Shrapnel Is Making Music (IC MT Merc RP - Closed)

[Wandering Argonians]

Kravchenko chuckled again & tucked the sub-gun around behind him before cinching it tightly to his body, permitting him to work without the distraction of an unattended weapon. Most of his initial patient survey was taken care of: Walder was actively bitching about his injuries and not being a Nazi. That meant his airway was clear & he was quite oriented to the situation...

"Shut the fuck up & let me work. If you were dying you'd have been dead already. Most of your superficial cuts are already starting to clot..."

By now he'd cracked open his aide bag & was fishing a sheet of paper stitches and a roll of gauze out of the 'BLEED' pouch. There wasn't a great deal he could do for Walder, aside from boo-boo stickers & putting what was left of his ear back on. There wasn't a great deal of time for him to work legitimate sutures, much less thread a needle. The ear was soft tissue, and like an abdominal evisceration, looked a lot worse than it actually was. Thankfully, he wasn't tucking guts back into Walder or dealing with the 'septic tank behind a vegan Afghan restaurant' reek of a punctured bowel. One of his moonlight gigs when he'd been ANPD SWAT had been as a 'cut-man' at one of the many cage matches around Grayrock; one of the more entertaining matches had been when a fighter with a heavily cauliflower-ed ear had caught a powerful hook to said ear & the calcified mess had simply fallen off of his head with a wet slap. Lot of bleeding (it was a head wound, after all), but nothing too serious. Walder was in a similar boat, thankfully.

Derrick folded a thick wedge of gauze in a quick, practiced motion after he'd done a quick inspection for cranial trauma (if Walder had a skull fracture, it'd have been made worse by Ari-Ghalan's transportation of the patient, not that Kravchencko really cared how he received his patients; the ends justified the means), then pressed the makeshift compression bandage against Walder's head...

"Hold this in place for me. I need three hands..."

Walder complied after a sharp series of curses, holding the thick gauze pad in place while his attending physician wound a few strategically-placed strips of medical tape around his temple & jaw to hold tension on the wound. It was quick. dirty, and totally effective for a missing ear. With a motion less than gentle, Kravchenko knocked Walder prone & began a secondary sweep. Again, he'd neglected this prior as Walder would have bled to death before he'd had a chance to check when he'd been dropped off. There hadn't been any obvious signs of life-threatening bleeding (that tended to be glaringly obvious on someone in motion), but it never hurt do be sure. All he found were the usual knicks & cuts associated with close-proximity explosive detonations. The deeper cuts were treated quickly with short strips of paper stitches pulled tight over the wounds. Anything less was simply ignored in the spirit of getting Walder back in the shit as fast as possible. Regardless of his rung bell or missing ear, he was still a mostly-coherent brain attached to a functional set of trigger-pulling hardware. They needed more of those right now more than Walder needed bedrest & painkillers...

"You're all set, fuckface!"

Kravchenko handed Walder his weapon with a grin...

"Good news: You survive this royal monkeyfuck, you've got a a kick-ass scar you can use to get laid. Chicks dig facial scars. Bad news: Fuckers are still trying to kill us & we're not shooting back. Fuck off & go kill someone..."

The sentence was punctuated with another of Kravchenko's lunatic grins before he unslung his SMG again & rejoined the fight...

[Falkasia]

And Jan came barreling in through the window, shattered glass and wood fragments flying in all directions. Behind him, the wall exploded a second after as a heavy machine gun caught up to him with a torrent of lead. He landed unceremoniously onto the hardwood floor and slid to a halt underneath a partial demolished table. His arms were stretched out awkwardly in front of him like a grime-covered superhero trying to fly away. Quickly he rolled onto his back. He was getting too old for this.

"I'm here," he groaned, pulling his W-2 from above his head and closer to his chest.

Turning his head sideways, he took stock. The Israeli, the Austrak, and whomever that medic guy was; they were all here. No sight yet on the Shalumite, but he could tell from the radio she was still kicking somewhere nearby.

"Graves got shish-kabob'd and that crazy chick bitch's ground beef too." he offered, but no one cared or heard him over the drone of battle. It was moreso for his comprehension anyways.

With weapon in hand and his breathing slowly coming under control, he rolled back onto his side and forced himself up and into a kneel. Rounds continued to pepper and penetrate the thick log walls of the house, but they were unaimed and ricocheted upwards into the rafters. Through the now sizeable gaps in the wood, he could still make out movement along the drift line and embankments. The shadows were too numerous to count. It was clear, even to the most oblivious of observers, that they were being surrounded.

"Now would be a good time for a plan!" he called, pleadingly, in the direction of Galan.

[USG Security Corporation]

Outside NW Steinbrudden

Major Ari-Galan continued to pour fire into the woods in the back of the house. Cardwithian and Yellowsian JaegerFlok commandos fell alike to his bullets. He looked around at Garden Team, or what was left of it, as they all seemed to be in the general vicinity, if not clustered in one easily to be grenaded or mortared group.

Koski was doing his usual muttering. Bonesaw had dragged Walder up, who seemed to be patched up enough to be in fighting shape. He was using his Steyr to also take out some of the closing in enemy. The two Shalumites were doing their parts and Heigen wasn't letting their local, possible RLO spy out of arm's reach.

Koski shouted at him, so he had to turn down the communications node in his ear which echoed.
"Now would be a good time for a plan!"

The Major pointed to his ear to indicate that he could hear the Falkasian very well enough without the shouting.
‘Duh’ would have been his first response, but he was too busy thinking.
“I’m aware about Graves and Liliha. The plan is to shut up and keep their heads down. Work our way to the vehicles. If they’re taken out or compromised, we will have a long hike out of here, shooting the whole way. We will then have to find other viable vehicles. The rest later.”

A mortar landed in what was probably the proximity of the living room. They certainly didn’t care if their mole inside was alive. Glass, ceramics, wood and fabric sprayed around. If it hadn’t been before, the living room was certainly well on fire now.

“We need to get out of here before they get another lucky round landed or this place drops on top of us.”

"Or we roast." Heigen added helpfully.

They moved on into the woods, Heigen herding Jakkirsson. Koski, Bonesaw, Walder, Lockhart and Strasbourg spread out and laying down covering fire, as they took turns taking cover and reloading. Taking the gap between the house and the woods was the toughest, but they put down such a curtain of lead that it was impossible for the attackers to thwart Garden’s dash across it.
They weren’t concerned with the other Yellowsian rebels who were supposed to be their allies, as long as they didn’t have their guns pointed at Garden. They didn’t know who they could trust at this point, so they would make their own way out. They had Jakirsson and that was enough to get them through for now.

They were in luck, as the vehicles, but for a few bullet holes, seemed to not have been scuttled. The JaegerFlok were not dumb enough to leave the captured vehicles unattended, but they had underestimated Garden. The enemy guards were dispatched quickly as Garden swooped in from multiple directions. They didn’t have the keys, but it didn’t take long to hotwire two of the SUVs. They didn’t have enough to bother taking the third. They loaded in what gear they had and some captured AK-74s and magazines to keep up their firepower.

Then they were off, speeding down the trail that would lead to the main road, half the team hanging out the windows to hose down any of the ISVC troops that sprang from the woods to try to stop them.

Another mortar round landed dangerously close between the two vehicles, spraying up snow, dirt and foliage. Then they were on the main road, still taking out random PRA soldiers or other ISVC troops who ran at them in bewilderment. The SUVs were now going full throttle down the main road.

When they were clear for a bit, Shlomo had time to elucidate what he’d been thinking.
“We will need to get off the road before they get a cordon set up to trap us in, if they haven’t already. We will need new vehicles soon. I think we’re going to have to circle around and head south. Scrub the Arkjelstad part of the mission. Even if we could make it to the Intexa support boat that is supposed to meet us in the harbor, it’s not worth the risk. It’s too hot to go right into the heart of the RLO den of evil. We will have to fend for ourselves with no resupply…” Ari-Galan paused to watch the trees whip by. Walder was driving and Strasbourg was next to him in the passenger seat, tending to him and giving him reassuring pats. For now, it was still all hands on deck. As clinical and dry as Shlomo was discussing this, their situation was quite dire, as bad as it had been back in Frardjol, Glisandia.

“...I will try to get a link back to HQ. They won’t risk air drops. YSR air defenses, especially as we near the Falkasian border, will be too intense. Our best hope will be to make contact with our next helper across the border. If we can get the boat to meet us off Fellsjon, we might be able to take it across the bay to Volsk. That’s if Jakirsson’s people can get us a boat there. I’d hate for us to have to try to breach the heavily fortified Falko-YSR border.”
He shook his head on that one.
“For now, we need to commandeer and switch vehicles as often as possible. We may need to go on foot at some point as they close the net and the roads become too hot. I’d like to get as much distance south as possible before that. That...everyone and Koski, is my new plan. Questions? Concerns?”

[Falkasia]

"No objections," Koski flatly stated, his attention still directed out the shattered side window.

Glass covered his clothes, his lap, and the floor around his feet. He was both uncharacteristically still and quiet, with his rifle positioned squarely between his legs. It was not loaded however. He had expended and discarded all of his magazines in the previous firefight, focusing more on immediate self-preservation and weight management than on inventory retention. Probably for the better, given the abuse his W-2 was reflecting. He'd have to find a new one on their next stop.

"So we're going to Falkasia then? To Volsk, you mentioned? The border's no joke... Volsk's a better shot. It's the only harbor, so the traffic in and out should be its own cover. Harbor security's a bit of a joke..."

