The Siege (An Insurgency Sandstorm Story)

by MontyTheMemeMan

Insurgent forces mount an offensive into Ajiristan, a country nestled in the Middle East with no friendly neighbors. Backed by the US-funded Security Corporation, they're hired by Ajiristan to defend their borders from thousands of multi-national invaders. People from all walks of life are caught in The Siege, a modern conflict to define the next stage of Middle Eastern balance.

1. The Embassy, Part 1

Author's Note:

This passion project has been in the works for over a year. Storyboarding, conceiving characters, chapters, and changing elements took a long time, not to mention the breaks and personal miles I had to walk to achieve this.

It is my take on Insurgency Sandstorm, and outside of the locations - some of which are modified for realism or story purposes - I've crafted history, set of factions, and characters from the ground up beneath a billet of this being an Insurgency Sandstorm fanfiction. This is by no part officially endorsed, nor is it an official guide for the game's setting. That being said, there's an extensive cast of people to thank for helping me with ideas, characters, arcs, and specifics of the setting.

That will be posted in part two.

Enjoy, and ensure to review and send messages, along with feedback.

Much appreciated,

MontyTheMemeMan

---

One Year Before the Siege of Ajiristan

---

Anna Vivienne spent three years as an Army driver before joining SecuriCorps.

She currently coiled around a drawing tablet, on leave in Dublin, Ohio. Her bedsheet, tinted purple, provided lavender fragrances wafting through the air. Portraits hung about, detailing landscapes, herself, her friends, and her lover; Nathan M. Richardson. Before the Navy, he wore long hair and fancied punk clothing opposite the ordinary ones he wears now. Sitting straight before a laptop, his fingers worked hastily over another writing project. Scintillating light beamed over her caramel-tinted skin, just sun-kissed enough to be dark. Her hair, worn to the shoulder, sported a thick raven tint.

Nathan maintained light-colored hair, almost blonde, but not quite, and had greenish eyes. Taller than her by a foot, the boy kept lanky and trim.

This interaction, her reading or drawing, while he wrote or gamed, gestated into an evening routine. When she came home. Half of her time in the army had been spent driving ordinance across some third-world base or escorting the local General around in some fancy vehicle. Anna treasured her American service, even if she wasn't American by birth like Nathan.

But, staring at him like she sometimes did, Anna felt tension between them. Particularly when they were apart, but it melted away together. Nathan held a peculiar sensitivity during their time asunder, always worried, checking, and concerned for her well-being. It made sense; her routine disappearance due to PMC life made things difficult. Anna couldn't help but feel cold and distant, like him when he first enlisted and like her.

"Something up?"

Anna blinked away her thoughts, only now realizing she'd been staring at him for several minutes. Something like a smirk crossed his lips, bordering a loosely kept mustache, his eyes locked into hers.

"Uh, no" She stuttered out, "Just looking at you." Butterflies worked into her stomach, quickening her response. Things like this happened often, their little eye games being one of many things she endeared. He chuckled, toggling a key then turning around, leaning over her bedside with a mischievous smirk. Whatever tension she held in her head dissolved into something hot through her chest. "Oh yeah? Positive?"

He crept onto the bed, wearing only a shirt and compression shorts. Anna spied his excitement, her own boiling red through her cheeks. Times, when they became intimate could be planned or be random. A fire worked her insides, her mind running amok.

"Uh-huh... Yeah."

Nothing stole her concentration and calm demeanor like him, even when they had issues. Anna met Nathan halfway - it wasn't evening, yet off they went, probably to talk about those tensions after.

---

Two Years before The Siege of Ajiristan

Before he signed up for SecuriCorps, Mick Henderson the Third spent considerable time in the US Navy as an Explosive Ordinance Disposal technician. Mick's fourteen-year endeavor carried him from Liberia to Afghanistan and every dustbowl or swamp in between. Until an IED detonated next to his armored vehicle in Iraq, gifting him an honorable discharge and 100 percent disability.

Mick could've stayed that way to death, living off his retirement and investments alone. But there's no way he could since the blossoming marriage he had fallen through during his nine-month rehab. Having things to do other than drinking and trying to cope solo ended up being his savior.

Survival expertise and self-defense. SESD Inc, he called it, his own little homegrown company in the center of Nebraska dedicated to firearms training and personal security. A reprieve from the nagging wife who hogged their three children, storing them away for monthly trips that gradually turned into yearly ones.

Recently, she told Mick he'd have nothing to do with them ever again.

On a yearly expedition to the Appalachian Mountains, Mick decided to put everything behind him. To rethink his life and see where to go from there. Mick found himself clutching the trusty SIG P320 custom he'd come to trust. Custom serviced by himself during SESD's recent operations, he passionately cared for it and all other things in his kit.

Mick closed his eyes, and placed his finger on the trigger.

Maybe he could end that pain. And soon, it may all be over. That thought broiled silently, growing into an itch, a rash, then an impulsive yearning.

All the drinking, all the screaming, and dead bodies lurking behind his eyes and under his bed.

The screaming, nagging cunt of an ex-wife barricading the treats of his life from him.

Soon...

Then his phone rang. The satellite one he kept for business transactions within his left thigh pocket. Waiting for it to stop, Mick realized the caller wanted his attention. Two minutes later, Mick jammed the P320 into his belt holster, ripping the phone from his pocket and hitting answer.

"Mick here."

"Hey, Mick! Its Jack. You know, Jack Deekes."

Jack Deekes, an Army Colonel he met during his service and a frequent flyer at SESD. Something told Mick he'd worked for the Agency, but never got a direct answer about it. Regardless, it was nice to hear the old man's voice; mid-fifties and still kicking ass.

"Oh, afternoon, Colonel. What can I do for you?"

"I have a job offer. Fellas at this outfit named SecuriCorp. Ever heard of them?"

Several years ago while he'd operated in Afghanistan, SecuriCorp became known for snuffing out an Insurgency attacking Ajiristan, hired by the aforementioned country to protect them and their interests. Over the past fifteen years, SecuriCorps' small-scale beginning bloomed into a wide, highly reliable contracting agency for security and defense operations. They sport vehicle support, cross-training programs, and a ranking structure scaled by prior experience with competitive pay and benefits to match.

They've gone as Security before, but their official title remained Security Services Incorporated.

"Yeah. I remember. They asked for me?"

"I asked for you. I retired this year, see, and was ranching for a cushy office job, but these guys came knocking and I couldn't say no! So, how about it?"

Mick looked at the P320 in his hand, weighing the options. It was a quick decision.

"Fuck yeah, I'll take it."

---

Six Months before the Siege of Ajiristan

Shamil Takaar stood thin and gangly, short to his friends and shorter to the instructor before him. The youth's quivering, dark-skinned fingers were encrusted with sand and dry blood. Push up after push up, pull up after pull up, dead sprint after dead sprint, a Russian spent hours drilling his personal death squad of insurgents. He, however, was the weak link. Always the waterboy, even when he played football.

Somehow he thought this was a good idea.

Though fanatically inclined, even now, something of hesitancy crept through his mind, and he blanked out as the Russian screamed something in his face. He only came to as the man backhanded Shamil across the face, sprawling him on the ground.

"Don't fucking ignore me, boy! Get up and head to the shooting range!"

Scrambling to his feet, cheek hot and tears streaming, Takaar almost tripped hustling to the range with his remaining brothers. Yuri Myerdovych had been contracted by the great one Al-Jazeem, along with several others, to train and direct an army of insurgents and terrorists. There, a plethora of weapons sat, some made in Khyber Pass and transferred to their Insurgency. He snatched the first of several dust-caked weapons, a sporterized Mosin Model 91, its carbine barrel suited for modern combat but otherwise remained like its older models. Hands trembling, Shamil almost fumbled working the bolt up and quarter the way back - performing a chamber check and verifying it'd been loaded - then snapped it shut.

Others along the line, members of the specialized Insurgent forces the mercenaries trained, had already begun shooting. The man just to his left, a giant, dark-skinned man with an equally large jawline hoisted an M60E3 with a snatch grip, ripping six round bursts at a rough target outline fifty-some meters away. Dinesh Kateb, an Operator - directly trained by the Mercenaries - led the third fireteam in their death squad.

That's their purpose.

Takaar didn't take the time to sight in, pulling the rifle up and squeezing off a round, missing far left and spitting up dirt from the range. Trying to work the bolt, his trembling fingers and heavy breath barely allowed him to do so. Each jerking motion nearly destabilized the weapon from his rail-thin fingers.

Boots crunched behind him.

In a panic, Takaar tried working the bolt forward, jolting the weapon out of his hands, and it toppled to the ground unceremoniously. The youth scrambled in an effort to grab it, but a thick-soled boot's toe buried into his left side, dropping him to the dirt. White spots throttled his vision, and breathing failed him. He rolled onto his back, staring into the spiteful green eyes of the German hired to train them.

Grauss Fletcher, a senior instructor just below Yuri's rank, knelt down and jacked his right fist across Takaar's mouth. He cried out, swatting his hands at the muscular man as crimson and iron tinged his tongue. Between his flailing and sudden cry of pain, Fletcher seized Takaar's throat, a sadistic grin creeping over his rarely-unobstructed face. But the sands were devilish this day, so he'd swapped it with ballistic goggles.

Others' gunfire rang out.

"You're a fucking useless little shit, Shamil! Can't work a gun, can't run, can't focus! You're no good to me alive, towelhead!"

Takaar felt his breath failing, vision narrowing as Grauss worked a matte silver handgun from his thigh holster and pressed it to Takaar's forehead.

No! No, no no!

His mouth flapped open, but the green-eyed brute's hand only clenched further, small pops from dislocated cartilage in Takaar's esophagus crushed from his grip. A figure moved behind the mad-eyed German, Takaar barely able to make the rolled flannel and unassuming figure in his tunnel vision. Takaar tried clawing at the German's arms to no avail.

"Fletcher!" Grauss didn't budge, his finger taking up slack on the trigger. "Grauss! Knock it the fuck off!"

He didn't move.

Before the CZ's crisp let-off was released, Yuri - in a flurry - gripped the psychopath's gun arm and twisted it over his shoulder. Takaar couldn't make out what happened next, but Grauss suddenly flew off the ground and landed behind Yuri, the gun firing once in the air before he landed with audible impact. Some squelching noise followed - Takaar couldn't tell as he tried regaining breath - crying, dry heaving, and slobbering into the dusty dirt. Yuri yanked Grauss up and shoved him from the line, the male's arm hanging at an odd angle from the shoulder, both mercenaries staring each other down.

