OOC.
And now, Our Feature Presentation.
0800
Conference Room, Administration & Processing
Western Zembala Displaced Persons' Center
September 4th, 2014
"So what you're telling me is that we have to release him because we do not have the authority of clearance to hold him?"
"Yes, Chief Depleur. Fusilier and AUAMZ do not have the authority to detain prisoners of war, only people caught within the perimeter of the camp."
"And aren't you aware of the fact that even though the Horsemen and the ZDF are in bed together, it was the soldiers that killed his buddies and brought him to us on the belief that we would transport him to the Hague for a war crimes trial? If we let him out, it could have a negative effect on the stabilization of the region."
"Orders from the AU state that we must release him, however he has chosen to stay in the camp as an IDP. By the regulations set forth by AUAMZ, we are obliged to honor his request. However, if the ICC or the Zembalese government come to arrest him, we are obliged to surrender him over to them. If he causes any trouble as a refugee though, you know what to do."
The security chief sat there for a second, taking in the answer to the question that was on everyone's minds. "The Famine" was one of the most feared players in the war, at least until ZDF commandos repelled Iwu's assault on a nearby firebase, killing his cohorts and capturing him. Strangely, the commandos brought him to Oasis and abruptly left him under the care of Fusilier, with the camp soon finding out that Iwu had to be released from detention. Iwu was a broken, sad, and angry man who clearly blamed himself for the deaths of his family, and any attempts by the staff to counsel him were met with extreme hostility. On the occasion of Iwu's suicide attempt, the contractors had to temporarily strap him down in his cot so that he couldn't harm himself. Scott himself had even attempted to reach out to the man over a bottle of brandy, but he was met with a profanity-laced insult about his nationality instead. The troubling part was wondering what Iwu would do when released. He was going to remain in the camp, this time as a refugee. There was the potential that he could attempt to raise another militia within the camp, and Scott knew that he would have to keep a close eye on him, at least until someone with the proper authority (i.e. official documentation from the Zembalese government/AU/UN calling for his arrest) decided to haul him out.
The conference room was cool, being in one of the few buildings in the camp with working A/C. Some of the other staff buildings were cooled with A/C, and even some of the refugees were using scavenged, battered units in their huts, though these were often stolen and the know-how to fix them was alien to most of the refugees. Scott was dressed in a black t shirt, that displayed the words "Fusilier Worldwide", at the top and bottom of the company emblem (two muskets crossing a war horn), which was positioned on the left breast-side of the shirt. On his lower half, his t shirt was tucked into a pair of M81 Woodland BDU pants, with a black belt that had attached to it a black leg holster that contained a Glock 22 pistol, along with a cell phone belt pouch containing an Android. On his feet, his pants were tucked into a pair of black, somewhat weathered combat boots. The rather standard Fusilier garb did little to keep back the cool breeze, and he savored every last minute of it that he could obtain before having to go outside in the humid weather.
Soon, Scott was back on his feet, swiftly exiting the conference room. His feet made contact with the hardened ground of the camp; the earth had no nutrients, and a lack of rainfall was taking its toll on the people of Zembala. The sun hung in the air, beating down on him as he removed a paramilitary-style baseball cap from his right leg pocket, slapping it onto his head before opening the driver's side door to a black Tahoe. He picked up an OD Green plate carrier, and slipped it on. His right hand opened up one of the many pouches on the vest, and he donned the hands-free communications earpiece for his radio. After that, he picked up a green and tan shemagh, wrapping it around his neck in a style that he had carried over from his days in the US Army Special Forces. It was time to get Iwu processed.
"Khan Actual to Alcatraz, prepare 00045 for release. Over," he reported in before shutting the door to his Tahoe and walking over towards a concrete building with a sign above the two metal doors that read "DETENTION." On the outside and inside, it was a dreary grey color, and its cells were less bright, with the facility being dedicated to holding those caught committing crimes within the camp. Iwu had been confined to a solitary cell due to his notoriety and his mental state, as the psychiatric staff feared that he could potentially harm other detainees and the security staff feared that his presence in General Population would prompt a riot among the detainees. As Scott entered, a male Egyptian MP beckoned him over, offering the chief a clipboard with a release form attached. After signing the attached documents, he kept the clipboard in hand as he walked into the secure cell block, with 2 PMCs armed with SIG 516 Carbines following in behind him.
