Author's Note: Before I begin this tale, an announcement concerning the
fate of Witchblade:
TNT has decided not to renew Witchblade for a third season. Fans are taking action to get Witchblade back on the air. Witchblade Central Station has organized a campaign with a "Wanted Ad" to encourage Warner Brothers to find another network for our show. We need your help! Pick up your pens, your stamps, sharpen your pencils, and write letters to TPTB. Spread the news about the campaign! WE WANT WITCHBLADE! For more information, visit http://www.witchbladecentralstation.com Believe in the Witchblade....join the fight to save our show!
And now the tale begins in earnest:
The canvas sides of the olive drab tent stirred in the breeze, the flapping of a loose tarp against the tent's side, a constant vexation to the otherwise quiet encampment. This time of afternoon was supposed to be spent reading, in quiet contemplation, or in meditation. The temperature inside the tent was at least five degrees cooler than outside, which hovered at the one hundred degree mark, but it was blissfully free of the blowing sand that made its way into every possible opening of one's clothing, stinging and chafing the skin. It had been discovered the first day that they were here that something to cover the face was necessary, much as the locals used the ends of their traditional red-and-white kaffiyehs for such a purpose when caught out in the blowing sand. They had not encountered a true sandstorm yet, but the talk around the camp was that one was due any day. Their mission would continue regardless of the weather though, the two comparatively halcyon weeks they'd had so far would inevitably change as the true nature of their mission approached.
Ian Nottingham lay on his cot, a book held in one hand, his dark eyes scanning the pages intently, a dark triangle of sweat plastering his beige t-shirt to his chest. The words leapt from the pages of the book, painting vivid pictures in his mind. Images of places and people long gone in the conventional sense came to life again, living out their greatest moments as well as their most tragic. One king in particular played a prominent role, striding across a battlefield that had become known as the field of blackbirds. The king's sacrifice for his people had been complete.
The door of the tent banged open and a large dark-skinned man with a shaved head entered. His clothing was the same as the beige t-shirt and desert camouflage pants that Ian wore, plus a jacket and face mask to keep out the sand. He pulled the mask away from his face, "Nottingham.mail call." The man tossed a letter onto Ian's chest.
Ian put down his book, carefully marking his page before doing so. He picked up the letter and turned it over in his hands, studying the envelope. "Thanks Hector. Anything new at the PX?"
Hector Mobius sat down on the cot next to Ian's. "Not unless you want to consider more black boots new." He laughed derisively.
Ian shook his head. "Incredible. Still no desert boots? I thought when we got the fatigues the boots would come soon."
"Nope, still got black boots and OD tents," Hector gestured to the tent walls surrounding them. His eyes lit on the book Ian had been reading, "New book?"
Ian looked up from the letter in his hands, "What? That? No, I have had it a while. Decided to reread it."
Mobius nodded. "Kosovo: A History of its People and Religion. May I borrow it when you are done?"
"Sure."
Mobius reclined on the cot he'd been sitting on, fingering his dog tags idly. "So you going to open that letter?"
"I might." Ian grinned. He knew his delaying tactics were driving his brother-in-arms mad.
"Come on, man. I never get letters from home. I bet I know what's in it too."
Ian fingered the letter, but still did not open it. "You do, do you? Care to make a wager?"
"Pack of Kool-aid?"
"Cherry."
"Deal."
Ian slid a finger under the envelope's flap and carefully opened it. He cast an eye towards Mobius, then slid a folded piece of fine linen stationery from the envelope. As he unfolded the letter, a photo slid out and landed on his chest. His eyes scanned the letter quickly before putting it down.
"I knew it!" Mobius sat up, grinning gleefully. "You owe me Kool-aid, man! Let's see the picture!"
"Damn." Ian lifted the picture and studied it a moment before handing it to Mobius. "You probably would not want orange flavor over cherry?"
"Nope, you said cherry. A deal's a deal." Mobius grinned, his straight white teeth showing, as he accepted the picture. "Whoo.this one is even better than the last one! You are so damn lucky."