Many of the death squad's trainees turned and stared.

"Fucking go! I will not have you kill any more of them! Last warning!"

Fletcher stared Yuri down for a few tense seconds, Takaar finding the strength to stand amidst their showdown, ragged breaths through a nearly crushed throat slowly clearing his vision. A glimmer of respect crossed Fletcher's gaze, and to Takaar's surprise, he turned away without incident.

What the fuck is his problem? A voice inside Takaar asked.

Yuri turned, and like a disappointed father, snatched Takaar's loose shirt. With his other hand, Yuri tipped Takaar's chin up, inspecting the damage to his throat.

He didn't resist.

"Fucking psychopath..." Yuri grumbled, then released Takaar. "Go to the med tent, Takaar, then report to my quarters at zero-four sharp tomorrow morning. I will personally train you to shoot since you can't figure it out yourself." Shamil opened his mouth to speak, but Yuri's knuckles rapped his cheek, a stinging, familiar pain crossing his face. "Don't fucking answer! Just go!"

Takaar didn't wait and broke into a ragged sprint, feeling Yuri's steely gray eyes following him to the tent two hundred meters away.

---

Yuri Myerdovych loved his country. So when the motherland broke apart, liquidating into dozens of ungoverned states with belligerent leaders or resentful citizens, his father entered Russian intelligence. Yuri, when he came of age, enlisted in the Army. Yuri found heaps of despised bureaucracy ravishing his homeland's military power.

It pained him to no end, punching dirt and shoveling sand to fight for old man feuds and dirty politics. After four years, Yuri left the military, deciding to become a machinist. Around the Beslan School Siege, Yuri's fire reignited to serve, but couldn't stomach the army again, much less Russian intel.

That turned his father into a shell of a man.

So, Yuri opted for the private sector. This allowed him relative freedom to pick and choose. At first, his service began in Eastern Europe, through Ukraine into Yemen, back to Ukraine, and finally in Afghanistan. At its border into the mountains sat Ajiristan, a proponent of the American dream nestled into the Middle East like Israel.

The man never despised America. In fact, quite the opposite, but he held a certain apathy when the country came under fire from others, both literally and figuratively. When 9/11 occurred, he sampled the tragedy for moments then turned to something else.

So, even now, Yuri held no discourse for what he was about to do. What he's going to do. The same Mosin M/91 Sport from the range fit nicely into his shoulder, a comfortable, heavy wooden-stocked rifle with aged metal components that never failed. With the armorers Yuri and his comrade Timur trained, their weapons were routinely checked.

At least for the death squads populated by Operators.

"Inhale."

"Exhale."

"Squeeze."

The Mosin bucked in his hold, the snap of the gunshot reverberating through the stone-cut building and across the range. Four hundred meters away, Yuri bulls-eyed a makeshift target through its red-painted center. Regaining his breath, the man glanced toward Takaar's haggard but attentive silhouette while keeping his rifle forward.

"Remember to steady yourself. Every shot as a marksman will count, with no deviation. Do not," He said with urgency, pulling the bolt up and back, ejecting a smoking 7.62x54R casing onto the ground, "Rush yourself." With consistent smooth precision, Yuri worked the weapon's bolt forward and set it down. Yuri seamlessly flicked the thumb safety up and swiveled the rifle into Takaar's chest.

"Steel yourself, young Shamil. Your Insurgent brethren will rely on you to cover their advances from hundreds, maybe thousands of meters away." Yuri prodded a finger into Takaar's chest, "You're their lifeline."

He watched Takaar work his mouth for a response, but he shut it, turning to the range and trying to steady his breath. The night range, illuminated by spotlights in a decrepit courtyard, spied targets to one thousand meters. Yuri watched Shamil's eyes dart between different targets, then settle on one. He neared the line of sandbags - which Yuri did not use - and braced against it. His breath slowed, the boy tucking his Mosin tight into four contact points. While still in a death grip, the boy visually took his time to aim, breathe, and eventually - shoot.

Yuri noted the boy fired at his breath's end, the bright muzzle flash temporarily illuminating the muted firing pit. One of the targets - a two hundred meter steel - tonged in response. Takaar yanked his head up, a big grin crossing his boyish face. He turned to Yuri, swinging in his direction. The man closed, clasping his arm around the rifle's end and shoving it into his chest.

The boy's smile disappeared, and he recoiled away, but Yuri didn't pursue him.

"Gun forward, boy," He admonished, then turned from the distraught Shamil, producing binoculars off his battle belt. "Let's see how you did."

Scanning the makeshift range, Yuri located the steel target in question and focused his binoculars at two hundred meters. A deep, thirty-caliber imprint marked just below the left lung's location. A liver shot with that gun, this range, would kill that one eventually. Yuri offered a grunt-nod, lowering the binoculars and turning to Shamil.

"That will kill him eventually." A silent victory played in Takaar's head; he saw, through a change in expression, "But you must remember your role, and how to shoot under fire. Our training of you will only increase, Shamil. I advise you get some grip before then, or you will be dropped to regular ranks."

The boy nodded hastily.

"Y-yes sir!"

---

Two Months Before The Siege of Ajiristan

Ajiristan's sister nations; Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran, never liked her much. To General Kaid Hashiman, Ajiristan is and will be everything. From a young age, he became fascinated by the American Dream. That was saying something, as his sun-kissed skin cracked and hardened, with his hair greying by the day, and joints progressively weakening.

Standing within their embassy's confines in a second-story office, Hashiman embodied his country's dedication. From its official birth sixty years ago, to recent conflicts, it was like Israel - welcomed by no one, but endeared by the Americans.

Someone, somewhere, said even the UN endorsed them.

The fallout of the Russo-Afghan conflict shattered the Middle East into warring states. Many fled into the borders now known as Ajiristan and hosted their own nation, there. A collection of mountains, open fields, and old structures, Ajir became its capital, and only noteworthy city. Soon, dwellings and towns populated her borders, and Ajiristan eventually held several tens of thousands.

A resort for those who fled from the following conflicts which plagued the Middle East. Now, and earlier this decade, powers shifted in these Muslim-decorated sands to defile Ajiristan and her people. Last time, they caught the conflict in their borders, warring against it in conjunction with foreign prowess. SecuriCorps, someone's idea from the U.S. to provide aid without it being directed by their DoD.

Was SecuriCorps a front for the US foreign interests? Perhaps. Did they use it like Blackwater? Perhaps.

As Hashiman pondered this role in their history, Jack Deekes, Security's overseer of operations in Ajiristan walked through the door. The former Colonel inspected the wide office space, decorated with figures of Hashiman in his youth as a freedom fighter and revolutionary - likewise building this country from the ground up. Drapes shielded them from the harsh sun, and tinted windows added a shaded effect to the room. Scents of cigar smoke and iron lingered, the AC chugging along from the vent above.

Deekes - slim, fit, and displaying a showman's smile limbered before the seated man and offered a chin-down nod. The General beat him to the punch, though.

"Mister Deekes."

"General Hashiman, a pleasure."

"Please, call me Kaid. We have much to discuss."

With the door sealed shut, two black suits stood outside with P90's tucked in their torsos, Jack sat before the Colonel with a thick vanilla folder. Slapping it open on Hashiman's expansive, oakwood desk, Jack fingered through it.

"Looks like the Insurgent group is at it again. Six months ago, satellite footage caught several images of training compounds throughout Afghanistan in the location they trained five years ago. Some new camps've sprung up all over Iran, too."

Shuffling them towards Hashiman, The General inspected them closely, a grim hum escaping his throat. Were the Americans still active in the Middle East's efforts, they'd of sent drones and direct action teams to quell it - just like several years ago, equating into an underwhelming force performing guerilla raids and bombings across Ajiristan until a coordinated SSI and ARG counter offensive snuffed them. However, after the USA's disastrous extraction two and a half years ago, it opened a power vacuum, which constantly filled ever since.

Or some, like this, to bide their time and accumulate assets.

"Their operation's at least three times the size, now. Numbers increase daily, and they've equipment to boot. Tanks, IFV's, APC's, Technicals, jeeps, you name it. They've hired outside helps - mercs, the lot of them - and they're operating closer to Ajiristan's border. We've spotted advisors, technical and warfare support, from adjoining nations. Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, and some others. 'Course, they deny all involvement, but what's new?"

Silence hung for several moments as Hashiman shuffled through the photographs. Warehouses stuffed with guns, yards lined with vehicles, and multiple towns and camps with identified insurgents decorated his workspace. Clasping his leathery hands together, he thought silently, then stroked his beard before speaking.

"That's a considerable threat, Mister Deekes. I presume you're here to negotiate deployment of your men?"

Deekes nodded, producing a second folder from his briefcase. A contract with the requested amount, their price, and other legalities. Hashiman's face woodened.

"Your rate went up."

"So does inflation."

Sighing, The General produced a gold-embued gravity pen and signed. This meeting, being all formality, was in the works for months. Agencies pointed and sniffed, special ops teams prodded and infiltrated, while the pen whippers signed and dated. They knew this conflict was coming, knew the fields in which they trained, knew of the coming storm and the blood it'd rain.

This meeting, a formality, preluded the eventual siege coming to Ajiristan. Still, with this coming storm, Hashiman again worried about their numbers.

Vastly outnumbered, even on their home turf.

Once he signed, Hashiman slipped Deekes the contract, a smile on their faces.

"Very good. Now, let's have a little drink."

---

One Month before the Siege of Ajiristan

Plane rides.

The constant juggling of turbulence and whine of engines just beyond aircraft aluminum fuselages never put Anne at ease. Sleeping on airplanes never came easy, even now as she transferred to her second duty station within her three-year contract with SecuriCorps. Since that last brief respite with Nathan in Dublin, Ohio, she'd gone to her first station. Her 'Cherry Drop', it'd been called by her squad mates, Vivienne escorted precious cargo backed by US interests across Venezuela. As a previous driver and the most junior merc, she slotted the role perfectly.

On her fourth run they'd come under fire - ambushed - by rogue forces opposing US interference. Whatever led to their civil disorder hadn't been her problem. Not until a 7.62 split her windshield and punctured her lower abdomen. Rubbing the scar beneath a breathable fiber button-up, the bullet had holed her two inches left of her naval. Through quick acting on her fire team leader's part, a man named Emanuel Rourke, she'd been saved.

Two squad mates died in the ambush, and after healing, she cycled to the gunner position.

