Preparation

To each their own. Rituals, prayers, all the comforting little things that calmed the nerves and focused the mind. The drone of the C-130's engines didn't preclude talking, but none of the occupants of the webseating felt much like discourse. Each of the six of them had their own demons to contend with, or to ignore.

Flint had his cover pulled over his eyes, his chin tucked to his shirt. He was napping. That was his thing, to always catch the last few extra minutes of sleep where ever he could. He never failed to wake up in time for a final recap of the mission briefing, and the rules of engagement.

Mutt spent his time lavishing attention on his rottweiler. Junkyard always acted like a goofy puppy before an operation, as if he knew that's what helped keep Mutt calm and collected. Both of them would flip a switch and become professional and very deadly as soon as they were on task.

Cross Country bobbed his head in time with the music playing in his headphones. His feet were up resting on the wheel of his beloved Havoc, tapping in time with the drumbeat. Music was his sanctuary, but not just any music. He loved country music, the deeper from the South, the better as far as he was concerned. If someone wasn't losing their girl, and their dog, and their truck, it just wasn't music to him.

Footloose meditated, his eyes closed, head tipped back. The drone of the engines actually helped him zone out, letting his consciousness roam and become one with the noise around him. As far as he was concerned the only mission to worry about was the mission of the self and the mind. And he didn't care if the others thought him weird, as long as they knew they could trust him.

Ricochet was the untested member of the group. She had five years under her belt as a Marine, but she'd been waylaid by injury for the few short months of her tenure as a Joe. She looked on the surface like she was napping, with her chin tipped down, and her hat brim pulled down low over her eyes. But she was wide awake, rubbing the small, oval pendant between her thumb and forefinger as she silently intoned prayers to any god or saint that might listen. Her hat was pulled down so she wouldn't accidentally glance up and meet the eyes of the other marksman assigned to the team.

Low-Light did nothing but stare at the bulkhead usually. But his thousand-yard stare was fixed on the blonde seated across from him. He wanted to think about absolutely nothing; that was his usual M.O. But his brain kept drifting back to sharing beers with Ricochet in the cornfield. About walking the desert perimeter and deciding that something was happening. They'd manage to agree on that, but little else.

A shift in the tone of the engines cause both Flint and Ricochet to automatically look up. While Flint made sure to tap Cross-Country's boots to get his attention, Ricochet's green eyes locked onto Low-Light and didn't look away. Deliberately, she tucked the pendant into her shirt, securing the gold chain away from sight.

"Alright, one last time people," Flint gestured for everyone's attention. Ricochet was the first to look to him, leaning on her elbows so Footloose didn't have to lean forward to listen. "Low-Light, Ricochet, you two are our angels-on-high. Without you, we're blind on the streets. The target is one Dr. Miller Rosenthal, recently apprehended by the Russian SVR after bringing sixty kilos of C4 and other shaped charges into the country. He's also wanted for seven counts of armed terrorism in the States, and is suspected to have been behind the recent London tube bombings."

"Shit," Cross-Country drawled the syllable out long, expressing what they were all feeling.

Just the six of them? To extradite a target this potentially valuable?

"We need to make it form the airstrip, to the gulag where he's being held, and back again in one piece." Flint gestured at Cross-Country. "We'll head in on the Havoc. There's an armored transport waiting for us at the gulag. We'll have to split up. Mutt, Junkyard and Footloose will man with the transport, while the Havoc will remain the command vehicle."

"That's a three mile stretch of road," Ricochet spoke up, pointing at the map Flint unfolded. "We can cover maybe two miles of it between us, with repeated repositioning."

Flint handed the map over willingly. "I defer to you both in this. I just want us covered, visibility on all threats. I don't expect this to go smoothly."

"Do they ever?" Low-Light didn't sound sour, instead he was almost happy about that fact. Life as a Joe was never boring.

Gesturing her over, Low-Light made room for her to tuck in beside him. Now wasn't the time to be shy, Ricochet decided. They had work to do. Squashing the butterflies that started up, she traversed the deck and sat knee-to-knee with Low-Light. "We're going to have to run leapfrog," she pointed out. "Good thing is the buildings all look pretty close together. Rooftops shouldn't be a problem."

"Except the cross-streets, here, and here," Low-Light pointed at the map.

"You telling me you can't get coverage angles from here or here? Or you worried you can't make it down, across and over fast enough?" Ricochet couldn't help but grin as Cross-Country whistled quietly at her challenge. Of course the others were eavesdropping on them, sometimes the difference between success and failure was their your sniper holed up.

Low-Light looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She meant that challenge. She did everything short of making fun of his age. He wasn't even thirty yet, and she was making fun of him. Curling his lip into a smile, he accepted the challenge.

"Alright, rally points, here, here, here and here. We don't move til the others in position. Cross-Country, we'll need the Havoc to pick us up here."

Displaying the map for the artillery driver pulled Low-Light's attention away from the Marine sitting beside him. But she chose to remain in his space, her knee pressed against his, until the C-130 landed, and it was time to debus.