"Hmph. Not so lucky." Ian held out his hand and took the picture back as Mobius handed it over. He held it up, scrutinizing it closely. The girl in the snapshot was roughly his age, with honey-brown hair and green eyes. She was dressed in gray sweat clothes, carrying books held close to her chest, her lithe form caught in mid-stride. She looked completely unaware that her photo was being taken. She probably never knew a camera-man was anywhere near her. Irons had enough assets to hire the best surveillance that money could buy.
"How many pictures does that make now?"
"Eight since we've been here."
"Want to give me one?"
Ian flipped the empty envelope at Mobius, "No way." He grinned. "Besides, you just won my last pack of cherry Kool-aid."
Mobius laughed. "She is gorgeous though, seriously. You are so lucky that you're going to have the opportunity to guard her."
"That part I will agree with." Ian smiled at the photo. "She is beautiful isn't she?" He leaned up and swung his feet over the edge of his cot, sitting up. Stretching across, he flipped open his footlocker and took out a red leather-bound book. He carefully placed the photo between the pages of the book and put the book away.
Mobius nodded. "So what was in the letter?"
"Same thing he writes everytime . . . " Ian's voice took on Irons patrician tones as he mimicked him perfectly, "you shall be expected to perform your duties exactly as ordered and should I receive less than perfect reports on your abilities, blah, blah, blah."
Mobius cracked up laughing, "Oh man, that is perfect! You really have him nailed."
Ian grinned then checked the large black rubberized watch on his wrist, "Ready to go? Mess hall should be serving by now."
"Yeah," Mobius stood up, stretching his muscular frame as he did so. "Oh hey, let's not forget that Kool-aid!"
Ian opened the footlocker again and retrieved the last red packet, tossing it to Mobius with a sigh. Grabbing up some garments, he slid into his jacket and adjusted his face mask over his features.
"A bet's a bet, man!" Mobius laughed and clapped Ian on the back before putting his own mask back on over his face.
"I know, I know!" Ian headed out the door, Mobius trailing behind him laughing even as the tent door banged shut.
Ian and Mobius went through the line in the mess tent and then found the table where most of the rest of their unit members were seated. The large mess tent was capable of handling about 200 troops at a time.
Mobius nodded in greeting to his comrades seated at the long table and then sat down. "Where's Preston?"
Ian sat down beside Mobius and looked up and down the length of the table. Hewitt Preston, the unit's communications man, wasn't in sight. All the other NCO's were accounted for now that he and Mobius were here. Captain Randall Keane, Rollins, the XO, and Master Sergeant Ramirez were in the mess line still.
"Preston's probably somewhere with a soldering iron in one hand and a motherboard in the other," offered Marshall, his English spoken with a soft French accent.
Ian looked at Phillipe Marshall and grinned. Preston's affinity for all things electronic was notorious.
Mobius laughed, "Hey guess what? Nottingham here lost his last pack of cherry Kool-aid to me." He grinned.
"What did you bet him, Nottingham? That he wasn't an egotistical sonuvabitch?" Takoda Russell asked, automatically ducking out of the way of a piece of bread that Mobius lobbed his way. The young Native American grinned as the bread went sailing past.
The table settled down as the commissioned officers joined the group. Greetings were offered around as the men seated themselves. Captain Keane surveyed him men then asked, "Where the hell's Preston?"
Muffled snickers erupted before Marshall spoke up, "Soldered himself to his computer, Sir." More stifled laughter ensued.
"Very funny, Marshall. Somebody go get . . . " Captain Keane glanced towards the door and saw Preston coming into the tent, "Nevermind."
Jack Rollins, the XO of the unit, spoke, "You want these blokes briefed while we eat, Sir?"
Captain Keane looked around, assessing the amount of privacy offered to his unit. "Quietly, yes."