Even now, dull pains throbbed within her guts. The next two runs she amassed two dozen plus kills with the fifty caliber chambered M2HB turret. Blood ran in the jungles and poverty-stricken streets. Anne's Cherry Drop ripped her through emotions she'd never faced as a rear-echelon army driver.

Friends died in that op. Between then and now she'd been offered a leave period, but denied it, opting to go directly to her next duty station after a momentary break at SSI HQ. Nathan doesn't know. Apparently a large number of SecuriCorps operators were amassing in Ajiristan. Vivienne's orders were to fill a pointman billet with both driving and comms experience.

She audibly sighed, palming her soft, taut cheek and staring through the airplane window. Her visage stared back, far from what it used to be. Eager, bright eyes now darkened in comparison - a constant dark haze with their naivety stolen. Flush cheeks were pulled to their bones, somewhat fleshy jawlines and neck now stringent with angular lines and elements of sinew. The cut she'd chosen resembled a faux-hawk, shaved on the sides with raven black hair combed down a stripe of unaffected, layered hair down to her neck.

Definitely a far cry from who I used to be, she thought, snorting aloud.

Nathan's response stirred animosity between them. Worried being an understatement, he near-instructed her to return home safe and sound. After minutes of bitter bickering, she flashed him the numbers of her injury and completion bonus. Nathan didn't continue, stumped, and both of them silenced.

Not knowing what else to say, Anne terminated the call.

That had been seven days ago before she boarded the plane, only occasional text messages being exchanged since. In full honestly, she direly missed him - a simple thought of contact sent her mind racing with fantasies. Those of picnics, lovemaking, and laughing like they used to.

But it didn't play out that way, did it? Some cynical part of her mind cued.

No.

No, it didn't.

Anne thought of him again. His touch, his voice, and his smile. Closing her eyes, she remembered and reminisced, drifting into the comfort of a dreamscape.

---

Vivienne didn't sleep on the plane. Even as the Boeing landed, then taxied to a terminal, it eluded her as fatigue set in. The final bumps of their landing sequence shook some of the tiredness from her eyes, and with nothing else to do, Anne looked out to the airport. Ajir International Airport felt like any other, with the primary difference being an abundance of Arabic and English scrawled across terminal entrances and airplanes. Multi-national visitors weaved behind glass protecting them from the harsh, Middle Eastern sun.

Pulling into the terminal took a short amount of time, but as she departed and then began customs, the passageways became choked with persons moving in-country. Anne knew Ajiristan boasted a few tourist attractions - a resort coming to mind - and had beautiful mountain scenery with guided tours, but this seemed excessive for even a tourism boom.

Multiple faces of different races strolled by in the clustered terminal. She went through customs, scanning her transfer documents and passport, then picked up her one checked bag - a duffel bag. Her laptop bag contained the other necessities, and her mercenary effects were sent beforehand. Vivienne stood before the exit of terminal one, clothed in a rolled tan button-up with vented fabric and lightweight mesh. The safari shirt paired neatly with rolled-up work jeans cuffed just below the calf, and ankle-high hiking shoes. A wide-brim straw hat shaded her eyes and skin from harsh desert sunlight.

A few moments of searching brought the MRAP into view. A boxy, armored vehicle on wheels with a gun mount and one accompanying driver. Tall, tanned skin, and wearing a digital desert camouflaged combat shirt and pants, the male's plate carrier was adorned with magazine pouches and a radio. Both locked eyes, noting each other, and he waved Anne over.

SecuriCorps' sword logo superimposed upon a shield stared at her from its grille. Vivienne stood five-one, short by any standard, and this man towered over her. They exchanged glances again.

"Show your ID," He ordered with a flat tone. Anne extracted her wallet and flipped a chipped, grey identification card featuring her pay grade, name, and date of birth. The man produced a chip-reading device with a touch screen, took her card, and plugged it in. After several seconds he turned it towards her. "Enter your number."

Vivienne exhumed a soft sigh, fingering the touch-screen numbers to type out her identification code. It took a painstaking amount of time, the object being at least ten years old.

0-9-3-5-5-2-7-0-5-6

Anne hit enter.

Just now she noted his name tape; Boyde, and his rank; Sergeant. "What's your assignment, Sergeant?" She asked, glancing at the MRAP and seeing some shuffling figures within. A small beep chimed from the device, and Boyde handed her back the card.

"Dober Squad, Charlie Platoon. You?"

"Dog Squad, Charlie Platoon."

They shared a grin, Anne pocketing her card and loading her bags into the MRAP. Three more PMCs sat inside, but nobody occupied the back seat, so she took it and knocked out. The best she could tell upon waking was they'd acquired two more mercs before heading to their destination; Bab Fortress.

---

Bab Fortress consisted of several medieval bastions embedded into hills and mountainsides, the apex comprising the Ajiristani Central Government and Military Command Center. This is also where Security set up its primary operations base, callsign Castle Bravo. The congested base is molded with modern military conex boxes, temporary structures, and proper buildings set in a three-kilometer-wide compound nestled into the nadir of Ajiristan's premier mountain range in her northernmost sector.

Much of the nearby village comprised of associated housing, but didn't entirely consist of military members. On a main vein into Bab, she noted several community centers and a slightly higher standard of living. Approaching a marked entryway, guards stood by unfinished walls being constructed by contractors. Boyde stopped the vehicle, and presented his ID; then the guard waved him through.

Boyde dropped Anne off at three conex boxes surrounded by a chain fence within a courtyard. The base's congested roads took them several minutes to navigate. With her laptop and duffel bag in hand, she exited the MRAP and marched into the clearing. From the rightmost box, its shortest side facing her, a man exited the container dressed in Desert Tiger combat gear. Lithe, dark-skinned, and just below average height, a flare of recognition zapped Vivienne's brain.

"Rourke?"

He looked at her, realizing who she was. A similar expression crossed his face, culminating in a tight smile. Corporal insignia spotted his plate carrier. Rourke extended a hand and she clasped it.

"I'll be damned! God has his ways of bringing people together, doesn't he?"

"Ha, sure thing." Anne stopped worshipping after Venezuela. She hadn't been negligent beforehand, per se, but after that, she officially renounced her religion through a series of tattoos over her right arm. Rourke, however, still remained Catholic. "So, where's everyone else?"

"Ah," Rourke waved to the containers, "Not here yet. Our gear's in the center Conex. Left is female barracks, right is male. Grab your equipment and make your choice for the first bunk. There's eight racks per, but we don't have a full manning, so there'll be vacancies."

Vivienne did just that. Her equipment lay within a labeled locker, with afore-sent clothing inside a labeled duffel bag. She transported her effects to the furthest most rack from the connex's entrance and began laying everything out. A quick glance in the mirror, and she looked like a tourist.

Back in her gear, Vivienne stowed personal items in a foot locker, a standing one now decorated with her supplementary gear. A grin crossed her face as fresh combat clothing - stuff she'd ordered specifically for here - lay neatly organized in the bag. Desert Tiger Stripe is a flowing, crisscrossing series of dark and light browns of corrugated stripes mimicking the predator's skin pattern.

Both her combat pants and shirt came straight from a custom retailer she'd discovered thanks to a friend in Venezuela. Remembering them, a frown came to her face, blood occupying the memory. Blinking it away, Anna laid out her plate carrier, a cumberbund-equipped Crye JPC 2.0. A quick test fit determined the top-tier rig still fit her frame, and she continued sorting her kit.

Next came her guns.

A Daniel Defense Mk18 Gen 3 with MLOK, an AIX hand stop, Holosun 512C Optic, Surefire 3-Prong QD flash hider, PEQ Suite, Arisaka light, and EoTech 3x flip-magnifier. She splurged on a cerakote treatment, giving it tiger stripes, finishing the look. A Glock 19 Gen 5 with an aftermarket grip and slide serrations with target night sights rounded her firearm loadout. The MP5KA4 she used as a driver still sat in her gun locker, equipped with an Aimpoint Duty RDS and Wolf SD9 suppressor, but she hadn't used it since the early Venezuela days.

Finally, she looked at herself. A mirror for hygiene stood at the box's end before a rudimentary sink setup. She guessed the head was outside. Having stripped to her athletic skivvies and sports bra, changes stuck out to her like a sore thumb.

Once semi-plump love handles and hip weight now tightly wrapped muscular thighs and semi-visible abdominals. The scar remained; its small pinkish-brown blemish stood out within her dark caramel skin. Angular lines and slightly visible sinew spotted her arms and neck. Her bra size shrank, too. Anna twisted her outer right arm into view, inspecting the duet of tattoos sprawling its length.

First, from her shoulder to the exterior bicep, Christ The Redeemer supported a blood-soaked insignia stating "God Wasn't There", his whites and greys contrasted heavily by a swatch of crimson outlines.

Second, on her external forearm, Our Lady of Guadalupe stood wrapped in a crimson ribbon, emblazoned with "Blood Makes The Grass Grow" and an AKM at her feet. Vivienne reflected on these tattoos, having them done between escort missions on their outpost. Her second tattoo had set in by the time she left, and Nathan knew of neither.

Nathan.

How long had it been since she'd seen him in the same light? The last intimate conversation happened before she left for Venezuela. Some messages were sent after, but nothing else.

Anne finished glancing over her body, doing her best to ignore the exit wound above her waist dimples, and the old scar from an unrelated childhood injury along her back right thigh. Dressing quickly, she donned the Desert Tiger pant and shirt, her plate carrier, battle belt, then her Safariland holster and stuck the Glock 19 within its confines. After packing her gear into the lockers, she left, meeting with Rourke who stood outside.

"Chow?"

"I'd like some chow."

---

"Dog Squad, atten-hut!"

Vivienne and the seven other members of Dog Squad came to attention, called by Corporal Emanuel Rourke strutting before them. The first to stand out uniform-wise was a burly Hispanic name-taped Rodriguez. He had scars on a shaven head and a constant grimace. Rodriguez wore chocolate-chip style camouflage with a blouse instead of a combat shirt; his sleeves rolled to the forearm where intricate dual Tribal Taino Indian tattoos ended on his fingers. Rourke visibly squinted at his full name; eight smashed into two firsts, four middles, and two lasts. He shook his head, shouting an abbreviation of the provided word salad.

"Lance Corporal Jon Rodriguez!"

Full name; Jonathanibarra Bernardo-Mungia-Gonclavez-Garredo Rodriguezparreno

"Present and accounted for!"

His voice boomed, like she imagined it would, with a twang - not Mexican, but Puerto Rican. Rourke paused, shifting to her.

"Lance Corporal Annalise Vivienne!"

