Capital District, Grand Duchy of Glisandia
The Intexa/USG officers in charge of the contract had come to a unanimous decision that they were in need of more personnel to complete the contract. Some of those changes were forced upon them, such as notification that the team might not be doing well under current leadership, and the further word that they would be receiving two operators back in body bags. As soon as they could recover the bodies, anyway. It was short notice, but the Intexa excelled at working under tight deadlines. None of these details were passed along to the newer additions to the team...yet.
Word went out through the usual channels to put feelers out to more freelance contractors, and they got the usual bevy of responses. When filtered down for actual qualified and vetted candidates, however, the casting net came up rather sparse. They did get some promising operators and with acceptance of terms, instructions were given. No mention was made of the nations they would be operating in, other than that it might be potentially hostile country.
As with the first wave of operators who were finishing up their stint in Southern Glisandia, these contractors were on their own to book air travel to Rikijdrottin by the muster date, as well as bring whatever extra preferred gear they chose. It was on them to figure out how to smuggle that through the various customs of the nations they must travel through, but upon arrival, the client Glisandian government was certain to look the other way when it came to USG contracted personnel, short of some fool trying to smuggle in a WMD.
Their ultimate destination for the day was the same Air Force VIP hangar at the far end of Rikijdrottin International that the first group had found themselves at just a short few days ago. A large main bay with chairs and a screen set up at one end, offices to one side, and a posh lounge with entertainment (satellite TV, billiards, foosball, gaming systems, literature) and sustenance options (a fully stocked refrigerator and buffet table) set up on the side opposite from the offices.
The offices were where the chief contracting officer, Mandrakhar Singh, and his assistant, Ms. Sandra D’Avarro, worked out of when they weren’t consulting with their clients, the GSB (Glisandian Security Bureau) in the downtown area of the capital. One office was set up as a full communications center, while Singh worked out of another, and Ms. D’Avarro had the last office set up as a staging room for the last details needed to keep the team operating in top shape.
Officially, Sandra D’Avarro was the Expediter for the contract. What that meant in Intexa terms was that besides assisting Singh, she ensured that all supplies, gear, paperwork and anything else needed to keep the mission on track was filled out, shipped, packed or otherwise available in any given situation to their contractors and clients.
Singh wasn’t getting off light as he had to be the face of the contracting side for the Intexa, the support arm of the USG, keeping up with their clients and the contractors they had fulfilling the contract, as well as filtering and translating the information they needed into hard mission briefs, incorporating new developments as they arose and re-tasking elements and client aid resource as needed. Hence why he had been the eventual contact for ‘Archway’ when Friese had called in the air strike. That and he had been dealing with a serious issue out of Frardjol that had affected the mission and incidentally been able to get on the radio when Garden One had called in. He had since flown back to the Glisandian capital. Now, while Garden team was on mission, when they called Archway in Frardjol, he might not be present, but any communication would be bounced directly to him via an encrypted Intexa satellite phone.
As the new contractors arrived, Singh and D’Avarro would walk out and greet them.
The turbaned Sikh, or pale Neu Engollian woman, depending on who popped out of the offices first, would usually speak with a confident, professional smile:
“Please, make yourself at home in the lounge and we will gather you together for a short briefing when everyone has arrived.”
At which point, any light discussion was had, then the contractors were ushered into the lounge and left to entertain themselves and each other until the appropriate time.
One man had arrived before all the others, so it seemed. He was dressed conservatively, with a grey sweater and slacks, with brown loafers on of questionable manufacture and their stitching being the only possible indication of his origin. He had a blue parka folded and placed neatly on the couch next to him, creating an artificial barrier from anyone sitting next to him. The attention of his pale Nordic face, framed by jet black hair and with a sharp scar down one cheek, was currently focused on a local news channel, with the announcer rapidly speaking in Glisja, the native tongue. He seemed to follow the language well enough.
