Modern / Slight Future

Tammy felt a little like a spy. Here she was, watching the PMC base from the outskirts of the forest she'd come through checking out the activity. How she was to get inside she didn't know exactly. She was pretty sure they weren't just going to let her wander straight inside so she needed a solid plan.

Sometimes being a journalist helped. She knew how to play dirty when it was needed. And right now it was probably needed. She didn't like playing dirty, but sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do. And this was one of those times.

She retied her blonde hair into a single ponytail, rolled the sleeves of her flannel shirt up to her elbows and redid the laces on her shoes while she thought about exactly what she wanted to say when she approached the guards. She was going to have to go with a forceful approach and bluff her way through with knowledge of journalism to make them think she had something on the base that could be potentially damaging to them.

She had nothing.

But they didn't need to know that. Checking her bag, and the pockets of her cargo trousers, she made sure that she had everything she needed and headed off towards the guards. First she'd try the non-invasive approach. If that didn't work well then, it was onto plan B.

Once she got to the guards, she smiled. "So, I was wondering if one of you fine, young men would let me inside to see someone in charge of this whole operation." It didn't hurt paying them a complement or two in the process either. She just smiled at the men and waited expectantly to be let inside.

Areli had already set-up a routine and currently he was on his morning jog. They were a few assignments up for a few to work if they wanted to make some extra money before the real stuff. The tasks were minor and Areli was leaning to the hospital one. He knew nothing about medicine but he knew basic first aid and had a light machine gun so either he could help or make sure everything ran smoothly.

While on his way pass the entrance, he noticed a blonde woman with her hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up. She was talking to guards like she was trying to get in without any question. Areli shook his head. If she was not listed, there was no way in hell she would get in. Areli was curious so he slowed down.

Currently, no one was speaking. "What is going on here?" Areli asked as he began to walk over. He was sweaty and that showed on his tanktop. One of the guards spoke up, "This woman is trying to get into the base to speak with the leader of the operation."

Areli shook his head and looked at the young woman. "You are not going to see him. I haven't even seen him." Areli gently took her by the arm and led her away from the guards and back down the road a ways so they could talk without being interupted or overhead. "I will set her straight, guys. Back to your posts."

The guards had told her exactly what she'd expected them to say, and she'd have been disappointed if they hadn't. It would have been poor defense if they'd just let her in. But they hadn't even asked why she wanted to see their leader. Tammy hadn't even known if there was an operation or whatever, but when another man appeared out of nowhere - having being on a daily jog, they informed him of who she wanted to see and that confirmed that there must have been some sort of operation going on.

When the male took her arm and started to lead her away, she frowned, immediately trying to pull her arm out of his grip. "I'm not leaving here until I see the right person and I will get in there and see the right person." Tammy warned him. "You don't want to mess with me. I may be a female, and small and defenseless in the sense that I have no weapons, but I know my stuff. And I want to get in to see whoever is in charge here, Mister..."

She trailed off a moment, expecting him to give her his name.

Areli's grip was strong and a bit firm to make sure she could not easily get away and stupidly trying to get into the base again. Areli snorted at her as she spoke of getting in there and see the right person. Areli gave her a quick glance over and smiled lightly at the idea of her attempting to fight him off. "You are not going to get in and see the guy in charge. I work there and I have not even seen the guy who runs the show. I have seen our commander but he is a puppet."

He took a deep breath and let her go once they were far enough away. "My name is Lovell... Corporal Areli Lovell. Former Royal Marines."

"Then I want to speak to your commander. Either way I'm getting into the base. I have some important things to discuss, things that I can't discuss with you, Mister Lovell." She told him. "Now, if you don't mine, before I really kick up a fuss out here, you'll lead me into the base and to your commander." She wasn't giving up her name just yet. Tammy wasn't sure if her name was known between people for journalism, and she wasn't sure if people knowing that she was in the journalism industry would help her case or worsen it.

"So, Mister Lovell, are you going to take me into the base or not?"

Areli smiled softly. "Look I brought you out here so we can talk without being overheard. You are not going to be able to get into the base and you are not going to see the commander as he..." He stopped himself as it occured to him if she could be a reporter. He groaned and sighed. "Look why do you even want to see him? You are a civilian. Probably a reporter." He thought about it for a minute.

"Look if you are a reporter, let me see your notebook." He held out his hand for a moment. He doubted she would trust him to not tear it in half but he was going to give her a story that she could give and have them mentioned but in a small part without giving too much away.

"I'm not a reporter." She lied easily. And it was part truth. She was writing an article on the charity work she was doing, and her job right now was to help them out. "I'm a charity worker in a nearby village and I'm concerned about our protection." That was truth, not exactly the true reason she was here, but it was enough to hopefully get her inside to talk to someone of importance.

With the clashes and violence between people, she was worried that soon the enemy would come through and devastate the village she was in. Poverty and disease was already claiming many lives, they didn't need violence claiming more. "I'm wasting valuable time standing here arguing with you when I could be back in the village saving lives. I did not come down here to just be turned back. So the quicker you let me in to talk to the right person, the quicker I can get back with the news I want."


Areli raised an eyebrow and thought about what she was saying. She still haven't give him her name so she was clearly one to withhold the truth. "You are gonna expect me to believe that you haven't even gave me your name?" He scoffed before adding. "Look I get that you are trying you ensure the safety of the village and the rest of the people with you but you are not going to talk with the 'right' person. I am not even sure they would let you leave since you know our location."

He sighed and looked at her. "You know of a local hospital? Well they have recently been flooded with wounded from a recent clash that went down. I am going to be there if you would like to meet me there and chat a bit more of why I am here. And if you really want to help, you could probably give those doctors and nurses a helping hand since they are probably overwhelmed. Now can I see your notebook so I can give the name of the place and when I am going to be there?"

"My name is Tammy, if you must know." Anyone could be called Tammy, without giving away her last name they wouldn't have any idea if she was a reporter or not, but this guy seemed to be able to tell. Maybe he'd seen her picture with an article or something. Either way, she smiled at him.

"So, if I might not be allowed to leave because of knowing your location, does that mean I'd be let on base? And, surely this hospital is on base, which means, if I'm to help out I'd be let inside then, right?" She smirked, firguring she'd found the loophole and that either way she was getting on base.

She pulled her backpack off of her back and opened it up, digging through her things for her notepad before bringing it out and handing it over to Areli. The first few pages were full of notes containing details of the state of the village she was working in, and then the last two pages were things that she'd heard about the PMC base that had led her to decide to check it out.

"Here you go. I'd appreciate it if you kept my previous notes intact with the book." She told him, hesitant at first to hand over the notebook, but in the end she did.

Areli looked at her and nodded as he tried to recall of reporters or journalists that he knew of that a name that could be shortened to Tammy. He gave up after several seconds thinking the name was on the tip of his tongue so to speak. "The hospital is not on base. I am pretty sure it is quite a ways away from the base but it is an assignment we could talk and you could be useful other than snooping where you belong."

"Also I meant these people probably don't have much of a conscious so you could disappear. I would hate to see that." He wrote down the hospital name and when he was going to be there so she could meet him. He looked at her and flipped the pages back to see what she knew about them and what she had wrong.

"This PMC base probably isn't as private as you seem to think it is, Mister Lovell." Tammy stated, crossing her arms as he flicked through her notes. "It's talked about throughout our village. Everyone knows. And if you're not going to let me go in, then I want you to go in and get someone else to come out and talk to me. I heard that you guys were the good guys and that it was possible that when the time was needed we could get protection during evacuations if necessary." She took a quick pause before continuing.

"Do you have any idea how many orphans we have? How many children have lost their parents to poverty and disease? How many children are dying currently because of the current conditions and the fact that most of them have one disease or another passed on from their parents. Unfortunately we are short on funding for enough medication and supplies to make their lives more comfortable, but we do what we can. And if you are threatening me with just 'disappearing' to make things easier for yourself then you have another thing coming. I don't just disappear easily, Mister Lovell and your threat doesn't scare me either. I am not a threat, or I'm not threatening you and your base yet. But with the knowledge that they-"

Areli frowned and moved his face extremely close to her. "Threats? I was not making threats. I am warning you because I have no idea what conscious the people I work for have but thank you for ironing out the fact that our base location is a well known fact." He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger of his right hand. She was starting to give him a headache like a reporter would when he was back in the RM.

He took a moment to look away before looking at her again. "Look I am trying to help you with a story that you could write about us without it being strictly about who I work for." He spoke with an even tone like he was trying to keep himself from saying something that would clearly be taken wrong. He took a deep breath then let it go. "Look I can talk to the higher ups about giving you guys protection for an evac if we get word about troops moving towards you guys. I can't guarentee anything but that is the best I can do." He looked at her waiting for her response.

Tammy's expression turned to one of anger as he cut her off. She was annoyed with this guy, but she was as stubborn as a mule and she wasn't going anywhere until she'd talked to someone other than this... this man. "When exactly did I state I wanted a story about the PMC base. That is not why I'm here. My assignment is based on those children. But I will be quick to change my mind and write an article about the new local PMC base making unwanted people 'disappear'." She told him.

"I'm pretty sure someone else will talk to me with knowing that." Tammy added. She had found the power she thought she needed to gain the upperhand that would lead her into the base. "And I'll come to that hospital, just to help out where I can." She added, "I'm a charity worker. If they need help then I have first aid training and can help out where I'm needed. I can be civil as well, Mister Lovell."

Areli scratched under his chin and shook his head. "Look I am not sure that people have even disappeared. I am just saying I would not be surprised if it did take place. These people don't exactly rub me the right way." He looked at her. "Right, charity work... that is why you have a notebook with the making of 2 articles in it." He shook his head and handed back the notebook. "Good day, Tammy." He turned and headed back to base. He had some people he needed to talk to and he was not sure if this was going to go over well.

The scent of gun cleaning solvent, lube, and cordite clung to Saladin like a sort of industrial cologne even though he had thoroughly washed his hands and face. He was walking into the mess hall after having spent most of the day cooped up in the armory repairing and cleaning service weapons for those on-base. For the most part, his jobs were routine, usually doing slightly more thorough cleaning on at least a few dozen AKMs, maybe unsticking a few gritty Makarov slides, and doing a few tune-ups on a few of the more up-market weapons that had been turned into the armory, like a few H&K MP5s, Colt M4's, and even a few South African Vektor rifles.

Arguably the hardest part of his time in the armory was sorting out the weapons belonging to those who were now in the hospital as a result of the recent firefight the boss had mentioned. He could tell these apart from other jobs because the firearms in question were usually severely damaged and/or had dried blood caked on it. Working to repair these weapons told Saladin he had jumped in with both feet and he had to commit to his work no matter how much the damage on weapons that came in told him something serious had happened. Assuming a weapon's user would live to fight another day, Saladin had to make sure the operator didn't go back out into the bush without a weapon they could entrust their life to, which meant being able to have confidence when they got their service weapon back, and that would not happen with dried blood and mud and other detritus still clinging to the weapon. 30 primary weapons and sidearms were in need of repair, so he took them each one by one, stripped them down piece by piece, and cleaned them, thoroughly, replacing parts too far gone to be simply repaired, and then reassembled them before test-firing them and then cleaning them again. His meticulous attention to detail took up several hours of his time, and mealtime was the first time he'd been out of the armory all day.