He paused, reflecting back on a time period in his life he hadn't thought of in forever. He had originally trained there with the Navy, not too long after they had started to purge all of the foreign nationals and mercenaries who had bolstered the ranks during the Transitionary Period. Falkasian sailors were hard to come by, so the boot camp and Academy weren't exactly picky in their selections.

"Security doesn't matter though. It's the icebergs you have to be worried about. We'd need either a fast enough or large enough boat. Anything in the middle and we'd be up to the whims of nature and luck alone to get in unscathed. If we can find a trawler; most of the trawlers in the region have icebreaker-capable hulls, we can be ok. Maybe come ashore along the coast to avoid being flagged incorrectly. I don't think a YSR-flagged boat would exactly be welcomed at the harbor without an armed greeting party."

That armed greeting party, he knew, would likely comprise at least an overly curious patrol element of the local Precinct or at worst an FSIS Tactical Squad ready for some quick wet work. The latter riddled him with momentary dread.

[Shalum]

Sight the target. Feather the trigger. Exhale. Fire. The Shalumite operator had gone through the movements so many times before that they were practically second nature as she hefted her rifle and swept it towards the woodline. One could describe the entire situation as ‘target rich,’ because her sights were certainly full no matter whatever direction she swung her weapon towards. There was no time to really consider the implications at the moment, however. Their lives were on the line, and she had to make each shot count.

The most concerning thing, perhaps, was the fact that she could easily run out of ammunition if the situation remained as it was. She had packed heavier than usual for this particular expedition, considering there was no way of knowing when they would be able to resupply next. As she dropped another commando, splattering his brains across an old evergreen, Operator Strasburg grit her teeth. She didn’t have to try again to know that her magazine was dry. Even in a stressful situation like this, Amalia had kept track of her ammo count.

“I’ll cover the rear!” She supplied as she swapped her old magazine for a new one. Smoke was still pouring from the barrel. The marksmen had put her rifle through its paces, but it had never failed her yet and she had complete confidence in the weapon. “Gotta make sure Walder and Bonesaw make it in one piece, yeah?” She really had no place up front anyways. “Just be careful and - shit!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bastiaan go down. The tower of an operator had been there one moment, holding the line as his assault rifle spat death. The next he was tumbling forward, face contorted as he went headfirst into the snow. It all happened so fast, she could only stare for a moment. Oh god, oh god, don’t be dead. Not you too. She wasn’t used to losing people. Lockhart wasn’t exactly a friend, per se, but she loathed the idea of being without his steady presence.

Just as she was about to call out, he was getting back up again. SSI always made sure their people had the best plate carriers Wolf Armaments had to offer. The steel may have been damaged beyond repair, but the user was getting up again no worse for wear, practically growling as she snatched his rifle up.

“That one hurt. Think I may have a bruised rib or two, but I’m alright.” He finally supplied as he swept the area for movement. Lockhart was a smooth operator. Not with women, admittedly, but he was one man who could take a hit, smile, and keep on going. “Always my right side, dammit.” The Shalumite muttered, shaking his head a little as he slid into one of the requisitioned trucks.

In the passenger seat, Amalia had safetied her rifle and set it aside. It was a fair bit longer than what everyone else was packing, and she had done her best to awkwardly tuck it between her legs and the dash as she leaned over to touch Matti. “You’re going to be just fine, hear me? Once we get the chance, you’re going to rest. I mean laying down and sleeping too, even if I have to be right there beside you the whole time.” Her tone was faintly teasing as her hands pressed against him.

In the backseat, Lockhart grunted and glanced up. Taking stock of his weapons was more concerning now than it had been a few hours earlier. He had burned through a lot of ammunition, between covering their retreat and the firefight to take down the enemy guards. Even switching to single shots had only done so much good when the opposition swarmed like cockroaches. “I’ve never operated in these parts before, boss man. You call the shots, I’ll put lead down range. Other than that? I trust your judgement. I can’t hotwire a damn thing, but I can hold a flashlight while Amalia does it if it helps.”

The sniper smiled without any humor. “I’ve got enough practice to be dangerous. Just don’t put me in anything manual and we’ll be fine.”

“They never taught you in training?” He replied, surprised.

“No, and dad didn’t want me screwing up his truck.” She muttered back before glancing back at Matti.

[Yellow Star Republic]

20km NW of Fellsjon, YSR

They had done it. They had been able to switch out vehicles without detection, twice and gotten this close to the border. They had only bought a little bit of time for themselves, so there was no need to hold a triumphant parade and slap themselves on the backs just yet. It would only be a matter of time before all the vehicles were tracked down. They had taken precautions, switched out plates, and ripped off distinguishing non model add ons. During times of rare energy, Walder, using his mechanical skills, had searched for devices like LoJacks, trackers which companies installed in vehicles. Only one had had such a device. Very few had the skill of Walder to remove one. The YSR was austere in that regard of putting such technology on every vehicle, even though it would help the RLO out immensely, they wouldn’t waste it on every civilian vehicle, nor would the civilian owners care much to add them.

Matti had then needed to sleep after every search and maintenance of vehicles. He’d lost a bit more blood back in Steinbrudden than they’d thought. Amalia continued to play nursemaid to him. The Team switched drivers frequently to keep everyone fresh, and so they wouldn’t have to stop for long in any one spot.

Unfortunately, Fellsjon, their only option to get on the undercover Intexa boat and get rearmed and resupplied, had been too hot, both by reports from Jakkirsson and the Intexa. Crossing to Volsk was now out of the question. That left the land border.

Jakkirsson directed them to friendly refueling stops. They were on edge every time in case it was a trap and their guide was a traitor, but it seemed to be a mundane refuel and regroup stop every time. As they were alone at the last stop, the Yellowsian had addressed them all nonchalantly,
“Look, it was never a big secret that most of the resistance is former RLO and military, including myself. I thought that was just widely known. I never meant to hide anything from you.”

“Other than that there was a mole.” Heigen said sarcastically.

“The resistance is riddled with moles. That is why we have never made any headway. Do your research next time.”

They were on a ridge on a lonely stretch of road, looking out over the border fortifications in the hilly area here of the far southeastern corner of the border. It was not as frigid as the interior, it was relatively milder by comparison, near to a maritime climate, due to the Fellsjon Bay and nearby Gulf of Falkasia.
The YSR-Falkasian border, by reputation, was heavily militarized on both sides. They hadn’t fought a major war since the mid-1960’s, but there had been flare ups and border skirmishes over the decades.

The fact that they were going to try an insertion into Falkasian defenses, and also avoid the defenses of their up to now host country, was quite ludicrous on the face of it. Jakkirsson, however, reassured them otherwise.

“Well, this is where I will soon leave you. Close to the DMZ. The nearest big city...town, really... on that side is Camp Ikov, far to the southwest. Not much of a big town, not like Volsk or Ekaterine, anyway. Anywhere, really, on that side for hundreds of kilometers, that is still it for what passes for civilization. I mean that. Northern Falkasians are brutes. Ugly, barbarian peoples...”

Heigen had to say it, “Tell us how you really feel.”

The pretentious Yellowsian resistance leader rode on like he hadn’t heard the Neu Engollian.
“The border looks impenetrable, but...like any such border, there are holes. Exploited by smugglers, and even genuine farmers and industrious people who ingratiate themselves with the guards. It’s not hard, really. YSR border guard pay is paltry, and some months they are lucky to see a paycheck from the bankrupt Arkjelstad government. Hence the Falkasian mob, contacts we get supplies through, have a lot of them in their pockets. It suits both sides to leave the holes and not crack down. Saves money on the RLO payroll, probably Ekaterine’s as well. Their guards aren’t much better...And they can run low surveillance through either way.

The Falkie mob is who is going to get you through this.
I got in touch with this area’s resistance, who got a hold of their mob contacts finally, about an hour ago. There’s quite a verification process. There’s still worry that they could get wrapped up in a RLO, or FSIS for that matter, sting. So, ya, that is it. Thanks for trying. I guess you kind of put a stick in the RLO spokes for a little bit there. Too bad I couldn’t show you around Arkjelstad. That, I think, is where the heart of your mission lies, if I understand correctly.”

Garden Team leader, Major Ari-Galan, said nothing to that, but it was entirely true. Their inability to get to Arkjelstad would probably mean this whole mission was just laying the groundwork for a follow up mission to the YSR capital. It was there, they knew, that a lot of the artifacts and treasures were funnelled, at least initially. Where they went from there was anyone’s guess.
He put that to the back of his mind and walked up and shook hands with Jakkirsson.
“I would like to say I was wrong about you, friend, but we could still be fucked over in the next few hours, so I will reserve judgement.”

Jakkirsson laughed.
“Honest, at least. Fair point. However, how many chances have I had to do that by now?”

“Are you just walking from here?”

“What?! No, I still need a ride down the hill. We’re waiting on a tan colored truck. That’s my ride back. Your contact will be in an old rusty, red...ish, farm truck.”

The Israeli shrugged.
“Fair enough. Let’s get moving.”

They remounted the vehicles and headed down hill. The rest was anticlimactic. As promised, the tan truck, driven by very burly, ragged people, picked up Jakkirsson. He gave one last wave and he was off. All that was left was waiting for the red truck. Jakkirsson had given Ari-Galan the code phrase to use. He just hoped it worked.

[Co-RP'd with Austrakia, Neu Engollon, and USG Security Corporation]

[Falkasia]

The Falkasian/Yellowsian Border

The truck was actually green…. ish. And of Gragastavian manufacturer, clearly well-used, and arguably roughly as well-off as the ragtag band of mercenaries before it. It puttered to a stop just as the sun was setting, ejecting a final ceremonial puff of black smoke out the rear.