Iwu was soon released from his cell, and escorted over to the Processing building. Having been in Detention for a week now, Oasis had already compiled a dossier on the man, compiling what they could gather about his personal history, medical history, and other background information. Iwu was then issued an identification card, along with a month's supply of ration coupons, a week's supply of rations, some essential amenities and toiletries, and a tent for shelter. He was given a plot of land on the western banks of the Banda - where the Christian residential area was located. After all of the bureaucratic business was dealt with, Iwu was then loaded aboard Scott's Tahoe for transport to his new home in the camp.
The camp was surrounded into a series of districts. On the western side of the Banda, the Christians were housed, while the Muslims and other religious minorities remained on the eastern side. Both of these districts held refugee-owned bars, shops, and other facilities that were primarily operated by the refugees. The Administrative District occupied the Northern half of the camp, wedged in between the two districts as to provide them with easy access to both districts. The SUV drove through to the Christian district, traveling down the dirt and gravel road that carried them through the shanty town. Iwu could see the destitute refugees trying to carry on with their lives, and it was clear that he would soon drop down to their level. The sound of "Lookin' Out My Backdoor" could be heard from the radio, played at a moderate volume.
"Hey, we're drawing in close to your pad," Scott called out, keeping his eyes on the road but speaking to Iwu. "I feel like I should give you a heads-up about the currency in this camp, 'cause there are two kinds of currency here. You got the Zembalese paper money - Zembucks or whatever - and then you've got the ration cards. You know how those work, so guess which one is more valuable?"
As the Tahoe continued through the camp, Scott was soon forced to halt the vehicle when a group of children playing in the road failed to move. The vehicle lurched forward a bit as the brakes were applied, and Scott flipped on the siren and red and blue lights attached to the vehicle. It was essentially a Police Special Service Vehicle, except its body tub, glass, and tires were made bulletproof with extensive modification. At the blast of the sirens and the flashing of the lights, the children quickly moved out of the way of the vehicle.
"I know your background, but you're matriculating back into civilian life. I suggest you take what you have just been offered and make the most of it. Live here in the camp, find a peaceful niche, meet a nice girl, but don't start any trouble. We've got enough fires to fight without you butchering the Muslims. We're watching you, and if you decide to cause trouble, you'll be back in Detention, waiting on the government forces to pick your ass up and haul you off to a POW camp."
The Tahoe soon stopped at the plot of land that Iwu was to inhabit. It was on a little less than an acre of land, on the banks of the trash-filled, somewhat stagnant Banda River. Scott and his men exited the vehicle, and proceeded to set up Iwu's tent after unloading his belongings. It took less than 20 minutes, and the former warlord was soon left alone, with the PMCs loading up and driving away. As the dust clouds obscured the image of the Tahoe, Iwu would soon see a group of shady characters eyeing him from across the road. The men were drinking around a radio that blurted out some sort of Zembalese Christian song, that was grounded in traditional rhythms, and an astute man like Iwu could see that the men had a few battered and rusted machetes sitting around them. The former warlord was more than likely aware of the fact that many of the Horsemen militias had distanced themselves from the 4 Horsemen due to their hostility to the government forces, and many high-level Horsemen commanders had denounced Iwu as a bandit whose gang had no affiliation with the other militias.
Sunrise.