Having picked out what seemed to be a more appetizing meal of Chicken and Yellow rice, Saladin looked for a table to sit down at. He didn't really know most of these people before him, and he wasn't willing to impose on anyone; therefore, an empty table would be ideal. Just then, however, a familiar and exuberant voice called out to him.

"Hey! Saladin, over here!"

Saladin scanned the mess hall before spotting the waving hand of the blonde who had complimented his shooting skills back in Maine. It took him a second to connect a name with the face, but he quickly recognized it was Johanneke calling him over, inviting him to sit down with her. He accepted the invitation, since sitting with someone he knew would be less awkward.

"Hello again, Miss Rankin." Saladin greeted as he sat down.

"Just call me Johanneke; 'Miss Rankin' makes me feel like a teacher or something. Anyway, so how was your first day out here? Close enough to the action for you?"

"It has certainly kept me busy. How was your job?"

"I had fun!" replied the Afrikaner with a grin. "I spent most of the day helping that adorable mechanic of ours, Lucinda."

"It took that long to unpack the Hilux?"

"Unpacking was easy, the hard part was bolting everything together--well, not really that hard, but there was only two of us once everything was unpacked. I stayed behind to help her bolt all the attachments on; she said she didn't need the help, but I figured she needed someone to hold that brushguard while she screwed it down with the rattle gun."

Johanneke then flexed her bicep. "Luckily, I've got the muscle for it." she added with another grin.

"Were you able to help elsewhere?" Saladin asked.

"Well, I've had medical training, but I don't trust it enough to help out at the hospital. Besides, Lucinda didn't kick me out, so I figured I might as well stay and help out. And it seems that the perimeter fixes have been taken well in hand."

"Ah."

"Looks like it's a good thing I wasn't at the hospital, too." Johanneke mused, looking at a particularly bloodstained contractor.

It wasn’t even past nine and already the heat was becoming oppressive but at the moment what grabbed her attention more was the aftermath of an earlier firefights car bomb attack. The entire front gate of the base was in ruins. What Illya assumed was the remains of a gate lay charred and half melted while the road marred with a crater some three feet deep and easily more than twenty feet wide. The crater was quickly being filled by a crew of a dozen or so workers as they shoveled gravel and dirt while half that number watched out over the scrubland with wary gazes and ready weapons.

Among that half dozen was the man Illya was currently talking to, heavy set and with skin dark enough to allow him to pass as a local; though thought his accent suggested Britain as his homeland. He sighed as he oversaw the work. “This… is new; otherwise I think it wouldn’t have happened.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps that is my pride talking.”

“Then how did attacks normally work?” Illya asked as she followed the overseer walk around the scene, occasionally barking orders at some mistake being performed.

“Normally it’s RPG and mortar attacks. This one occurred when several trucks we’re bring supplies- so he ignored our normal checks to let the trucks get into the base safely and then.. Well.” He waved his hands over the carnage in a hopeless gesture.

“Perhaps a second,” Illya started diplomatically, she had just arrived and in no real leadership position after all. “Earlier checkpoint would be prudent?”
The overseer just turned to look at the newly hired mercenary. “No, really?” He replied with a mix of sarcasm and admonishment. “Though I’m short staffed at the moment with repairing the damage from the last attack and I would not want to pull people off guard duty given the situation.”

“I’m sure I can help, even if it’s just filling holes or hesco’s, be more useful then gawking wouldn’t it?” Illya offered, she hated just sitting around even if that meant doing menial labor. But really when the menial labor helped you sleep safely at night it was worth it.

It would take time for a new gate to be brought in so for now a series of barriers would make a series of turns that any car or truck would have to go through before getting into the base. This kept anything from simply storming the gate. The large cubic Hesco barriers were an ease to set up but without a front loader, the bases had been hit in a mortar attack three days ago, the five foot tall boxes had to be filled by hand.

Illya still think it beat filling sandbags.

It was abnormally quiet in the barracks area. None of the usual partying or brawls were going on, only the occassional individual running to one task or another. It was a tense mood that fell upon the compound whenever attacks would occur, like normal life shut down until it was safe to come out again.

Farin leaned against one of the towering walls that formed the perimeter. She would have smoked, if not for quitting a few years ago. A headache pounded in her temples from a solid hour of dropping mortar rounds outside the perimeter, and her arms were nicked from laying out many, many coils of barbed wire. There was going to be much more to do, but for now, the merc took a moment's respite.

"Hey, you! Gimme a hand with this shit, now."

Farin was ready to give the speaker a few choice words. The day had been long and tiring; she wasn't obligated to put up with random assholes because she happened to work in the same base. But her anger faded a bit when she saw her fellow merc manhandling a stretcher, loaded with another one of the victims of the recent attacks.

The first thing she noticed was that the man was new. He wasn't tanned from being in theater long, and his issue clothing was neat and new-looking. The second thing was that his intestines were hanging out of the stretcher. Farin grabbed the opposite end of the aluminum-framed stretcher and the two headed towards the single, probably overloaded hospital in the area.


~~~~~


She wondered, not for the first time, if these mercenaries were doing this to her on purpose. First it had been the man who'd fallen on barbed wire. Backwards. Then there had been the idiot who had been mauled by a lion, despite the fact that she had been on patrol at the time, and had thus been carrying a gun. God must really LOVE these idiots, the woman thought. Dr. Tohya rushed over to where her next patient was waiting to have some shrapnel removed from his chest while being prepped for emergency surgery by a nurse and an anaesthesiologist. "We need some high-powered electromagnets in here" she said conversationally as she accepted the tweezers from the nurse. "It would make pulling out all this metal so much easier. X-rays, if you would?"

The anaesthesiologist sighed. He'd heard this kind of complaint quite a few times since Dr. Tohya had come from Medi-Tech to "assist and advise" the company. She was good, certainly. Her hands were deft and professional, and she always worked until there were no patients left to treat. However, her attitude could grate. And then then there was the issue of her appearance...

"I don't suppose the potential for causing additional damage would be an issue? There is a reason we have to do this by hand," the anaesthesiologist, Dr. Roberts, said drily.

"So what? It would just be a flesh wound, nothing serious. Better than leaving the shards in there, certainly. And if it were lodged in an artery, they'd most likely be screwed, anyways." Dr. Tohya dropped the last fragment of metal into the tray and flexed her hands to get rid of the stiffness. She'd been doing surgeries on and off for hours now. She then neatly sutured the wound closed and sighed.

"Next?"

A bloodied man and a tired-looking woman carried in the next patient, who was nothing short of a bloody mess. His hands clutched at exposed entrails, and every now and again he would groan as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Jesus, don't you people know how to use duct tape?"

"You're fucking kidding, right?" The girl angrily snapped back.

"Oh, just shut up and put him on the table. I'm going to have to clean up the dust from his abdominal cavity in addition to everything else now. Uy..." The doctor who'd made the duct tape comment was about as tall as Farin. Stray strands of purple hair poked up from under her surgical cap. Her dark eyes told Farin that she was of asian descent, and what she could see of her pale skin told her that the doctor was new here or just didn't get out in the sun alot.

Farin glowered at the comment, but helped load the wounded man onto the table. The nurses went to work, plugging in IV needles, staunching bleeding and hooking up the man to an EKG. "He's stable." one said.

Farin glanced around for a pair of clean gloves, obviously intent on helping out. The other merc stared at the casuality angrily. "Just walking on patrol and we find this thing sticking out of the ground. Dud mortar round. Mike examines the thing and it fucking blows up in his face."

"Well, he certainly won't be doing that again" the asian doctor said matter-of-factly as she went to work putting the patient's intestines back in order.

Farin was offered a set of gloves by an orderly. She nodded in thanks.

"Fuck off, doc." The man stormed out, leaving the tent in a rather awkward state of silence.

"Nice." The female merc sighed. She wasn't in a mood for jokes, but it didn't make sense to argue when someone was bleeding out, either. "What needs doing?"

The doctor chuckled, and for some reason she couldn't pin down, Farin thought she sounded like a kid. "Just pinch the intestines shut on either side of the wound while I suture it closed. It's easier to sew it up that way. You can handle that, right?"

"I guess I can." Farin said calmly, noting that the nurses had more or less staunched the bleeding. "We gonna give him any drugs?"

"Already done," said Dr. Roberts. "He shouldn't be able to feel a thing right now."

Farin nodded. The doctor went on his way to deal with other arrivals, leaving the merc with doctor Tohya and a single nurse. Farin gingerly reached down examined the mess of intestine. Pale grey, it had a single gash running along it's length. Farin could only imagine what sort of nasty shrap had done a job like that.

Farin tried to avoid disturbing the mess of entrails in the man's open abdominal cavity and gently pinched the ends of the wound closed, like stitching any other wound. "Ugh." Her efforts had squeezed whatever was inside the intestines through the wound and coated her gloves. The smell was unbearable.

"Nurse, could you please get out the wet vac? We seem to have some sewage here." Dr. Tohya tried not to breathe in.

The nurse dutifully went to work, cleaning the black mess off the work site. Noting Farin's plight, she irrigated the waste off of the merc's gloves.

"Thanks." Farin grasped the ends of the wound again, wary of another 'accident.'

"Ah, the joys of surgery," said the doctor drily as she went to work, suturing the wound closed before stuffing the length back into the abdominal cavity, then pulling the next one towards her. "Good job not losing your lunch. Have you done this before, miss...?"

"Farin. Usually squad medic, I guess. Don't typically do the surgery, like this stuff." The merc glanced at the vitals readout by the bed. "Shrap to the breadbasket isn't too bad considering. Lot of mercs been losing limbs to IEDs these days. Think those boost things will make any difference?"

"The bio-boosts? That depends. They can't keep you from stepping on a bomb, but some of them can help you stay alive long enough to get to a doctor. There was one designed to regenerate limbs, but it instead caused cancerous tumors, instead." The doctor sighed and started suturing another shrapnel wound. Farin noticed that her stitching was very neat. "Most of what the boosts do is enhance what the body does naturally for limited periods of time. I'm quite pleased with the dual pain suppressant / hemostat, though. There is also the injectable bone glue, which acts to enhance the abilities of bone marrow. The side-effects are minimal, as well..."

"... I don't suppose you would be the meditech liaison?" Farin said quietly.

"That I am. I shall also be giving a lecture on the bio-boosts, as well as refilling them and examining the users between missions. We're always looking for ways to improve them, so combat tests and feedback are important to us." She finally sutured the abdominal cavity closed.

The merc nodded thoughtfully, peeling off her gloves and tossing them into a nearby bin marked 'bio-waste.' She took a glance at the patients outside. "To be frank, it comes off as pretty sketchy. But Victor isn't one to trust products easily, so I'll do my best to be impartial about your work, then."

The eyes above the surgical mask glittered amusedly. "That's good to know, Miss Farin. Do come to my lecture, though... well, it's more like a presentation, since my work and it's effects speaks for itself. I am a firm believer in 'show, don't tell'." The doctor tossed her own gloves into the bin, then pulled off her surgical mask and cap and smiled mockingly at Farin.

The merc stared, as impassive as always. "Regular medical miracle, eh?"

By the time Victor was half way through the paperwork, it was already beginning to darken outside. He stubbed another cigarette into an overflowing ashtray and sat back with a sigh. Office duty was soul-crushing. Endless sheets filled with lists of liabilities and restrictions that he had to get through just to be able to do actual work in the field. The clincher was that it wasn't even material relevant in the field - from experience, he knew that most of the paperwork got filed away until a unit returned from a contract.

But bitching, even internally wouldn't help. Victor grabbed a beer from a mini-fridge and tackled the papers again. Acknowledgement of 'use of force policy,' insurance information, NFA registration - he scanned the stuff stoically, tossing finished papers into a steadily growing pile. He filled out various forms for another hour or so before boredom took over again. He really couldn't wait to get back into work.

Well, why wait? He'd just write off the delay as a case of self defense. Victor stood up wearily from his seat, closing the manilla folder he had just been working on. The man grabbed his rifle and made his way out of the office. It was starting to cool down now that the sun had sunk under the horizon, and the far-off clatter of gunfire and mortars seemed louder than usual. As the merc weaved his way through the brown tents and hard-packed dirt, the noise grew into the cacophony of a full-blown battle.

On normal nights, it wasn't exactly quiet, with the bustle of the bored mercenaries and mission prep for the next day. Mortars would bang as illumination rounds were thrown for patrols, loud enough to be heard across the entire base. During battles, it was very definitely loud. Dozens of machine guns could be rattling off rounds at a time, and mortars would drop shells every few seconds. Then there was the shouting of crews asking for resupply, men with long-range binoculars spotting targets.

Coordination was loud, apparently.

Victor was handed a pair of earmuffs by one of the guards, which he gratefully accepted. He squinted at what looked like a glimmer of light in the desert. It appeared to be between the fifth and seventh range stakes, putting it around six hundred meters.

A few seconds later, the shell exploded just in front of the wall. "Fuckin 'ell. Mortar crew by the road, six hundred meters out. Get some HE, searching fire."

The mortar fire officer apparently found this sound advice, as he repeated the commands down the line. "Mortar section. Hold fire. Deflection, one-oh-nine-seven. Charge two. Elevation, one-one-five-oh."

"Mortar one. At my command, searching fire, high explosive, ten rounds, traverse two turns."

"Mortar three. At my command, traversing fire, high explosive, ten rounds, traverse one-half turns."

"Mortar two, hold fire. At end of fire mission, fire barrage, illumination, two rounds."

The gunners cranked the wheels on their old Soviet mortars, squinting through their improvised optical sights. Their old equipment didn't have the right sights for accurate, coordinated fire so modified American designs had to be adapted for them. But despite the out-dated equipment, the crews were deadly proficient.

"Hang it!" At the gunner's command, the loader held a bulbous explosive shell over the tube. Their counterparts down the wall followed suit.

The fire officer nodded. "FIRE!" The two teams fired at once, lighting up the wall with the blinding muzzle flash. The loaders dropped rounds as fast as they were handed ammo, while gunners cranked the windage several turns between shots.

Victor had seen mortars in action enough to know what was coming. The enemy crew was right in the center of a traversing barrage, left to right, with a searching barrage going forward. They'd essentially be plastered by rounds coming from two different directions before they could reposition.

Barrage completed, the last mortar fired two illumination rounds. The shells rose invisibly into the darkening sky, until they burst into white-hot balls of light.

A heartbeat later, the first rounds landed one after the other. There would be a flash before the sound of the burst hit the wall a second after. In mere seconds, the rounds had landed on target, cheers rising as the effects became apparent. Pieces of bodies were flying into the air.

Victor averted his eyes from the sight. His heart started to thump in his chest and his face was flushed. It was the beginning of an adrenaline rush, brought on by the awful memory of that battle weeks ago. The single image that stuck to the merc was looking down at himself after cracking open the BMP, and finding an unrecognizable mess of meat and charred bone shards. He reached down and patted his legs, as if just seeing that they were still there wasn't sufficient.

The desire for another fight sated, Victor made his way back to the office, savoring every step he could still make.