The driver rolled the window down and leaned out, arm resting squarely on the door.

“Oy…” he grunted through a small slit, exposing his lips. Green eyes darted left and right through two other slits, barely exposed underneath an upturned ushanka.

Major Ari-Galan stepped forward and offered the passcode, “the yellow and blue birds dance southward.”

The driver turned abruptly to look at him, eyes narrowing as he sized up the Israeli. He gently adjusted the fabric balaclava with his hand.

“I don’t give a shit about your fancy passwords spy-boy. Get in the fucking truck… “ he spat in heavily, almost unintelligibly-accented English, “I’m running late for a delivery, and Boss will have my ass if I miss the deadline.”

Ari-Galan returned the stare. Koski, imperceptibly, began to ready his rifle.

The driver slammed his palm into the door’s quarter panel. “Get in the fucking truck!” he screamed, “I don’t have all day! Boss has granted you safe passage, but the border guards don’t work for Boss!”

A flock of birds erupted into the air. The driver turned, glancing away, and then back to the group.

“Go! Go! Get in!” He began, panicking, “We’re out of time! Go! Or I leave you here! Boss knows who hired you! Get in!”

The Major took control of the situation. With a swift hand motion, he chaperoned the band to the back of the beaten pickup. “Let’s go goyim! Into the truck! Geshvind!”

======

Koski was last to mount up, but closest to the driver. The pickup truck was not designed for heavy duty work, and the only thing that separated them from the now rapidly-passing terrain as a thin canvas tarp that did nothing to keep the cold out. Falkasia and the YSR, especially in the northern and southern regions of each country respectively, weren’t all that different. If not for the thin fence and dragon’s teeth obstacles that demarcated the border in the remotest regions of the country, not too dissimilar from the vague line they had just crossed, one wouldn’t know where Falkasia ended and the YSR began. It was like this because this region of the country was dominated by the backwoods, and hardy group of people that owed allegiance to one nation or the other without really caring for geopolitics. The much was left for the enormous garrison that occupied Ikov, and the tiny civilian population in the adjoined garrison town which supported it.

“We go to Ikov… Boss will send another driver to take you deeper into the up-country. Da?” The driver offered, furtively glancing over his shoulder speaking through the cracked cab window. “I know not where you go from there. Is for the best.”

======

Roads in this region of Falkasia were archaic at best. Unless used by the military or local civil services, they rarely amounted to much more than mule trails. Uncomfortable even by way of livestock, the speed at which the truck was galivanting with abandon across ruts and ridges made the ride near painful. It took nearly an hour before the path they were on leveled out into something comparable to a graded dirt road, and another hour further before it spilled onto a concrete highway.

They passed a single sheepherder, who in no particular hurry, had taken another hour to clear his flock from the highway. He waved dismissively as they passed, imperceptibly muttering under his breath.

======

By this point, the group of mercenaries were sore and bruised. Grumbling, even if absentminded, was the common tongue of unheard conversation in the back. It was early morning when they finally pulled up to the external checkpoint leading into Ikov. The military installation and the city were indiscernible from one another, with a 12-foot concrete wall surrounding the entire city-center. The only way in or out was through the base, and with it, the checkpoints.

Koski tensed up. He knew what was coming. Imperceptible, so too did the rest of the crew. Weapons were held tighter, awaiting the inevitable surprise of their discovery with baited breath.

They heard voices; muffled voices.

Voices speaking in Falkasian. But they couldn’t understand.

The seconds ticked by.

They heard shuffling. Then the telltale crunching of boots on snow, pushing closer to the back of the truck.

Harried voices now. Their driver exited the truck, exclaiming something and putting up a protest.

Rifle bolts slid into lock. Other voices had joined the fray. There was shouting now.

A whistle echoed in the distance. A dog barked ferociously, growing louder and louder.

Suddenly, there was silence. The voices were gone. So too was the dog.

Their driver got back in, pulling the door shut with a slam.

The engine revved and slowly, the truck began to move forward.

Their driver chortled to himself, clearly happy with his handling of the situation.

Koski exhaled sharply as the guard house appeared in snippets through the small flap in the back of the canvas. He could make out three figures, standing around a burning barrel fire and joyous flipping through bundles of something… cash he presumed. And a fourth stood, partially concealed by the blockhouse itself. Falkasian soldiers were a proud and disciplined bunch, but the YSR border was often stereotyped for being home to the Army’s miscreants and outcasts. No doubt these were a few of them who hadn’t cut it in the field units.

======

Ikov was an interesting experiment in time-travel, seemingly caught at all times between agrarian Falkasia, Soviet brutalism, and the modern glint of the Kazyenko Republic. To distill the metaphor further, Ikov simply made no sense. Rural farm stetls backed up against multi-story ultra-modern glass office buildings, interspaced by military barracks and workshops. Side roads would dead-end awkwardly into farm fields, or worse, residential backyards. Fortunately for their driver, and their collective sanity, they stayed on the main road through town.

It was a six-lane highway, specially built shortly after the 1963 Border Conflict without overhead lights so that it could double as an emergency airstrip during war time. Camp Ikov was built as an army base prior to World War Two, and didn’t exactly take into account the airborne evolution of warfare that had followed.

Ironically, the airport was exactly where they were headed. They trucked past the front gate, an enormous brutalist concrete arch that bore reminiscence closer to a forced-labor camp than an international airport. On either side of the road, the four-foot thick pillars were overgrown by weeds which did an excellent albeit futile attempt to cover over political symbols of the bygone communist era.

An era all Falkasians were eager to forget.

======

Beside one of the nearby hangars, a team of guards watched intently as the truck rolled past and onto the tarmac. It pulled to an abrupt stop, headlights flicking off as quickly as it had ceased movement. With a final determined puff, a thick black cloud erupted from the rear exhaust before the engine cut out completely.

The driver casually knocked on the exposed metal separating the cab from the bed.

“We’re here. Out. Plane is waiting.”

In the dim light of early morning, he imperceptibly pointed towards the hangar. The sliding door was cracked, only enough to allow through a thin sliver of light and the metallic glint of an aircraft waiting inside.

“Go…” The driver demanded again, more forcefully. “I have delivery to finish. Go! Boss will not be happy if you keep him waiting.”

The team, needing no further instruction to vacate the uncomfortable truck and end their painful journey, rapidly disembarked and collected their gear. One of the guards had approached, his AK-113 casually slung around his neck as he blew warm air into his cupped hands.

“Follow me, eh?” He stated, clearly lacking any sort of Falkasian accent. “To teh plane, yah?”

The standard kit he wore indicated Falkasian Soldier, but his squat body, broad shoulders, dark skin, and weird tropical accent seized that impression and set it on ablaze. In the dark, at a distance, no one would have noticed. Up close, how could anyone not?

The Major, struggling to work a well-engrained muscle strain out of his lower back, grew tired of waiting for answers. “Where are we going exactly? My team and I… we’ve been in this truck for six hours, and not a word as to what we’re doing. I need answers here. I’m not going to send my team into a potential trap inside that hangar.”

The guard shrugged. “Volsk.” He offered matter-of-factly; emotionless, as if travelling from Ikov to Volsk was as ordinary as discussing the weather or last night’s Thunderhawks scores.

“Volsk?” Ari-Galan asked, not understanding.

“It’s a city in east-central Falkasia.” Koski added. “It’s the second largest city in the country. The only deep water port too… and the best part… generally ice-locked year round unless its July. The Falkasian Navy has their main naval base and training academy there…”

He paused, fighting with himself.

“And my hometown…” he exhaled, conceding defeat.

The plane stood ominously in front of them.

[USG Security Corporation]

Ikov, Ikovskaya, Falkasia

“And my hometown…” Koski let out in a derisive air.

Major Shlomo Ari-Galan glanced annoyed at Koski, then back at the odd soldier. Then he waved the Team away from the local, backstepping while keeping his eye on him.
“Just a moment, Sir.” He held out a hand to show they needed that moment.

When they were all gathered a couple meters away, he turned on Jan.
“Yes, Mr. Koski. I’m so glad you are proud of your hometown. We are all aware of the city of Volsk as it was in our original exfiltration plan for the Team. The cargo ship from Fellsjon to Volsk? I just am having some doubts as we went through the risk of how many checkpoints, went right into the heart of the beast here in the largest Falkasian Army garrison in the north, onto the only major airstrip within hundreds of kilometers, to be offered a ride in that.”
He pointed back to the crate with wings.
“We are well off the map as far as the mission plan goes. We don’t have any covers now.”
He was glad they had disposed of their ISVC fake documentation prior to heading over the border. Getting caught with those might have been worse than being armed with no documentation in Falkasia.

He continued on in a methodical, calm cadence.
“So, here we are, possibly about to go into an ambush or slam into a mountain in a balsa wood death trap held together with chewing gum. Something we certainly could have found without all the risk. So, my incomprehension is not at the destination that we have needed to get to all along, but at the nonsensical journey to get there. Does anyone else not feel just that this whole journey the last few hours since we left the YSR has been a bit...ominous?”

Ari-Galan had been thinking back to his first meeting he ever had with a Falkasian, many years ago. It was during the height of the Hutanjian War. The Hutanjians had captured a bunch of Cardwithians, irregulars, and with them, a FSIS special operative/advisor by the name of...Illyich. That was it. He was a decent, honorable man, but...odd. It was the feeling he got now. Ever since they got in the rusty green truck. Every time they talked to another Falkasian, it was odd...eclectic. Not predictable, with an air of something very ominous.