Rollins waited until Preston had seated himself and then began, "Gentlemen, you know we are here in effort to aid the peacekeeping mission ordered by the Commander-in-Chief." He glanced around the table at each man, his expression saying what his words could not. "As SpecOps, we have a duty to train, advise and assist host-nation military and paramilitary forces. Tonight at nineteen hundred hours we will be embarking on a training mission with one of those groups." Again, Rollins glanced around the table, his gaze indicating to each man present that this was not truly a training mission. "As this is a night-time operation, see to it that you are equipped properly. We will convene at eighteen hundred hours at the BCOC for tacintel. Any questions?"
After a few moments of silence, Ramirez was the next to speak, "As your Operations Sergeant and your Master Sergeant, I'll be briefing you this evening. I want reports from the following prior to that meeting: Nottingham, Op and Intel NCO, Mobius, Weapons NCO, Faris, Engineer NCO, Gahn Shen, Medical NCO, Preston, Communications NCO. Preston try not to be late." Ramirez directed a smirk toward Preston. "Anyone having any questions about our locale see Faris. He is from a neighboring country originally and should be able to provide you with any answers you need."
Samir Faris nodded to Ramirez.
"If I may, Sir?" Rollins looked to Captain Keane who nodded his assent.
Rollins stood, "This base of operations is not solely SpecOps as you know. The regular enlisted men here view you as their superiors, as well they should. However, it has come to my attention that there has been some scuttlebutt that the 81st has some men that are rather envious of our position here. Keep your eyes open as I suspect they will try to pull a stunt of some sort in the near future. That is all." Rollins took his seat and began to eat.
"Just how do we know about the 81st?" Mobius grinned.
Rollins smiled at Mobius, "I believe you have Nottingham to thank for that."
Mobius rolled his eyes, "Shoulda known it." He laughed as did everyone else around him. "So what are they pulling on us?"
Ian spoke up, "I overheard something about taking one of our transports and painting it pink."
"You overheard. Yeah right. You're a sneaky bastard, Nottingham, I'll give you that." Mobius chuckled.
Ian grinned and then took another bite of his food.
Rollins looked down the table, "I want to know nothing about any retaliatory strikes, is that understood? I do want you to act in a manner befitting your unit, however. Make sure those jokers know it is unwise to mess with the Black Dragons." Rollins winked.
"Clear as crystal, Sir. No one from our unit go near that transport today," Lukin spoke up.
Mobius and Nottingham left the mess tent just in time to see Alexei Lukin, Faris' assistant engineer, run by with a couple of buckets. They glanced at each other, but then continued back to their tent in order to get their reports done.
It was nearing seventeen hundred hours when a loud bang shook the walls of the tent. Grabbing their M-16's, Mobius and Ian rushed out of the tent, only to find two loudly cursing members of the 81st covered in the contents of one of the latrines. Beside them was the transport and several cans of pink paint.
"What the hell happened here?" Mobius bellowed.
"Nothing, Sir. Just a harmless prank gone awry," one of the feces covered soldiers from the 81st replied sheepishly.
Mobius barked, "Well get outta here. Go get yourselves cleaned up. Get away from that transport before you stink it up."
The men from the 81st left just as Rollins and Ramirez came strolling up. Ramirez questioned, "Something wrong here, Sergeant?"
"No, Sir. Think some of those guys from the 81st fell into a pile of dragon shit or something." Mobius grinned broadly. "I believe they were about to mess with our property prior to the . . . um . . . accident."
Ramirez chuckled, "Carry on then, gentlemen." He and Rollins kept walking, heading in the direction of the Base Camp Operations Center.
Ian grinned at Mobius, "Dragon shit?"
Mobius shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mirth, "I suspected Alexei was rigging a booby trap when we left the mess tent. Didn't know it was going to be that good. That boy has potential." He laughed, then glanced at his watch, "Time we went and got dressed. Your report done?"
"Done as it is going to get." Ian nodded and the men turned to go back into the tent.
Ian sat on his cot carefully strapping a tanto style survival knife to his lower leg. "Think this mission is the real reason we're here?"
Mobius nodded as he buckled his belt, "I'd bet good money on it." He folded the BDU's he'd taken off and replaced with pitch black clothing and put them in his footlocker and then picked up a black paint stick and tossed it to Ian. "Here ya go. "
Ian caught the paint stick deftly and laughed, "Shouldn't you be using some of this on that shiny head of yours?"
