent question hanging in the air.
"But...we thought you was dead!" Petrov wheezed in bewilderment, unable to comprehend how Grey was onboard.
"Grey?" Uncle breathed heavily, "Lo Chen? Fuck!"
Before Grey could reply, Asp had already cut a swaft of foam, leaving Uncle and Petrov to the elements of the night.
A splash drew Uncle's and Petrov's attention, an unnatural splash.
"What was that?" Petrov said.
"Something just glided across my leg," Uncle said.
Just beneath the surface, twin shadows circled slowly like swimming knives.
Petrov and Uncle scrambled away, right into the path of a pair of approaching great whites, drawn by the scent of blood in the water.
With savage ferocity, the beasts attacked, razor-sharp teeth snapped hungrily, brutally tearing flesh.
Screams were cut short, two men vanished beneath the waves, dragged down in a vivid red- pool.
The Atlantic was their Graveyard, 'Jaws' their executioner.
One of the sharks spat out Uncle's arm turned off by the taste of Wang's gold watch. They swam away, more bodies awaited for a midnight buffet.
"We need to get out of this storm. We're too exposed here," said Asp.
"How many flares have we got left, Dante?"
"Like, only four."
"How is our food supply holding up?"
Dante reached into the dwindling supply of survival kits.
"Two days max, I guess, that's me being optimistic."
A faint cry rose through the storm, a whine drowned out by the whistling of wind and the pounding of surf.
"Help! Over here!"
"That sounds like Gulag," Dante commented.
"Fire up a flare, Dante," said Asp.
"We only have four, why waste it on rescuing, Gulag?"
"If there's a chance of a ship coming for him, I'll take it. We don't have many options left."
"Asp, really nobody knows we are out here!"
"Just do it! I run this shit," Asp commanded.
"For fuck sake," Dante said, withdrawing a flare.
With a sharp crack, Dante launched a flare into the sky. The crimson burst tore through, illuminating and painting the waves in an intoxicating red glow of dissipating smoke.
The light danced upon the faces of the survivors, highlighting their exhaustion.
Asp spotted the site; a pair of waving arms from afar. The sea of redness guided him through the hazardous waters.
Eventually, they found Gulag desperately clinging to a piece of luggage like a hunk of driftwood, his long body was limp with cold.
His face was covered in salty seaweed, a barnacle stuck to his bald head.
“Asp, you made it! Help me up,” said a relieved Gulag.
“We’ve survived like the gods that we are, right Gulag?” Dante asked.
“Yes, Dante. We are the gods. Now get me out of this freaking water!” Gulag responded.
“Did you get a rescue call out by any chance?” Asp remarked.
“When we reach land, our allies will take care of our needs. Now get me out the freaking water!”
“That’s if you reach land because the water seems to be pulling you further away.”
“What do you mean? I’m the boss of things!”
“You’re not much help to us now.”
The mini-chain gang of Grey and Robinson shuffled forward on weakened sea legs, struggling to maintain their balance on the slippery surface of the rubber boat.
When he saw Robinson, astonishment registered on Gulag’s ashen face—and seeing Grey’s, for that matter.
“Hello, Majister,” Robinson said.
“Long time, no see.”
"Suprise! Surprise!" Grey said with a smirk.
A defeated recognition registered in Gulag. "You disloyal bunch of bastards!"
"We work with only the highest bidders, Gulag, you should know that!" Asp said with an unapologetic tone.
"Your currency isn't worth the paper it's printed on."
"Robinson, Please...I'll give you anything. Just save me..." Gulag pleaded.
"I can give you that promotion, I am a VIP now in the new world order! That has got to be worth something?"
"Did you not know, Robinson? My influence is rising. You should be wary of yours waning. Is that not what you said to me once?
More like your influence sinking, Gulag?"
Robinson spat at him. "Such talent, if only you could have used your mind for something other than manipulation and deceit."
Gulag's head bobbled, his options becoming slimmer. He looked up to Grey, eating humble pie now.
"Grey, what has happened between us is in the past.
I can get you and your family back together! I can get you to Wang and Pushkin!
That's if you keep me alive?"
