After trudging helplessly, Vandermann's throat was as dry as a piece of sandpaper lying in the middle of the Sonoran Desert for weeks. He was indeed in the Sonoran Desert. He was an U.S. Marine, and Marines were all real tough guys. But what could he do, when all the tough guys are down, killed by some nasty Russian paramilitary? The Russians had captured the entire west coast of America, to get their dirty hands on the damn nukes beneath the Yucca Mountains. The U.S. president had sent for the American troops to go ahead and intercept. But what could they do, in the heat, the unbearable heat, of the desert that lay between the mission destination, and the army base?

Obviously, the Marines had to use aircraft to get there, right? Well, they did. But on the way, Sgt. Vandermann Vugerton's helicopter had suffered an engine failure. So he and his partner, both escaped from the chopper, before it hit the sandy ground, and exploded. They found a tiny wooden hut, where a cowboy was lurking in the shadows. Vandy's assistant had a fight with the guy, but the guy had a damn Remington 870 shotgun. So there was a bang! bang! and both the cowboy and Vandy's assistant, dropped to the ground, covered in blood.

In his dying moments, the cowboy, named Joe Catshoe, handed Vandy some letters, crammed into an envelope.

"Take them," the cowboy had said, spitting a bit of blood out of his lip as he spoke. "And give them to my nephew, Cooper Blackburn. But when you...when you'll hand these...these letters...tell him..."

"Tell him what?" Vandermann took the envelope from Joe's severed hand. "Tell him what, sir?"

"Tell him...that...ahh..." the cowboy's body gave a quick jolt, and his words barely escaped from his mouth. The last bit of info was really crucial, but Vandermann missed it. Too bad.

So there he was, walking along the cursed sand, with no hope left in mind. But hope reappeared, in the form of a vehicle.

His right hand clutched the envelope tightly, to protect it from the harsh, dusty desert winds blowing from the southeastern direction. His eyes stung from being assaulted by sand grains. His M4A1 carbine rifle was hanging from his back, swinging this way and that.

Here follows a bit of a brief biography of this newly-met character.

In the year 1740, Vandermann’s great great great father’s grandfather had settled in Arizona of the United States from an ancient town called ‘Chinkinaliknalcholi’ from Peru in South America.

In 1989, Vandermann was born – in a subway tunnel. His birth was a disaster indeed. As soon as he was out in the world, his parents’ train clashed with another incoming train from the opposite direction. During the impact, Baby Vandy had been thrown off through an open window by his mother, with tearful eyes, as both parents were crushed to death. Due to some miracle, the boy had survived with only a few bruises as he had landed on another woman’s lap through the window of another passing-by train. So you could say that Vugerton learnt to do acrobatic stunts from the time when he was still in nappies!

The woman who found him was the depressed Mrs Vugerton, who always wanted a son. She was praying for a child when suddenly, in her hands, was a live one! She was so impressed by God’s blessings that she gave up smoking for a month!

Thirteen years later, Vandermann’s fighting abilities could be seen in his hobby of collecting pictures of war, maps of war-torn countries and watching movies full of violence (and war).

He was immediately taken to a military school where he launched his first assault (demonstrated his talent). In a few hours, he worked out a cross-country battlefield defense maneuver technique, which he performed in front of an Army General. He got an instant diploma and was rushed for training.

After a number of years, he had his first real-life war experience. It took him only 3 minutes and 47 seconds to destroy the enemy base. All of this was the cause of an ‘accident’.

While he was testing the turret of an M1A1 tank, he accidentally stepped on the accelerator while the tank’s gear was in reverse. As he pulled a lever, thinking it was the gear shift, he had elevated the turret upwards by 25⁰. It was all thanks to a tiny fly which landed on a button, after stinging Vanderman, that his hand went to swat the insect. Instead, he hit the button. Big mistake! The button was the launcher of the turret cannon, which shot a heavy 120 mm shell towards the enemy frontlines in the North. The shell pierced through the fences and exploded over the enemy headquarters – due to some thankful defects in that particular shell itself.

The Russian encampment (the enemy) got shocked to such an extent that they instantly began departing away from the States to gather more reinforcements.

And the rest is history.

Now…. Back to the present….

In the horizon, he could spot a few clumps of cacti, and dead bushes and scrubs. Nothing interesting, just regular desert crap. The sky was an ever-blue blanket of infinite proportions, cloudless, and bright with hue. Usual weather. Nothing fun, nothing extraordinary. Just the lonely, sandy desert. Typical.

Slowly, a soft rumbling of an engine drifted towards his ears. It was a 4x4 jeep, by the looks of it, mounted by soldiers and cowboys. Great, so now more shitty cowboys were coming to take revenge for what Vandy's comrade had done to that old wretch. Hostile or not, he wasn't so sure. The sun was burning the back of his head. This had to be it. He deserved medical help, ASAP. And chance was peeking at his opportunity.

"Hey! Stop! Stop-halt!" Vandermann raised and waved his arms, to try to grab their attention. And sure enough, he did. The jeep decelerated calmly. But sand slipped through the tire treads easily.

"Yeah, how may we help you?" a cowboy with black aviators and big jaws spoke on behalf of the driver, sitting beside him. "Speak!"

"Um...I'm a Marine, so learn to respect men of high order. But that's not the reason I stopped you. I need help, sirs. Get me to a city or human settlement. I lost my air transport vehicle. So please let me in your gang."

"Okay, we'll see about that!" The tough-looking cowboy sunk into deep thought, for a while. He was wearing black in everything, except for the yellow outer jacket. A black cowboy hat sheltered his shoulder-length hair, dark as black. "Are you part of, or in association with, or allied with the Russian forces?"

"No, sir."

"Then what the hell are you doing, standing there, homie! Get in. Our gang is free and friendly to those who oppose against the damn Russians. We are a type of rebellion force, run by agencies back at New York. Ever heard of the Mission Integrated Workforce (MIW) or the Integrated Mission Force (MBC), buddy? Those are our sponsors! And this—" he widened his arms, indicating that he meant the jeep. "—is our mode of transport. Like or not, we'd have chosen you to join us, even if you hadn't tried to stop us. And do you need anything else, homie?"

"I need to see Cooper Black..." he showed him the envelope. "To give him this."

"Oh, in that case..." the cowboy loaded a Colt.45 pistol. "You are certainly welcome to come with us."

Vandermann gulped, as he slid into the space available at the back of the jeep, between the two soldiers.

"So when do I get to him?" he asked after a couple of minutes.

The cowboy beside the driver grinned.

"My dear friend, you already did!" he shot a round into the heart of the sky. Vandermann understood.