[Neu Engollon]

Heigen shifted, eyeing the Falkasian in the hangar and then the group. He had his one hand resting on his slung NEG 26 carbine, the other came up in a shrugging gesture.

Always in tune to when no one wanted to hear from him, he added,
“So we ran through some frontier checkpoints? So what, Major? They like money, I like money...I would be loathe to agree with a Yellowsian, but Jakkirsson was right back there. No one is going to go through this elaborate a set up just to snap us up in a trap. We were gonna be wasted or tortured, they could have fucked us over a dozen times over by now without much effort between Steinbrudden and here. It just doesn’t add up.
The quicker we get to Volsk, and back on mission, the better I say. Also, I’m hoping for extra time there so I can track down some of Koski’s relatives and exes.” He pointed at Jan.
“I need to hear fucked up stories about him so that I can torment him. That would be the ultimate cherry on this mission.”

[Falkasia]

“I do not appreciate you referring to the finest Falkasian engineering as a ’balsa wood death trap’ Major Ari-Galan,” a hearty, rich voice entoned. It was thick and warm, and resembled a curated French wine. "Denigration is very unbecoming of a man of your stature."

Out from the shadows, underneath the aircraft, stepped an enormous dark-skinned man. He casually buttoned up his white commercial-style flight jacket and adjusted his cap.

“It will be taking us to Volsk, alongside a fine assortment of other cargo within its hold. I… we… call her Clipper of the North. To the world, she was abandoned and lost at sea five years ago off the coast of Nesselberg,” he stated, running his hand sensually along the silver-gray fuselage of the plane’s exterior. “I find it amusing how one of the most enigmatic nations in the world could be so blind to the obvious. Yet, here we are…”

With both hands outstretched, he made an all-encompassing gesture.

“On a military base, flying what appears to be an imaginary military aircraft, and no one has batted an eye. Not even the garrison commander. As far as he’s aware, we’re just another resupply flight from Ekaterine.”

With a quick pause and flourish, he snapped a gleaming white smile. “And that… that right there… is why we will never be noticed. But please, excuse me. I am Francois. I will be taking you,” he gestured towards the Major, “and your team, to Volsk.”

An eyebrow raised, eager to quick silence the next logical question.

“To see the Boss... of course. He is actually quick eager to make your acquaintance. More eager than I’ve seen him in a very long time. Hence why we will be flying… please, after you. The rear compartment is open. I hope you find it comfortable.”

He bowed partially and motioned to the rear, akin to a doorman permitting entrance to a swanky hotel.

[Austrakia]

Matti Walder didn't feel frustrated and paranoid like the Major and some of the others. He also wasn't in a flippant mood like Heigen seemed to be...perpetually. Matti was just numb.

He wondered when they would reach the end and when he could shed his gear and take a long sleep for at least a day. They had been unable to hit their rest and resupply on the boat in the Gulf named for this odd Republic they now found themselves in. Doc Bonesaw had been able to patch up his ear well enough, and he really only had minor cuts and bruises otherwise from their episode in Steinbrudden. He'd been able to rest. More importantly, he'd gotten emotional healing from Amalia, the Shalumite woman that he'd grown close to over the several days of the mission.

It was enough to keep him on his feet and shooting straight, but it still wouldn't last. He was reaching that breaking point quicker than a top tier operative should. Did that make him weak? Was he just not cut out for this work like he thought he was, despite all the training and border skirmishes he'd been through during his time with the Austrakian special ops forces?

He didn't feel on the same par with Koski, who seemed to be on a slight mental bend, but able to handle himself. He didn't feel the cold precision of Bonesaw or Lockhart. He didn't have that jovial confidence of the lovely Amalia Strasburg. He certainly didn't feel like he could measure up to the Israeli Major, who was like a grizzled old cowboy out of some movie. Even the Neu Engollian had years of experience to tap into and was sufficiently competent and on task, when he wasn't cracking wise. One of the things that kept him going now was that he was determined that couldn't let Heigen see him as weak or not up to the task. He felt he could at least be the measure of a Neu Engollian, and that was enough for now.

They all had their ARs and SMGs at the casual ready. The best he could do was put a hand on his Steyr TMP so it didn't catch on walls, doors, or his fellow contractors.
He could sleep more on the plane. "Ja. Let's go to Volsk. I'm ready."

[Shalum]

They were sore. They were tired. They were, above all else, irritated.

That was the case from Lockhart’s point of view. Growing up in eastern Shalum, he had spent much of his youth on a farm. He was all too familiar with riding around in the back of a cramped truck when moving from one area to the next, or hauling ass down country roads in an old truck after work was done for the day. There had always been something nostalgic about that, carefree even. It was the sort of viewpoint he had tried to hold onto as he clambered into the back of their most recent means of transportation.

“My ass is so goddamn sore,” he muttered to his SSI compatriot as he reached down to rub at his trousers with a gloved hand. It lasted for a fleeting moment before his head rose and his eyes began to scan the surroundings. Bastiaan wasn’t tense, per se, but he was most certainly on edge. Things had nearly gone south at the border checkpoint, and his nerves had been shot ever since. That wasn’t saying much, admittedly, considering that it had been a while since he had gotten more than a few hours of consecutive sleep. A life on the run would do that to a man.

Amalia, by comparison, merely hummered under her breath as she pulled her gear a little tighter. In a firefight, she wouldn’t have been much good here. An ambush was in too close, and an airport didn’t exactly provide much cover. “I could honestly use something to eat right now,” she muttered to Matti. “But I’m not sure I trust whatever the locals consider to be food as...edible.” Communists had never been known for appetizing dishes in her limited experience.

Licking her chapped lips, the blonde eyed the plane. She didn’t look anymore thrilled than her partner did as he slung his assault rifle over his shoulder. “Can I sit next to you?” She asked the Austrakian softly. “I’m not afraid of flying, um, but I don’t trust that death machine.” If she was going down, Amalia wouldn’t have minded at least having someone nice to hold onto.

[Austrakia]

Matti stood there, expectantly waiting for someone to move or say something more. He hadn't expected it to come from Amalia, but as their journey together so far had been, it was comforting.

“Can I sit next to you?” She asked him softly. “I’m not afraid of flying, um, but I don’t trust that death machine.”

As calm as if he was ordering coffee, he turned his head with a wince of pain and said back to her.
"Oh, you're not leaving my side, liebschien."

[Falkasia]

Francois elegantly weaved his way the rear compartment's central aisle, a hectic but tasteful mix of assorted cargo and plushly upholstered seating. The spaced large crates had the effect of creating partial suite units of four seats a piece, in a two-facing two configuration providing bountiful views out the cabin's windows. The interior, with its simplistic luxury, called back to a bygone era where showmanship mattered more than cold economic efficiency. Real leather alone made it blatantly clear this was no typical commercial airliner.

The passengers settled in. A scantily-clad, heavily tattooed woman of possibly Chinese or Southeast Asian descent worked her way down in the opposite direction of Francois, stopping by each "suite" and hurriedly scribbling drink orders onto an old school stenopad.

As the powerful rear-mounted engines began to power-up, a familiar voice echoed across the intercom.

"Ladies, gentlemen... thank you for flying the Clipper of the North with me today. I am your Captain... but you already knew that I'm sure." He bellowed overly-dramatic laughter, clearly taking too much amusement from his rather unfunny joke. "Lin has already started taking your drink orders. She understands you perfectly fine... but do not be unnerved if she doesn't respond back. She is... well... still learning."

Lin had stopped in front of the Major and smiled at mention of her name. Her face was the only part of her exposed body not covered in tattoos. "Drink. Drink?" she asked, then scribbled down the order onto her pad before proceeding.

"Weather out of Ikov is calm... our flight should take us roughly three hours or so... We've be transiting along the northern border of Falkasia to avoid the civil air patrols in the south and central. Just know that we should be OK, but if any of you happen to see something.... weird, please do notify me or Lin. The Yellowsians as of late like to intercept us... with whatever's left of their joke of an air force. If we get lucky, we may even be able to see an aurora as the sun starts to come up."

The plane lurched forward as thin moonlight began to filter into the otherwise artificially lit hangar. At the same time, the internal cabin lights flicked off, and then instantly back on as the aircraft transitioned from the GPU to its onboard APU. To the rear of the cabin, the air conditioner kicked into high gear and began pumping out frigid, then cold, then pleasantly cool air despite the frosty environment outside.

"We should be landing in Volsk at.... uh.... roughly 5AM.... give or take a half-hour. The Boss will have cars waiting for us... but as soon as we land, please be ready to disembark. Bribery is not acceptable in most Falkasian institutions... or so I have learned... so it's only good to purchase brief windows of time. It'd be best we don't outstay our welcome."

They were just short of the runway now. The subtle glow of the taxiway track lights cast plays of shadow and reflection onto the metal fuselage and plexiglass of the cabin viewports. Jan snored loudly from his suite towards the front of the cabin, but it was largely drowned out by the two enormous turbojet engines spooling up for takeoff.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please ensure your seatbelts are fastened. We're next in line...."

And before anyone had any time to do anything, the plane launched forward and rocketed down the runway. Off to one side, a single patrol jeep manically tore towards the aircraft in a vain attempt to stop its takeoff roll, but it was too far back and too far below to cause any real concern as the aircraft slowly lifted from the ground and ascended into the night sky.