Grey considered the broken man before him, the one responsible for so much suffering in his life, suffering all a by-product of this one man now at his mercy,
Asp spoke calmly. "Our contract was to ensure Gulag's demise. It is about to be complete."
He strapped a machine gun over Grey's shoulder.
"Take this, Grey. I have set up the action for you. Just pull the trigger. Pour some led. He's all yours!"
Grey pointed the gun from the edge of the dingy, he barely had enough strength left in his arm. Robinson was right with him.
"Last chance, to show yourself Gulag. Where is my family?"
"Bohemium Grove. I am your only way in! You're not thinking straight."
Grey's trigger finger began to tighten, prepared to make his move.
"Are they still alive?"
"Yes, but that depends on you!"
Grey disconnected from himself, the taste of revenge tasting ever so sweet.
"Everyone will have his day to die, now your time is up!"
"You will regret this!"
"This is for Sanderson!"
An exploding chunk of hot metal flew toward Gulag's arm, tearing it clean off from his shoulder socket. Gulag screamed in agony.
Grey felt good at destruction. He aimed and fired at Gulag's other arm.
"That is for Turner !" Grey said, his voice filled with vengeance.
Water sprayed up from the impact of the bullets, mixing with Gulag's blood.
Robinson covered his eye with his free hand. The Bloodies stared on like it was just target practice down the shooting range.
Gulag floated on his back in shock, eyes still on the barrel.
"This is for my twin girls!"
Gulag's leg ripped away like donor kebab meat. Blood gushed out, decorating the water, under Asp's torch.
Grey wanted the other leg.
"This is for my wife!" Gulag screamed in torture.
Grey was ready for the final swan song, prepared to end Gulag's suffering once and for all.
"And, finally, this is for me!"
The final bullet in the chamber hit. Gulag gurgled. Blood poured out of his mouth.
Redemption was now rectified, Grey's ailing strength was gone. The gun bounced off on the floor of rubber.
"The job is complete," said Asp.
Slowly, Grey and Robinson turned to something unseen. Something was rippling under the waves, speeding up with alarming speed, sharks drawn once more to the scent of blood.
Fins cut to the surface with malicious precision. Their jaws split open, revealing serrated edges, hungry for fresh meat. Gulag saw his end, screaming a feral, guttural sound.
Grey watched indifferently. Dark ribbons unfurled, staining the waves a deep magenta.
Within seconds. Gulag was gone. Whether he told the truth about Grey’s family remained uncertain.
All that remained in this stormy void was the question of survival for now.
For the next couple of hours, Asp steered on some more, the boat bouncing in the shadows of the waves.
If they did not get help soon, they would all be joining the rest of the dead from the Gulfstream 500.
"Asp over there, look," Dante said," pointing towards the horizon.
They all turned and saw a massive outline growing out of the Atlantic, its shape and contours moving towards them at unnatural speed.
"What is that approaching?" Robinson asked warily.
Grey replied grimly, "With our luck, more enemy."
"Light up a flare, so I don't ride us straight into it. Whatever it is," Asp said.
Dante's luminesce lit up the sky. The iceberg was a monster, with jagged edges and a surface that glistened.
Surges of water crashed against it, sending up clouds of spray that sparkled like flickers of crystal in the night.
Shards of ice cracked rocking the dingy, the iceberg continued its relentless advance.
"It's a fucking iceberg!l!" Asp said, trying to maneuver out of its path, but they were too overpowered to escape.
Asp killed the engine giving up chase to a losing battle
"Gulag said Wang's and Puskin's armies had fleets of iced ships," Dante said.
"Now it makes perfect sense!" Asp replied.
"The pilots must’ve sent out an SOS call before the crash."
"A ship made of ice," Grey remarked in disbelief.
By now nothing surprised Robinson anymore, he just hid under the blanket, like a wimp.
Asp glared at Grey and Robinson.
“Keep your mouth shut, let me do the talking.”
"And what happens if we are interrogated," Grey asked.
"It's all well and good for you.
Me and Robinson here just had a hit taken out on us from Uncle's intel cell?"
“Uncle and Lo Chen are not here anymore,” Dante suggested.
“Freak accidents and all.”
"Exactly, both of you man up" Asp added.
"Let's hope Wang's and Pushkin's warlords, believe who we are!"