Occasionally, he would sip from a highball glass containing a mixed drink that he’d made from a small liquor cabinet just off the kitchenette area. There was even fresh ice in the bucket, he had been mildly surprised to find. His drink rested on an elongated coffee table that matched the length of the lounge couch and was partially covered in magazines in a variety of languages mostly on the topic of the private contractor field and general military industry, neither of which were of the slightest interest to him.
Shalumite Security International had always prided itself on producing professional operators, and their newest addition to the guild’s team was no different. Dressed in a pair of fatigues with an urban camouflage pattern, Amalia strode into the lounge with a certain sense of determination, despite the fact that she wasn’t going to be flown out anytime soon. The small, single backpack thrown over her shoulders indicated that she’d packed light - given where she was going, a lot of the clothing she owned probably wouldn’t have been workable anyways; the same could be said to her rifle, which she had keenly left back at the office. Surely someone would be able to scrounge up a Dragunov for her somewhere along the way.
Slipping off her pack, Amalia set it down on the couch and took a seat. Getting this far had been bad enough, but the coffee she’d had earlier was keeping her running on fumes. It was tempting to go out in search of a bar, and maybe something to eat, but she had no idea where she was supposed to go from here; her primary employer had been vague with the instructions, saying that Intexa would give her more information once she was on site.
The scarred man in the sweater with jet black hair looked over at Amalia as she sat on the other end of the couch, snorted, then went back to watching the television.
The first interdimensional contract Osiris has ever attempted went up in flames at the very first stage. The operator died at teleportation. This second attempt however seemed to be going well. After a long flight to the airport from another, less monitored port, and clad in a winter jacket, a baseball cap, jeans, a t-shirt, and military boots, Graves strode into the lounge with a confident swagger. He came in through Gaulic customs under the fake identity of Damian Jones, a Gylian who took a flight to Glisandia, an unlikely destination for a vacation.
When he entered the lounge, he neither spoke nor looked at any of the other operators, choosing merely to head to the bar for a drink before heading out on what seems to be a suicide mission. He set his suitcase next to him which was long and short, suggesting weapons and gear of some sort. He thought to himself Euthanasia through deadly combat. Rather ironic. He then looked around the bar for whatever drinks were available, but was looking for, in particular, absinthe, or Knob Creek. He then decided on Knob Creek and acquired it. He only sipped on it little by little, savoring the drink, rather than sending it through the hatch.
The air was fucking frigid, the sort of winter weather that gave the norsemen a hard-on. Despite his Slovak roots, Derrick Kravchenko had been raised in the tropical heat of Argonia and wasn’t used to anything this cold. Hell, he’d never been issued anything close to winter kit during his enlisted days. The coldest it got in the marshes was something close to sixty degrees Farenheit in the ‘winter’, and that had seemed like an arctic breeze at the time. This was real cold. That Gungiri breeze bullshit he’d heard the ex-Shield Bangers joke about.
Thankfully, the hangar was a great deal warmer, and Derrick shook off the residual chills with a shiver. While this wasn’t his first job as a Blackwood asset, it was his first in this sort of climate. His ops manager had given him a thorough brief before he’d been dispatched, along with a death-by-Powerpoint of ‘pointers’ from some of Blackwood’s Gungiri cold-weather survival experts. Everything from combat kit choices to appropriate weaponry and survival tools had been covered, and he’d packed accordingly. The kit-bag he was toting in his left hand was a worn olive drab, fraying slightly at the canvas handles. ‘BONESAW’ and ‘8443’ had been spray-stenciled across the side at an angle in faded black. He’d had the thing since his initial enlistment when it had hit him in the face during recruit gear issue, hurled by a surly quartermaster.