~~~~~

The sound of footsteps in the garage sent Luce peeking out from underneath the Toyota.

"Having fun?" Farin mused. "It's impressive how fast you go to work."

"I guess?" Luce said modestly as she wiggled out from under the truck. Her flightsuit was stained from the oil change, and there were a few burn marks from the rushed welding work had done. "The Hilux now has an engine snorkel, brushguard, electric winch and a pintle. Kinda lucky you're here, since I don't know how to install the gun mount."

"For the PKM? Shouldn't be too hard." Farin followed the mechanic to a large wooden crate, noting the state of the garage as she did. It was a compact, concrete shop that was part of a large hangar-type building. Some newly installed electric lights casted clean, white light on the workspace, which was mostly taken up by the truck. A large table in the back was adorned with tools, a few of which Farin recognized as being taken from their home base. The rest of the space was filled with a number of cardboard boxes and a large electric fan.

Farin used the prybar packed with the wooden crate to pop the top off, revealing the Russian machine gun packaged inside. "Lucky. It's not dripping with cosmoline." She hefted the familiar firearm and opened the feed cover. The neat machine cuts and dull factory paint showed it was properly built to specification. Satisfied with the weapon, the merc examined the rest of the box's contents. Several stamped boxes of belted ammunition were present in the crate, as well as a mess of bubblewrap and tape she imagined was the weapon mount.

As it turned out, installing the mounting the gun to the truck wasn't as complicated as getting the bracket on the PKM. It took a bit of milling and a few whacks from a wrench to get it into place, but even Farin was satisifed it wouldn't fall off at a bad time after it was done with. After the armor plate was affixed to the gun along with the door armor, the work was more or less done.

The two enjoyed a break outside the shop, sitting on an empty wooden crate. Farin smoked another one of her trademark ciggs, while Luce was perfectly happy with a cold bottle of water.

"Considerin how long that took, I'm rather surprised you did the prep so quickly." The mercenary remarked.

Luce smiled. "I actually had some help earlier from one of the other third platoon people. Have you met Johanneke? She's kinda... well..."

"Like me?" Farin mused. "I read her dossier. Can't really argue that."

"Well, I don't mean it in a bad way or anything, she kinda looks like you too." The mechanic said sheepishly. She opted to change the topic a little to avoid further embarrassment from her friend. "She helped me mount the brushguard and the winch. They're really heavy... oh, and there was another wooden crate that was really heavy with the gun. I'm not sure what's in it. Wanna check it out?"

"Sure." Farin rose lazily to her feet, falling into step behind the energetic mechanic. Luce opened the tailgate for Farin, who nimbly swung aboard. She found another wooden crate, obviously military, but only half the size of the one the PKM came packed in. She didn't recognize the cyrillic, but the entire thing seemed vaguely familiar. "Got that prybar?"

The contents were packed side-by-side, twenty in all. Olive green with black text on them, they looked like soup cans with long handles.

"Uh... what are those? Grenades?"

"Yep. RKG-3 anti-tank grenades."

"... eeeh?" Luce looked at the steel plates they had just bolted to the Hilux's doors, then the grenades with a frown. She almost jumped from the bed when Farin casually plucked a grenade from the case. "Aren't those things dangerous!?"