The dark sky had lost the nightly fight, as the African sun slowly began to creep up above the tropical forest and the savannah. This was the only point of the day in which one could not hear the cacophony of gunfire, explosions, and blood-curling screams that dominated Zembala for almost 20 hours a day. Countless fights had been fought on this ancient land, and to the trees, rocks, and dirt, this civil war was just another bloody chapter in the history of the land, nothing but another trial like all of the others. The birds and animals continued as they always did, with a flock of geese flying past the orange-red sun, the scene looking like something that would be on the front cover of National Geographic. Down on the savannah below them, a small family of African Elephants wandered through the brush. This was serenity at its finest, and if you were to witness this scene, you would quickly forget that Zembala was even being torn apart by a vicious civil war. At least, until the sound of blades swiftly sliced through the air and forced the elephants into a panic, sending them running for the forest.
A pair of helicopters would soon pass by the rising African sun, namely a brush-camouflaged Mi-17 with AU livery and a brush-camouflaged UH-1Y Venom. The latter was practically unheard of in any organization aside from the US Marine Corps, but with Fusilier Worldwide’s CAO being a former USMC 3-star General, you’ve got some pull in many facets of the organization, and it seemed that the man was able to swing the Marine Corps into leasing some rights on the Venom to Fusilier. This particular bird, named “Mamba” by its crew, had already distinguished itself in the 3rd Zembalese Civil War, having rescued a team of UN Military Observers from a large force of ZIF militants, as well as having aided foreign special forces teams in extracting their diplomats and citizens from vicious fighting in Njala. Now, Mamba was escorting a helicopter packed full of aid workers to Oasis, the largest refugee camp in all of Zembala.
The Mi-17 held the newest batch of aid workers; dutiful young missionaries, idealistic citizens, prowling journalists, and other types were all crammed together in the Russian helicopter. For many of them, it was their first time to Africa, choosing to forget about the fact that Zembala was potentially the most dangerous country in Africa. In the days that the war was confined to small skirmishes between poorly-armed religious militias - when the military's campaign against the ZIF hadn't completely started and the military/police presence in West Zembala was low - the aid workers were constantly extorted and taken advantage of, without soldiers to watch their backs. The situation had escalated in February with the kidnapping of 3 German college students in Njala by the ZIF, who were abused and starved for 5 days before a special forces team consisting of US Navy SEALs and German KSK commandos located and raided the village that the students were being held in. Even with the increased presence of "friendly" forces, missionaries who veered off into militia-controlled territory were often subject to paying tribute to the militias who dominated whatever territory the missionaries happened to enter. Working at aid camps was much safer than visiting the villages, but then again, it presented its own series of risks.
Suddenly, the aid workers would soon encounter one of the many risks associated with their line of work. As the helicopters proceeded onward, the calm of the morning was further interrupted when a rocket-propelled grenade streaked from the canopy below, corkscrewing over towards the two helicopters. Only a briefing warning could be given to the aid workers, with the big Rwandan crew chief calling out to the aid workers. The man was dressed in a tan flight suit, a pair of black boots, and a black flight helmet, and he held on tight to a rail above his head.
"BRACE FOR MANEUVERS!" he shouted in accented English, knowingly shouting a phrase that most of the aid workers had never heard before.
The westerners were quickly caught by surprise as the Hip banked to the right in order to avoid becoming another statistic in the war, with many of them being knocked around by the sudden movement, though they weren't seriously wounded unless you consider cuts, scrapes, and small bruises to be serious. The rocket continued on past the Hip, shaking the helicopter as it exploded behind it, without damaging the vehicle. As the Hip was maneuvering, Mamba's crew was on the job, firing 2 Hydra rockets supplemented by machine gun fire from an M240 Bravo. An explosion could be heard down below, as the rockets made impact somewhere in the canopy. The lack of further gunfire indicated that the Mamba had warded off any further attacks on the helicopters. ZIF animosity towards the African Union and the NGOs was well-known; in a “press conference,” the ZIF had vowed to behead any peacekeeper or NGO that they managed to captured, and although none had been beheaded yet, a Red Cross CH-47 carrying a large number of injured civilians was shot down just 3 kilometers from Oasis with no survivors, and it sent a message to the AU and the NGOs that the ZIF had few qualms about killing noncombatants who went without heavy support outside of Oasis.