He set the bag down gently, as it was clearly heavy. The cold-weather boots were heavy in an unfamiliar way, too. He’d grown used to running ops in his featherweight Solomons. These insulated nylon deals felt restrictive and clunky. Thankfully, they’d had his preferred Crye Precision combat pants in an alpine pattern, and he’d worn them off the plane. The parka was a custom design, a product of decades of his northern brethren modifying off-the-shelf coats for their operational needs. His ball cap was standard cool-guy issue, black with a blank velcro patch on the front where a flag would have been, but wasn’t. Derrick’s ‘Bravo’ model PIG gloves clung to his hands like a second skin, and he didn’t plan to remove them anytime soon. His digits were still cold.
Like any pipe-hitter worth his salt, he made for the bar once he’d found a decent place to stash his kit-bag. He needed a drink to ward off the chill, and bourbon was typically his drink of choice. He located a bottle of Knob Creek on the bar-top, already being enjoyed by another of what he assumed was their group, a shorter man with a fit physique that suggested he was a swimmer of some sort…[/i]
“Can I borrow that? I’m Derrick, by the way.”
All Graves did next was snort, waiting a few seconds before replying.
“Graves.”
He casually went back to sipping his bourbon for a while before speaking again.
“I haven't heard a name like that in the longest time. Where are you from?”
Matti Walder had arrived a little after most of the other contractors, despite living in the same region as his destination. There were only two cities in Madurin that allowed air travel to civil war-torn Glisandia, and none of them were in Austrakia. One was Telleursville, Neu Engollon, and because of obvious issues with the strained relations between the two neighboring Alpine nations, that was a difficult and awkward option. Plus he just had a personal distaste for travel to Neu Engollon, which wasn’t all that rare a feeling for Austraks. Although not many of his fellow nationals had served in the Austrak elite forces on the border during one of the numerous skirmishes, like he had, which added a specially sharp stigma of not wanting to enter the enemy’s den.
Somehow, despite his misgivings, he still had accepted a contract with a Neu Engollian registered private security company. Perhaps it had to do with a bit of desperation for a better contract than what had been on the radar lately for freelancers. Also, it was known that Guild PMCs just had a monopoly on finding well paying, reliable clients over many non-Guild organizations.
So, dilemma in mind, he had chosen the other route through Teremaran local air space, that being the capital of Gaul, Paritte. A flight from Vilgenna to Paritte, then he hopped on Air Gaul Flight 4571 with direct transcontinental service to Rikijdrottin, capital of the Grand Duchy. Contraband gear was safe in specially designed hidden compartments in his bags that only would have been revealed during a random bag check by either Austrak or Gaul customs agents. With luck, he wasn’t one of those selected in either airport, which meant smooth sailing as the USG email had made clear that the Glisandians would not be conducting any such searches.
Once on board the flight, he noticed that the passenger manifest was thin, and seemed to be almost wholly Gauls, of whom gave an air of governmental importance. One thing he was aware of was that Gaul had become a crucial ally for post-war Glisandia, and this one scheduled flight a week was probably the major pipeline keeping open those relations on the non-military side. His foreign presence got just a slight one second longer stare from the flight attendant crew as they interacted, but it was enough to clue him in that he wasn’t as incognito as he might wish.
Walder originally was prepared to sleep the rest of the way, but his curiosity got the better of him as he read through the thin, scarce brief in the encrypted email. He had loaded up his tablet with other data he could find on the Tavlyrian continent and the numerous conflicts they’d had, mainly focusing on the Northern Tavlyrian War, or the ‘YSR Invasion of Glisandia’, to some. It seemed to figure in greatly to their mission, so he set about learning all he could. Austrakia, like the neighbor it had difficult relations with, was greatly neutral in regional and international affairs, so they, as a nation, had had little interest in the goings on across the waters, which included the Qasifyan and Gragastavian Troubles as well as the Northern Tavlyrian War, among others.
With his final arrival in the Glisandian capital, he was certain he had at least a firm background on the area’s culture and history, although he had dozed off at certain points during his research.
Glisandian Air Force personnel escorted him from the civilian side of the airport to their side, obviously expecting him. They loaded his baggage up into a utility vehicle and they were speeding down the tarmac towards a far row of hangars. While he was used to a certain degree of cold, being from an Alpine country, the Glisandian frigid Nordic air was a particular kind of biting that still managed to seep into his bones. He zipped the collar of his parka all the way up.