In Asp, they trusted inching the boat to the iceberg,
On its deck, a figure stood silhouetted, backlit by warm lights from within, surveying them with narrowing eyes.
Armed soldiers in uniforms stood around him, their eyes focused on the approaching boat with wary discipline.
“Bring them in,” he barked to the soldiers.
“See if they are Russian or Chinese. If they are, kill them.”
The inflatable came alongside an aperture chiseled from the colossal ice formation.
Militiamen equipped with a threadbare fiberglass ladder presented themselves from above, like soldiers defending a castle parapet, ready and waiting, with guns trained on the dingy.
One officer with a rough Southern American drawl shouted down.
"Throw your weapons in the water!"
Asp removed the strap of his machine gun, lobbing his weapon over the side. The rest of the assassins did the same in compliance.
Another soldier, slightly younger, slightly more suspicious, called out.
"State your nationality and your business here in these waters?"
"We've been in a plane crash," Asp replied firmly.
"All of us are from Great Britain."
The older officer surveyed his unit in offensive positions around him.
They had fished out a couple of Danish pilots an hour ago, they were flying the President of Greenland; who was also part of the new world order; the enemy.
"State your involvement with the President of Greenland?" the older officer demanded.
"Are you terrorists? Explain your actions immediately!"
Asp spotted his advantage, he knew very well this wasn't part of Wang's and Pushkin's fleet.
Lines could be blurred, truth could be bent.
"We are the Bloodies!" Asp declared triumphantly.
"We are assassins for hire.
The best in the business, killers of the president of Greenland.
Enemies of the new world order.
Assinators under contract to wipe out President Wang and President Pushkin, that was until we fell from the sky!"
The older officer looked around again at his unit, in get a load of this dude pulling out some Oscar-winning performance, ripped straight out of the script of 'Gladiator'.
"I don't know what to make of it," the younger officer said.
"I will report to our commander! And see what he makes of it," the older officer instructed, passing his torch.
"For now. Question them some more. If you smell any more bullshit shoot them on sight."
"Leave it me. I will deal with these impostors," the subordinate replied.
He swept his torch over the inflatable like a stage director, spotlighting the shivered faces.
The older officer reported on deck to the nodding commander.
"Go on then give me the crap, who contracted you to kill the presidents of Russia and China?" the subordinate asked mockingly.
"Was it Dr. Evil, or was you working with James Bond?"
Asp, hesitated, usually by about the third syllable any would-be provocateur wouldn't be around anymore to reach the end of a sentence.
"We have been working independently," Asp responded.
The subordinate raised his gun. "I will ask again by who?"
Grey and Robinson stood up together, by the chain of their handcuffs.
Grey shouted. "By me, will you let us on this boat or what?"
"Detain us or shoot us, I don't care. I'm freezing," Robinson challenged.
The subordinate closed upon Grey's face.
"That tattoo, has IRA ties, what the heck has the IRA got to do with anything?"
The officer directed his attention upon Robinson's with a stage left.
"And who the heck are you?"
Asp cuttingly side-kicked Robinson and Grey, putting them back in their place physically and metaphorically.
"I told both of you to shut up and let me do the talking didn't I."
Asp restarted neutrally. "That is Grey, our contractor, with a personal vendetta against your enemies.
That is Robinson a former butler to the Royal family."
"Asp, I was not a butler. I was the Royal chief of staff, give me some credibility!"
"Now is the time to keep your Gob shut," Dante suggested.
Asp was ready to deliver his final pitch.
"Have us as your allies. Take us to California. Let us finish our contract?"
The returning officer returned, hurrying.
"There's sight of an enemy ship we have to get in position."
"What about them?" the subordinate asked.
"Our commander is compelled, but he wants them detained for questioning. Do it now,"
"Affirmative!"
The rickety fiberglass ladder was lowered all the while the approaching glacier sailed across the waters, destined for a showdown in what would be a white-on-white crime.
Asp and the Bloodies quickly urged each other on, knowing they couldn't afford to waste time.
"Come on, move it along!"
The officers hoisted the ladder while the assassins tried to negotiate the slippery footfalls.
