Drew Collins
E Period
G-Smitty and the North Pole Dilemma


42°44'42.78" N 70°55'09" W Triton High School, Newbury MA, USA  ~  Present Day

	It was a fine day and G-Smitty, or Mr. Goldsmith, as his wonderful, perfect class of students commonly knew him, was teaching the boring and useless subject of English.  He knew that the skills he taught in the class would never actually help his students in the real world, but a teacher made the perfect cover for a secret, undercover communist fighting agent. Just then, they were reading some ancient, unimportant book written by a Greek dude that needed to get outside more, when Scott raised his hand and waved it around wildly. Mr. Goldsmith knew that Scott’s question would not only be pointless, but would have no educational value whatsoever, but he was in a good mood, so he called on him anyway (plus, he knew if he didn’t, Scott would eventually blurt it out anyway).
“Yes?” asked Mr. Goldsmith, in a this-better-be-good tone.
	“I HAVE A SPLINTER!!” yelled Scott so loud the room next door would, if they had not gotten used to it at the beginning of the year, been sure someone was dying.
	“Well if your looking for sympathy you’ve come to the wrong place.” Scott looked vaguely disappointed and continued with his test. “”I expect everyone to be done in about five min-” Just then, thousands of miles away, a light, no brighter than you average flashlight began to signal a Morse Code distress signal. Not even the military’s strongest scanners would have detected it, but for G-Smitty it was easily distinguishable for the rest of the world.
	He pressed a button on his watch, and unbeknownst to the student, who still had no idea anything was happening, a small, specially modified mosquito XEL helicopter began to silently warm up and the extremely oiled propellers began to spin, however no noise could be heard to the student in the cafeteria, which sat below the secret room where the chopper was now beginning to levitate, and accordingly, a hatch opened to let it into the sky.
	Meanwhile, back in the classroom, the students noticed something was wrong. G-Smitty was acting very strangely. He was move quicker than anyone thought possible, running across the room grabbing his belongings, then in a flash he ripped off his teacher clothing to reveal a fine tailored suit.  From his bag he pulled out an old beaten up gasmask, with wide, circular eye goggles, and a dark gray cylindrical breathing apparatus. He quickly strapped it on his head and, to the amazement of the student, dove strait out the second story window to a waiting helicopter.
	With the sudden added weight displacing it careful balance, the small chopper swayed dangerously in the small courtyard to the point that it almost hit the other side. But g-Smitty’s expert control of the craft, mixed with the autopilot elevating already, evaded the early demise of our hero and this story.
	G-Smitty knew that his current craft had neither the speed, nor the fuel to reach his distant objective, so he set his course for his underground lair on duck island off the isles of shoals.
	To locals, and the common tourists, the island was off limits for "dangerous remains of past military testing." Several year previous, during WWII, testing of prototype bombs was done on the lifeless rock heap, known as Duck Island, due to its isolation, and population of only ducks and gulls. In present day, the avian residence gives a rare and surprising spectacle to the lucky tourist who happens to be staring at the distant, non-discrete island as an unfortunate bird steps on a still live explosive devise and is enveloped in a feathery explosion.
	For this reason, the island is a strict no-go zone for anyone, and thus, it was the perfect location for G-Smitty to build his fortress of gadgetry and advanced weapons.
	As his craft glided silently into the hidden hanger door on a small cliff face on the edge of the island, a lone fisherman looked up from his beer and starred in amazement as the chopper when into the hanger and the cloaked doors closed like there were never there. Josh the lobster man blinked, and smiled in amusement, just waiting to tell everyone back at the port he had seen it again. They would definitely believe him this time...
	G-Smitty Flew in darkness for several nervous seconds, vaguely wondering if his light system had been affected by the latest nor'easter, and what exactly, he would do if it had, when finally they clicked on row by row.
	clink. clink. clink. clink. clink.
	It was a large, three story warehouse like building. he was climbing out of his XEL on a metal grated platform up on the third floor that allowed him to see the entire complex beneath his feet. While he geared up for his unknown mission, he considered his vast array of transports, attack vehicles, and any where in between. An expression began to form on his face. The kind you might find on a customer, reading his menu. Finally, the decision was made: The F-16 Fighting Falcon.
	 The hanger doors reopened and the Falcon flew out of the doors creating a small sonic boom and nearly flipping the fisherman's boat half a mile away.
	 The time for being discrete was over. His Friends at the North Pole were in trouble and he knew it. The distinct New England shore were fading into a 360° horizon of watery landscape. With the craft on auto pilot, the fuel tank full, and no obvious danger in sight, the agent/teacher consented daydreaming about his glorious past...