They pulled up to one of the hangars and while the airmen lugged his bags inside, he made his way to the directed lounge area. Matti saw several of his future co-workers and nodded as they connected eyes. He unzipped as it was comfortably toasty in the lounge, if not in the greater open bay area. He paused for a minute to take it all in, then noticed that most of them had some sort of cocktail in their hands. He was neutral to slightly disapproving on the fact. Walder was a non-drinker, but used to having colleagues drink around him. He went to the refrigerator and found a local seltzer water brand, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip, then he walked over to the table where cold cuts, cheeses, pickled things, shrimp and other delectables were to be found and loaded up a small paper plate for himself.
He paused once again, turning from the buffet table and making another decision. Walder headed to where he saw the woman, Amalia the SSI operator unbeknownst to him, sitting on the other end of a couch from another aloof operator. He sat with his sustenance in a lounger kitty corner to her end of the couch and struck up conversation in his best Teutonic accented English.
“Quite thee set up they have here, huh? My name is Matti Walder, what is yours?”
Truth be told, she hadn’t expected anyone to sit close to her, much less strike up conversation; there were more than enough open seats, and she wasn’t exactly the most inviting person as she dug through the tablet that she’d brought along in case she had time to sneak in some reading. Clicking the screen off, she flashed the man a small smile and set it down in the spare seat next to her. “Amalia Strasburg,” she replied as she picked up the plate she had been balancing in her lap, “I’m from Shalumite Security International.” She added as she picked up a cheese cube and popped it into her mouth. “That is an...Engollian accent, no? Makes you USG?” Despite the fact that she was German as well, her accent was much lighter and the words were crisp as they flowed like what.
Walder bit back a sour expression for a split second, then was neutral once again, with an ‘almost smile’.
“Fic-...Ah...no. Close. I could see how you could get that. From next door...Austrakia. I have never worked for the USG...until now, I guess...Our countries are not the best of friends, almost the opposite, so it is kind of accidental how I ended up here. You are a Shalumite, hmm? I have heard of your nation. Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Strasburg.”
He paused to sip his water.
“Do you have a...specialty?”
“Oh, ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to assume…” Amalia replied with a sheepish sort of flush, and popped a grape into her mouth before she could stick her foot any further into it. There was a moment where she simply chewed, occasionally nodding in understanding as he explained his origins. “Yessir, I do. I’m a designated marksmen - I do best when I’m hitting the enemy at range with my heavy rifle.” She confirmed with a quick nod as she tugged at the collar of her fatigues. “Sadly, I didn’t get to bring my trusty one along; the locals prefer to use cheaper Soviet stuff.” As she picked up another piece of cheese, she cocked her head. “What about you? Let me guess...you’re a demolitions type?”
Walder smiled.
“I’ve dabbled with demolitions, but...no, not really a specialty. I guess I’m just a shooter. They did mention they were interested in my urban warfare and tactical driving skills for this upcoming mission.”
Matti took a moment as he awaited her reply to take a bite off his plate as well. He selected a shrimp, grabbing it by the wet tail, and smushed it in some sauce that he hoped was cocktail sauce or something similar.
Amalia nodded in understanding as she chewed on a chunk of cheddar cheese. Grabbing another cube, she was quiet and thoughtful for a moment, reminded of her mother’s lessons about not speaking while she was eating. “Haven’t we all dabbled with it?” She asked with a soft chuckle. Technically, one could consider dabbling to be good with lobbing grenades. “I’m sorta like you are, I suppose, though I’m more of a shooter than a driver. Put me up in a good firing position, and I’ll keep your ass above ground,” she winked.
Walder sat back, having disposed of the shrimp rather quickly, which was already getting acquainted with his belly.