"Present and accounted for!"

Her voice sounded small in comparison, but she still projected. Maybe all those singing lessons finally amounted to something.

"Lance Corporal David Moore!"

"Present'n accounted for!"

A slight southern twang paired with Moore's booming vocals. Anna couldn't tell if his size is from muscularity or being slightly pudgy, but from his broad shoulders, boxy head, and blouse rolled to his thick biceps, she guessed the former. A crown of sharp, receding hair swept slightly forward tailored his thick eyebrows and high forehead. Moore had something of a five o'clock shadow, likely from shaving the night before, but Rourke didn't seem to care.

"Private First Class Raita Takeo!"

"Pree-sent and accounted for!"

His words were deliberately spoken, slowly and semi-clearly, with hints of the Japanese man's nasally accent passing through. Anne judged him as average by Japanese standards - five foot six with shaggy, medium-length hair parted down the center. Despite being young, his eyes bored into Bab's walls, deadly serious. Raita wore the standard Digital Desert camouflage with Crye pants and an according combat shirt, his boots tall, dark, and heavily treaded. Might be motorcycle boots. A pencil-thin mustache lined his upper lip.

"Private Maxus Packerton!"

"I uh - p-present and accounted for!"

Rourke's brown eyes jerked from the roster to Max's blue ones. A wiry figure with pale, freckled skin and a tuft of ginger hair, he barely looked fit enough to be a merc. He probably has to do this, poor guy, and he fidgeted constantly. Rourke's gaze didn't help, and Max began tapping his clenched knuckles against his thigh. A thin, pinched face blinked and glanced away - specifically at her and another female. The desert fatigues he wore almost looked too big.

"Stop fucking fidgeting, Packerton!"

"Y-yes sir!"

He tried, stiffening his stance and staring forward.

"Don't lock your knees and fucking pass out dipshit!"

"Uh, I-"

"Shut it!"

Rourke moved down the line as Packerton fixed himself, stopping before the other female in Dog Squad.

"Private Cheyenne Denvers!"

"Present and accounted for, sir!"

Rourke's eyes snapped to her, and she flinched. "I'm not sir! It's Corporal or Rourke! Understand?"

"Yes, Corporal!"

"I don't get paid enough to be a desk jockey."

Vivienne stifled a snicker, glancing sideways to observe Denvers. She stood taller, Of course, but was thinner by a decent margin. She had angular facial features that flushed out around her chin. Denvers' voice was high pitched, her skin pale and freckled, but not like Packerton's, who looked genuinely unhealthy. Her Desert cammies their standard issues - a theme among FNGs.

"Private Xavier Opall!"

"Present and accounted for!"

Xavier had a city boy accent, was of average height with dirty blonde hair, and had a dopey look. The man had some pudge on him, something Rourke glared at disdainfully. His shoulder drooped, stance not quite straight. Otherwise, he didn't look different from your average white guy.

"Private Julio Ramirez!"

"Present and accounted for!"

Young. That was Anne's first impression. He can't be older than nineteen! How is he here? Ramirez' head leaned forward from a slightly hunched back, his coffee-tinged skin smooth and nearly unharmed. A big nose, mouth, and long ears complemented his near kid-like look. Ramirez' mouth almost hung open as he stood to; the fatigues he wore were also too big. Rourke double-checked his roster, clipped to a board, and pulled it under his left arm.

"Alright. Welcome to Dog Squad, lads." Rourke wore the same desert tiger pattern gear as her, sleeves rolled to the forearm, wearing Viktos coyote boots with pant legs tucked through their throat. "I'm Corporal Emanuel Rourke, your new squad leader. I'm designating Lance Corporal Rodriguez as my assistant squad leader. You came here with your designations, but in case you forgot-" Rourke presented his clipboard again, "Vivienne's our pointman, Rodrigruez is the breacher, Moore's our gunner, Packerton's the A-G, Takeo's our marksman, and Opall's our demolitionist. Denvers is the medic and Ramirez is our spare rifleman."

Moore glared at Private Packerton, a contorted expression of disgust wrought his face. "Ain' no way. Lemme have Ramirez; kid ain't got what it takes."

"Too bad," Rourke responded, slapping the clipboard, "Pack's got the schooling, Ramirez doesn't. You're stuck with him."

Moore nodded hesitantly, staring again at Packerton. He jut a finger in Pack's direction, "You better not fuck me, pogue." Moore growled. The subjugated kid stared at his feet, mumbling a response incoherently.

"Right," Rourke interrupted, "Assemble your combat loads and bring 'em out for inspection. You have fifteen minutes."

---

Vivienne stood before her open assault pack, a proper three-day kit typical for skirmishes just outside the wire. Everyone else was kitted up, too, in their aftermarket or issued gear. Denvers, Ramirez, Opall, and Packerton shared the same general kit arranged for personal accommodations. Their plate carriers - a 5.11 TacTec Series issued in SecuriCorps 'Boot Camp' with accompanying MOLLE-adaptable pouches and gear containers. Packerton, being the only one with some personalization, wore a Hello Kitty pouch on the upper portion of his plate carrier and another on the left side of his Voodoo Tactical FAST helmet. Opall utilized an M203-equipped M16A4, while Packerton utilized the same weapon without the launcher. Denvers and Ramirez held ACOG-adorned M4A1s, fresh from the armory.

Takeo utilized a lightweight plate carrier she couldn't quite identify with thicker, boxier magazine pouches for the M110 Marksman Rifle at his feet, boasting a Bushline Pro Scope, SOCOM762 Suppressor, Magpul AFG2, AN/PEQ Laser Suite, and a Harris Bipod. Instead of a FAST helmet, he had a bump-style with burlap taped to its exterior and a tan ace poker card accentuating it. His kit tailored it accordingly, Takeo's assault bag of a different make - probably a hiking bag - with netting around its shell tied by paracord.

Moore had a Mark 48 Mod 0 at his feet, "The Super Saw", an ELCAN and QD-model flash hider aiding the built-in bipod, with a customized Haley Strategic Thorax wrapped about his torso. A webbing addition allowed him to carry the gargantuan boxes required to feed the machine gun, his bag and helmet were tailored to this requirement.

Rodriguez' kit was the most custom. A Mayflower APC with a kevlar neck protector, his bump helmet had goggles strapped to its top, and his plate carrier sported a large Puerto Rican patch at its top center, a Puerto Rican Freedom Fist patch on his right shoulder, and a Red Rooster superimposed over Puerto Rico's flag colors. " ¡VIVA PUERTO RICO!", written on his bump, displayed his pride in Puerto Rican heritage. Rod's M4A1 CQBR sported a raised SIG RomeoZero Elite, taped-up Magpul AFG, SureFire X600 Light, and a QD-model flash hider. His primary breaching tool; a Serbu Shorty, sat at his feet with "La Pulga Caliente" etched into the left side receiver. Rolled C2, a halligan bar, and other necessary entry tools surmised his kit.

Rourke sported the same Thorax Moore did, except he'd lightened his by removing the cumberbund. More magazines spotted his battle belt, and his FAST helmet had different markings about it. Oakley glasses sat propped with prescription lenses on his nose, and an HK 416A5 with a taped, hex-capped Leapold Patrol 6HD and offset-mounted Aimpoint Micro RDS, Troy Industries Stubby Grip, AN/PEQ Laser Suite, SureFire X300 Light, and QD-Brand Flash Hider rested in his arms.

Each merc - save for Rodriguez and Rourke - carried a Glock 19 of some kind. Moore's was a 19X, the most recent line addition, and Rod utilized a Canik TP9 Elite Combat in Coyote. Rourke's M9A3 had aftermarket grips and ghost ring sights, also tinted coyote.

He walked down the line, glancing among the merc's kits until he stopped at Packerton. Eyes squinted, Dog's squad leader swooped down and ripped something from his assault bag. A Funko Pop of Spiderman, Rourke's confusion and irritation displaying in troves.

"Explain!"

"I.. Uh.. It's mine!"

"No fucking shit! Why's it in your assault bag?"

"My uh.. Son gave it to me so I can remember-"

"Stop." Rourke silenced him with a wave, placing the item back in his open bag, "Bring a picture or something. Not a fucking knickknack. That gets broke and nobody can reimburse you. Got it?"

Packerton nodded sullenly, not making eye contact.

"Good."

He went down the line, ribbing the other FNG's for gear mishaps and correcting missing items - especially for their combat medic, Denvers, to who he gave a full ribbing for an improperly packed field kit. Inspection over, he stood before the squad.

"Half of you are solid; half of you are dogshit. But you'll learn. Myself, Rodriguez, and Moore are fireteam leaders. Team One is me, Takeo, and Vivienne. Two is Rodriguez, Opall, and Ramirez. Three is Moore, Packerton, and Denvers. Any questions?"

Nobody said anything.

"Good. Tomorrow at zero-eight-hundred our leadership's meeting in the courtyard over yonder," Rourke thumbed to a location vaguely behind him, obscured by the conex box, "We'll wake at zero-six to dress, hygiene, eat and set over there. Understood?"

"Yes, Corporal!"

"Alright. Go do whatever."

Vivienne stood before her kit. Something annoyed her about not being a fire team leader, but at the same time, she felt relieved, unsure if she had the leadership skills. Being pointman was more daunting. Maybe it's her shorter stature and weapon of choice or a way of bringing her to speed with infantry combat. Rourke knew she'd only operated from vehicles before.

Fuck.

Grabbing her equipment, she stood, trying to drown out the others as they associated. A shout brought her attention to the left; Moore looming over Packerton.

"Don't fuck with me, kid! My ass is on the line if you fuck up! I don't care about no kids you got! I got kids, too, an' I ain't babysittin' some pussy! Got me?"

Packerton, stunned into silence, gaped at Moore. His eyes frantically scanned the larger man, then glanced away, locking onto Anne. She scowled back at him, offering a dismissive shrug.

"Stop fuckin' lookin' at the girls! You got one baby mamma an' ain't need no more! Answer me, shithead!"

He focused back on Moore, mumbled something, and Moore backed off. "Good." He turned away, strutting back to his gear and piling it on. Anne watched Packerton stare at Moore with hints of distrust and animosity, face still stricken with fear.

God damnit. We don't need this.

She loaded her gear and moved next to Moore. He stopped mid-movement and glared at her, eyes softening when he realized Anne stood there instead of Packerton. As she opened her mouth to speak, Moore interrupted with his own words.

"Knew you looked familiar. How's it goin', sis?"