[Neu Engollon]

In the air
On the way to Volsk

They all crammed into the little plane that looked like it operated on prayers and demon dreams. The seats were in fact luxurious, although climbing over the cargo piles negated some of that luxury. Noel squeezed in, without realizing who his seat mates were. Then he glanced up as he settled his butt in and saw Strasburg and Walder sitting across from him. They looked back at Heigen, but more through him than at him as they both seemed to have glistening puppy eyes that only wanted to be redirected back towards each other. About a minute later, Doc 'Bonesaw' Kravchenko was taking the seat next to his, probably so he could check up on his ward if he started spurting blood from one of his patched up holes.

The arrangements were agonizing for several reasons. As usual, Noel couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Aw sweet mercy fuck of a lonely nun! If it isn’t tha two love birds.” He pointed to them, but glanced at Bonesaw. Seeing he wasn’t going to get a chuckle from the Argonian, he then looked directly at Walder. “Ya gonna win her a giant panda bear at the carnival when this is all over, Matti?”
There was no time and no space for him to squirm out and roust one of his other teammates from their seat. They were all quickly packed in like sardines with some gear on their laps and the rest tucked into every little corner and space they could find. He wondered what amount of kilos they were over in the safety margin for this dingy crate to even be able to lift off.
“Fuck...me...sideways...with a...powerdrill.”

It really wasn’t that excruciating, if Heigen was to be completely honest with himself. Walder and Strasburg seemed to be melting into each other, but it wouldn’t affect his comfort as long as he kept his view off the sickly sweet display. Of course, the Major was up in the cockpit with the fuckin’ oddball Falkasian. Not Koski, but the new one, Francois, that was the pilot of this imminent disaster.
Everyone bundled tighter in their jackets, and pulled out clothing or blankets if they could reach them, as the cold air was piped into the cabin for whatever inexplicable reason.

For a while, The Austrak and Shalumite mercs kept each other busy and warm. There wasn’t any kissing yet, but a lot of hand holding and arm and leg caressing, of course to 'keep the cold at bay'. Then, as Heigen’s luck would have it, Matti broke from that reverie to attempt to talk to him.

“Noel, I have to ask you something.”

“Oh ma gawd! Are the Aryan King and Queen done canoodlin’?”

“Seriously now. One fighting comrade to another. Can you get over your blind hatred of Austraks?”

“Damn, Walder! I don’t know if I’d call it hatred. That’s a lot of energy expended. Maybe just a general displeasure of your people and the funk that you carry ‘round.”

“Please?”

“Wot?! I’m kidding. Fuckin’ talk already.”

“You were in the Diplomatic Guard Corps right?”
While the primary mission of the DGC had been as a protective force both for domestic and foreign politicians and diplomats, the elite force also was often deployed in rescuing citizens overseas and in certain instances as a special operations force during conflict.

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Were you deployed during any of the border...eh…’emergencies’?”

“The firefights we had with your lads over the last few years?”

“Ja.”

“I believe I might have earned some chest candy to indicate some such thing.”

“Can you just…?”

“Look, Walder. Technically that’s all still highly classified. Out of all the fuckers I might tell, why would I blather on to a potential enemy of my homeland who might report back to the BND? Seriously, you have got to be fuckin’ high if you think I’m going to….”

“You were there. I know you were. Your face haunts my dreams. I was there on the border. I saw you. Your unit killed several of my mates.”

Any irritation or derision faded as Noel held Walder’s gaze for a moment, then he looked away. They were comrades now on the same mission, no matter the history between them and their home nations’ opposing politics. He doubted they had ever faced off during the troubles between Neu Engollon and Austrakia through the recent years.

However, it was in the man’s head that he could connect Heigen to those times, so determined that Noel must have been there on a particular day. His face was replacing whatever other DGC troopers in Matti’s flashbacks. Noel didn’t want to be that big bad boogieman, but he also didn’t know how to burst Walder’s bubble. Fact of the matter was, his unit had taken down several Austrakians. He couldn’t really be positive that he wasn’t there at that exact place and time haunting Matti.
“It’s all in your head, Walder. You need to let it go. Do yerself a favor and get a head shrink when this is all over. In the meantime, let’s just let bygones be bygones...for what it’s worth.”

Matti squeezed his hands together. Thankfully, he’d let go of Amalia’s hand as she started to doze off. The amount of pressure he felt now as he compressed his own hands would cause her at least a slight bit of pain. It also threatened to pop some battlefield stitching done by the ‘Doc’ from the angry flexing of muscles. He couldn’t help himself as the emotions threatened to overtake him again.

Heigen repeated himself. “Let...It...Go. You want to go toe to toe after this is all said and done? Fine. I’ll be there with bells on. Until then, let it lie.”

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever you say.”
Matti looked straight ahead then back at Amalia who was snoozing next to him. He’d intentionally not raised his voice in order to not disturb her. He gave a small smile as he looked her, but then became stony faced again as he looked up.

Their talk had not gone unnoticed by all the rest who were still conscious in the plane, including Garden Team leader. It had inadvertently gone out over the team channel.
Major Ari-Galan kept straight ahead, but spoke over the comm link.
“No one is going toe to toe, except with whoever might oppose our mission in Volsk and beyond. Both of you will keep this on the back burner and not let it interfere with the mission. Clear?”

“You have my word, Major. I’m chill.” Heigen was quick to reply. If anything, he was annoyed and bewildered that he’d become the center of the Austrak’s pent up rage, but he wasn’t feeling very vengeful in return. It was Walder that needed to get over a blind hatred, not Heigen.

“Good. Walder?”

Matti felt himself become heat flushed.
“I will keep the peace, Major.”

“Good to hear. We’re almost there. Everyone needs to focus on the mission now.”

Garden Team looked out the window as they began the approach into Volsk with just the faint tickles of dawn showing.

RP contributed by Austrakia

[Shalum]

“You know, all things considered, I’m pretty sure I’ve actually traveled in worse over the years. And that’s counting the time I spent in the army back home.” Bastiaan chuckled as he squeezed into his seat, a rigid piece of metal with not even the faux comfort of a cloth overlay. His gear was well within arms reach, but it wasn’t exactly a relief considering how much of his already limited legroom that it occupied. “I don’t know how much you guys know about the Empire’s deployments to Maldoria, but they say they send us only the best gear. The best troops too. Well let me tell you all something, only about half of that is true.”

The Shalumite operator wasn’t even really sure who he was talking to anymore. Tight spaces had never exactly been his forte. It was one thing to be shoulder-to-shoulder with squadmates, but he hadn’t spent nearly the same amount of time with these fellows as any of the squads back in the army, much less in the company he worked for now. “Oh sure, some of those gunships they sent us were newer. But most of them? They were birds built in the late eighties, you know? Reliable technically, but I wouldn’t trust them to take us any further than we were going.”

His lips quirked as his keen ears picked up a stray comment. The Aryan King and Queen was right. The operator had never really put any thought into it, but they were the sort of pairing would expect to see on television, or worse yet one of those soap movies that his ex-girlfriend had watched every night with rapt fascination. The actual conversation itself? It sounded a fair bit more serious than an offhand remark. Although it wasn’t his place to pry, well, Bastiaan couldn’t help but listen in.

Amalia stirred a few minutes later. The blonde operator couldn’t help but yawn, stuck between her kit and the sturdy Austrakian at her other side. “Mmm,” her head rolled as she stretched her neck. In the moment, one could have probably convinced her to trade her entire paycheck for a warm meal and a comfy bed. Preferably one that was big enough for two.

“Matti?” She mumbled under her breath as her head fell back onto his shoulder. One hand came up to rest on his bicep and squeeze gently, mostly to get his attention. “Were you saying something to me? I heard you talking but I kinda…” She yawned again and wiggled her feet. “I’m sorry, I think I fell asleep for a minute there.”

[Austrakia]

Matti grunted softly in agreement at Bastiaan's musings, taking a moment to look down at Amalia.
"That is likely the story with all troops heading to the front, mate. We are never as well equipped as we would like, because some bureaucrat paper-pusher who has never been miles near a front line decides what our best load out should be, based on the bottom line schilling, or who knows what whim? Still, in regards to your Shalumite gunships, I'm sure they were still in much better shape than this crate. At any moment, I feel like I could be dropping through the clouds without a chute..."
He nodded down at Amalia, up against him.
"I don't know how she dozes so comfortably through it all, the anxiousness and the rattling..."

As she grumbled awake, Walder responded.
"Yes, I was just saying how shockingly calm you seem. How do you shut out all this craziness?! Honestly, I haven't been a private contractor as long, but for comparison to missions I was on with the Jagdkommando, this is the most infuriatingly disorganized contract or mission I have ever seen. We lost two people back there in Steinbrudden. That is still sinking in for me. That and I lost part of my ear..." He reached up to touch the bandage again, even though he knew it was a bad idea. He winced with the pain.

Heigen even seemed to contribute an agreeing chuckle, or was he just finding amusement in Matti's ear getting sliced off by shrapnel? Eventually, they would settle out their differences when the main mission was over.

[Falkasia]

The plane rocked gently as it hit a momentary pocket of air turbulence. The engine, in equal measure, slowly spun down as the front of the aircraft pitched downwards, inevitably marking the beginnings of its descent. Thick, puffy white clouds; their tops illuminated by the early morning sun, concealed the grown below. However, in a brief moment, the SL-10 too penetrated the layer and a moment further exited underneath the cloud cover into a torrential rain storm. Droplets seemingly the size of baseballs smacked into the clear plexiglass porthole windows of the aircraft, but did little to provide a feeling a warmth or welcome to its occupants.

“If you haven’t yet noticed,” the same deep, rich voice belted softly over the intercom, “We have begun our descent into Volsk. Please take this time to gather up your belongings and ensure they’re close…”

He paused as the aircraft rocked again. A vibrant bolt of lightning arced across the sky just to their port side.