"They're new. Most likely not confiscated ones. Not the easiest thing to use, but they shouldn't just blow up on you." Farin placed the RKG back into it's case and sat back with a thoughtful look on her face. "The hell do we have these for..."


~~~~~

10:00, January 17th, 2015

Their next meeting took place in the barracks, where some folding chairs had been set up, along with a cheap projector hooked into a laptop.

"Good work yesterday. We're mostly up and running..." Victor paused to yawn loudly as he rubbed his reddened eyes. "Ugh. Sorry, not a lot of sleep last night... we've got a mission for tonight, at any rate." He noted a few appreciative nods from the gathered contractors as well as some hushed conversation. Farin in particular was giving him an look of bored expectation, though about what he wasn't entirely sure.

"I apologize for not covering the bio-boost material yet, but it will have to wait until we get this job out of the way. Plain and simple - kill the fuckers who did the damage we've been mopping up. Not on AU payroll, but just so we can operate without getting blown up." He let the words sink in before continuing.

"A few of the guys in second platoon managed to find a survivor and interrogated him. In short, he talked and we know of a few possible bases for these guys. This particular location was scouted out with a few of our turboprops, and it looks like he wasn't spewing it."

Victor almost forgot to throw up the photos of the compound. He pressed the button for the projector, which blinked to life and displayed a slightly blurry, but recognizable picture of a small base from the air. If one examined the pair of buildings that made up the center of the place, it was apparent just how miniscule the 'base' was. "It's an overgrown encampment. Looks like it's built on an old gas station. Spots have been shored up with brick walls and sandbags. Fifty some heads and a few technicals."

"The aircraft stuck around long enough to find that their vehicles leave on predictable schedules. They go out in the evening and come back the next morning. We're not entirely sure where they go in this time, but they almost always return with supplies, so it's most likely dealing with friendly local groups. The actual plan is simple. Approach the site as quietly as possible. Use mortars to throw illumination rounds and pound any emplacements they have up. Avoid close-range firefights and let them run to you. Once the camp is dealt with, we set an ambush for the returning technicals." The next projector slide showed a red circle around the road, with small marks on individual pieces of cover.

"Bring extra ammo and water. We might have to stick it out for a few hours before we can make our move. There's been a shortage of antitank launchers recently, so I've asked for a few cases of antitank grenades - they'll be at the armory. Take what you think is necessary. We'll have the helicopter on hand for medevac and our own truck will be nearby if the attack doesn't go quite as planned - because it definitely fucking will if we don't just luck out."

"Get any R&R or prep done by ten-hundred hours. Meet rucksacks, rations and loaded weapons."

Areli waited a while after the briefing before heading to see the commander. He was not looking forward to what was going to happen. He headed towards the offices while looking for Victor. He eventually ran into a secretary. Fortunately, she was able to tell where to know. The door was closed so approached and knocked on the door. "Commander, if you have a few moments, I would like to speak with you."

There was no response. When he opened the door, he found Victor kicked back in his chair, dozing. There was a messy pile of papers on the desk, a rifle learning against the wall, and a cigarette still smoldering in an ashtray. All that, and a half-full foam cup of coffee gave the distinct impression he'd been working his ass off.

Areli blinked and cleared his throat rather loudly in an attempt to wake up the sleeping commander. I guess he was even more tired that he appeared, Areli thought silently. He just hoped the commander would not need him to walk over him and shake him awake. Most people develop a reflex to being woken up and Areli was not sure how the commander would react.

Areli turned back towards the door seeing his initial attempts to wake the man had fail. He knocked louder than he did previously. He hoped this would work.

It did, kinda. Victor sat up and glanced dully at the doorway, before slumping back again. A couple seconds later, he looked again, and started to shake himself awake. "...eh?"

"Sorry for waking you, Commander but I need to speak with you about something." Areli spoke then did a quick salute out of habit. "Permission to sit, sir?"

"Uh, okay. Go for it." The merc said groggily. He looked at the half-empty cup of coffee and promptly finished the contents with one long draught.

Areli took a seat and looked at the commander. "I think we might have a bit of a..." Areli paused because he was not sure on how to address what she was. "I guess you can call it a problem. On the day you gave out the assignments to the hospital, helping put together the vehicle or reinforce our defenses, I was out of my afternoon jog and the guards were talking to a young woman at the gate. It was clear she was not a contractor and she was dressed as a civilian. She had demanded entrance in order to speak with you, sir."

He looked at him and sighed. "She says she is from a charity organization that is helping one of the local villages. I think she is a reporter covering a local charity organization. She also claims she wanted to talk with you in order to secure evac or protection if the enemy decides to lash out against the village she was at." Areli stopped there to gather the reaction from the commander.

Even half-asleep, Victor was certain of what to say. "Tell her to fuck off. We're not obligated to deal with reporters. There's plenty of other outfits that will. Bringing refugees into a military facility that is commonly under attack is a terrible idea - she should realize that."

Areli raised an eyebrow. "The thing is, Commander, she does not strike me as one to give up so easily. I told her I would talk to her at the hospital since I knew so basic first aid and thought I could help. Either she never showed or she was avoiding me. Also I don't think she wanted them to be evac'd to here." Areli shrugged casually then an idea struck him. "Commander, now that I think about it. She could be useful intel-wise."

"She could be a source of information, yes." He sighted, massaging his temples. "But if she's that stubborn, it might hardly be worth the trouble."

Areli chuckled. "Yes but her being stubborn might be good for us. We could tell her that we will provide protection to her village and possibly evac them to a safer place if needed as long she works with us and gives us good intel."

"Stubborn asses are easy to put to their word. You have a point." Victor said quietly. He waited until the merc was done chuckling and stared him in the eye. "I'll consider it. But not a word to the woman or anyone else, understood?"

Areli nodded. "Understood, sir." Areli stood up. He needed to prep for the mission and wanted to get more time in with the RPK. It was not what he was used to handling and it would take a bit more practice to get used to it. "Am I dismissed?"

"Yeah. Sure." Victor glanced at his watch, probably considering how much time he had left to sleep.

The first day had been busy for the Swede, the morning filled with hard physical labour and the afternoon spent in the cafeteria with as many calories as he could fit on his plate and a platoon roster so he could try to match names and faces. Jens often thought himself a pretty sociable guy, yet aside from the odd chatter with passing personnel, he hadn't actually had any meaningful interaction with his platoon mates. This was a bad thing, because he was about to go into combat with these guys and he barely knew what to shout to get their attention.

He peered around him and ate his last sausage, then took a drink of coffee - yes, it was nearing the evening, but so what? At that particular time there seemed to have been several people whose faces he recognized further down the table, or a table across from him, but once again he didn't go out of his way to speak. Ah well, he would do all that 'socializing' lark when they got back to their "sleeping quarters" for the night. Come to think of it, he had forgotten the correct English name for that place... 'Tent' sprang to mind, but that didn't sound right. Eh, nevermind!

By the time he had finished going over the roster again and wandered outside, a contact involving mortars seemed to be ending. Well, he was sure they had it handled, otherwise he'd probably be dead.

Pondering why that thought didn't bother him, he slid into the portable shelter, dropped down on one of the bunks and got an early nights sleep.

Next day, the briefing went pretty well. He took a few notes, made mental plans in his mind and the moment they were done, he got up and rushed off to prepare for the oncoming mission. He took the standard Demolitions kit gear. His flak vest, his russian helmet (which he thought looked incredibly awesome; wearing it proudly around the base with no shirt on for ten minutes until a superior officer yelled at him) and his weapons: he took both the Uzi and the M79. He also settled on three infantry grenades and added two anti-tank to his arsennel as replacement for the rest. With the Clacker, two blocks of TNT, four blasting caps and his bomb kit, he was planning to put on at least one good show in the coming day.

With his food rations, ammunition and all prepared, he settled down to get a few hours sleep before the fabled ten hundred hour meetup.

He was probably the first to arrive; kitted up, locked, loaded and looking extremely dangerous (also sexy, if you were to ask him on a personal level). If he DID have a tooth-pick and a pair of sunglasses, no doubt he would wear them so they could serve to compliment his attempted 'action movie hero' style.

As the rest began to turn up, he wondered if he could have taken more kit and whether he would need it in the coming hours. Oh well Jens, it's a little too late to worry about that now.

"In the spirit of friendly rivalry, how about we keep a kill-count like that girly-boy and the fat bearded one in that Peter Jackson film? The man - or woman - with the most kills gets... Say... Ten dollars each from the rest of us?" He asked, with a slight grin.

Mack was almost reverent as he slid shells into the Ithaca's tube magazine. The rounds were Winchester 12-gauge, 2 and 3/4th inches long, and packed with 00 buckshot. The rounds could do some serious damage, and were Mack's favorite type of shotgun cartridge. Once he had put 7 rounds into the shotgun's mag, He packed away fifty more rounds into a pouch on his ALICE rigging. He slung the Ithaca onto his back and grabbed the AK AKM beside him. He checked the mag (full) and the safety (engaged) and slung the rifle as well. He did the same for the Makarov and holstered it, also making sure to pack four extra clips for the rifle and pistol.

Along with the guns, Mack was bringing his RGD-5s as well as a few M84s (six of each). Mack also made sure to grab his bayonet, two canteens of water, as well as two MREs. He made it a point to leave his "bump" helmet behind, as Mack didn't have any faith in the things. Mack went through a mental checklist, making sure he had grabbed everything he needed. Acting on a gut feeling, Mack also grabbed twenty of the 1 ounce slugs for the shotgun. "Never can be too prepared," Mack said to himself as he left the weapons room behind.

Mack looked into the mirror of the locker room, the can blue grease paint resting on the windowsill nearby. Mack dipped three fingers into the paint and then proceeded to slather the paint onto the left side of his face. When he was finished, Mack had a blue stripe about two inches thick running vertically down the left side of his face. Mack always painted the stripe before going into battle, as a way to honor his heritage and as a way to mentally prepare himself for the tasks ahead.

When Mack entered the prep room, he was surprised to find it almost empty, save for that blonde man he had seen earlier. Mack stood in the corner near the door. He began to recite a prayer that his father taught him, another tradition for Mack. It was an old Scottish war chant, and Mack had memorized it from an early age. He always made sure to say it before he went into combat.

"Aye, Lord let us fight with free heart
Know now, we shall never part
Like lightning bolts within our eyes
Each drop of blood, will steam with pride
Honor is to die, and be free once more
Glory bound to win this war
The fear is gone, no worries, no pain
We ask you Lord, in your sweet name
Let us lead this battle today
Our souls we give, our price to pay
So we can live free, nothing be bound
We march forward on solid ground
To keep that which you have given
Aye, Lord let our sins be forgiven
We ask of you Lord, please place your hand
Upon the head of every Scotsman
Walk with us through this time of need
Through your word, we shall heed
Aye, Lord we fight with free will
For the Scots will prevail..as every field we fill...."

Dr. Tohya shivered. Her large, combined office and bedroom was cool, to the point of being chilly. Which is exactly what I had in mind when I moved into this particular room, but... it's a bit too cold in here. It had seemed like a brilliant idea to relocate her office to the room between the giant refrigerators when she'd been informed that this entire corner of the hospital building would be dedicated to the meditech liasion and the bio-boosts that she was in charge of guarding, administering and researching. Okay, so there had been complaints when she had ordered the entire dry pharmacuticals closet emptied and moved to where her office was supposed to have been she had first arrived here. Ah, but that is what shelves are for, my dear PhD-less compatriots!

The purple-haired doctor had used her status as the representative of a major shareholder accurately and decisively, the same way she used a scalpel. She had not, however, been able to get satellite TV, a private shower, or the personal golf cart she'd wanted. Well, at least she'd gotten her dedicated encrypted internet connection from meditech, along with her gaming computer, an actual mattress and her small collection of medical texts... which were currently being guarded by her collection of cat plushies.

She especially enjoyed the internet connection. Combined with her gaming computer (which, regrettably, had more chemistry and biology-related programs than games), let her play her favorite MMOs with hardly any lag at all. However, the internet connection went both ways, as she was reminded when her Forsaken warlock froze in mid-cast and the 'Incoming Call' sign started blinking on her screen.

"Damn poor timing, professor!" she growled as she minimized the screen and brought up the encryption program for the internet phone, then plugged in her encryption key into the USB port.

"Hello, Miho Tohya speaking," she said in her best call center-esque voice.

"When are you going to transmit the first round of data, Tohya?" The gravelly voice on the other end of the line said without preamble.

Dr. Tohya pursed her lips. "I haven't been able to collect the data yet. In fact, my presentation has been postponed due to a mission of some kind. Apparently it can't wait. Ask the commander, I don't know the details."

"Then run some preliminary simulations based on the *cough* PMC's medical data, and stop playing around on the company dime. We don't have years to do this, Tohya." Miho waited until her supervisor's coughing fit stopped. What kind of doctor smokes until he gets cancer? Idiot..

"I've already done that, professor. I haven't had much to do besides simulations and initial set-up these past few weeks. Also, the projections say that we'll only have a 25% addication rate and a 2% mortality rate on average."

"That low?" The old man sounded surprised.

"Yes. Of course, that's if they use them exactly according to the manual, and listen to me when I explain how to use the gauntlets and don't overuse the combat lifesaver or the 'Hercules' formula. You know how heavy-handed these military types can be."

"Oh yes, *cough* that I do. Hmm... how long until you can distribute the boosts?"

"Probably within the week. From what I'm told, this mission will only take a day or so."

"Make sure you don't go into too much detail when you explain the side-effects. We don't want that information to become too widespread."

Miho smirked at this, and thought of her power point presentation and all of the interesting videos contained in it. "Of course. You know me, professor. I am always cautious."

"*Cough* *Cough* *Gasp* *Cough* *Cough*..." Miho covered her own mouth to keep from laughing aloud at her poor supervisor's reaction. Not that she blamed him. It took a very generous mind to consider a woman who would inject herself with experimental bio-boosts 'cautious'.

Falling asleep to the Crump! of mortar rounds and small-arms fire was a first for Johanneke, who managed to get a good night's sleep throughout the ordeal. After having sat through the briefing the next morning, Johanneke now prepared for a mission that would do something about the pesky opposition harassing their base. As she prepared her gear and weapons for battle, however, she was surprised to look up and see Saladin coming towards the picnic table where she was loading her RPK drum magazines.