Moore and Vivienne were part of Company 115 during SSI Boot Camp - a 12-week training facility buried in the Missouri woodland where they facilitated intricate exercises, rehash courses, and everything there is to being a SecuriCorps merc.

Their motto; "Tigers and bears," with Moore answering; "Bears and tigers."

She folded her arms, a look of recognition running into a disappointed glare.

"Did you really have to do that?"

"Do what?" He answered.

Anne jerked her thumb to the feet-dragging Packerton sloppily reassembling his gear.

"That," She leaned close, "That was too much, dude. Come on."

Moore groaned, turning away, "Uh-huh. It's too much until he's figured it the fuck out."

"Moore!" She chided, swatting his helmet, "He's your guy! Grow up."

Before Moore could whirl around and respond, Vivienne took off to the females' conex barracks, leaving Moore to watch her walk away. He tore his vision from her stride to Packerton, still milling over his gear.

Moore sighed, "God fuckin' all father save me," and walked towards Packerton. The kid started shoving things hastily and uneasily into his bag, some spilling out as Moore came within feet.

"Pack, chill the fuck out," He scolded, kneeling beside him, "Let me..." Moore released a pent-up breath, slow and steady, holding his hands over the new guys' pack, "Fuck, let me show you how it's done, noob."

Slowly and smoothly Moore somewhat level-headedly described and detailed how Packerton should assemble his field bag, all the while cursing whoever put him through SecuriCorps' boot camp.

How the hell did he make it?

---

Dog Squad stood with Pit, Dober, and Boxer - the full element of Charlie Platoon - before their SNCO, CO, and XO. Dressed in full combat gear with assault packs, they formed a line with Dog in front. Vivienne recognized Sergeant Boyde standing with a mustachioed, burly male wearing Staff Sergeant chevrons named Henderson III. A female stood with them, five-eight, built strong with tight cornrows and mocha skin. Anne noted her name tape said Esteban-Ibanez and suddenly wondered if she was married.

She's pretty.

Corporal Rourke stood among them, almost out of place, but his bearing stayed straight. Just where he belongs, then. Before the four squad leaders came a dark-skinned, bald male with a muscular visage and handsome face. Sarsykian, so his name tape read, and he wore older-pattern desert streak camouflage, bearing the First Lt. silver bar on a Crye-model plate carrier. An M1A Socom tightly fixed to his Crye plate carrier, utilizing a ubiquitous Trijicon VCOG 1-8x and four-prong flash hider. He smiled, an illuminated glow about him, unlike the others.

Definitely former Air Force.

Beside him of average height, wearing a Captain's tab named Lezsobo, stood a man in fully customized, Eastern European gear. A meshed yellow-brown pattern utilizing irregular circles and splotches comprised his combat uniform's camouflage, his plate carrier fully decked out with Ukrainian patches and a single SecuriCorps logo. He cradled an extensively modified AK-105, with sights and modifications she couldn't identify, gazing over the platoon with indifferent, blue eyes from a lopsided face.

Sarsykian and Lezsobo exchanged glances, Lezsobo nodding. Sarsykian turned to address them, arms spreading out momentarily, then clapping them together, his coyote Mechanix gloves emanating a leathery slap.

"So we're Charlie platoon, tip of the spear!" His accent definitely pinned him as northern American - probably New York - his enthusiasm almost irritating, "I am First Lieutenant Jayson Sarsykian," pronounced sar-si-keein, "And this is Captain Donovan Lezsobo," pronounced lez-zobo, "Charlie Platoon paves the way for Black Company and our rear-echelon elements. We've got-" Lezsobo half-heartedly waved his XO down and stepped forward. Sarsykian unflinchingly obeyed and stepped back, folding his hands above his tailbone.

"Listen up," he began with a distinct European drawl, "Sergeant Boyde and Staff Sergeant Henderson are my senior enlisted advisors. They know more than any we are first to fight with best soldiers. If you have question, put through them or X-O. Our mission is critical to success, and more often we are to shoot first than other units."

Lezsobo paused, inhaled, then exhaled. The man's face exhumed melancholy.

"Major Forde coordinates all Black Company platoons. He will arrive shortly. He expects our best, so show it on battlefield. That is all."

Lezsobo stepped off to the side, Sarsykian on his hip. Within moments a wide-shouldered, tan male with a buzz cut approached the front. The Major's gold leaf is displayed on a Desert Flecktarn uniform. Noticeably, the man didn't wear any combat gear. Forde gazed with a steely ire across Charlie Platoon.

"Men an' women," He boomed with a Texan drawl, "We're to defend Ajiristan and her people against foreign invaders as per the contract. Do your jobs, do 'em well, and we all get paid. Orders will trickle down within two days. You know what to do. Dismissed."

---

Two days later, Dog Squad squatted around a dimly flickering fire gently illuminating the yard their Conex boxes sat in. Idle conversation between Moore and Rodriguez rose above the snap-crackle of the fire. Vivienne's legs crossed together with her hands braced against the cool ground. Ajiristan's nights cooled to a chilled sixty-degree average with occasional winds.

Anna wrapped herself with a desert stripe jacket, some others doing the same, others not. Rodriguez broke their silence, wrapping his arms around Takeo and Ramirez, pulling them together.

"Look, guys! Come on, let's think of the good side! We no longer have to be in this horrid castle, eh? That's a plus for me."

Ramirez squirmed momentarily while Takeo accepted his fate as the burly Puerto Rican squeezed them.

"Maybe I can shoot something wherever we go."

"Huh?" Rodriguez released them, his face contorting with confusion, hands on his hips, "What do you mean?"

Takeo deadpanned to Rodriguez, though some resignation lingered in his eyes. Anne couldn't identify what remained there.

"I joined to shoot people, Rodriguez," He flatly answered, devoid of agitation, "Like someone should when they join a military."

Rodriguez shook his head, splaying his hands before him. "Man, you're a crazy, aren't you? Is good; we need some crazy." He ended his retort with a humored chuckle and impeccable smile. "Me? I join to fight!" Rodriguez smoothly entered a boxing stance - hands close, clenched, with his legs poised in a staggered formation. Vivienne idly watched MMA, and could spy a trained fighter - partly due to her combat experience and fighting-star gazing.

"Fighting runs in Rodriguezparreno blood! Is long-standing tradition, see?"

Takeo formed a small, barely comprehensible smile and nodded. "Yes."

"Dog squad!" Came the voice of Rourke, having approached through an underpass of the fortress into their courtyard. Everyone turned, dropping the conversation, "We've got orders!"

The lot stood and approached Rourke, who clutched a vanilla folder beneath his right arm. As they closed in, he stopped, eyes furrowing at their gaggle. The FNG's naturally cluttered forward, with more experienced operators spacing out around Rourke. This didn't please him.

"The fuck is this?" He barked, "Don't crowd me."

They shuffled away.

Rourke slipped his finger through the top, ripping open its flap and extracting the white document within. He skimmed over it momentarily, those like Ramirez and Opall looming closer with excitement over apprehension.

"Ajiristan's Border Embassy. Used to be some kind of Ministry building. Charlie and Bravo platoon report no later than September seventeenth, eight hundred hours. Alpha and Delta on standby at Forward Operating Base Price." Rourke closed up the folder, "So, two days. We'll be going by convoy. Pack your shit and have it stowed in the vehicles arriving tomorrow morning. We'll be riding it out 'til we get there. Any questions?"

"How far is it from the border?" Moore asked, arms folded.

"One kilometer from the Afghanistan side in the south. It's a long trip. Anyone else?" Rourke glanced between them and nodded, "Good, dismiss."

Rourke angled around them to the male conex box, the others exchanging neutral, expectant, or anxious glances. Ramirez clapped his hands, guffawing a quick exclamation.

"Hey, we'll get to see some action! That's cool, right?"

"Action kills, pogue," Moore snapped, a finger extending to the FNG, "Don't think this some field trip 'cause we got front-line duty. We're tip a' the spear, yeah? An' none you other fuckin' dipshits better look forward to this."

Rodriguez stepped forward, palming the man's chest. Moore exhaled and stepped away, permitting Rod the floor.

"That means to double-triple check your equipment, visit S-one for your personnel things, and don't forget a pass by the armory to gather additional gear. Once we out there, is hard coming by extra stuff. The A-R-G has some munitions, but not all is up to our standard. Keep your chin up, compadres, and we all get paid."

---

Two days later Anne Vivienne and Dog Squad, their duffel bags beneath their feet, set southbound to the Border Embassy. Operations orders about Black Company being a rapid response unit - their detachment's best - occupied her thoughts. Bravo Platoon is the backup for Charlie, stationed just outside the Embassy with orders to prevent an enemy force from cutting off their escape route. Which meant Charlie alone will defend the location. Within the musty MRAP they used for travel, her mind slipped as the heat cranked higher.

Halfway there they enacted a pit stop, then set out again.

On arrival, her brain felt like mush, stumbling out the rear with duffel bags in hand to Charlie Platoon's appointed spot. Dog, Pit, Boxer, and Dober were led through a rear entrance into a short sprawl of hallways, ending in a marble-encased lobby with tall, sculpted pillars and an open front. ARG and civilians milled about, Sergeant Henderson and Captain Lezsobo speaking with a guardsman.

Lieutenant Sarsykian, hanging back from the convo, glanced back and wove his hand down. The collective platoon obeyed, dropping to the floor. Vivienne glanced at Moore, cradling his machine gun and shaking his head.

"Fuckin' locals," He grimaced, glancing at Anne, "Might take forever."

Vivienne chuckled, but as fast as they sat, Henderson and Lezsobo turned to face them, the former commanding them with a head tip to get up. Begrudgingly, the platoon stood. The Guardsman presented himself.

"I am First Sergeant Sayed Saloush, and I will coordinate your efforts to defend this installation. Please follow for your barrack assignments."

Broad shouldered with a small gut, Saloush sported a well-groomed, but thick beard and a neutral expression. A G3A3 hung from a sling, tightly pressed to a ten-year outdated flak vest neatly arranged with magazine pouches and grenades. Vivienne spied a classic Colt Model 1911A1 with a chromed finish from a leather thigh holster.

Unceremoniously, the digital desert-clad local turned to his left and briskly moved across the lobby. Charlie Platoon followed. Set on the northwesternmost wall, a line of conex boxes stretched across the concrete and barbed wire barriers. He paused, reviewed a piece of paper, and turned to the lot.

"Females in first compartment, males in the rest. Squad leaders and platoon leadership in the last."