“Once we’re on the ground,” he restarted, “our window to disembark is going to be limited. Very limited. Stewardesses, please prepare the cabin for arrival…”

On cue, Lin reappeared with several plastic garbage bags in-tow. She had changed outfits, trading her prior garb for a grungy sweatshirt and beanie hat, coupled with a tight pair of equally dingy jeans. No evidence of her tattoos were present, and a close observer might suspect her eye color had changed as well. She passed the mercenaries quickly, holding open the bag before them. “Garbage? Garbage?” She insisted, aggressively shaking the mouth of the bag with her hands. A small biohazard logo made it apparent these were burn-bags as well.

“All-inclusive service…” Koski drowsily muttered.

The ground grew ever closer, and ever darker, out the window. Off in the distance, transient rays of sunlight reflected off of the enormous icebergs that surrounded Volsk harbor, lending the unsettling impression of an enormous carnival funhouse. A funhouse they were now descending in to. Enormous skyscrapers, lit up in vibrant neon hues, appear rapidly likely crystalline spires to their starboard side. Universal Defense headquarters was made evident with the large gothic “UD” emblem emblazoned on each facing side of the building, illuminated in twin streaks of sky blue and magenta cast from the interior office lights down below. The streets and buildings surrounding were dark, voidlike, in stark contrast to the glorious radiance of the city-center.

As the aircraft pitched slightly, the cabin was filled with a blinding cacophony of colors. The chairs, interior walls, and the faces of each mercenary flashed from electric blue, through to hot pink, around to rich hunter green, settling back to atomic orange, and then disappearing entirely as downtown fell out of sight and range.

Jan stirred, pulling his bag close and double-checking his weapon was ready… just in case.

The runway was up ahead now, red approach lights inviting the aircraft in like a sea dragon would lure its prey. It was one of five other visible runways, three going laterally and two running parallel-offset. All but the one they were heading for had large “X” structures at their heads. Off to one side, a single set of lights pulsed red, blue, and green. Further up, a small chain of headlights stood idling. They grew closer and closer until it seemed as though the aircraft was going to clip the exterior fence. Then, ion an instant, the plane bounced very hard. The fuselage buckled, and in the same instant, the airbrakes rolled down off the rear wing planes, jolting the aircraft in all sorts of directions as they began to glow from the frictional heat. The cabin instantly reeked of ozone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Volsk. Please remain…” the aircraft lurched left off the runway and towards the headlights, still moving well above taxi speed. “… seated. We have 7 minutes to deplane… please do not dally. The Boss will not appreciate tardiness.”

With absolutely finality, the SL-10 abruptly came to a skidding halt. Lin, again, reappeared and quickly trudged towards the rear loading ramp of the aircraft. It fell away quickly, slamming into the ground as a frigid arctic gust bellowed into the warm cabin. Several of the windows froze up instantly.

“Please… quickly!!” Francois urgently beckoned, reappearing from the cockpit behind them and motioning with his hands for them to exit. Behind him, a few of the aircraft crew began unhitching the pallets of materials from their moorings on the floor below. “You saw those lights at the runway, yes? Military Police… somehow they knew we were coming… we have only a short window to get everything unloaded before they’re on top of us!”

He paused, understanding the rest was better left unsaid. As if to drive the point home, a wailing siren could be heard in the distance, drawing louder and closer. A keen listener would be able to actually hear several distinct sirens, all coming their direction.

Another man, pale-skinned and clad in a non-descript heavily pressed tailored suit appeared at the end of the ramp.

“This way please! We have cars waiting…” He declared, waving his hand with a roll of his wrist.

[USG Security Corporation]

Arrival in Volsk

Major Shlomo Ari-Galan had spent a lot of the flight gazing out the canopy windows of the cropduster plane, contemplating the mission so far, and what was ahead. He had tried to doze off at one point, but that didn’t last long as a bit of turbulence rocketed him awake with a rude buck, slamming his head into one of the canopy supports. He felt up to where he had connected, feeling a little bit of blood and a nice goose egg. He’d take some ibuprofen later.

He had considered the members of Garden Team while on the boat on Lake Agloza, before their covert insertion into YSR. He had read through their files, and he had read the after report of Major Friese, who had been the previous team leader before USG command had decided to yank him off the mission, with his full agreement.

Ari-Galan had known Danny Friese, who had come to the USG ranks via the Emmerian Navy Seals, well before now, as they were both top picked officers, along with Thomas and a handful of others, to work small teams missions. Danny had always struck the Israeli officer as a top notch guy. Very competent, and very effective. He’d never heard a negative word from any of the team contractors who worked under Friese...until now.

Which should have been a red flag in itself. Due to the action in Glisandia against Holy Domain forces, it had been decided that Friese had hit burn out and needed to be replaced immediately as his reports became more harsh about mission support and some of the team. The amount of drama among the team members he had to deal with didn’t seem to have even been factored in. Despite hints in the quick reports Friese had managed to fire off mid-mission.

In particular, the relationship between Heigen, Koski, and Amirault, who Shlomo had never met due to his being KIA, along with Haegler, during the Glisandian leg of the mission. They had all served together on a previous Guild mission inside Argonia. While the mission was reported a success, the fallout from it had sent them scattering for their lives. It had taken both the USGSC’s Intexa, and Blackwood, some considerable time to negate the contracts put out on their heads.

So there was still some underlying story there with Koski and Heigen. Then throw Walder into the mix. Matti Walder had a palpable animosity towards Heigen, which didn’t seem to be returned by the unflappable Noel Heigen. Yes, Austrakia and Neu Engollon had had some considerable differences that turned into hot conflict in the recent past. However, as professional contractors, you sometimes had to put aside differences to work towards the same goal.

He had been in enough similar situations, working with Arabs who hailed from nations dedicated to the destruction of Israel. They had put all that aside - their past experiences being on the wrong end of each others’ gun - to take care of the missions at hand.

Not to mention that out in the field, you often had to work with temporary local allies that you knew would shoot you in the back were the circumstances to change in the flip of a hummingbird’s wing.

Which brought him around in circular thinking to their current predicament. None of the inner team drama was really pressing on his mind as much as the fact that they were at the mercy of their current hosts, who he had no chance to vet and verify.

When one thought back on it, it had seemed quite unnatural that Jakkirsson passed them off to his Falkasian border smuggling contact, name unknown, who then rushed them on board a plane with other unvetted, unsavory characters who were taking them into the belly of the beast, the second largest city of Falkasia. Shlomo hadn't even stopped to question any of it, until now that it was too late.

They had no legitimate claim or sanction to be in Falkasian territory, let alone armed to the teeth as they were. Just as they had slowly crawled into the jaws of a Yellowsian/RLO trap mere days ago, to run screaming and bleeding as the mouth clamped shut, they now seemed to be repeating their mistake by climbing into the Falkasian version of that same trap. Possibly even jumping willingly into the hands of the FSIS.

He knew he wasn’t the only one to realize that Francois, their current host, was a Cardwithian. Whether he was a transplant, immigrant, or working foreign national in Falkasia mattered not, but rather the fact that he hailed from the nation that was the major primary foe to the USGSC to this day most certainly did.

If Major Friese had been pulled from the mission for his judgement, then they had every right to do so to Major Ari-Galan for his lapses in management, putting Garden Team in such double jeopardy. He should expect it.

He tried to get a connection back to USG Command on his GXT tablet as he sat in the co-pilot seat, but it was hopeless through the lack of friendly towers, satellites, and weather phenomena.
If he could talk to Mandy Singh, the contracting agent, and his friend, he was sure they could figure it all out. The best he could do was to send encrypted micro-burst transmissions off about their current state and his suspicions...

---

Balagan!

Shlomo was pulled out of all that reverie as they began their approach into Volsk. The plane rattled, clearly about to shake itself apart as they fought through turbulent cloud layers.

None of my revelations matter, as I’m about to die. This is the way of the world.

Shockingly, the crew of the miracle flying crate acted as though this was a routine situation. Ari-Galan heard shouts and gasps from the rest of Garden Team in the back of the plane as they dipped and bucked their way to an appointment with creating a large skid mark in the earth.

So this was the trap. The Falkasians had sacrificed a handful of personnel to bring down a nearly non-functioning aircraft full of Western mercenaries without having to send in an elite team to hunt them down. Shlomo shook his head, lamenting that he had not seen this in the cards. Ari-Galan had made his peace with Yawheh, but wasn’t sure all those under his charge had. Being in the front to view their demise in every lasting detail might have been a mistake, however.

There were a few seconds that Shlomo lost track of as they seemed to make it through the last few feet and touch down intact. Or intact and safe enough, anyway. They had taken a flight path that rushed them past the heart of Volsk, with the signs of urban strength everywhere. Lights, life, and urgency.

As they skidded to a halt, miraculously finding traction on the slick Volsk runway, then losing it again as they jumped off it, they focused again on Francois, the Cardwithian-Falkasian, who was giving them valuable information seconds before they needed to act on it.

Shlomo grabbed his gear and checked the action on his SMG. This was where he needed to take charge, now that they were about to touch terra firma again.
“Let’s prepare for the worst. Heigen and Strasbourg first, peel off and cover our exit. Walder, and myself next, then Koski and Doc, then Lockhart brings up the rear guard and any remaining gear. Move! Move!”
On his last word, Major Ari-Galan, swung out of the co-pilot seat. He wasn’t going to look back to see if he’d left his mark behind. He wasn’t entirely sure that he’d held his sphincter through all that. He hustled through the door and fanned out with the rest of the Team, SMG scanning for any creepers close up.