76°10'33.6 N  132°30'04.9E On an Iceberg, Laptev Sea, West of Ostrov Strizheva, Northern Russian Waters  ~  1991, End of the Cold War

	Things did not look good. At a first glance, two things could be noted that suggest the current mission had gone less than seamlessly. The First was the clothing. G-Smitty and Santa's equally iconic and everlasting costumes, normally spotless and carefully ironed were torn, ripped, blood stain, caked in dirt, and dripping in icy water. The second notable problem was that an army of nearly one hundred soviets stood before them guns raised and nothing to loose as their empire crumbled.
	G-Smitty turned to Santa. "We had a good run old pal."
	Santa chuckled, but it was filled with the sorrow of surrender, "Ho ho ho! We sure did G-Smitty"
	Out of nowhere came a blinding red light light, momentarily stunning everyone on the Iceberg. G-Smitty, Animal-reflexes awakened, will-to-live rekindled, dove into action, ...literally. His dive through the air hit Santa square in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. Santa never got to refill his lungs because the two of them quickly crashed into the subzero waters. G-Smitty struggled to remain in control of the situation, knowing he had seconds before his body went into shock. Santa's Arm still in his iron grasp, he surfaced, unsure what he would find, the savior red light still a mystery.
	On the mini arctic tundra above, an epic battle was engaged between the communist and Santa's Reindeer. Machine-gun Fire and the clash of Antlers on Flesh filled the air, and in the middle of the battle was the source of the mysterious light. Rodolph, Nose blazing, hoofs pounding, teeth tearing, was fighting he way across the snowy scrimmage with unmatched skill...

85°46'15.55" N  37°16'50.87" W North of Greenland, Nearing the North Pole.  ~  Present Day