"Very funny o pale one." Mobius put on a black beret with a sarcastic smirk towards Ian.
Ian opened the stick of black face paint and proceeded to smear it across his features before tossing it back and putting on his own beret and pulling up his neck gaiter to cover the lower half of his face. "How's that?"
Mobius nodded at him, "Looks good."
Ian pulled down the gaiter again and picked up a pair of goggles and hung them around his neck. Satisfied with his equipment, he sat down and waited for Mobius to finish getting prepared. As he waited he opened his footlocker and took out the red leather book from within it. He leafed through the pages of the book until he found the photo he was searching for tucked between its pages. He removed the photo and put the book away. He studied the photo a few moments then placed it in the breast pocket of his black fatigues.
"Hoping she'll bring you luck?" Mobius asked, noticing what Ian had done.
Ian nodded. "Just something about her, you know?"
Mobius and Ian joined the rest of their unit at the BCOC. Sitting apart from their unit was a group of similarly clad men, obviously the local force they were to commence on this joint mission with. They handed their written reports to Ramirez, who then stood up to address the assembly.
"I am Operations Sergeant Ramirez and I'd like to welcome you into our camp. We look forward to working with you in this clandestine and covert operation. Our objective on this mission is to secure a DOD civilian female from the compound of a mercenary group located in neutral territory. The woman is not technically a hostage of this group, but we have significant information from tactical reconnaissance imagery as well as information from acoustical surveillance that her position there is compromised. The woman is central to intelligence gathering." Ramirez paused as the lights were lowered in the room. He clicked a remote in his hand and a picture of a woman in a black garment and veil was projected onto the wall. "This is Cynthia Roberts. She is age 31, 5'4", one hundred four pounds, black hair, brown eyes, medium complexion. She is of Mediterranean descent, but is fluent in several languages including two Arabic languages as well as English." Ramirez pushed the button again and another picture flashed up on the wall. This picture showed Roberts in a sweater and jeans, and her face was showing clearly this time. "This photo is several years old, but allows you to identify your subject's face." He clicked the remote again and a series of buildings appeared on the wall. "This is the compound you will be infiltrating. As you can see there is a high outer wall. We will be air-lifted within a mile of the compound and transport out of the area will be at the same location as the drop point. The mercenaries you will be up against are inconsequential and may negated as you see fit. The safety and extrication of Ms. Roberts is the prime objective." He paused again and the lights came back up. "There are maps and detailed sketches available here for your perusal," he pointed to a small table beside the podium at which he stood. "Now then gentlemen, you have approximately one hour to meet and greet each other as well as exchange necessary information. As a side note, the weather may not be cooperating with us this evening, so be prepared."
"The bird is here!" Alexei called out as he reached up and scratched the Chinese dragon tattoo on his neck, making it appear he was petting the creature.
Captain Randall Keane called out, "Let's go men! Are we ready?"
There was a resounding "Sir! Yes Sir!" as the rest of the Black Dragons answered their Captain before putting on their face masks and filing out the door and into the night, the local unit following them.
On the flight line sat a MH-60 Black Hawk, its main rotor spinning, sending stinging sand in every direction. As the bird sat at idle, the unit moved forward, loading into the helicopter single file, greeting the pilot, Michael Coleman, and his wingman, Thomas Quincey, as they did so.
Once everyone was settled in, XO Jack Rollins ordered Coleman, "Take her up." He turned his head to face his unit, "How about a little motivational cadence back there?" He grinned, his face tinted an eerie green by the lights of the Black Hawk's APR 139 warning console.
Hector Mobius' deep voice began the cadence, then was joined by the rest of the unit.
Fast as lightning from the sky Dropping down into the night Breathing fire, dragon's wrath Leaving bodies in my path
M-203 and knife at my side See me comin' better step aside Cause these are the tools that make men die
Oh Yeah Gettin some Blood and guts In the night Blood and guts On the run Hoo hah!
The end of the cadence brought laughter and cheers from the locals. Wingman Quincey called out, "Two minutes till drop zone."