As their hosts and all the Team made it off the rock disguised as a plane, they then leapfrogged to the waiting vehicles that the 'friend' of Francois had indicated, covering each other’s run. Their pursuers weren’t anywhere close enough to waste time opening fire just yet. They had appeared nearer, probably because the team had flown right over them to make their not so level landing.

[Wandering Argonians]

Kravchenko had never enjoyed the sensation of leaving the earth's surface. As an ANASF operator, he'd routinely been required to do just that. First with static-line mass-exit drops as a paratrooper & then again when he'd finally qualified for SOF for his freefall certifications. Flying with a chute on was one thing; you had a vague sense of control over your eventual fate. Worst case, if the plane failed, you could bail & take your chances under the silky wings of your own personal guardian angel.

Doing a bullshit infil in what amounted to a flying ration tin without being rigged into a 'chute prior was another animal entirely, and Derrick hated it. Never an anxious man, he was (like nearly every other individual in his profession) a closet control freak. An 'alpha' being who enjoyed being in control of, or at least having the illusion of control, in every situation he found himself in. Being a medical professional, that illusion of control was equally nonsensical, but it was what it was. Doc didn't get to pick the mechanism of injury, or even the amount of blood loss. Even the most paltry detail was a roll of the dice. This was the reality of small-frame aircraft flight as well.

Derrick had to trust his life to some asshole with what amounted to the 'Commercial Drivers License' of pilot certifications, and he wasn't happy about it. BW had their own fixed & rotor-wing air cells for this exact reason: A downed bird could cost them millions above the cost of the aircraft itself in terms of pilots & operators aboard. He ran a quick mental calculation of what had been lost during a lucky RPG hit from an insurgent team on a US air-bus had cost that nation in terms of blood & treasure. This was the lot of the clandestine operative, however. You were worth an exorbitant amount in terms of training & experience, but they were willing to risk your ass getting you to this 'no fail' level objective in an aircraft worth approximately one-seventh of your estimated operational worth.

He was damn glad when they landed & began flowing out of that god-forsaken aircraft.

Ari-Galan seemed relieved as well. Kravchenko had had very few occasions to work with ex-pats of any sort. He was, oddly enough, as Argonian as any lizard-man, native-born & native-bred. His parents had fled the Ukraine during flaring hostilities with Russia, for whatever reason seeking refuge with the large Eastern-bloc communities developing in Argonia's larger cities. Derrick had been their best ticket to citizenship & he'd made the most of the opportunities offered to him. Still, he wondered if SMT life was the best option for him. He'd enjoyed his short time as a National Police SWAT medic after his retirement from ANASF. He damn sure didn't miss the blood & the mud of the marshlands. The endless insurgent suppression operations & the injuries the ensued. The frustrated tactics & inevitable LOAC violations. No, flowing in at the end of the entry stack in a hostage rescue was honestly a vacation after that nightmare. He rarely had to do more than stabilize his patients before passing them off to paramedics waiting on the perimeter of the incident.

Still, it lacked the raw adrenal punch of a jungle gunfight, or that clusterfuck they'd endured previously. He'd hoped to find that by taking a spot with Blackwood & earning a slot on an SMT. Dying in a flaming crater in a no-name warzone & having his death gratuity mailed to his parents seemed like a less glorious end than the guns & the pageantry of an Army funeral. At least he'd died for a cause, or a country at that point.

Only time would tell. He shelved those emotions, pushing them back down into a small notional box & that box back further still into the darkest recesses of his mind. He'd deal with that nonsense once he walked away from this mess. If, he walked away.

There was a job to do...

[Shalum]

Amalia couldn’t help but groan under her breath as she rolled her shoulders. It certainly seemed as if her body had taken something of a beating over the course of the flight. All things considered though, it could have been worse. The padding was a little better than the last time she had been crammed into a transport truck with the rest of her squad. The chances of dying weren’t as bad either. At least being shot down, or crash landing, was a usually brief affair. If a roadside bomb hit one of their trucks down in Maldoria, there was no guarantee of a painless death, not to mention what might have happened if she fell into enemy hands.

“What can I say, Walder?” Lifting her head from his armored bulk, she grinned as she reached out to give his chest an affectionate pat without thinking. It was probably harder than she meant for it to be as well. “I don’t know about you, but how much sleep have you actually gotten since we deployed? It can’t have been much.” She shrugged her shoulders which had grown rather stiff. “I saw my chance and I took it. Maybe you can do the same the next time we hit the road.” She motioned to her lap. “I swear I’m comfier than I look.”

As soon as the wheels touched the ground, however, much of the good mood seemed to evaporate. The Imperial operators were nothing if professional, and the pair quietly began to collect their kit once they had dumped their trash into the offered bag. “Understood, sir!” Strasbourg called as her rifle clattered. A fresh magazine was loaded and the safety was undone. Her fingers traced the optical system for a moment, ensuring that everything was as it had been before she had fallen asleep.

Operator Lockhart nodded tightly and reached up to scratch his short beard with an ungloved hand. He was starting to feel as ratty as the rest of the team looked. They hadn’t gotten the chance to actually relax or clean themselves up, and he had the feeling the situation was going to stay that way a little longer. Hefting a Kalashnikov that he had requisitioned earlier in the mission, he grunted. “I don’t suppose those cars waiting to pick us up have more ammunition and magazines do they? The asshole I got this from forgot to give me more when he...passed it on.” He called to one of the locals at the ramp of the plane, his chuckle lacking any real humor.

[Neu Engollon]

Noel Heigen was up out of his seat and strapping on as much gear as he could carry without hindering his operational capability.
"Aye, Major. On it."

The tension was ripe, as they had all thought they were bound to be a smear on the earth, despite the calm of the Falkasian crew. There was just a moment where he had been convinced that they were at the end and all their luck was used up. It had passed, of course, but it was alarming how many moments he was having like that on this extended mission.

He wasn't about to worry about what Walder was up to, although he knew he needed to keep the Austrak in his peripheral at all times now. The man was determined to kill him. Not that Noel believed all that horseshit about them being on the border at the same time during some of the skirmishes between their two nations, but it was possible. The younger man just had a huge grudge and he thought it could be solved by dispatching Heigen. Noel wasn't about to let that happen.

He was out the door, spinning and tracking the nearing vehicles, while keeping Amalia in his periphery. They kept a full field of coverage, each covering 180 degrees. Eventually, Ari-Galan and Walder were out and also pivoting to cover, should there be unknown assailants prone on the tarmac or in the grass next to the runway. Heigen shifted a good half of his attention to Walder, with the rest focused on the approaching pursuing vehicles with light racks in full effect, and the escape vehicles that they had been directed towards. They still had a good amount of time before the cops showed up. They had just become distinguishable as even being vehicles from this distance.

Which meant he could shift part of his attention to their destination.
There was no promise that a trap wasn't awaiting them in the assumed escape vehicles, but as was typical with this particular mission, they had run out of better options. He spoke over the Team comms network to no one in particular.
"All my years...I never pictured a trip to Falkasia to be anything better than this. Fucked up to hell and gone and us fighting for our lives the minute we touched the soil. Good night, Volsk!"

[Austrakia]

Matti had slung two of their gear bags over his back and was out the door of the plane and onto the tarmac with Major Ali-Galan on his flank. He had his Steyr up and tracking any movement he saw. He kept everything in his periphery, but especially Heigen, who he would never bring himself to trust. In his main sight was the convoy of police vehicles, lights blaring, that were heading straight for them. They kept in motion, heading towards the vehicles that were supposed to be their salvation. As Koski and Doc Bones hit the ground and started to bring up the rear along with the rest of the gear, Walder felt a little more relieved. The timing might be tight.

They got to the SUV and began chucking bags in to the back. He was sure they would be lying on top of the bags as they tried to situate in order to return fire on their pursuers with the amount they were tossing in there, but there seemed to be room aplenty. It all rested now on the capability of the drivers and their escorts to get them in one piece to...wherever the fuck they were supposed to go.
"Come on! Let's get going! Lass uns beeilen!"
Walder leaned over the trunk of the car, his Steyr pointed towards the ever faster approaching police vehicles. He moved his finger from the housing side to the trigger.

[Falkasia]

Three SUVs; black, and in equal parts both nondescript and painfully obvious, idled just off the tarmac. In a split second, the doors to the two rear vehicles popped open and sharply-dressed, suit-clad men hopped out. They motioned for the team to pile inside, arms outstretched and waving to the interior compartment. As they did, the harsh exterior lights caught sudden and sharp glints of concealed metal and body armor underneath their blazers.

A fourth truck, this one a heavy-duty flatbed, pulled up to the rear of the aircraft. A stowed crane swung out from underneath a tarp, dropping its hook to within arm’s reach where one of the stewardesses quickly slung it onto a cargo bundle. Francois, joined by a counterpart, were still heaving enormous pallets of shrink-wrapped freight pallets down the rear deck. The operation was highly choreographed, extremely organized in the sheer chaos it suggested.

Rear trunks were popped open, with some of the escorts taking bags from the mercenaries and tossing them errantly into the vehicles. They stacked up like sacks of potatoes being driven to market, leaning haphazardly against the steel reinforced plating evident through the missing rear upholstery. The guards themselves were not menacing, nor did they give off an air of sinister intent. Rather, they were consummate professionals, likely hired help, and not too dissimilar in career from the team now loading the trucks.