Saloush then walked off, leaving the group to stow their gear. Anne joined four other females - excluding Denvers - in stuffing their gear in the rudimentary lockers. Inside, all the windows had ballistic glass with metal meshing, two rudimentary AC units sticking through caulked, half-opened windows to provide conditioning.

They kind of worked.

Anne picked a center cot on the right side, with Denvers choosing the closest to the door. Sergeant Esteban-Ibanez and a Corporal Ramon took the back racks, both part of Boxer squad. A medic, Lance Corporal Ozuna and demolitionist Lance Corporal Dodson from Dober Squad, with PFC Riley Cains and Private Irene Susanna from Pit, separated her and Denvers.

She didn't spend time socializing, but it became apparent the fair-skinned Ramon and Esteban were the berthing bosses. That didn't bother her - less to manage. Loading her assault bag, Vivienne immediately set out to find Rourke for tasking.

---

One week into their assignment at the Ajiriaran Border Embassy, or as they've come to call it, The Abe, Vivienne prepared for her midnight watch. The duty, a four-day cycle, rotated by squad. They turned over in six hours to Dober squad. Her, Takeo, and Rourke had it next - relieving Rodriguez, Opall, and Ramirez on the rooftop. ARG patrolled surprisingly vigilantly, gun nests and a sniper post covering four sectors of fire surrounding the Abe.

After donning her plate carrier, three-day pack - just in case - and assembling her provisions, Vivienne did a double check. Fighting back fatigue and complacency became difficult, even in their relatively short time there. Vivienne constantly reminded herself of their purpose; the first line of defense against an incursion.

This place faced the highest likelihood of one.

Groggily shuffling out of the barracks, she squeezed the bridge of her nose and jogged into the opened back entrance. She met Rourke and Takeo by the lobby, ascended three flights of stairs, and halfway up the fourth stopped at a roof access. Rourke knocked the access code.

One-two, one-two, one-two-three.

Five seconds later an audible clunk reverberated through its steel construction, and the door swung inward. A weary and tired Ramirez stood there, head hung limply and eyes droopy.

"Oh, man what a relief-" Ramirez mumbled, stepping aside as Rourke crouch-walked through, snagging the junior by his plate carrier and yanking him low. Rourke leaned close, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Don't stand up here, fuckass. You're a sniper's best friend."

Rourke released Ramirez, the young man falling on his rear, eyes wide with bewilderment and mouth hanging open. Takeo didn't spare him a glance, but Vivienne paused as she shuffled by, offering the younger man a shrug.

"He's right," she whispered, "Don't give them a target."

Anne offered him a hand, helping Ramirez to his low crouch. After locking the door shut, both shuffled to the lookout position. An ARG sniper cradled a Dragunov by a large A/C unit, a burlap-coated tarp connected to the roof as a shroud. They passed him, rounding a left to circumvent an antenna to a series of sandbags beneath its highest point, a piece of plywood capping the spot.

They shuffled into the roof dugout, a custom-embedded design built into the Embassy as an intentional lookout point. At least they're creative, Vivienne thought as she squeezed next to five other warm, clustered bodies. She saddled beside Opall's bulk, his body odor mixed with the residual piss stink from waste bottles, a scent she knew came standard from little watchpoints like these.

Rodriguez glanced to the lot, binoculars draped over his chest. A lone M40A5 sniper rifle sat on a small chest beside him, taking a fifth of the emplacement's space.

"Welcome back," he whispered, grinning beneath the darkness. Their NVGs came off, exchanging them to their reliefs during turnover, "The nearby districts are quiet - no surprise - but there's other things by the border that may be concerning. I radio'd the Captain about some trucks an' guys moving stuff, but nothin' we can do here about it."

Rourke nodded, Vivienne sighed, and Takeo remained expressionless.

"Sniper just got swapped, an' so did the other vatos." Rodriguez slipped the 'nocs lanyard off his neck and handed them to Rourke. He slung it over his person as Rod continued, "But check on him; sometimes they like to nappy."

Rourke nodded again.

"Cool. Same shit, different day. Get some sleep, Rod."

The two bumped forearms. Rod, Ramirez, and Opall shuffled out the back to go catch shuteye before their wake-up at 0530. Vivienne checked her watch, reading 2349. A sigh escaped her, moving to the Eastern porthole and squatting before it. Out of the corner of her eye, Rourke double-checked the M40A5's condition, set it back on the crate, then aligned his NVGs with the binoculars and scanned the horizon.

She did the same.

A dull, ethereal green washed her vision. Spare batteries were present in the crate, along with other needs like bottled water, medical equipment, food, and a wired radio with their watch master. Each SSI merc maintained an issued radio per their station - Dog Squad having Motorolla types sheathed in blueforce pouches, linked to throat mics and tactical, active hearpro beneath ballistic helms. Their SNCO or officers occupied the Watch Master station, operating on the same watch schedule. After Captain Lezsobo, it would be Staff Sergeant Henderson, Sergeant Boyde, and First Lieutenant Sarsykian. Sergeant Esteban-Ibanez substituted for Boyde every other day.

Rourke grabbed the radio, speaking in a hushed tone through the CB.

"Corporal Rourke, Lance Corporal Vivienne, Private First Class Takeo, we have roof watch."

"You have roof watch," Captain Lezsobo's low tone answered. Five seconds later, a different, baritone voice came through. "This is Staff Sergeant Henderson, I have watchmaster."

"You have watch master," Rourke responded, then placed the radio down.

Vivienne scanned the dirt-townscape for a total of fifteen minutes before her thoughts wandered. Nathan popped to mind, some subconscious ping telling her it'd been since she'd landed that they last had contact. They had cellphones, sure, but the bleeding edge of technology could track and identify their specific locations through that cell signal.

Whether or not these insurgents had access to that, she didn't know. Probably. A sigh escaped her. Payphones in the embassy were their only contact, and she'd used them once to check on her sister. Married with two children, Angelina moved to Chicago for her small business.

A new office, or something.

Then she went on about how Nathan had been closed off. Their and his family got close - close enough to have regular meetings after Covid died down. Not that it affected the American populace much, but it's the thought that counts. Even before covid, they did that.

Friction between him and them ended a gathering early, apparently.

"You need to talk to him," Angelica admonished, "He's in a bad spot."

"Fuck off," Anne whispered in the now, remembering the conversation.

That's not how she responded. She used polite verbiage, then ended the call. In truth, Anne missed Nathan and his constant, doting care. Even now, even then, she yearned for it. Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a crackling transmission from their CB.

"Roof watch, anything interesting?"

Henderson, Vivienne mused, glancing at Rourke. He palmed the CB and responded.

"No, nothing."

Henderson audibly sighed through the radio. She spied Rourke's face screwing into confusion.

"Same here. Fuckin' bullshit ass watch."

She sympathized there, but she never pegged Henderson as this type.

"Uhh," Rourke hesitated, "Yeah."

A few seconds passed, and Henderson came back over.

"Right, fuck this, I'm coming topside."

Rourke jerked his head back slightly, facial features balking, "What?"

"Yeah," Henderson groaned, "I'm not sitting down here. I'll die from fucking boredom. Stand by."

"Roger." Rourke placed the CB on the crate, turning his head to Vivienne and nodding. She elicited a sigh, wormed out of the dugout, and crouch-walked to the roof access. She passed the sniper, who tediously munched on some unidentifiable crackers and fish mix, but was awake.

Arriving at the door, she knelt and waited.

About twenty seconds later a report of boots on stairs ended with the knocked passcode. One-two, one-two, one-two-three. She undid the deadbolt, twisted the knob, and pushed it open. A crouched Staff Sergeant Henderson III appeared in her night vision, shuffling out in desert night combat wear with his Haley Strategic Thorax plate carrier. His arms cradled an extensively customized Mk17 CQC.

Henderson's wily hair peeked from beneath his helmet, decked with a deactivated IR strobe, lightweight illuminator, and an expensive quad-nod set.

Staff Sergeant Henderson nodded to Vivienne, stalking by her as she re-bolted the door and then followed. When they arrived, Vivienne slipped into her east-poised hole while Henderson slinked by Takeo and stopped by Rourke.

"Sup, dude. How's the haji's acting?"

"Well," Rourke began, glancing over the horizon, "Most are sleeping. A few are smoking or watching television, Staff Sergeant, but-"

"Hold up," Henderson dismissed with a wave, "Just Sarge. The whole Staff Sergeant thing gives me a headache."

Rourke glanced to Henderson questioningly, but if he had anything on mind, did it say it, and nodded.

"Uh, right, Sarge-" Rourke cleared his throat and turned back, "-they're just sitting out there."

"Fuckin' mooks just biding time," He growled, shuffling next to Rourke, then grumbled beneath his breath; "Just attack already..."

Vivienne tuned them out.

Henderson and Rourke went back and forth, whispering in the darkness as she drifted back to thoughts of home - of Nathan. Those thoughts subsided into a stygian blackness, the luminescent green fading to nonentity with her fading consciousness.

"Hah!"

The whisper-bark roused Anne back to consciousness, her head snapping to place, helmet smacking the plywood cover. She silently cursed, blinking away the fog to reveal her pitch-black NVGs. She leveled her head, sweeping the goggles up as she retracted into the pit.

Anne glanced at her watch. It read 0155 in dull, green lettering. Shit! She glanced over to Rourke and Henderson, both wearing gargantuan grins as they continued about something. Rourke glanced at her and offered a quirked brow; then they returned to talking.

She removed the NVGs off the mount and slithered over to the crate. Takeo, ever vigilant, just nodded to her and made space. As she swapped out the device's batteries, Rourke hissed out a low laugh.

"So we walked in the spot - and I see the guy walking out with another hostage. Capture and apprehend? No, no - I put my gun in his face and wasted his ass right up front. Bloody sand-coon gets no rights in my book."

Henderson responded in part with a guttural chuckle, "Hell yeah to that, brother. I never captured my targets. Well, when I shot, right? Being EOD an' all my job was to take care of bombs. But every haji fuck we got, we got, you know?"

"Aye. Fuckin' pieces o' shite, the lot of 'em." Rourke, when worked up, spoke in his slurried of Irish accent. During a recent spot inspection, he really tore Denvers and Packerton new assholes for having screwed up kit. "Nay fuckin' cunts gonna diddle kids in my book."

"Amen to that, brother."

Rourke tipped his head to Henderson. "Oh?" He inquired, accent fading, "Catholic?"

Henderson nodded in part. "Of course. Not another right way to worship, in my point of view."