TNT has decided not to renew Witchblade for a third season. Fans are taking action to get Witchblade back on the air. Witchblade Central Station has organized a campaign with a "Wanted Ad" to encourage Warner Brothers to find another network for our show. We need your help! Pick up your pens, your stamps, sharpen your pencils, and write letters to TPTB. Spread the news about the campaign! WE WANT WITCHBLADE! For more information, visit http://www.witchbladecentralstation.com Believe in the Witchblade....join the fight to save our show!
And now the tale begins in earnest:
The canvas sides of the olive drab tent stirred in the breeze, the flapping of a loose tarp against the tent's side, a constant vexation to the otherwise quiet encampment. This time of afternoon was supposed to be spent reading, in quiet contemplation, or in meditation. The temperature inside the tent was at least five degrees cooler than outside, which hovered at the one hundred degree mark, but it was blissfully free of the blowing sand that made its way into every possible opening of one's clothing, stinging and chafing the skin. It had been discovered the first day that they were here that something to cover the face was necessary, much as the locals used the ends of their traditional red-and-white kaffiyehs for such a purpose when caught out in the blowing sand. They had not encountered a true sandstorm yet, but the talk around the camp was that one was due any day. Their mission would continue regardless of the weather though, the two comparatively halcyon weeks they'd had so far would inevitably change as the true nature of their mission approached.
Ian Nottingham lay on his cot, a book held in one hand, his dark eyes scanning the pages intently, a dark triangle of sweat plastering his beige t-shirt to his chest. The words leapt from the pages of the book, painting vivid pictures in his mind. Images of places and people long gone in the conventional sense came to life again, living out their greatest moments as well as their most tragic. One king in particular played a prominent role, striding across a battlefield that had become known as the field of blackbirds. The king's sacrifice for his people had been complete.
The door of the tent banged open and a large dark-skinned man with a shaved head entered. His clothing was the same as the beige t-shirt and desert camouflage pants that Ian wore, plus a jacket and face mask to keep out the sand. He pulled the mask away from his face, "Nottingham.mail call." The man tossed a letter onto Ian's chest.
Ian put down his book, carefully marking his page before doing so. He picked up the letter and turned it over in his hands, studying the envelope. "Thanks Hector. Anything new at the PX?"
Hector Mobius sat down on the cot next to Ian's. "Not unless you want to consider more black boots new." He laughed derisively.
Ian shook his head. "Incredible. Still no desert boots? I thought when we got the fatigues the boots would come soon."
"Nope, still got black boots and OD tents," Hector gestured to the tent walls surrounding them. His eyes lit on the book Ian had been reading, "New book?"
Ian looked up from the letter in his hands, "What? That? No, I have had it a while. Decided to reread it."
Mobius nodded. "Kosovo: A History of its People and Religion. May I borrow it when you are done?"
"Sure."
Mobius reclined on the cot he'd been sitting on, fingering his dog tags idly. "So you going to open that letter?"
"I might." Ian grinned. He knew his delaying tactics were driving his brother-in-arms mad.
"Come on, man. I never get letters from home. I bet I know what's in it too."
Ian fingered the letter, but still did not open it. "You do, do you? Care to make a wager?"
"Pack of Kool-aid?"
"Cherry."
"Deal."
Ian slid a finger under the envelope's flap and carefully opened it. He cast an eye towards Mobius, then slid a folded piece of fine linen stationery from the envelope. As he unfolded the letter, a photo slid out and landed on his chest. His eyes scanned the letter quickly before putting it down.
"I knew it!" Mobius sat up, grinning gleefully. "You owe me Kool-aid, man! Let's see the picture!"
"Damn." Ian lifted the picture and studied it a moment before handing it to Mobius. "You probably would not want orange flavor over cherry?"
"Nope, you said cherry. A deal's a deal." Mobius grinned, his straight white teeth showing, as he accepted the picture. "Whoo.this one is even better than the last one! You are so damn lucky."