"Saladin?" Johanneke asked as the gunsmith sat down and began filling UZI magazines. "What're you doing here?"

"I am preparing for the mission, Miss Johanneke." Saladin replied as he slid 9mm rounds into the first of several 32-round magazines.

"Drop the 'miss', but anyway, why are you going out on this mission, shouldn't you be in the armory?"

"After the briefing this morning, I felt I should participate, contribute to the force going out there."

"What was your reason?" Johanneke queried as she inserted another five rounds into her current drum magazine.

"It is as Mister Victor said-- it will allow us to operate without being killed the moment we step outside the base, and I feel I should contribute to making our lives a little easier. As I understand, Miss Lucinda is also participating, and she's just a driver and mechanic. I would be a coward, then, if I did not help out."

"Saladin, what will happen if you go down out there? We can't afford to lose you, mate! Killing others is no business for a gunsmith, regardless of how brilliant they are!"

"Johanneke, please calm down! I know you are worried about me, but I have to do this!" replied Saladin with a raised voice. "It is not like I am not capable of taking another person's life, but there are reasons why I am not a soldier..."

Johanneke paused, letting Saladin begin his story. "It was a few years ago, back at Bagram Airfield, when I was still not yet an adult. The base had come under attack, and before I knew what was happening, there was a man--he looked like he was a Taleban-- staring me down. I saw him brandish a blade as large as I have ever laid eyes on, and he let out a yell, and he started charging towards me. I was scared, I thought I would die if I did not do something quickly, and I saw a Kalash not far from me. The Taleban was almost upon me now, and I did not know if the weapon I had was loaded, I just pointed it at him and held down the trigger."

Saladin stopped, and Johanneke had to prompt him to continue. "Then what happened?"

"When I opened my eyes, the Kalash was empty, and I looked down to see that the Taleban was on the ground. If you saw what I had done to him, Johanneke, you would be horrified. My bullets did not just kill him, they transformed this man into a wretched creature that was barely recognizable as a human. There was so much blood, and spilled innards... I could not sleep properly for a few weeks after that... That is why I am not a soldier... killing someone up close like that, that was not something I will ever forget."

The pair was quiet for a few moments before Johanneke spoke again.

"Wow, Saladin, I didn't know you had ever killed another person... It was justified, of course, but that can't have been easy for you to cope with, and that makes me worried. Are you sure you'll be all right in this mission?"

"I will put my fears aside, Johanneke. I must, or I will fail you and everyone else greatly."

Johanneke snapped her filled drum magazines shut, before getting up to leave.

"I promised Lucinda she could call on me for any help, so I have to go check on her, Saladin. Just remember, if you don't feel you're ready to fight, you don't have to go out there."

Without waiting for a response from Saladin, Johanneke turned and left, heading for the garage, leaving Saladin alone with his thoughts and weapons and equipment.

A little while after her chat with Saladin, Johanneke arrived at the garage where she spent the previous day working with Luce. Setting her gear down near the entrance, she called out into the cavernous work area for the young mechanic.

"Lucinda? Lucinda, are you in here?"

"Uh, hi." Luce said, sounding rather strained. She was trying to shove one of the large wooden crates they had received the other day into the truck with little success.

"Having some trouble? Let me help you with that." Johanneke offered, going over to assist. Taking the brunt of the weight, she lifted and pushed the crate steadily, relieving Luce of her burden until the crate slid onto the bed of the Hilux.

"There we go. What was in that thing, anyway?" Johanneke asked, wiping her brow with her forearm.

"Thanks." Luce sighed in relief. "I think they said mortar shells?"

"Jesus, and they left you to load them all by yourself? Jerks." scoffed Johanneke. "Will they fit my 'Commando' mortar thingy?" she asked, thumbing towards the tube-like object fastened to her rucksack.

The mechanic shrugged. "It wasn't that much trouble... they go and shoot people. I hopefully don't, heh." She glanced over the weapon and shook her head. "I dunno. Not a weapons person."

"Saladin told me you're gonna be in on this one. I guess this is an 'All Hands' kind of deal, huh? You nervous?" Johanneke asked. "Will you need a gunner?"

"Hopefully not. I'll only be there if stuff goes really bad." Luce said thoughtfully, patting the machine gun that Farin recently helped her install. "It's reassuring that you volunteeered so quickly, though." She added cheerfully. The two loaded some three more crates of 60mm mortar shells, and then a few crates of assorted M43. Then they loaded the anti-tank grenades that Farin had explained to her.

"Do you think this stuff is really safe?"

"I certainly hope so. I mean, they look new, which is a plus." Johanneke commented, picking up one of the grenades carefully before placing it back into the crate. "Maybe just a few additional Flak Jackets between you and the bed will help, you never know..."

Johanneke then looked at the PKM up top. "As for the volunteering thing, I do mean it. There was a certain point in my career as a cop that had me leaning out the window of a Jo'Burg Highway Patrol Bimmer with an R4 while my partner and I were chasing some fookin' bastard carjacker. I'd like to think that therefore I'm qual'd for shooting from a moving vehicle with a certain degree of accuracy."

"Huh. That's kinda scary." Luce laughed nervously.

"Maybe to you." Johanneke replied, her expression taking on one of determination. "Personally, I took a certain sense of satisfaction from that part of my job. Going that fast with a rifle in hand, not much room for error, and a nice fat carjacker target to shoot at... It was all I could ask for in those days, and to this day, I have no special mercy for carjackers. Did anyone ever tell you why I despise them so much?"

The young mechanic had a guess as to why, but she shook her head anyway. "No, why?"

"I really started hating them when I was a teenager. One of those bastards held me and some friends at gunpoint while we were out shopping. I was just going to let him take the car, and that would have been it, but..." Johanneke trailed off, looking down.

Luce felt a chill at the idea. She had grown up in idyllic little Californian suburbs, where the worst possibility was a ticket. But from what Farin had said about South Africa, she could only imagine what sort of things could happen to the unprepared.

Johanneke took a breath before continuing. "But this was Johannesburg, and carjackers will go to any lengths to get what they want. So he shot my friend. She was Gila Epstein, an exchange student from Israel, about my age, and the only thing she was guilty of was being out shopping with me and my best friend, Marie. This bastard, this monster, Luce, he shot and killed her like it was nothing and threw her to the street. Right in front of me and Marie. It was too late to do anything else, we had to get out of the car, or we would've been dead, too. But I'll never forget how her eyes asked me why it had all happened. All I know is that Gila died that day because a carjacker wanted my BMW."

Johanneke took another breath before continuing. "Sorry I laid all that out on you, but, I kind of needed to get that all off my chest. That day is kind of what drove me to be a cop. After what happened to Gila, I figured I should do something about carjackers and their ilk. Kill them, arrest them, it was all the same to me for a long while. As far as I'm concerned now, whoever these assholes we're fighting are, they're just as bad, and I volunteered my experience so that someone has your back out there if you have to be out there with us. It's kind of the same reason I'm worried about Saladin going out there to help with this mission. He's a gunsmith and not a professional soldier, and I don't want him getting killed out there. That said, he's up for the mission, but that doesn't make me worry for his safety any less. That's why I'm worried about your safety too, Luce. If you have to go out there, don't hesitate to go find me. Don't go out there alone, losing any more friends would kill me inside."

Johanneke lifted the lid of the mortar crate open and scooped out an armful of extra rounds. "I'll be taking some of these; I didn't get a chance to load up earlier."

As James left the briefing room, he was already working out that he would be taking 2000 rounds with him. In his mind, he was thinking of the support gunners being placed into a fire support postion, raining fire onto the camp, before the assualting troops would go in. It would make sense. 'I gotta ask the boss if we going to be taking the bakkie, maybe we coould ask them to load some ammo for us, to keep for the ambush.'

After collecting his ammo, James went to the QM to collect his MREs and water. He figured that 48hrs should be enough. He had learnt the hard way that you never take less than that.

Date: June 2005.
Location: Venezuela
Mission: Search and Destory DMP's in the jungle.

The mission went well, we had managed to find 4 disused DMP's. Which meant that the war on drugs was finally getting somewhere.
Our stick came across an operational DMP, we recced it for 5 days. Then planned the attack, little did we know that they had a tunnel that connected about 5 compounds together. They were using the tunnels for reinforcements to move between locations. The attack was planned, the rest of our troop arrived on time.

The plan was to have a fire support group, then the assualting sticks would go in and clean up any leftovers. The helicopters would come in after the compound was secure. Mission over.

However before h-hour, one of the new guys forgot about the trip flares, that were set on the perimeter around the DMP, setting it off. Which kicked the attack off early before the fire support was in place. The 2 assualting groups, pepper-potted forward but were unable to make any ground. It became clear to us that there far more numbers than we had seen. We started to withdraw but they kept following us. We knew that we were in a fight for our lives and it wasn't going well.

Somehow during the fire fight, James was hit in the shoulder, which caused him to get seperated from his stick. Injured and low on ammo, he made his way back to the bergen cache, the cache had all his food and water. On arrival he spotted they enemy preparing an ambush for them. He had no choice but to head for the coast, where the ERV was. It took him about 2 weeks to get close to the coast, but the lack of prepared food and safe water was taking it's toll on him. The wound to his shoulder was starting to get infected. He wasn't sure how much longer he would survive. But as luck would have it, the boat boys were in the area, the stumbled onto him, after he had passed out. They managed to get him patched up enough to get him to a hospital.

From then onwards he always carried 48hrs rations in his belt kit. The troop lost half of it men in that attack. If it wasn't for the quick reactions of a nearby troop of S.B.S. troops, they would have lost more but the boat boys did an impromtu rescue mission on the surviviors.



After he had packed his kit, he decided to get his skull down before the op. Who knows when they'd get sleep again.

Sarah had made in into the compound, no problem. However, the irony of her getting in with her medkit was lost on the guards. They probably didn’t get the joke in letting a medic in, but not a soldier with guns. They had given it a through inspection, but she’d simply told them that she needed things inside of it. Security was tight, but it was looking a bit stretched. Not that she knew about how strong the security was or should’ve been.

Having gotten situated in her room, Sarah decided to take a look around the compound. She passed by a few other people, who she assumed were also workers, even recently hired, just like her. She passed the gun range, grimacing, and ignoring the people who were training inside. If at all possible, she would avoid having to even touch or fire one of the damned things. She would prove that she could support well enough to not need to fight.

However, she did stop by the gym, and do a small workout. Some running for cardio, a few basic weights, and hell, she even found a locker with some sports equipment. Sarah kicked a soccer ball around for a few minutes, before blushing to herself. There were things to be done here, far more important than fooling around. With that thought, she headed towards where she had been told the medical bay was, her kit in tow.

As she walked into the hospital, she drew in a deep breath. For a military hospital, there wasn’t many people, but then again, this was a private company. However, there was still enough for her to be busy. She walked up to one of the female doctors currently there.

“Hey there, doc. My name’s Sarah Haskins. I’m new here, but I’m ready to help. Might be a little rusty, but I can handle anything that isn’t serious.” She introduced herself.

The doctor gave a half-hearted smile before turning back to her patient. “Sarah, was it? Good to have you. Dr. Tohya from Medi-Tech has been handling things well, for the most part. There aren’t many serious wounds. Just go around, and ask if anyone needs help. Also, those new entries may need some stitches or bandaging.”

“Alright then.” Sarah gave a nod, before heading off to do some basic nursing. She winced as she came across a soldier with some particularly large and nasty cuts. Whipping out a needle and thread, she gave him a huge smile. “Sorry, I don’t have any painkillers, so you’re going to have to bear with me.”

The soldier let out a dry chuckle. “You new round here? Can never have too many docs around. That’s good.” He grimaced, before continuing. “Don’t worry. Can’t be any worse than what I’ve already feeling.”

Sarah nodded, and promptly stitched the wound with a few clean threads. She then wrapped some of the less serious wounds, making sure to keep them tight, but not overly so.

After what had felt like forever, Sarah ran by the dining to grab a small dinner, and headed directly for her room, collapsing onto her bed. “Hell, it’s been a long time.” She smiled to herself. “But I’m glad I got to help some people today.” With that, she drifted off to sleep.

"You mean I don't get to take my old tried and true? This little beauty's gotten me through more times that I care to admit."

Sharidan was playing with a worn-out looking Tokarev of his. It was scratched up and there were marks all over the grips, some being nocks, others were lightly scratched words and even smiley faces.

An armsmaster in the armoury was overseeing the outfitting of Sharidan as well as other recently hired agents. He looked over at Sharidan and said,"Captain, you can't take it. The company can't be liable for any personal affects in case you get terminiated or lose it."

Without missing a beat, he replied, "But I've already lost it, so there's no problem there."

Sharidan's humour seemed lost on the man, so he just handed the Tokarev to him. "Fine, what do I get."

"This", the other man said, reaching into a tub and withdrawing a Makarov. "Please don't hack it appart like your other pistol. You don't own this one."

Sharidan thought he'd try another bit of humour. "That's probably what the previous owner of the Tok thought, while I was carving his throat out to get his gun from him."

The armourer looked at him, slighly aghast and slowly handed him back his pistol. "The rest of your gear is down there..." He said, motioning to another part of the room.

Shepard went about picking up his new gear. He was issued a Mosin Nagant as well as an Uzi. He helped himself to the grenades. There were crate fulls of hulls with a large cases of detonators to the side. He lifted one of the crates on its side, dumping as many hulls into a sack as he could, then piled on a bunch of detonators and tied it shut. Should make for at least one well paced fight....

There was web gear aplenty, and about everything a young buck on his first private deployment would need. Which was exactly nothing compared to the amount required to survive. He geared up, grabbing any extra supplies he could.

Fully geared he weighed somewhere around 330 lbs, with all his weapons, supplies and personal inventory hanging from him. He stomped out of the armoury like an angry amalgamation of volitility and scarred flesh, running off to the firing range to test his new setup out in the mud.
------------------------------------
Sharidan spent the night making final preparations. Taping a detonator to each of the grenades, halfway around and just holding it on the side, after checking to make sure it fits correctly. Fitting ammo retainers to various places and working out kinks in his straps and gear. He had as full mobility as he could manage with a large combat load.

He looked at the time once more before blowing out the light.

Best get some sleep before something big goes down. Been awake since the flight over here.

