Wandering Argonians wrote:Despite the warming effects of the booze and the truck's barely-operational heater, the four foreigners were still beset with the irritating bite of the arctic chill. The two beards in the back didn't seem to mind, however, just Dekker and Briggs. It'd been over two hours, and they'd not passed another vehicle on the road during that period of time. Thankfully, the roads themselves were clear, for the most part. The occasional snow-drift required a bit of pushing on their part, but these were all large men of impressive physical strength, and they'd been able to brute-force their truck through the obstacles without a great deal of trouble.
It was still miserably cold, however.
Two more hours passed, along with a local checkpoint Danny was able to sweet-talk them through with a few high-denomination bills palmed off with the initial handshake. A bit of corruption in the locals was always a good thing, it let you get things done without much fuss. It was those stalwart paragons of law and order that usually started firefights when they could simply walk away from the encounter a tad bit richer. Their objective was closing in, what Dekker assumed was a neutral zone for everyone involved in the exchange. They were a bit early, too, and that was ideal. He'd backwards-planned the trip to allow for some hiccups along the way, as getting there early was always a plus. It meant they could do a bit of recon on the hand-off site, get an idea of where an ambush might come from, that sort of thing. It was simple operational prudence.
The battered old truck ground to a halt at a snowed-in gas station with the squeal of poorly-maintained brakes, some fifteen minutes from their actual end-point to allow everyone to gear up accordingly. The bags were opened, and each man shrugged into his preferred load-out, slapping together a PDW-sized AR-15 pattern rifle from the two halves in their kit-bags. They were short weapons with equally-short telescoping stocks. Dekker himself didn't much like having a rifle this small, but it was hard to conceal anything larger, even his preferred G36C. These things at least fit in a backpack, or under a coat with a bit of creativity. Each man wore a minimalist plate carrier, rated to protect them against rifle rounds up to 7.62x54R, but covering little more than their vitals, another compromise for the sake of concealment. To their credit, they hid pretty well under a parka, but didn't have much space to mount anything more than basic comms, an IFAK, and a few mag-pouches. They'd not brought anything approximating an organic support weapon, either. Just four handguns and four slightly larger rifles, without a great deal of spare ammunition for either.
Thusly equipped, they drove on towards the meeting point, a growing feeling of dread creeping into Dekker's gut like the unforgiving cold crept into his bones. The nagging sensation that something bad was going to happen. Out of habit he checked the load in his short rifle, rewarding himself with the sight of brass on the bolt-face, then a habitual tap of the forward assist. According to his tiny GPS and the map, they'd reached their destination, an old and (hopefully) abandoned warehouse-like structure on the outskirts of what looked like a ghost town half-buried in the blowing snow. Danny parked the truck out of sight from the road and the small team fanned out to do a preliminary clearing of the structure before their 'friends' arrived.
They took the building with a soft hit, quietly sweeping through the empty, freezing rooms. The air within was still, and smelled like a dusty icebox. Krieg and Briggs set up a small overwatch position, while Dekker and Nielssen set to the task of getting everything ready for the exchange. The sat-phone had decent signal near one of the windows, the thing they'd be using to call the higher-ups and get that ransom money moving. Without it, this was just a very poorly-planned and pointless vacation.
Dekker sighed heavily, blowing a cloud of frozen vapor from his partially-frozen beard. That feeling of dread hadn't subsided one bit...
ARF Hostage Team, The Wilds near Kalteburg, Arasland (Northern Theatre):
"Bit of a drop here. Hold on, Mr. Voke."
Moments later the snowmobiles made the perhaps three metre jump over the icy cold water of a not entirely frozen river, crashing down heavily on the other side before resuming their breakneck race, darting between pine trees across country towards their destination. They were four snowmobiles in all, each rider carrying a single passenger behind them. This made for a total of seven ARF fighters and Mr. Voke.
The executive's eyes vibrated in their sockets, once again voicing his disapproval of their chosen mode of transportation to the ARF fighter in front of him. He had grown more comfortable with his captors, if not his conditions, during his time as a hostage, to the point where they were quite happy to see him go not only for the money but also for the peace and quiet it would bring them. The man had become quite vocal in his disgust of the rebels once sure he wouldn't be shot.
"So remind me," someone asked over the radio, "why are we meeting them here? For all we know we're walking into an ambush."
"This commune has been abandoned since the war broke out." the commander explained, "It's accessible from Kalteburg and the forests we operate in, and both sides can be reasonably sure of backup being able to get in if it goes sour."
"Except that we didn't bring any backup."
"Any more riders and we would attract an airstrike."
"And the Corporates probably know that."
"Probably."
"Okay."
They stopped only once a couple kilometres away from the meeting point to check their weapons and warm up before the final stretch. The company man, who had until this point been blindfolded, was released and offered a swig of a Vodka flash being passed around. Alcohol, once in abundance in Arasland as the only potable liquid not easily susceptible to freezing on winter expeditions, was now a rare luxury since the new government ended its subsidies of Green Union distilleries. Those which remained after the war had mostly been purchased by larger foreign corporations.
Fearing the sound of their vehicles traveling over the hard packed snow the officer ordered the team's sniper, a middle aged man best known for his skills hunting elk, to scout ahead and take up an overwatch position. The rebel removed a bolt-action hunting rifle from its holster, strapped on some crudely fashioned snowshoes, and moved off.
The rest stood, making small talk while equipping themselves with their own kits. Five 7.62mm FAL-V rifles came out, as well as a single 9mm Kar. SMG of Placeodermsian origin which the commander loaded and beckoned with to their hostage.
"Let's go, Mr. Voke. Good a time as any to learn to use snow shoes."
It was in this fashion that the soldiers and their hostage entered the commune and approached the designated warehouse. Everyone was on edge, not sure what they would find or where the mercenaries might have taken up positions. They weren't even sure where their own man had gone, since it would be too risky at this point to attempt unsecured radio communication.
OOC: And with that I believe we are all caught up. Posts from here on out will come more regularly and be of better quality.
Also, I'm going to be making a dispatch as a primer for this RP. If you have anything you think is not explained in enough detail or makes the experience confusing just TG me. As the guy who has this nation's lore flushed out in my head I am not always aware of the holes.