"Hmph. Not so lucky." Ian held out his hand and took the picture back as Mobius handed it over. He held it up, scrutinizing it closely. The girl in the snapshot was roughly his age, with honey-brown hair and green eyes. She was dressed in gray sweat clothes, carrying books held close to her chest, her lithe form caught in mid-stride. She looked completely unaware that her photo was being taken. She probably never knew a camera-man was anywhere near her. Irons had enough assets to hire the best surveillance that money could buy.
"How many pictures does that make now?"
"Eight since we've been here."
"Want to give me one?"
Ian flipped the empty envelope at Mobius, "No way." He grinned. "Besides, you just won my last pack of cherry Kool-aid."
Mobius laughed. "She is gorgeous though, seriously. You are so lucky that you're going to have the opportunity to guard her."
"That part I will agree with." Ian smiled at the photo. "She is beautiful isn't she?" He leaned up and swung his feet over the edge of his cot, sitting up. Stretching across, he flipped open his footlocker and took out a red leather-bound book. He carefully placed the photo between the pages of the book and put the book away.
Mobius nodded. "So what was in the letter?"
"Same thing he writes everytime . . . " Ian's voice took on Irons patrician tones as he mimicked him perfectly, "you shall be expected to perform your duties exactly as ordered and should I receive less than perfect reports on your abilities, blah, blah, blah."
Mobius cracked up laughing, "Oh man, that is perfect! You really have him nailed."
Ian grinned then checked the large black rubberized watch on his wrist, "Ready to go? Mess hall should be serving by now."
"Yeah," Mobius stood up, stretching his muscular frame as he did so. "Oh hey, let's not forget that Kool-aid!"
Ian opened the footlocker again and retrieved the last red packet, tossing it to Mobius with a sigh. Grabbing up some garments, he slid into his jacket and adjusted his face mask over his features.
"A bet's a bet, man!" Mobius laughed and clapped Ian on the back before putting his own mask back on over his face.
"I know, I know!" Ian headed out the door, Mobius trailing behind him laughing even as the tent door banged shut.
Ian and Mobius went through the line in the mess tent and then found the table where most of the rest of their unit members were seated. The large mess tent was capable of handling about 200 troops at a time.
Mobius nodded in greeting to his comrades seated at the long table and then sat down. "Where's Preston?"
Ian sat down beside Mobius and looked up and down the length of the table. Hewitt Preston, the unit's communications man, wasn't in sight. All the other NCO's were accounted for now that he and Mobius were here. Captain Randall Keane, Rollins, the XO, and Master Sergeant Ramirez were in the mess line still.
"Preston's probably somewhere with a soldering iron in one hand and a motherboard in the other," offered Marshall, his English spoken with a soft French accent.
Ian looked at Phillipe Marshall and grinned. Preston's affinity for all things electronic was notorious.
Mobius laughed, "Hey guess what? Nottingham here lost his last pack of cherry Kool-aid to me." He grinned.
"What did you bet him, Nottingham? That he wasn't an egotistical sonuvabitch?" Takoda Russell asked, automatically ducking out of the way of a piece of bread that Mobius lobbed his way. The young Native American grinned as the bread went sailing past.
The table settled down as the commissioned officers joined the group. Greetings were offered around as the men seated themselves. Captain Keane surveyed him men then asked, "Where the hell's Preston?"
Muffled snickers erupted before Marshall spoke up, "Soldered himself to his computer, Sir." More stifled laughter ensued.
"Very funny, Marshall. Somebody go get . . . " Captain Keane glanced towards the door and saw Preston coming into the tent, "Nevermind."
Jack Rollins, the XO of the unit, spoke, "You want these blokes briefed while we eat, Sir?"
Captain Keane looked around, assessing the amount of privacy offered to his unit. "Quietly, yes."
Rollins waited until Preston had seated himself and then began, "Gentlemen, you know we are here in effort to aid the peacekeeping mission ordered by the Commander-in-Chief." He glanced around the table at each man, his expression saying what his words could not. "As SpecOps, we have a duty to train, advise and assist host-nation military and paramilitary forces. Tonight at nineteen hundred hours we will be embarking on a training mission with one of those groups." Again, Rollins glanced around the table, his gaze indicating to each man present that this was not truly a training mission. "As this is a night-time operation, see to it that you are equipped properly. We will convene at eighteen hundred hours at the BCOC for tacintel. Any questions?"