“Ah...yes. I will say this. While many may think that long distance shooters are plentiful...I think that quality snipers, or marksmen...er, marks...people...are rare and treasured. I am glad to know that you are there for us in that function. Many a time I was glad that our snipers could cover our butts as we got out of a scrape. Lifesavers, they are.”
The dark haired woman nodded in understanding. “It also depends on what sort of shooters you’re talking about too. I’m a middle of the road sort of Gal, you know? I’m good at picking out targets quick, and putting them down with precision.” She said this as she stabbed at a grape with an extra tooth pick and missed once, twice, and then simply relented by picking up the round piece and popping it into her mouth. “I never could do that thing where you sit for hours and wait for just the -right- shot. No, I still get to experience some of the intensity.” She mused softly. “I’ll watch your back out there, Walder, and I trust you’ll do the same.” She added with a smile. Enemy soldiers, after all, didn’t like people like her, and usually prioritized that they be put down.
Matti Walder took another sip of his carbonated water as he listened to Amalia.
“Thank you. It should not have to be said, but I am glad you did as it comforts me. I have got your back also, Strasburg...And yes, I agree that the traditional sniper operations of waiting for your one shot can get overly tedious. While I can hit my mark at some distance, I have not ever had to serve that exact role. Once though, I acted as the spotter for a two man sniper team. It was...somewhere classified…” It had been on the Neu Engollian border area during the most recent ‘troubles’, back before he had entered private employ. Their target had been a high ranking NEDM officer.
“...I think we waited for a whole day for our shot. Pissing and messing our pants in order not to move and give away our position. Not for me, thank you…”
Feeling that he might have made a social faux pas in mentioning washroom bodily functions, he changed the subject.
“Well, ahem...I do not think I have ever experienced such posh treatment at the start of a contract from an employer. If this is how the regular rank and file are treated by USG, I can understand how they are a popular employer…” He mused out loud, “...But then again, this might be courtesy of the client, not the USG corp.”
Amalia just smiled, seemingly unaffected by any of the comments that he may have considered to be offensive. As someone who had spent her adult life in the military, she had long gotten used to everyone and their crass comments; she had plenty of her own stories, but none that he probably wanted to hear. Maldoria was a great place to soil uniforms, though, that much was for certain. “This is the first time that I’ve ever worked for them, but I’ve heard good things; I’m going to wager my money on the latter, and probably because of the fact that the former has enough cash to make us worthwhile.” She shrugged slightly and cleaned up what few items were left on her plate.
The sharpshooter was hoping they’d get their chance for a proper meal, and maybe a day or two’s worth of sleep, before they shipped out. She hadn’t been briefed on the extent of the mission, but wherever they ended up likely wouldn’t be as welcoming. “I don’t suppose you know any of the other lads or lassies that’ll be in our unit?” She was only aware of the Shalumites who had been deployed.
“Uh, no. Just you so far.” He pointed at a man leaning on the kitchenette counter across the lounge.
“I have a feeling though, that he’s pretty important.”
One of the new additions to the team had actually been residing in one of the offices across the hangar the whole time as the newer freelance contractors arrived. He had been pouring over briefs, dossiers and maps and consulting with Singh and D’Avarro about certain details.
He decided to make a social appearance finally and maybe study some of the team that he would be leading into the Yellow Star Republic.
He strode across the open bay and into the lounge, his eyes fast scanned the operators as he nonchalantly went towards the kitchenette.
He was of somewhat diminutive height and slightly stouter than what would be expected of a top Tier One operator. He had an olive tint to his skin and had a considerable beak of which he was well aware and self-deprecating about. It was just another thing that he used to distract detractors who focused on such surface features and were lulled from the actual danger lurking within.
Grey generously speckled the sideburns and sides of soft charcoal and black of the rest of his cropped hair. Thick salt and pepper brows hooded his eyes.
He also possessed what seemed to be a perpetual smirk on his face, wrinkled and weathered to what one would expect of a middle aged man who had spent considerable time in the sun and in the field.