They shared a chuckle as she finished replacing the batteries. Henderson turned around, giving Anne a look before she met his gaze.

"What's your story, Viv'?"

A nickname she'd garnered thanks to her eloquent last name. She slipped the NVGs back into their mount, angling to her porthole and slapping them into place. A dull, luminescent green washed her vision.

"I'm in to make money. Couldn't get anything off the ground in Ohio, and art only gets so far."

"Oh? You're an artist? What'cha draw?"

She pulled her NVGs up and contemplated Henderson for a moment. It can't hurt, I guess. Letting her Mk18 hang slack, Anne pulled up her right sleeve to the elbow and displayed the Our Lady of Guadalupe. Henderson beckoned close, eyes browsing the details as his face twisted into approval, nodding.

"Stuff like this. I did some pastels in high school, but bounced around some other designs afterward. I uh... My boyfriend, I-" She paused, clearing her throat to think for a second, "I designed one of his tattoos. But art fell through, so..."

"Huh, sick!" Henderson snatched her arm and took a closer look. She allowed it, for the time being, and glanced away to find Takeo looking at it, too. The man offered a likewise small, approving nod. "Can you draw up my next tattoo?"

"Huh?" She looked back at Henderson, not quite registering.

"Can you draw my next one?" He asked, rolling up his left sleeve, allowing the Mk17 to dangle. "I was thinkin' of some Roman Legionnaire shit. Blood and iron type, know what I mean?"

Anne pondered that momentarily, glanced between the guys, and popped a squat facing inward to the dugout.

"I mean, I could do that, yeah... But I'd need some references."

Henderson chuckled, rolling his sleeve back down and reaffirming his hold on the battle rifle.

"No problem, brochacho. I got you." Henderson then looked to Takeo, who'd been listening in on the conversation, M110 held steadfast in low port. "Takeo! You never talk. What's your shindig?"

Takeo slowly looked back to Henderson, nodding briefly, then speaking quietly. Through her active hearing protection, she could barely make out his accent within the words.

"I'm from Osaka. Joined JGSDF to shoot guns for job. Learned quick most days all I do is drill and look pretty. Sometimes I do disaster relief," He sighed, a slight discomfort in his expression, "I didn't like, so I try other work. Is how I end up here. And I shoot very good, so I qualify for sniper."

Takeo fractionally lifted his M110, customized to his needs.

"Works for me. I like merc job."

"Huh, so you're a shoot-junkie. Glad you're on my side," Henderson chuckled, then extended a finger. "Got any tats?"

Takeo offered a slim smirk, his left hand detaching from the rifle and making lines across his torso, biceps, and thighs.

"Dragonscale across torso and back, flame down to elbow and knee. Was before I entered merc life, though. Cousin was Yakuza and I liked tattoo, so I got it."

Henderson offered a nod of approval.

"Sick. Got some psycho killers, don't we?"

Rourke chuckled, glancing back to the bleak night, then checked his watch.

"Four more fucking hours of this bullshit."

Yeah, Anne thought, glancing between the three, But I don't mind standing it with you guys.

---

Two Days before The Siege of Ajiristan

Emanuel Rourke, born and raised during the peak of the IRA's reign in Ireland, witnessed his share of dead bodies in his youth. From seeing friends dead, to killing men as a teen, to enlisting in the Irish Royal Marines, violence became second nature to him. Observing similar violence in the Middle East and other sandpits didn't phase him unless it involved children. One time in some shithole village, they aimed to capture a terrorist responsible for organizing a terror attack in Japan. Coordinating with the US, their breacher teams came knocking, with Rourke on point.

Upon entering, he saw dozens of corpses littering this courtyard, many of which were children. The last thing he remembered before his vision turned red and his insides burned white hot, was seeing their target unassumingly march out with another victim.

Rourke woke in a field hospital, cuffed to his bed with his Commanding Officer reading off his charges. Disobeying orders, misconduct, killing their target, etcetera etcetera.

Whatever.

Back in Ireland, Emanuel found himself scraping the barrel's bottom for work, finding it in odd jobs he'd lose thanks to his scorching temper. So, when the opportunity to go private came forth, the man took it.

Two years later, he stood outside the Ajiristani Border Embassy, right by the border of Ajir with his platoon of SecuriCorp mercs. His prior experience earned him Squad Leader, but his platoon NCO, Mick Henderson, kept a close eye out for the man. The rest of Emanual's squad was of varied experience. Rourke had the edge in combatives, but he didn't find tangoing with Rodriguez or Moore fun by any measure. Rourke had dark skin from mixed heritage, stood short in height, and with a compact build, used his unassuming stature to diffuse and dominate.

Henderson stepped before Rourke, the two joining in salute.

"Corporal Rourke standing by with Dog Squad for inspection, sir!"

"Very well!"

Henderson dropped the salute and rummaged through their gear present. Plate carriers, firearms, personal effects, rucks, and other implements were thoroughly searched. Those who afforded their own gear, like Rourke, had them present. Rourke presented his HK 416A5, a modern rifle operable in many conditions.

Comparatively, Henderson had the SCAR Mk17 strapped to his back.

"God damnit, Packerton! If I have to tell you one more time not to pack this fucking doll, I'm gonna fucking curb stomp it!"

Daring to veer, Rourke eyed Private Packerton, a prior admin clerk in the Army, but left for reasons undisclosed. Within Henderson's meaty paw, a Spider-Man funko pop looked ready to explode. Packerton's forehead beaded with sweat, staring and stammering in response. Without falling out, he faced forward as the shouting continued. Rourke made out Packerton's chest slapping the ground as Henderson smoked him, and soon enough, he joined Dog Squad after the inspection for his own smoking session.

They stopped until only Rourke, Rodriguez, and Takeo hadn't puked. The latter operator was quite physically fit, Rourke found. Rodriguez' past as an Army Breacher and pro-boxer lent extreme athleticism. Moore just ventured a limited calisthenics route while pursuing bodybuilding - no good for long-term endurance which Rourke drilled daily. Vivienne's trim, fit figure shaped up in the month since their arrival, her already intense workouts growing with three-a-day PT cycles by Rourke truly. Out of the FNGs, Ramirez and Opall shaped up on top, with the two right under Rodriguez' wing for combatives and fitness lessons. Packerton tried, but he'd rather play on his switch, and Denvers had seldom muscle on her to begin with, and the lack of high-protein additives - save for some protein powder in care packages - didn't help at all.

Later that night, Dog Squad sat around a campfire, Vivienne strumming a six-string while the others laughed or sloppily sang along. Alone, Rourke watched separately, divided by empty folding chairs and dry log stumps. David Moore thumped his foot against the dry ground, dueting with a basso voice. His large and blocky stature only allowed their marksman, a small man named Raita Takeo, to join him, who sipped a canteen absentmindedly. Max Packerton remained in their compartment, no doubt on his Switch, which was fine by Rourke. Xavier Opall's expression betrayed an air of melancholy as he gazed over their hangout. Another squad had duty that night; the other three could enjoy their limited liberty. The only other female there, the freckle-faced Cheyenne Denvers, tucked her knees into her chest and swayed with Anna's strumming. Julio Ramirez, youngest of the bunch, leaned forward and tried joining in the festivities with uncoordinated cuts into their singsong, his large cheeks betraying an otherwise lithe body. Jon Rodriguez, the older-brother figure of Dog and second to Rourke, swayed with arms looped around Vivienne and Moore while humming in tune.

Rourke smiled.

It faded as someone eased into the chair on his right, with Rourke snapping towards whoever it was.

Henderson's shaven face, with a golden mustache and mid-parted, medium-length hair shined back at Rourke in the firelight. A smirk played him, and Rourke couldn't help but return the favor.

"You feelin' a bit cold there, buddy? Fires are warm, y'know?"

"Meh," Rourke glanced to his squad, shrugging it off, "Don't like fire. Cold's the way to go."

"That so?" Henderson leaned forward, unscrewing a canteen he produced from his cargo pocket, shifting it under Rourke's nose. He recoiled, scrunching his nose and glaring at Mick.

"The hell is that?" He hissed, but Mick offered the canteen to Emanuel with a mischievous grin, scars evident across his fingers and hand. "Don't worry about it. Just take a drink." Tediously, Rourke accepted, downing a swig of cinnamon-flavored fireball. Rourke savored the odd taste for a few moments, then swallowed.

Somehow he'd smuggled it out here.

Rourke didn't ask, but as Mick snatched it back, he chuckled. "New girlfriend has a way with shippin' things. Real nifty in a pinch, ain't it?" Rourke nodded, "Yeah," And washed some water down after it from his own container.

Minutes passed, and Vivienne stopped playing. She'd gone somewhere, probably to call her husband - or boyfriend - Rourke didn't know which, on the pay phone. As the embers fell, and the night continued outside the Embassy's reaches, Henderson nudged Rourke.

"So, you think we'll be fighting any time soon?"

"Probably."

"Same here. You seen the satellite footage? Buncha assholes outside the border. Lotta refugees comin', too. Like their trainin' spooked 'em all."

Rourke smirked, sipping his canteen. "I think they're undercover cunts. Proper guerilla's're gonna start springin' bombs to let the flood in."

Henderson nodded in agreement.

"Can't be soon enough." Rourke continued, "We've been here a whole month, and ain't shit happened. UN's silent, command's silent, and who the hell knows what's going on with the Ajiristan Royal Guard." Rourke snorted, using the nomenclature of Ajiristan's military. He despised the name and felt like it pissed on what it truly meant to be a guard, or a royal anything. Ajiristan's fighting force contained 20 percent volunteers, with the others being mandatory conscripts by Ajiristan's constitution. Some of their soldiers were worthwhile - others, not so much. The boredom of being stuck in a warzone with no war waned even the sharpest of operators. Strict SOPs set forth by SSI higher-ups only did so much, depending on the junior non-brass to execute it.

"Yeah," Mick nodded, "I know that feeling. Can't get enough inspections, though. It wouldn't be so bad if Fuckerton realized he doesn't need that doll when we go reaping."

Rourke snickered. That much was true.

"At least your gang has their head straight. Mostly."

"Yeah. Viv, Rod, Takeo, and Moore know the deal here. Everyone is shaping up, but I'm still worried about Packy."

Rourke snorted again, sipping his water again. Henderson eyed Rourke - he'd known him since their deployment. Overnight, they became close friends, and even now shared their intentions directly, superior or not. Warriors knew each other through rank or creed.

"I can depend on everyone else. He's..." Rourke blew a breath, waving to the Dog-gaggle by the fire, "Obviously not here to bond."