The helicopters would soon approach Oasis, and the crew would alert the aid workers to this development. Expecting to see a well-maintained refugee camp in which everyone was happy and healthy, most of the aid workers were disappointed when the reality of Oasis was that it was little more than an AU-defended shanty town. It had been a year since the creation of the camp, and many refugees were still in tents, or in tent-shanty hybrids with a few solid buildings mixed in. It looked like a Brazilian favela, minus being on a hillside and with a river running through the middle of the camp. Mosquitoes plagued tropical areas, and apparently whoever designated the camp to have a river running through it should have been shot for such a design flaw. It wasn’t some roaring rapid; quite the opposite, as the river was one of the slowest-flowing rivers in Africa, and it was known for its mosquitoes. Also, the river was definitely filthy and overused by the refugees, with people swimming, gathering drinking water, washing clothes, disposing of trash, and relieving themselves in the river all at the same time. Despite the fact that there were numerous port-a-johns and restrooms located in the camp, not everyone flocked to them. Sometimes at night, your home was too far from the restroom for a safe walk to the john, but with the river right behind your house, you could just plop a mud baby into the river and walk back inside. As a result, the river was just nasty. Many aid workers suggested the idea of building a pipeline and even working on a septic system for the camp, but the plan was shot down by the AU bigwigs, who argued that the pipeline would be sabotaged, and the septic system and the pipeline would be too expensive to produce.
The helicopters soon landed on the raised helipads that had been constructed. Set up near the helipads was the 2-story, concrete Processing Center, with the main gate sitting just nearby, along with the security checkpoint, in which refugees were processed into Oasis. Set up in front of the Processing Center was a sign that read NEW WORKERS ENTER HERE, written in English, Spanish, French, Arabic, Afrikaans, German, and a few other languages. As the back door lowered to create a walkway for the aid workers, they were welcomed by the rising heat of the tropical area, clocking in around 80 degrees Fahrenheit at the present moment. Some of the aid workers, notably those from the other side of the Equator, were hit by the heat and humidity almost immediately, wiping sweat from their brows and digesting water in order to reassure themselves that they wouldn’t suffer heat exhaustion.
The inside of the Processing Center was rather modern, with furniture, ornaments, and architecture that you’d expect to be in some Western office building than in the Processing Center of one of the biggest follies in the history of refugee camps. The interior was air-conditioned, and it was one of the few air-conditioned buildings in the camp, aside from the security and worker barracks and some illicitly-acquired A/C units that some refugees smuggled in, those these were often stolen by other refugees, and would end up broken, as few people had the know-how to repair these units. As the new workers arrived, personnel arrived to transfer baggage to the living spaces that each aid worker would be assigned to, taking the name of each person and using a list to find out where each new aid worker would be bunked at, though not everyone would have the luxury of staying in an air-conditioned area, as they were still building accommodations for the increase in aid workers and many would have to brave the elements and bunk at their work stations.
After turning over their bags, the aid workers were led into a rather small conference room, where some chairs were arranged in rows and columns. A middle-aged white man wearing a dark green polo tucked into a pair of faded blue jeans stood at the front of the room, in front of a powerpoint title screen projection that read “WESTERN ZEMBALA DISPLACED PERSONS’ CENTER,” with the small images of several organization emblems below it, namely the International Red Cross, International Red Crescent, the African Union, and several other organizations.
"Everyone please settle in here," he said, speaking with a Scandinavian accent mixed into his fluency of English. "Our command personnel will be here shortly. In the meantime, feel free to socialize with one another."
After driving back to the Processing Center, Scott would park his Tahoe outside and move in. On his agenda now, he had to meet with and speak to the new aid workers. It was just a standard introduction and safety brief, though the camp administration had required that Scott be present, rather than send one of his men to do it, a decision he wasn't thrilled about. Regardless, he wasn't about to raise anymore trouble over such a trivial matter, and he made his way into the same room as the aid workers, removing his hat and tucking it back into his pocket as he made his way to the front of the room, crossing his arms and watching the aid workers silently.