Those that knew him well, knew that the smirk almost never left his face. It was a sign of his buoyant humor in the face of adversity, as well as a devious, clever nature that made him quick to outthink his opponent first, then outshoot them if matters finally called for it. It might be somewhat stereotypical towards members of his ethnicity - he could claim descendancy from both the Ashkenazim and Mizrachim - but it was a trait that he knew how to wield to his advantage and he relished being able to do so.
Those that would make the erroneous assumption due to his age and girth that he was mobily challenged or had reactions not quick as lightning would be gravely mistaken when it came down to the sharp end of any given critical moment.
He opened the fridge, hoping, but knowing that he would not find his beer of choice, a Dancing Camel brew. (He knew that Sandra D’Avarro would have gotten some here if she had had more notice.) Instead, he grabbed one of the selection of Burgunden Breus that were ubiquitous when it came to USG contracts and rear recreational or staging areas for the Neu Engollian registered security company. He picked a Chateaux, a light pilsner, and shut the fridge door. He popped the top off with a well worn, bolted on iron opener on the side of the cooling appliance and turned around to lean his lower back on the counter, sipping the brew as he surveyed the various Goyim from around the world and smiled. This could be fun.
Matti Walder had noticed the stocky, older than average hitter walk in out of the corner of his eye, but hadn’t really focused on him until now, as he had kept his attention to the conversation with Amalia Strasburg. He took a moment from their chat to do a quick analysis on the confident man who was observing them back, leaning up against the kitchenette counter. Something about his air told Matti that he wasn’t just an average contractor for this mission. His appearance and mannerisms reminded Matti of a movie he’d seen called ‘Ronin’. The lead veteran operator character was played by Roger?...No...Robert De Niro. Yes, that was what he resembled in Matti’s mind.
Amalia’s eyes followed his, and she paused for a moment to study the man in question. While VIP types usually cut an important figure, she couldn’t tell him apart from the man who had unloaded her baggage when she had gotten off the plane. Looks could be deceiving, though. “If you say so,” she said as she set her empty plate aside, “what do you think he does - maybe he’s our employer?”
“Possibly. Management type?” Walder responded quickly.
The Shalumite hummed in agreement and cracked open her water bottle. She took a swig before responding. “That could work too. Someone to keep us in line?” Amalia asked as she wiped a few droplets from her chin. “If he’s coming along for the ride, I’m sure he knows how to work a pistol at the very least.”
“Oh, definitely. I think he could work more than a pistol. I think he might be the Boss to keep us in line, but no telling for sure until he speaks.”
Amalia grinned and nodded slightly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She couldn’t help but muse, before taking another sip of her water. “Then again, if USG is sending us along, I’m sure he’s capable of everything we’ll need for this operation.” She really hoped that was the case, because she had no inclination to play babysitter.
Singh and D’Avarro walked into the lounge soon enough, looking slightly harried.
The turbaned Sikh, that was a veteran of several contract initiations prior to this, spoke quickly,
“I’m sorry, I hoped for a more proper briefing, but our timetable has moved up a bit. We need to get you all flown south very soon. There will be a full brief then, I promise. We will all be boarding a RGAF cargo plane bound for Hjamokjim, the biggest Glisandian port on Lake Agloza. From there, we’ll be boarding a ship that will head out on the lake, where we’ll be picking up the rest of the team, who are finishing up the first part of the mission now...Any questions?” He didn’t really wait for any,
“Good. Saddle up. Load your gear up on the plane on the tarmac outside, then we’ll be wheels up in about 15 minutes. Thanks for signing up for the contract. As promised, it will be very rewarding.”
With that, the two Intexa officers turned around and headed back to the offices across the hangar bay to pack up their own gear and prepare for the trip.
Sure enough, a C74 Carly transport with the black, green and blue roundels and markings of the Royal Glisandian Air Force had taxiied up to within a few meters of the hangar and sat waiting for its new cargo and passengers to fly to Hjamokjim, three Riki (states) away on the southern lake coast.