With that, he rolled over, tugged a blanket over his head and went to sleep, almost.

Amidst the various machine guns and mortars that had finally fallen silent with the coming of the night, Farin sat cross-legged, staring out into the expanse surrounding the base. Passers-by might have been unnerved at the fact she was toying with a frag grenade, but most everyone was too weary from the day's events to care. To be honest, Farin wasn't faring much better, but there was far too much to ponder to go to sleep now.

The bandolier sitting beside her was absolutely loaded with gear. Medical supplies, nearly a dozen fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, pistol mags, demo charges, and six rifle magazines at quick access. But her loadout wasn't designed for protracted fighting, so would she be set, or should she throw a bag of AK mags into the Hilux while she had the time? Should she change her mind about skipping body armor, a decision made to prevent resentment in the team? Was it worth bringing her personal AK on a mission like this? Would she just get blasted by some dumbfuck with a mortar?

It was the same battery of questions every time, just varied enough to cause new headaches every time.

The biggest pain this time was the hackjob nature of the OP. Nobody knew each other well enough to be a genuinely cohesive unit, and some were downright impulsive or insane. No information about weapons or reinforcements - for all they new, the militia could have comms to every other pirate group in the region. The helicopter needed maintenance, and Luce hadn't had a chance to install the armor she had wanted.

Farin sighed. If that girl bit it on a stupid mission like this, she'd be pissed. They were wiping out another problem group to get some breathing room, supposedly. She and Victor knew another militia would come along, rake up the remains and fill whatever niche the deceased had filled. It was like poking a needle through a mesh screen - whatever effects it had would be hidden by the pockmarked mess it was to begin with. The mission was really just a way to see how these newcomers fared in a morally ambiguous, unauthorized rush job. Since body bags were easier to handle than psych exams or training in this sort of continent.

The long-time merc shrugged. "T.I.A."

Mortar shells thumped in distant uneven cadence, too far for Edmund to worry about being hit but just close enough to rattle his bones with each thunderous report. He tried to focus on the journal entry he was writing, trying so hard to block out the sounds of siege, but every time Edmund thought he had banished the world, the steel mug full of water would quiver and threaten to topple. As far as he was concerned, this was far too close for comfort.

The warrior in Edmund smiled at that thought. Despite what every wartime psychologist and New Age philosopher spouted about the effects of stress on the human mind, comfort was one thing that could break a man even faster on the battlefield. Comfort in the foxhole bred laziness, and laziness would often flirt and seduce the senses to give birth to the bastard child that was carelessness. Laziness alone was bad form and a sign of no true cohesion. Carelessness lead to requisitions for body bags. Only constant awareness born from utilitarian settings and the threat of death would keep one on their toes long enough to survive. Edmund had learned that long ago back in the Middle East. To be comfortable was to make oneself ignorant of the black-robed companion who rode with you on every patrol, stood with you at every checkpoint. Waited inside every roadside bomb and cave. You had to address it every morning, greet it like an old friend, and hope that's all you would do for the day.

Edmund caught himself in mid-thought and frowned at the morbid turn his mind had taken. He snatched up the steel mug and took a swill. Cold water flowed down his throat, drowning the memories before they could have a chance to surface. He was too late to stop them as they rushed over him in a wave of black.

"GET THE FUCK DOWN!!"

Sergeant Adder's cry was drowned out by the thunderous boom of Armageddon striking down all around the unit, turning the mountain into a raging inferno of fire and brimstone. A machine gun screamed out behind Edmund, chattering with anger at the insurgents who dared to attack the unit. That too vanished in another hail of fiery death that seemed to come from the heavens.

No. No this couldn't be real. It did not matter that he could feel the heat from the burning Humvee next to him, nor that he gagged on the stench of sizzling flesh or heard the pop of ammo cooking off. He screamed in his mind, trapped in an echo chamber of his own creation.

"DOWN!!" He called out over the report of more explosions, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Even when he shouted again, Edmund knew that his legs would never obey. You can never change the past. Even in your own mind.

Edmund's eyes shot open and he let out a soft gasp of surprise. He shot his head from one side to the other while his mind processed that they were indeed back in reality, and that the nightmare he lived in his sleep was no more. Somehow the distant muffled echo of mortar shells brought a perverse sense of comfort to him. Even the cold sweat on his brow brought a sense of relief with it.

After a moment, Edmund rose from his creaking folding chair and stumbled over to a wash basin he had been provided. He dipped his hands into the warm water and splashed himself in the face a few times to wash off the dreams and memory. After a few times, Edmund dabbed his face off with a towel and exchanged his sweat-stained green undershirt for a fresh one of the same hue. When he looked in the mirror, Edmund looked every bit the calm and collected individual he always presented to the world.

"What a pantomime I am." Edmund muttered under his breath and paced around the small room he had been provided with. As he dug holes into the floor, Edmund began to wonder what exactly he was doing here. He was not questioning the mission - but rather the fact that he was a part of it, and even hired at all. He had no doubt that the others in his unit were ignorant to his past, save for the scar over his eye, but the upper echelons had to know everything about him. The shrinks and their reports would have made sure of that. And yet here he was in the field, where he never thought life would take him again.

As he stared in the mirror, the glitter of his mother's golden crucifix danging from his chest caught Edmund's eye. The sight made him catch his breath as he ran his fingertips over the intricate metal face. Perhaps this was not the work of a clerical oversight or someone in the higher up screwing around on the job. Was it so hard to think that this was God's way of giving Edmund a second chance? Despite his wounds, Edmund was still a young man with many good years left in front of him. No Richardson had ever let an injury, no matter how grievous, to take them out unless spelled death. How could he claim to be like his ancestors if Edmund would succumb to something so trivial? He had survived where others had not because God was on Edmund's side. And one cannot second-guess themselves when God is in their corner.

When the mission launch time rolled around, the operation was underway in short order. Maps, watches and inexpensive handheld radios were passed out, weapons checked, any loose gear taped down to reduce rattling. Who couldn't load into the Huey hopped into the bed of the truck for the brief trip over. Lights off and flying low, they stopped two klicks out from the target and dismounted. The chopper dusted off and maintained a high flight ceiling, keeping an eye on the expected convoy.

The ground was rugged, dried out desert and hills surrounding the small outpost. They found a defilade to hide the truck in and set an ammo dump just five hundred meters from the village itself. Loaded magazines, grenades and mortar shells were piled aplenty for quick resupply. The attack was ready to begin 3 AM on January 18th. At the time, the camp was nearly asleep, a few odd sentries pacing around with the occasional fire illuminating the place for hundreds of meters around.

Victor gathered the group and discussed the plan in hushed tones. "We're going to split into three groups. Find people you work well with and file off. Here..." He drew a red circle on the small map. "Here, and here. Gives us a semicircle of coverage. Don't want a crossfire. Go to your place, check landmarks and reference the stars. We need a mortar at each side position and likely any scoped rifles to spot targets. 'nneke comes with me - the attack starts when we launch three illumination shells in a row. Farin, we need you scoping out emplacements from as close as you can get and directing fire."

The girl nodded.

"In short, bomb them out of their emplacements. Beware counter-battery, move to avoid incoming fire and shoot from defilade if you can. Use support weapons to keep their heads down and give the impression of larger numbers. Communicate over the handhelds when you can. When a majority are wiped, pop some more illumination shells, ditch the mortars and move into the town. Check your fires - if someone is firing in semi-automatic, they're most likely not untrained fucking militia."

"Close combat is pretty self explanatory. Frag em out, don't get shot in the face. Make sure you communicate. That's about it." Victor dismissed the group, waving Johanneke and Farin to him.

"Got a lot of prep work to do, it seems..."

Mack paid rapt attention to the breifing, already picking out who to follow. After quick debate, he decided on Farin: closer to the village, the quicker to CQC- his comfort zone. The AKM in his hands felt heavy, the Ithaca on his back even more so. Mack didn't mind: the weight felt natural to him. The adrenaline in his veins seemed to slow the world down around him. Also a natural feeling. Mack felt like he was coming home after a long vacation.

Mack followed Farin to their target zone, staying closer to the front of the group, his days of taking point still hardwired into his memory. The squad reached their TZ, an almost natural foxhole, dug by a mortar round falling on the spot long ago. Mack crawled up to the edge of the foxhole, peeking over for a moment or two. He slid back down and moved closer to Farin. Mack pointed towards the village, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. "We're 'bout 100 to 120 meters away from tha' village, with a guard on the two-story building to tha' right of us."

Having relayed the information, Mack hunkered down, pulled out his canteen, and took a swig. Even at night, it was still hotter than Mack was used to. He screwed the lid back on, stowed the canteen, and picked up his rifle. He ejected to clip, re-checked it (30 rounds, everything in order), jacked it back into place, and thumbed off the safety. Now, it was just a waiting game. Mack turned his eyes skyward, waiting for the signal.

Jens took to the fight alongside Mack and Farin; his personal load-out, with his main weapon being the Uzi and his secondary being the M79 grenade launcher, he knew he would be most effective at closer ranges. From what he had heard, Mack seemed to be quite the CQC specialist and Farin was quite the medic. With him in charge of any explosives work that needed doing, they would likely make a formidable team even without the others who who decided to go in with them. He hadn't spoken much, but he couldn't help but feel a natural comfort in the presence around him, expecting them to watch his back and trust he would do the same for them. He definitely planned on it, even he understood the concepts of teamwork.

Crawling up alongside the two, he peered up towards the two story building the Scotsman had warned about, before returning his gaze to checking for more firing positions. These militia groups were sneaky bastards and he wouldn't put it past them to have a Sniper or two hidden out there, so he went back to checking the map he had spread out against the side of the ditch to note and memorize areas of interest. He would follow Farin's orders when they finally moved in, but couldn't help himself from planning a route away from open-areas just in case things got hairy. He'd rather face an enemy at five meters than a Sniper he couldn't see at a hundred.

"I can't help but notice this op isn't the most organized of missions," he whispered quietly. "But it's fine. We'll improvise, right? Oh yeah, in a run down place like this, even a pretty shitty booby trap can be hidden well in plain sight, so keep an eye out okay? Though I'm 90% sure even they're not stupid enough to plant a trip-wire inside their own base, so when we're in there we should be fine. Be careful on the run in though, I don't have enough intel to be sure but there's a chance they might have anti personnel mines set up in the hundred or so meters around the perimeter. Any word on which route we're taking in?"

He pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and got his eyes accustomed to the zoom. At that moment, he began to scan the ground for signs of disturbances, though it was near impossible to see properly. He would just have to take his time and make do.

Farin nodded silently at Mack's words but continued to stare at the camp. She was more comfortable going solo, and being followed into a foxhole by a stranger had her slightly on edge. It didn't help when she realized someone was creeping up on them. She turned just as their demolitions guy crawled up. He immediately begun to discuss traps and the likelihood of getting their legs blasted off by a minefield.

Farin only rolled her eyes at the painful cynicism. It was great that their demo wasn't careless, but the paranoia was grating... "Take a glance at the nests. The guns are layed wrong. The muzzles can't depress low enough to cover the ground just in front of the positions, and none of the weapons offer enfilading fire. Chances are people this disorganized lack the logistics to buy hundreds of mines, and any they had would be best used along with barb wire to funnel us into their minefields."

"If you're overly concerned." She mused. "You can drag your arse through the shit in the ditches by the main road until you get close enough to frag the MGs. But that's why we're waiting on tube support." The comments were followed by a tense silence as the other two considered her words, and potentially rebuttals for them. Farin was terrible at reading people. She almost felt relief when Victor's voice came over the cheap headsets plugged into their radios.

"Farin. Get your arse back to staging area stat. Out."

All of them shared the same line, so Mack and Jens heard it too. Farin looked at the mercs and shrugged neutrally. "Duty calls. Wonder what fuck-up he needs me for now...." She climbed out of the foxhole and started heading back, hugging the ground to avoid outlining against the horizon.

James headed off towards a piece of high ground that Victor had shown on the map. It wasn't the that high but it had a good veiw of the encampment. From there he could fire the mortars and get better eyes on the target. He could also then 'fire' the assaulting troops into the compound, by providing fire support with the PKM, he did have enough ammo for 5min of rapid fire or 20min of sustained fire. In war ammo is time, time is life. Once he'd settle into his position, he radioed to Victor.

"Hello Victor, This is James. Over"

"Victor, Send over."

"James, I'm in postion, Have good eyes on target, Can cover the assaulting team's route and entrance. Over"

"Victor, Roger that. Anything else? Over"

"James, Yes, the guards don't look happy to be on stag, They look more interested in smoking. Over"

"Victor, Roger that, Out"

After the radio conversation, the waiting began. The waiting was the worst thing because allmanner of weird crap went through your mind. 'Did I pack this, Did I do that, Did I, Did I, Did I?' Waiting always took forever but when it started, it would be fast and furious. Not much would be able to stop it. At least they were in africa, so they wouldn't get cold, like he did when he was doing his training in the UK. And there was nothing like the night sky in Africa, Afghanistan came close but nothing could top Africa...

"Eh, boss, I figure this is probably inconvenient to tell you at this time, but I'm not so hot at aiming and firing a mortar accurately. I did a little bit back in Maine, but I'm still not entirely confident, sir." Johanneke confessed, lugging her mortar as she followed along.

"Christ, you say this now?" Victor chided, his voice just low enough to avoid eavesdropping. "Last thing we need is fragging our own guys with short shells."

"I can't help that they didn't teach me to fire mortars back in the service! Cops don't use mortars, sir! Look, I just need a little bit of guidance and some crash instruction, and I'll figure out the rest from there. If nothing else, I pick up on things really fast." Johanneke blurted with a nervous grin. "Please, I don't want to let you down."

The merc sighed, massaging his temples as he considered the situation. He keyed the radio mounted to his vest. "Farin. Get your arse back to staging area stat. Out."

"I guess Farin is taking my place?" Johanneke asked, setting down her mortar dejectedly.

"We don't have enough people to put Farin on rear duty, fortunately for you." He said, somewhat amused. "She'll get you up and running, but her help will be brief at most."