Grey and Robinson sprang away from the rocking dinghy, just escaping being dragged away, under their combined weight.
Grey's welted hand, caused ice sheets to bundle off the rungs onto Robinson's head; he hung midair like a loose cord, that was if Grey managed to keep his diminishing grip.
"This is all your fault!" Robinson growled.
"We wouldn't be stuck up here if it wasn't for you."
Ignoring Robinson's jabs. Grey focused all his energy on keeping hold of the hauling shaky ladder.
Asp and Dante assisted, providing a pair of extra hands until Grey and Robinson were pulled onto the deck.
They collapsed on sawbacks, eyes closed with a collective sigh.
A color seeped through their eyelids, painting the darkness in a vivid orange.
The man who had been watching them swaggered over smeared In suntan lotion, his broad authoritative manner was unmistakable.
Grey and Robinson opened their eyes. Grey gasped - it was Donald Trump, but different than the man he knew on TV.
This Trump appeared a decade younger, with muscular definition and great abs, rather than the slack folds of middle-aged flesh, his toupe looked fresh and blonder, a beard full and trimmed.
He wore combat fatigues, carrying an air of hardened leadership, very unlike the blustering businessman of the past.
Robinson eyed his muscles doubtfully. "Gulag's poison has had unexpected side effects on his physical appearance," Robinson said surprised.
"He looks like Chuck Norris, on steroids."
"Mr. Trump..." Grey said shakily.
"The one and only," said Trump.
"You, you!"
Trump flashed a bleached smile. "I'm told you folks wanted to kick some Wang and Pushkin ass?"
"Mr. Trump...so much has happened," Grey said.
"For now, rest and recover, gather your strength. Great changes are coming.
Do you want to make America great again?"
Grey thought he was hallucinating from exhaustion.
Robinson had met Trump before at a royal engagement, but not in this metamorphosis state.
"If I get my family back, yeah sure, why not," said Grey.
Just then, static buzzed from the walkie-talkie strapped to Trump's grenade-ridden ammo belt. He unclipped it and held it to his ear where an Asian voice emanated.
"This is Captain Wong-Hang of the CNS stormhail.
We have been tasked with the search and rescue of a Gulfstream 500 flight.
Your ship is unidentified, Please identify your Chinese-Russian fleet number for coordination purposes."
Trump smirked and pressed the talk button.
"This here's the USS Real Deal, baby. You're talkin' to the Big Kahuna himself, Captain Trump.
Where just about to blow your whole iceberg to hell and high water. How you copy, that Chinaman?"
Captain Wong-Hang gulped audibly over the radio.
"I do not understand your copy, Captain?"
Trump grinned ruthlessly at Grey and Robinson.
"You're about to see some fireworks, suckers."
He whipped around, mashing a large red button on a console.
"Captain Wong-Hang, you're over and out!"
With a metallic shriek, four rockets shot from launchers from Trump's weaponed flanks.
They streaked upon the enemy ship, striking explosions sent ice flying in all directions.
The berg cracked and crumbled, reducing to nothing but floating slabs within seconds.
The Bloodies looked on, stunned by the display of force. Captain Lars and Sven came out from below deck, observing the obliterated iceberg.
Trump turned back to Grey, still glowing with energy.
"You were going to California, right?"
"I believe so Mr. Trump," Grey said.
"You should see California in summer? Cause this cold bullshit ain't got nothin' on Palm Springs, baby!"
Asp came over. "Mr. President? How about you take us on a personal tour of Bohemium Grove instead? I hear there are some interesting guests there."
Trump's eyes darkened, as when he first ingested Ferox 13.
"Wang and Puskin are there for the hunting, They can't rule like I can!"
He slapped Grey's back with a chuckle.
"You Brits! Always trying to invade."
Trump walked off, god knows where. The situation had taken an even more bizarre turn, thanks to the incredible transformation of one Donald Trump.
For better or worse, their fates now seemed tied to this reprogrammed madman, completely unaware of the effects of Gulag's Ferox 13.
Trump's mysterious hijacked icebreaking vessel, voyaged through the North Atlantic.
Many of Wang's and Pushkin's ships crossed his path. Trump was on a one-man mission 'To Make America Great Again'. One bullet, one missile at a time.