"Ah, come on, now. Fuckerton's probably a ninja in disguise, you know?"

Rourke barked a single note laugh, grabbing the attention of those at the nearby fire.

"As if!"

Soon enough, they looked away, and Rourke shifted his demeanor to a dark, contemplating glare.

"If what Deekes and The General say are true, we're just waitin' for a bloodbath."

Henderson nodded because it was true. The truest thing he'd heard since they arrived.

"Yeah. A real motherfucking goat-fuck."

---

Final Day Before the Embassy Siege

Brick by brick his father built the Berlin Wall. Every day he came home after working relentless hours soaked in sweat and caked in soot. Destitution wormed in Fletcher's family like a virus; a group home of filthy, rank bodies with scraps to eat.

Survival of the fittest.

And Grauss survived.

Under Soviet oppression, little joy came to Grauss. Up to the day he smothered the life of another schoolboy at 15, his life felt grey. But vivid ichor exposed itself as blood seeped through the victim's skull, split by a furious Grauss clutching a mire-slathered claw hammer. The boy had sexually assaulted Grauss' sister - and once his friend, the boy knew no better to follow Grauss to their hangout.

Years passed and he festered over this revelation, killing rats and small animals. Grauss became a hired gun by local warlords when the Union fell apart, shifting between groups of mercenaries to hone his touch. This brought him here.

To the now.

Staring into his reflection.

A smeared mirror with one clean streak bisecting it hung on cracked concrete. The nail twisted awkwardly, tilting the item leftward. Grauss' green eyes stared back, his sun-spotted, slightly flecked skin and black hair dully illuminated by sunlight sluicing through window blinds.

That hardship flashed by his eyes in every second of reflection. The rush of murder and how to commit it, and the end goal of wealth to disappear. Though he often contemplated which he desired more.

Some small, crooked smirk snaked across his lips. Soon it spread to a joker's snarl, thinking of each worm he'd stomp into the dirt today. Each rag-wearing local or Iraqi who'd volunteered or been hired for this upcoming invasion into Ajiristan. He didn't care about the policies, nor why they were here, just that he could spill blood again.

Someone knocked on the door, and his joker's grin melted to a melancholy stare.

Grauss turned as Yuri entered the room, his gear prepared and held aloft. They locked eyes and nodded.

"Ready? Last brief before the assault."

"I am."

Grauss grabbed his face mask and AUG, marching behind Yuri to train the militia to fight.

They moved by a staging area, twin T-72 main battle tanks undergoing checks by a split force of Afghani observers and trained insurgents. Past that sat an initial force of technicals - trucks with welded, swiveling gun mounts, both armored and unarmored, with several other complimentary vehicles. Militia infantry shuffled through the pockmarked vehicles, trading words or hustling to their arranged staging points.

Grauss and Yuri arrived at a large hut, the door a black tarp pinned with stakes and paracord by other mercs. Upon entering, several operatives - militia trained to a standard set by the mercs - stood before a large map of the embassy and its surrounding half-kilometer of suburbia. Greeting them first, a fair-skinned man with a trimmed mustache, wrapped hat, and an AKMS under folder strapped to an Afghan issue Interceptor vest stood and saluted.

"Amad Mouhammad and Death Squad One all present and accounted for, sir!"

His accent, thick and rolling, spied Mouhammad as a local Afghani. As Yuri put him to ease, Grauss scanned the squad. Three operators and five of their chosen subordinates from the militia ranks - including Mouhammad - stood with assorted rigs, ballistic vests, and local clothing placating a facade of the modern operator, classic commando, and hardcore guerilla.

Beneath the black ballistic mask, Grauss found himself smirking.

Aden Al-Qassad, Mouhammad's marksman and an operator, stood short but wiry. His complexion ranged him in the late twenties range, with baggy pants, a turban, sneakers, and some kind of button-up beneath a modern, higher-speed chest rig decorated with his Galil Galatz' long magazines, two twin pouches for grenades, and a knife over his right shoulder. Aden concealed a Hi-Power into one of the magazine pouches beneath his right armpit.

Dinesh Kateb, a gargantuan man by any standards, stood rigid with an American-model flak jacket and dual drapes of 7.62x51 belts around his chest. A ludicrously large bowie knife lay strapped on his left thigh, and a .357 - Grauss couldn't spy what make - revolver lay in a hunting holster connected to tan cargo pants. He wore a stained tank top, barely visible beneath his flak jacket, and snaking tattoos down his dark arms. Kateb's M60E3 hung by a leather sling, padded for extra comfort.

Their militia support; Mo Rajesh, Ali Abdullah-Salim, Raimi Shallah, Matt Okhar, and Shamil Takaar stood behind them. Their gear, less organized than the others, consisted of hodgepodge civilian wear and chest rigs. The largest, the blonde-haired local Okhar held a PKM, with the smallest, Takaar with his Mosin M/91 Sport. Grauss' eyes narrowed at the pipsqueak - by a close shave he survived being murdered, Grauss being at fault. The Russian man intervened, twisted his CZ-Shadow from his hold, and dislocated Grauss' shoulder.

From that day forth he emanated a silent respect for Yuri, obeying his whims.

Rajesh Botan, an average Iraqi by all considerations, held a Type 56 over a roughshod plate carrier and stood next to Kateb Salouman, a short and stout Iranian with a Model 870 Hunter, his kit tailored accordingly. The Operator leaders of Death Squads Two and Three likewise saluted. Yuri's mercenary cohorts; Timur, Slade, and Boris filed in shortly after, wearing casual Afghani drapes over their chosen gear. Another mercenary, clad in a dark-colored, thin athletic jacket with a tall collar, drab plate carrier, and black cargo pants observed in silence. His face concealed by a two-hole ski mask with a white, ghost-like apparition painted over the face. A cloak similar to the afghanis, but grey, draped over his left side with the hood relaxed. A FAST helmet hung off his left hip, and a Noveske Afghan Gen 3 rifle, tricked with a 1-6 Vortex, offset Holosun, stubby suppressor, handstop, and a complex wrap-paint job hybrid concealing his light and laser modules. Grauss noted the complex kit, then refocused on Yuri.

"At ease," Yuri strode to the room's center, gazing between the able-bodied men he trained and chose to spearhead this operation in their infiltration's wake, "Let's run this over one more time. Tomorrow is go-day, and is no fail to begin our offensive against Ajiristan. Pay close attention, and ask question as it comes, understand?"

Everyone responded in the affirmative.

"Good," Yuri grabbed three Sharpies - green, red, and blue - then gesticulated to the map, "Let's begin."

Yuri took green first, starting a line from the border directly to the embassy's front gate.

"Two vans will attempt entry through this route. Once they're stopped by the security on-site, the operators within will detonate car bombs and blow the gates. Artillery set up here and here-" Yuri identified two open lots where large trucks with concealed mortars would set up, "-will begin shelling the Embassy. Tanks and armored vehicles will push up the green route and assault head-on."

Dropping the green, Yuri grabbed red and blue, making similarly convexing lines ending at side walls on the East and Western sides. "My team will directly infiltrate the Southwest access utilizing mixed thermite charges and aggressive methods. Once we are inside, Death Squad One will follow suit with their raiding party. Oni," Yuri indicated the skull-clad merc, "You'll direct three and two on blue route. Boris will lend you a breaching charge, have one of your men train on deploying it with you."

"Got it," Oni grunted, stroking his left forearm, "Timetable?"

"Once Rolling Thunder begins, we'll want this wrapped up in two hours tops. The car bombs will initiate in the morning, and the siege pursues."

Satisfied, Oni nodded, sinking into the wall he rested on. Yuri scanned the men for any questions or responses, and after finding none, tossed the markers to the table.

"You have your briefing. Tell your raiding parties. I'm going to brief Al-Jazeem and the tank crews."

Everyone filed out, save for Grauss, who stared blankly through his ballistic mask. Once everyone had gone, Grauss approached Yuri, stopping before him with arms folded.

"So, the old man finally gave you tactical authority?"

"Yeah," Yuri scoffed, "As much as his Generals cared to offer. Wasn't easy."

Grauss joined him in scoffing, turning to the tactical plans. His head cocked slightly, observing them briefly, then turning back to Yuri.

"Pretty good for what we have to work with. I'd have used drones, though."

Yuri offered a single-note laugh, glancing at the plans himself before facing Grauss, arms folded. "Be my guest in convincing Jazeem's cohort that our ideas are valid. To them, we're just hired guns." He sighed, moving past Grauss, "At least the old man listens to me. Sometimes."

Without waiting for Grauss to respond, Yuri left. Grauss returned to the plans and rubbed his gloved hands together, considering their options for improving this strategy. Sound, yes, but every plan went to shit once bullets started flying.

That's how it is.

---

The Day of The Siege of Ajiristan

Nathan Richardson checked his watch, 0745, and then the news broadcast before him. Streaming straight from CNN came the word of an explosion outside the Ajiristan Embassy. Early in the morning, he'd received a call from Anna. She felt fine, a bit winded from their third failed spot inspection due to some of Packerton's affinity for dolls in his assault packs.

Then she turned a knob, or flicked a switch, and asked him how he'd held up.

Fine, he answered. Then he detailed how his third sci-fi book released across the web did reasonably well, with sales and reviews flowing in. Work at the warehouse, cutting apart metal or welding it together, drained him as much as ever. Now a third of the way through his Physical Therapy school, Nathan saw some light in the future. An apprehensive note over a committee of friends, his editor, and reviewers for this third book toned down the visceral violence he displayed to the displeasure of certain viewers. The fourth book, due in four months, was nearing its first draft completion. Nate would review it in two nights, then send it out.

Then they dwelled in uncomfortable silence for a bit.

"Do you know when the fighting starts?"

He asked that without the slightest bit of restraint. It is still hard to fathom the adorable little art geek now patrolling the embassy of some Middle Eastern country with a Mark 18 in hand, ready to do or die. More, now than ever, he worried.

Maybe complained a bit too much.

"I can't tell you that, but... I think it's soon. Like, really soon."

Nathan understood, braving the moment, telling her it would be okay, then they parted.

"Mahal kita," They'd say, just I Love You in her home tongue, Tagalog. He never learned any more than that, and considered it something beyond his capabilities, whatever that entailed.

So, sitting there in compression shorts and shirt, ready to hit the gym for a solid weekend workout, he couldn't move as the news of last night's bombing began.

Two hours ago.

Five after the call.

Firefights spurred across the embassy walls, insurgents swarming from the border.