~~~~~

"Ok, lessee... dig the baseplate into the ground, get the bubble level centered..." Johanneke muttered as she set up the simplistic mortar she was assigned. With little experience firing the contraption, she lacked the confidence to know if it was even aimed correctly. After setting it up rather haphazardly, she stepped back and gingerly let it go, whereupon the mortar (thankfully unloaded) simply flopped into the dirt.

"Crap."

"Nice." Farin emerged from atop the berm and hopped down, skidding to a stop beside Johanneke. "I suppose Special Task Force types don't learn how to use tube arty, eh?" She was slightly surprised that Victor had given her this menial task, but then again, any mistake could be lethal in combat. Farin was actually somewhat curious about her fellow merc, coming from a similar region with a hell of a service record.

"They teach us how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, yes, but mortars? That would be handy right about now. Could I please have some help?" Johanneke asked, walking over to right the mortar again.

"First thing - unpack the bombs." She handed the other South African one of the cardboard tubes, taking one and removing the cap. "If you had an assistant gunner, they would remove the rounds before you fired them. Solo, unpack the rounds and pile them in a safe, dry place." She handed the sixty-milimeter shell to Johanneke and gestured at the mortar.

"We call this the 'Commando' mortar. It's a surplus sixty-mil with all the goodies removed, leaving it lightweight and handy. Hard as fuck to hit with, though. It has no bipod..." She planted the end into the ground, the same way Johanneke had, but unusually grasped the cloth wrap with her left hand. "The bubble gives you a range estimate. From here to the enemy, it's about eight hundred meters. Drop the rounds with your other hand and try to avoid the muzzle flash. You might want to stage on the berm to get line of sight on the enemy, since these tubes lack fine adustment and sights. That's about it."

"It's really that simple?" Johanneke said in wonderment. "Well, I suppose that shows how thick I am... Uh, Illumination round on signal, right?" she asked, glancing at the shell Farin had given her. "Is there anything else I need to know about the shells themselves?"

"The first thing is to never forget the fucking ear plugs. Your ears will bleed." Farin allowed herself a small smile as Johanneke cringed. "Long white shells are 'chute flares, the rounded ones with the green case are explosive. They'll fuck anything in a ten meter circle."

"Okay, good thing I still have these for some reason..." said Johanneke, reaching into her BDU pocket for a set of corded earplugs. "So I'm guessing this is the right shell to throw out first." she added, noting the shell in her hand was long and white, somewhat noticeable even in the considerable darkness. "Would there be any danger of mistaking these things once all the muzzle flash and explosions wash out any night vision I've got?"

"Illum is straight walled." Farin said somewhat tersely; though she didn't mean to be hostile, she still had work to do.

"Right, got it." Johanneke blurted, sensing that she should stop asking questions. Plugging her ears and suddenly finding everything else muffled, she took hold of the mortar tube by its cloth wrapping and propped it into place temporarily with a nearby rock and positioned the illumination shell on the ground next to the mortar, stabilization fins brushing lightly against her knee, but she held steady and waited for permission, glancing toward Victor.

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Saladin found a vantage point on a nearby hill lined with shrubs and bushes where he could view much of the village in front at a distance. After breaking up his outline by draping camouflage netting over his position, he set down his pack in front of him and laid his Mosin-Nagant on top of it, pulling out his binoculars to scan the area. Covers with slits had been placed over the lenses, so as not to give away one's position with light glare from the glass. He scanned the battlefield from right to left and then back. As he panned his view, he could make out a few positions of note inside the village ahead, his attention drawn to the gas station Victor had pointed out in the briefing. Some vaguely bright spark in the militia they were up against had given the forethought to put someone with a DsHK on the roof of the pumping area the two story building about a block down from the gas station also had machine gun nests in the windows, but they were smaller-caliber PKMs compared to the monster positioned atop the gas station. Figuring he should point them out, Saladin got on his radio.

"This is Saladin; be advised, I have spotted a Heavy Machine Gun position on the roof of the fuel station. Some meters down from it, there is a two-story building with two windows on separate levels, facing our direction; those have a PKM in each of those windows, over."

Scratching subconsciously at his bandaged arm Garret listened intently to the briefing from the back of the heated room. He clenched his jaw through most of it learning long ago to keep his mouth shut during these briefings no matter how much he disagreed with carefully laid out plans. Besides, it wasn’t like the commander’s plan was bad, at least not from what Garret could tell based on his own pitiful tactical wisdom. The plan was just too patient, too…slow for his tastes. Waiting for the enemy to come to you, to walk into a well prepared kill zone, was less risky than taking the fight to their doorstep and yet it was the latter that Garret had trained for. Find the enemy and rip him out of his little excuse of a hidey-hole by his shriveled-up balls.

Garret rolled his head until he felt his neck pop and rubbed his arm again. It didn’t even itch, but the action had more to do with an itchy brain as opposed to an itchy body. He could still feel the quickening in his veins, pre-combat eagerness, like being teased by some chick he just knew he would end up fucking anyway. It was both exhilarating and irritating all at once and Garret just wanted to get it over with because, like so many other soldiers, it was the waiting, not the fighting, that ate away at him. More so perhaps because he was an assault trooper. Combat was something that just happened, you sit long enough and it would happen to you. Close-quarters was not like that, it had to be sought out purposefully. “Take the fight to them.”