After a few moments of silence, Ramirez was the next to speak, "As your Operations Sergeant and your Master Sergeant, I'll be briefing you this evening. I want reports from the following prior to that meeting: Nottingham, Op and Intel NCO, Mobius, Weapons NCO, Faris, Engineer NCO, Gahn Shen, Medical NCO, Preston, Communications NCO. Preston try not to be late." Ramirez directed a smirk toward Preston. "Anyone having any questions about our locale see Faris. He is from a neighboring country originally and should be able to provide you with any answers you need."
Samir Faris nodded to Ramirez.
"If I may, Sir?" Rollins looked to Captain Keane who nodded his assent.
Rollins stood, "This base of operations is not solely SpecOps as you know. The regular enlisted men here view you as their superiors, as well they should. However, it has come to my attention that there has been some scuttlebutt that the 81st has some men that are rather envious of our position here. Keep your eyes open as I suspect they will try to pull a stunt of some sort in the near future. That is all." Rollins took his seat and began to eat.
"Just how do we know about the 81st?" Mobius grinned.
Rollins smiled at Mobius, "I believe you have Nottingham to thank for that."
Mobius rolled his eyes, "Shoulda known it." He laughed as did everyone else around him. "So what are they pulling on us?"
Ian spoke up, "I overheard something about taking one of our transports and painting it pink."
"You overheard. Yeah right. You're a sneaky bastard, Nottingham, I'll give you that." Mobius chuckled.
Ian grinned and then took another bite of his food.
Rollins looked down the table, "I want to know nothing about any retaliatory strikes, is that understood? I do want you to act in a manner befitting your unit, however. Make sure those jokers know it is unwise to mess with the Black Dragons." Rollins winked.
"Clear as crystal, Sir. No one from our unit go near that transport today," Lukin spoke up.
Mobius and Nottingham left the mess tent just in time to see Alexei Lukin, Faris' assistant engineer, run by with a couple of buckets. They glanced at each other, but then continued back to their tent in order to get their reports done.
It was nearing seventeen hundred hours when a loud bang shook the walls of the tent. Grabbing their M-16's, Mobius and Ian rushed out of the tent, only to find two loudly cursing members of the 81st covered in the contents of one of the latrines. Beside them was the transport and several cans of pink paint.
"What the hell happened here?" Mobius bellowed.
"Nothing, Sir. Just a harmless prank gone awry," one of the feces covered soldiers from the 81st replied sheepishly.
Mobius barked, "Well get outta here. Go get yourselves cleaned up. Get away from that transport before you stink it up."
The men from the 81st left just as Rollins and Ramirez came strolling up. Ramirez questioned, "Something wrong here, Sergeant?"
"No, Sir. Think some of those guys from the 81st fell into a pile of dragon shit or something." Mobius grinned broadly. "I believe they were about to mess with our property prior to the . . . um . . . accident."
Ramirez chuckled, "Carry on then, gentlemen." He and Rollins kept walking, heading in the direction of the Base Camp Operations Center.
Ian grinned at Mobius, "Dragon shit?"
Mobius shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mirth, "I suspected Alexei was rigging a booby trap when we left the mess tent. Didn't know it was going to be that good. That boy has potential." He laughed, then glanced at his watch, "Time we went and got dressed. Your report done?"
"Done as it is going to get." Ian nodded and the men turned to go back into the tent.
Ian sat on his cot carefully strapping a tanto style survival knife to his lower leg. "Think this mission is the real reason we're here?"
Mobius nodded as he buckled his belt, "I'd bet good money on it." He folded the BDU's he'd taken off and replaced with pitch black clothing and put them in his footlocker and then picked up a black paint stick and tossed it to Ian. "Here ya go. "
Ian caught the paint stick deftly and laughed, "Shouldn't you be using some of this on that shiny head of yours?"