	G-Smitty was worried. Rodolph was a bit of a hot head and had never missed a point to prove his superiority over G-Smitty and everyone else in the world. For him to be flashing a S.O.S. in the vague hope of someone coming to their aid, well, thing must be pretty bad.
	G-Smitty was now very close to the geographic north pole and was over the ice that stay solid and uncracked year-round. He began to lower in altitude until he was skimming the mini ice mountains. His landing gear lowered and he smoothly touched down, less than a mile from the Terrestrial North Pole, where man had first set foot over 100 year previous. G-Smitty did not even bother with this site, and walked in the opposite direction, head for a small mountain that looked like something out of Dr.Suess, curling at the peek in a full twirl.
	 As he approached, large, icicle bearing, candy cane gates came into view. It was a beast of Architecture, standing nearly 20 feet tall. Each cane must have been at least a foot in diameter. Soon, he was upon the gates, and, as he knew they would, the swung open for him magically. Beyond the gates lay a wide road that lead strait through a small village of gingerbread houses, and stopped, several hundred feet ahead of him, with two golden Doors right in the cliff side of the mountain. The threshold of Santa's workshop.
	The Gingerbread village, usually filled with the joyful giggles of the gingerbread men, a carefree, happy race, was eerily silent that day, and G-Smitty's footsteps on the ice slicked candy road echoed around the deserted town.
	At first glance, as far as suited men wearing gas-masks go, G-Smitty look pretty relaxed and unbothered by this change to his surroundings, however, closer examinations would point otherwise. The tendons in his neck bulged, blood racing to his brain, causing the world to slow down slightly, giving him an edge that proved critical in potentially dangerous situations
	Like this one, He reminded himself, forcing his brain not to wonder. His hand tightened on his  M9 Combat Pistol with his own little surprise inside: an extended magazine holding FMJ coated Bullets for extra slickness to slide through targets better.
	G-Smitty walk up to these doors, however, they did not open magically, as they usually did, and G-Smitty was forced to open them using the large golden handles, originally meant only for decoration. The Doors creaked open, and to G-Smitty's surprise, the room was dark and quite. G-Smitty wondered in the toy making workshop, which was usually filling withe sound of the working and chattering of the elves, making them louder than G-Smitty's E period class after lunch.
	Today, the room was quiet, and G-Smitty felt as though the silence was closing in on him, and instinctively, he felt the need to make noise to drive back this terrible feeling, but he suppressed this urge and continued walking. now that he was inside, and his eyes adjusted to the light slightly, G-Smitty saw that the room wasn't completely dark. Across the hall sat a single lit candle in the darkness, and as it flickered around in the polar draft, it send wild dancing shadows across the walls.
	Closer still to the light, G-Smitty realized there was a figure lying next to the light and he picked up his pace sightly to reach it, no longer worried for himself, but for the man lying on the ground, who was quite possibly hurt judging by his lack of movement. As he continued walking toward the unknown figure and its red jacket- A realization hit him: Oh No, that's Santa. He broke into a run. Santa was lying face down with his hat shoved almost completely over his head. Just then Santa Claus stirred and G-Smitty was briefly filled with hope.
	Then he saw Santa's hair, and realized just how much trouble he was in.
	BOOM!
	At this exact point several important things happened. First, the golden doors swung shut with a loud crash. Second, the lights came revealing the small army that had successfully tricked G-Smitty into their trap. Third, the Man G-Smitty thought was Santa rolled over to reveal a Russian man wearing a Santa suit, Santa hat, (and as G-Smitty had realized) a fake white wig and beard, and more importantly, wielding a Mark XIX Desert Eagle.
	G-Smitty, mind racing at a million miles per hour, raised his hands from his side, slowly, slowly to his head. Then, one leg at a time, he moved himself from the standing position to kneeling. Then, the Santa man made a mistake. G-Smitty knew he would have to eventually. The man, just  for a second, removed a hand from his gun and brushed sweat from his brow, and went to put it back on the gun. This whole, rather uneventful ordeal lasted just over a second. It was all G-Smitty needed. G-Smitty moved with unnatural speed. Because now, every nanosecond counted. He knocked the handgun out of the man's hand and twisted the man's arm more times than the bones would allow and several snaps could be heard from his arm. The man cried out in pain and his back arched.
	That's when they all started shooting. G-Smitty ran, but bullets came from all directions, and G-Smitty used the body, now limp and dead, as a shield, spinning him around protecting what ever area was the most vulnerable. From his waist G-Smitty withdrew a M83 smoke grenade, which he threw at his feet. Instantly, he was engulfed in smoke and he dropped the body and drew from his jacket Dual Silenced UMP45 sub-machine guns. Just as he was about to emerge from the smoke in a final change offensive maneuver that would undoubtedly be suicide, An door across the toy making Tables burst open and the real Santa and his reindeer, still breaking free of bonds, rushed into the room catching the Russians off guard, Giving G-Smitty a chance to pour several clips into them with deadly accuracy.
	Enemy lines broken, and fighting on both sides, chaos erupted. The long thin tables were tipped over and used as barricades, how ever, this was soon abandoned seeing as most bullets went right through the tables, and the deer, being melee fighters, jumped right over the tables and into the action.
	G-Smitty seized this opportunity and ditched the UMPs and drew from his backpack an old favorite: the AUG HBAR Light Machine Gun. No longer restricted to small clips, he poured bullets into the Communists, unfortunately, reinforcement had arrived.
	The big golden doors groaned, trembled, and then gave out. Hinges broken, they crashed to the ground and in rolled a Soviet WWII, Iosif Stalin tank. Mounted on top was a devastatingly powerful M61 Vulcan Minigun. G-Smitty, understanding when to stay and fight, and when to run, happily employed the later.
	"Santa!" he yelled, "We've got to go!"
	Then, G-Smitty and the whole holiday crew made a run for it to the room where Santa had made his arrival to the battle. The minigun sprayed its first round, as the communists realized their prisoners were getting away. The gun shot over 100, 6.3 mm RHA rounds per second. The spay of bullets came dangerously close to Dasher and Doner, but they made it to the room alive.
	Here, sat Santa's sleigh. As G-Smitty had once instructed him to do in case situations like this ever arose, on each side of the sleigh were AT4-CS mounted rocket launchers.