"Get any R&R or prep done by ten-hundred hours. Meet rucksacks, rations and loaded weapons."

With that, Garret adjusted his cap and wheeled out the doro into the subtropical sun. The scent of cordite and RDX wafted by him, the aromatic aftermath of the previous night’s mortar contact. Then came the stench of burnt and rotting flesh, mixed with the ever present miasma of human waste baking in the mid-morning heat. When he joined the Army that was one element of war he hadn’t quite thought of at the time; the smell of it. Now whenever he smelled war he was reminded of the grand naivety he held as a child. He had always thought war was clean and glorious. The reality was there is nothing glamorous about war.
___________________________

Casually stacking the intermediate cartridges into the sickle box magazine as he sat on an empty grenade crate, Garret silently mouthed his inventory. He fought with gas bubbles that crawled up his throat, his stomach found something at the mess disagreeable. Was probably a healthy reaction, military cooking could kill you as fast as military engagements. Shit was bad for you. Garret topped off the magazine and set it down on the tarp which ran under all his other field kit. Everything in ranks by priority, ready for combat loading. Neat, organized; Sergeant Reeves would be proud. Never show it of course, because you “can’t have the lot’ve you c’ntemp’ble dregs thinkin’ you can do right by me”.

Eying the AKM which lay next to the M37, Garret snatched up the weapon as he stood. He aimed off into the distant savannah (something Reeves would’ve burst a vessel over) and checked the iron sights before standing down. He took in the sight of the weapon as his gaze traversed the length of it. Some mercs may complain about being issued Cold War era weapons in the 21st century and Garret really didn’t grasp the logic of that. A bullet would kill you just as dead no matter the gun that fires it. Plus, the AKM had the gruesome distinction of having the highest body count of any single weapon system in modern history. It was a testament to just how much death and hatred could be packed into nine pounds of forged steel and plywood. What right did any person have to question that legacy?

Knowing they may be facing unknowns during the operation, Garret packed for contingencies. Extra grenades, extra ammo, extra rations, and slugs for any door he couldn’t force open. Should also be helpful if those technicals were up-armored, otherwise it wouldn’t matter. This wasn’t Hollywood, in real life sheet metal hulls weren’t worth a damn against assault and battle rifle rounds fired from effective range.

The wind howled over the dusty perimeter and Garret’s nostrils flared as the scents came again. Garret closed his eyes and breathed deep, his chest expanding like an enraged puffer fish, embracing the noxiousness of this place. There was so much to learn about war without sight, so many ways to make it a more tangible, natural scenario. He wanted to be infused with it, drunk with it. Maybe he wanted to become it.
_______________________

The ride in the Hilux to the staging area was rough and dark; it reminded Garret of the back-country road trips to the fight clubs out beyond the Dallas suburbia. A bunch of kids throwing fists at one another in the glow of light from camp fires and holed oil drums filled with burning detritus, all fueled by an overabundance of alcohol. The ring of fire. It was cliché, but it was memorable too. Garret broke his first bones at such an event; both his own and others’. Good times.

Huddled in the staging area Garret received their frag orders and then saw a lot of team members dispersing in one of two directions: to the western perimeter, following Farin, and another to the south to the high ground. Unless Garret was hearing things, he could’ve sworn that Victor told them to split up into three groups. So who was holding the eastern perimeter? There was an easy answer to this question but it was a stupid one. In war it was dangerous to fight alone, which wasn’t all that much of a deterrent to Garret but the conditioned soldier in him recoiled at the idiocy of the thought. If you ended up in a Rambo situation, that was different from deliberately setting yourself up in one. Yet…that low ground had to be held although the company of a machine gun and someone to watch his back would be appreciated.
He shrugged in resignation, bowed to the inevitable and brought his AKM to bear. He did a quick brass check and then was on his way.

Huddled in the scrubby brush behind a sand berm, Garret overlooked the slit trench used by the militia as an open-air latrine. It was downwind of the camp but even that elementary engineering wouldn’t help with the flies, ergo, disease that such a cesspool germinated. The trench cut along the eastern perimeter of the camp from what Garret could determine in the low light of the fires. The ditch eventually ran along the main road and headed into the encampment. On the eastern perimeter there was hardly anyone watching; one very bored sentry sitting on an empty milk crate huffing…something, probably benzene. Shit’ll kill you. Made sense that the guard detail was so light on this side of the camp, nobody was going to attack from this direction not through this terrain. Soft sand plus low ground plus high visibility equaled a quagmire.

Now Garret saw the logic of this position in the commander’s plan. Once the militia were broken they would likely run away from the thrust of the merc assault and they would be pinned if they tried to run to high ground by the support weapons. With nothing but open, clear terrain north of them the only remaining option was to retreat east. They’d be bogged down in the sand and panicking, would lose any semblance of cohesion they had as the fire teams stationed at this point would open up on them. They would run right into a hurricane. Garret smirked; he had seen this little “hammer and anvil” maneuver before, but only as the hammer. It would be…fun to see it from the other perspective. The one that was winning that is.

He clicked his radio on transmit, “Hiyak to One.”

After a brief silence, “Hiyak to Linden.”

“Victor here, send over.”

“Hiyak at Charlie, 75 meters out. Low cover, rough terrain. One sentry on perimeter OP. Could use some company over here. Hiyak, out.

Areli rode in the truck, manning the gun. It was not a pleasant ride since they were doing it with no lights but it made sense to not give away their position. He hummed a tune him and his buddies used to sing when going off to and from assignments.

Once arriving two klicks away, Areli jumped out of the truck and grabbed his RPK. He headed to the ammo dump they were setting up and began to check his supplies. He grabbed a few extra mortar shells, just in case. Areli spotted Sarah and stopped to talk to her.

"Hey, do you have anyone you are heading out with?" He asked politely.

Sarah sat quietly in the truck as well, breathing gently in preperation. She was dreading the moment they would step out into the battle, but there were people depending on her. Well, probably. Unless they were extremely good at what they did, in which case, there would be nothing to it.

As they arrived, she picked up a pistol with loathing, and carefully holstered it, but released it as though it were a bug. She headed towards the ammo dump, quickly double-checking her supplies and everything in her med-kit. When Areli approached her, she brushed back a lock of hair and smiled kindly.

"No, I don't. Care to come with me? I'm Sarah." she replied, extending her hand for a quick shake.

Areli took her hand and shook it quickly. "Areli. I would not mind coming with you. I need someone to spot for me since I need to fire off mortars." He explained as he picked up his RPK. "You are a medic, aren't you? I think I saw you a few times back at the hospital. I was there helping out." He explained.

Areli looked at the map they were handing out to where the others would be when the mortars began to be launched. He grabbed one of the radios and handed it to Sarah. "Here, you can use this so we know what is going on."

Sarah laughed nervously, nodding in agreement. "I think I've seen you around. Nice to meet you, then, Areli." That wasn't the reason she was nervous, though. "I..can't shoot the mortar, but if it's just spotting, I think I can do that." she said, grimacing slightly. "I know it's weird, but I really really hate fighting. If you do get hurt though, you won't be disappointed."

She gave a small wink, and took the radio when offered. "Alright, will do."

Areli took note of her nervousness. "Good cause you would be putting me out of a job. All you have to do is tell me where you see the enemy in distance and angle." Areli listened as she explained that she does not like fighting.

"Why did you sign up for this then?" Areli asked before adding, "Also I am glad that you can patch me up if I need though I doubt I will. This big boy will keep us safe." Areli patted the RPK gently. "Ready to head out to our spot? Also, you might want to make sure the radio works once we get a good distance away."

"Sounds easy enough. I've got good eyes. Gotta spot the injured, you know?" She grinned a little, but sombered up at the serious topic. "I signed up because I thought it would be a good life experience. That was the military. Now I just do it because people need help, and I'm qualified to give it." she explained.

"Well, I'm glad. I'd much prefer it if no one got hurt, but that's honestly not likely." Sarah nodded at his question. "Let's go." She fiddled with the radio, setting it up. "I'll be sure to do that."

Areli nodded a little since it was an understandable reason. His reason was different. He joined the Royal Marines because they wanted him and Areli wanted to fight for his country. That was before being sent into battle. Now he does it to help and because he really does not know anything else.

"This is a batttle. People will get hurt. That is unavoidable but how many on our side get hurt can be limited depending on how we approach things." He turned and motioned for her to take the lead since she was a lady. "I will get us there but you can make the path unless you rather I do it." Areli smirked.

"Of course ladies first, you gentleman, you." She joked, heading in the direction indicated. She would proceed to test the radio when they arrived.

Areli followed her. He was careful to keep his eyes on the map and not to check out her figure. He would occasionally tell her to change direction in case they were getting off course. Once arriving to the general area marked on the map, Areli pulled out the mortar launcher and began to set-up.

He took out a small eyepiece that would give out distances to Sarah. "Be ready to move after I launch a few so if they launch return mortars, we can get out of the way." He made sure the mortars were readily available along with the lumination shells. He looked at Sarah for her to check in that they were ready.

The sentry took a quick drag from his cheap, locally made cigarettes. His dark skin nearly blended into the mud and brick wall behind him, where his rifle leaned by his feet. He had sandals rather than boots, a worn out pair of jeans held up by a piece of rope rather than a belt, and a Chinese chest rig made of sodden cotton only offered four spare magazines. Yet for a member of one of the many militias in the area, this man was remarkably well-outed. When the boys went raiding, most slept or drunk to pass the time - the unlucky ones were posted as guards. Oh well. With a conspiratorial grin, he fished a small glass bottle from his pocket and unscrewed the top.

He grunted in surprise was an arm snapped around his neck. Unfortunately for the sentry, he was going to be the first casualty of the raid.

Farin clasped a rag over his mouth and drove a knife repeatedly into his heart. He shook with every stab as if contorted by the pulses of an electric shock, losing strength by the second. When the spurts of blood ceased and the man fell limp, Farin eased the body into the ground and wiped off her knife. She unslung her rifle and crept along the base of the wall, stopping a the first gap. The merc's bright eyes took in the situation piece to piece, mentally mapping the compound and the numbers of contacts within. In a minute, she had the information she needed and disengaged, disappearing back into the darkness surrounding the camp.

~~~~

"Vic. DshK on top of the station. Gunner is inebriated, a few inside the building with heavy weapons. PKMs around the perimeter, most have only a belt or two of ammo. Ammo stockpile in a burned-out deuce and a half. Most of them are sleeping or drunk. Should be an easy run if we move fast. Put the first shells on the station, then the truck. Should be five degrees to the west. I'll be on hand."

Victor turned the frequency dial on the handheld radio, bringing himself onto the same net as the rest of the unit. "On mark, drop a full complement onto the central structure, high explosive. Search to the west for vehicles and ammo dump - beware secondaries. When ammo is depleted, forward elements move in. Break radio discipline once raid starts. Out." He waited a moment for affirmatives, then turned to Johanneke. "You know what to do."