"Very funny o pale one." Mobius put on a black beret with a sarcastic smirk towards Ian.
Ian opened the stick of black face paint and proceeded to smear it across his features before tossing it back and putting on his own beret and pulling up his neck gaiter to cover the lower half of his face. "How's that?"
Mobius nodded at him, "Looks good."
Ian pulled down the gaiter again and picked up a pair of goggles and hung them around his neck. Satisfied with his equipment, he sat down and waited for Mobius to finish getting prepared. As he waited he opened his footlocker and took out the red leather book from within it. He leafed through the pages of the book until he found the photo he was searching for tucked between its pages. He removed the photo and put the book away. He studied the photo a few moments then placed it in the breast pocket of his black fatigues.
"Hoping she'll bring you luck?" Mobius asked, noticing what Ian had done.
Ian nodded. "Just something about her, you know?"
Mobius and Ian joined the rest of their unit at the BCOC. Sitting apart from their unit was a group of similarly clad men, obviously the local force they were to commence on this joint mission with. They handed their written reports to Ramirez, who then stood up to address the assembly.
"I am Operations Sergeant Ramirez and I'd like to welcome you into our camp. We look forward to working with you in this clandestine and covert operation. Our objective on this mission is to secure a DOD civilian female from the compound of a mercenary group located in neutral territory. The woman is not technically a hostage of this group, but we have significant information from tactical reconnaissance imagery as well as information from acoustical surveillance that her position there is compromised. The woman is central to intelligence gathering." Ramirez paused as the lights were lowered in the room. He clicked a remote in his hand and a picture of a woman in a black garment and veil was projected onto the wall. "This is Cynthia Roberts. She is age 31, 5'4", one hundred four pounds, black hair, brown eyes, medium complexion. She is of Mediterranean descent, but is fluent in several languages including two Arabic languages as well as English." Ramirez pushed the button again and another picture flashed up on the wall. This picture showed Roberts in a sweater and jeans, and her face was showing clearly this time. "This photo is several years old, but allows you to identify your subject's face." He clicked the remote again and a series of buildings appeared on the wall. "This is the compound you will be infiltrating. As you can see there is a high outer wall. We will be air-lifted within a mile of the compound and transport out of the area will be at the same location as the drop point. The mercenaries you will be up against are inconsequential and may negated as you see fit. The safety and extrication of Ms. Roberts is the prime objective." He paused again and the lights came back up. "There are maps and detailed sketches available here for your perusal," he pointed to a small table beside the podium at which he stood. "Now then gentlemen, you have approximately one hour to meet and greet each other as well as exchange necessary information. As a side note, the weather may not be cooperating with us this evening, so be prepared."
"The bird is here!" Alexei called out as he reached up and scratched the Chinese dragon tattoo on his neck, making it appear he was petting the creature.
Captain Randall Keane called out, "Let's go men! Are we ready?"
There was a resounding "Sir! Yes Sir!" as the rest of the Black Dragons answered their Captain before putting on their face masks and filing out the door and into the night, the local unit following them.
On the flight line sat a MH-60 Black Hawk, its main rotor spinning, sending stinging sand in every direction. As the bird sat at idle, the unit moved forward, loading into the helicopter single file, greeting the pilot, Michael Coleman, and his wingman, Thomas Quincey, as they did so.
Once everyone was settled in, XO Jack Rollins ordered Coleman, "Take her up." He turned his head to face his unit, "How about a little motivational cadence back there?" He grinned, his face tinted an eerie green by the lights of the Black Hawk's APR 139 warning console.
Hector Mobius' deep voice began the cadence, then was joined by the rest of the unit.
Fast as lightning from the sky Dropping down into the night Breathing fire, dragon's wrath Leaving bodies in my path
M-203 and knife at my side See me comin' better step aside Cause these are the tools that make men die
Oh Yeah Gettin some Blood and guts In the night Blood and guts On the run Hoo hah!
The end of the cadence brought laughter and cheers from the locals. Wingman Quincey called out, "Two minutes till drop zone."