Koski piled into the rear vehicle, having been permitted along with his crew to retain his personal effects and weapons without any apprehension or negotiation with the crew. Despite being stuck in the middle, wedged in between two compatriots, there were no middle seats in the vehicle. Rather, there were five bucket seats situated in a three-two configuration with quick and easy access to both left and right door exits and to the rear compartment. On the roof was a small lever labeled “Vykhod” in bold white stenciled Cyrillic, completing a caution-tape outline that ran the length of the roof panel. Should they roll or become trapped, that was yet another means of exfiltration.

“It means ‘exit…’” Koski offered, to no one in particular. He was too busy worrying about how long he had to live, once the FSIS learned he had landed.

Aside from the clearly militarized nature of the SUVs, they were quite lavish by contractor-standards. The seats themselves were fine leather, each with an individual control to manager seat temperature; either heated or cooled. Most were, by default, set to maximum heat given the climate. A further vehicle heater held the internal environment at a balmy 75 F degrees, enough so for the windows to fog slightly along the edges. Directed air vents kept them otherwise fogless, so as to prevent visual obstruction; either for the viewing pleasure of the occupant or vigilance of the guards.

The front vehicle’s doors slammed shut. In a well-orchestrated maneuver, so too did Koski’s rear vehicle. The guards remained, dispersing with a final slap of the vehicle’s rear quarter panel before disappearing into the night. Over his shoulder, Koski could see Clipper of the North lurch forward and begin an assumed unauthorized taxi back towards the runway. It’s running lights flickered, then died as it disappeared into the inky black of early morning. Further, just beyond the far exterior fence, he could make out blue and green flashing lights reflecting on the dimly-lit sheet metal of warehousing and storage facilities. The cavalry had arrived.

“Idti! Idti!” the radio cackled to life, interspliced by token static of an off-band unregulated receiver.

The vehicle was already in motion before the final syllable had been uttered, holding close to the rear bumper of the second vehicle. The convoy used the tarmac as an onramp to accelerate, surpassing a normal legal speed limit within a few seconds, before veering sharply off the road, and across a trimmed grass cutoff, before rejoining a service avenue parallel to the taxiway. The front passenger seat held another guard, still suited-up and wearing sunglasses. He turned his head slightly, revealing a slight smirk but otherwise stoic expression.

“First we clear airport. Then we lose police. Buckle up?” He stated in heavily-accented English. The latter part coming out more a question or needed confirmation than an order.

The SUV jerked hard to the right in the same instant, sending any of those who weren’t buckeled in hard to their side. A police car had, somehow, managed to time their ambush such that it dove between he first and second vehicles, splitting the convoy in two. With emergency brake engaged, it drifted hard before slamming into the side of another hangar out of commission. Two more, of the VAZ-design, quickly materialized from criss-cross alleys to join the pursuit. In their rear view, all that could be seen was a torrent of blue and green reciprocating light reflecting off the sheet metal buildings.

Their guard gave a guttural laugh. “Is funny!! They think they stop us!” A smile broke through his façade, and equally, he revealed a smaller Universal Defense-pattern submachine gun cradled underneath his jacket. He rolled down his window, sending a cold chill through the vehicle as the comparatively warm air suddenly rushed out the hole. He quickly stuck out his weapon and fired errantly at nothing in particular. The rounds plinked off the ground, walls, and inevitably, the hood and chassis of the pursing vehicles.

One of the police cars swerved, dodging the fire but slamming into a surface water main. The metal superstructure shot up out of the ground like a firecracker, followed quickly by an enormous explosion of water which then proceeded to freeze almost instantly in the air. The other, hit by ricochets and witness first hand to the plight of their comrades, slammed on its brakes to deny their prey any more chances to cause harm.

The guard continued to laugh, rolling the window back up and swapping out magazines. “See… is easy! Police so stupid! We go now to see Boss. Boss is expecting you.”

The convoy, as if also choreographed, merged back together just in time to exit single-file through a rear airport service gate. Conveniently, the arm was up, and more conveniently still, the perimeter was patrolled by a small squad of suit-clad men wearing sunglasses. Perhaps airport security had been told to take the night off? Once they cleared, the gate dropped as if on cue, sealing the airport and the carnage caused to be dealt with later that day.

---

A convoy of uparmored, black SUVs was bound to draw attention, so the group avoided the byzantine network of Volsk’s highways. Instead, they took an equally byzantine cross-section of Volsk’s surface streets. What the route lacked in speed, it made up for in just about nothing. Not even the tour of the city’s less-than-glitzy underbelly made up for the perceived sense of safety avoiding the highways had proved. But for Koski, it was like being reunited with a childhood friend. This part of town wasn’t his, but the familiarity remained uncanny. Falkasia often got a bad rap from foreigners for being a cold, wet, miserable place without much humor or vivace, but much of that existed only in stereotype. When it came down to it, he preferred to think of his home nation as being proud of their independence, and being unaccommodating to others who dared or supposedly dared to threaten it. His nation had struggled with various oppressive regimes, most contemporaneously; communism, and thusly preferred above all else to just be “left alone.” They passed mile after mile of cold, brutalist tenements built during the communist era, although many now sported new paintjobs or adorned with street art. Small corner shops continued to purvey a wide assortment of domestic and international goods, and sometimes even a construction site advertising a new mega-mall of luxury skyrise in place of a condemned or previously-demolished relic of the prior regime.

It has snowed recently, with slush and muck pushed up against the street curbs. Steam rose from exposed street vents, and the occasional peddler or drunk stumbled around trying to find their way back home in the early hours. They were far from the nicer areas of town, specifically downtown and the piers, but the former loomed ominous and ever-present overhead like one might think an alien mothership would parked over a major metropolitan area. It might as well be, given the sharp divides between this area and that, with its mega-skyscrapers, casinos, nightclubs, and the Falkasian Naval College. A college that he, as a now-disgraced officer, knew well and had spent nearly five years trying to prepare a life for himself.

“We here.” The guard beckoned as the SUV slowly decelerated, before turning abruptly into a side alley. It followed, again, the front two vehicles through a tight breezeway and then through a rolling garage door. Once inside, it crashed down behind them.

Both side exits were opened from the outside, with more escorts looking on warily. They had parked in a large room, soaked in dew, melted snow, and the telltale pungency of jet fuel. The very concrete underneath their feet seemed to slosh and melt around their shoes. Chains dandled from the roof and twisted and spun in the free air. Sparks flew from random corners as welder arcs worked on various metal implements. Several dozen sets of eyes now stared at the group intent, not out of malice but out of curious amusement. Not unlike a cat watching an insect it had decided to save for later.

“Boss will see you now,” another voice, this one deeper but coming from higher up, bellowed through the cavernous room. “This way…”

[USG Security Corporation]

Heading into Volsk

Major Shlomo Ari-Galan had to trust that the rest of his team would keep flexing with the fast evolving situation. They didn't need their hands held at this point. He watched as all the gear was loaded up by the suited goons, noting the extra cargo operation that was going on to maximize on the return flight.

Nothing about this set up seemed to speak to legitimate business enterprise, but these were the contacts that had been set up by Intexa, so he had to trust them. Obviously, the USGSC and Intexa would never have inroads to any actual Falkasian government contacts. The FSIS and Intexa were foes on the clandestine battlefield, which meant that whatever networks worked against the establishment here in Falkasia, were the ones that the USG would be most receptive to working with, even if the government here had some connections into that same black market network. It was their way that when it was convenient, the FSIS turned a blind eye, if not outright engaged with the Underworld. That it was also the safest inroad the Intexa had into Falkasia spoke volumes.

Finally, Shlomo relaxed enough to allow their new guardians to usher him into one of the black SUVs. They were crammed into a couple of them, with their gear being spread between three of the vehicles.

Koski looked distant and off in his own world, which he often seemed to be, as far as Ari-Galan was concerned.
“It means exit...”

The Major looked at him, perplexed as they were in the process of ‘entering’ and moving, not exiting. He had enough smattering of Slavic languages to know that none of their new hosts had said anything like ‘Exit’. Perhaps the Falkasian meant they were exiting a worse situation? It was another odd thing not worth wasting the mental energy on. He just needed Koski to hold it together for this mission.

He watched one of the goons chuckle as he fired on the police with a SMG. One of their vehicles spun out and the other one braked hard.
Shlomo shook his head slightly. This would not portend well for the rest of their visit in this country. Aggravating local law enforcement was not going to aid their mission at all.

He kept track of their hosts and their reactions, or lack of reaction, rather. He looked out as they went through a maze of local streets. The city was not anything of beauty to behold, but it was like any other ugly, yet vibrant and proud city around the world. Were it not for the slush and ice, it reminded him of parts of Tel Aviv.

He watched Koski take it all in. The man was home. Where Ari-Galan saw bleak ugliness, the younger Falkasian saw beauty and memories that overlaid everything with a hazy nostalgia that covered up the dreariness. The Israeli Major just hoped that the man would stay on their side and not be swayed in allegiance in whatever they were about to face. It was a bit irrational considering all that Garden Team had been through so far with Koski sticking with them, but Shlomo had seen far worse twists of fate occur that no one could foresee. He had to be realistic that it was a possibility.

They were ushered into a large building that was something like a garage, but maybe a warehouse. A general purpose industrial area. Puddles, rot, and spilled chemicals completed the gritty feel. The Major smirked. It was as if they were awaiting the entrance of a superhero to break up the meeting and smash heads.

“Boss will see you now,” was directed down at them from some upper level. “This way…”

He looked as his team reassembled after de-assing from the SUVs. They didn’t need to speak over their comms. They all were ready. SMGs and ARs were slung, but not inaccessible at a moment’s notice. Sidearms and knives were also options.
They could dispense with all the drama and commence with the business, but then it just wouldn’t be the Falkasian way.