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The Days After (Game Topic)

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Post  WestHybrid 360 20th December 2012, 1:12 am

Volke:

Volke lead his team over to a table toppled with ammo crates and armaments. "Stefan, dial it back. We can't botch this op over that punk Lieutenant." Volke said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Besides, jealousy runs in the Western ranks. Not our fault they can't compete." Volke joked, walking to the table and picking up his rifle.

"We only have to tolerate their unit for a little while. Until then, get set for combat." Volke said, walking away from the table. He stopped and turned back to them. "Feel free to take some unknowingly generous donations from their ammo and gear." Volke said with a smirk, and continued walking.
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 21st December 2012, 10:00 pm

Westhybrid, Jagdgeschwader

“That guy’s got a stick up his ass,” said Fierro, walking with the rest of the guys, “Is he the commander?”

“That other guy was,” said Volke, “We just have to deal with their unit a little while. Not our fault jealously runs through the Western ranks, they’re just pissed they can’t compete,” he snickered, getting laughs out of the rest of his group. Western soldiers looked at Volke’s group with glaring stares. If these guys were watching his back, it would probably be a good idea not to piss them off this fast. Volke motioned his squad to take what they needed from the supply crates scattered about, and out of the corner of his eye, a group of men approached.

Five men stood in front of them, and in only a few seconds, the tension rose; Volke and his men standing off against a group of soldiers, five strong. They stared each other down, and remained quiet. The silence seemed to last forever until one finally spoke up.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” asked of one the soldiers

Alvarez stepped up, but Volke blocked him, and maintained the silence.

The soldier advanced, “I’m pretty sure that crate says ‘UGW Property’. Last I checked, you guys weren’t UGW,”

Volke kept his group silent, and they stayed loyal.

“What say you boy? You were talking all of that good shit a second ago. Not so cool once the guys are here? Come on funny man, make a joke.”

The way Volke saw it, responding would only make a bad situation worse. If the soldiers attacked, they’d respond then, with equal force, but only then. From behind the group of soldiers, the officer from before came into the situation. This could either be a good thing or a really bad thing, and it was looking to be the latter seeing as that officer already didn’t like him.

“Call off the dogs, Pedraza,” said Desmond.

Sometimes there’s a pleasant surprise.

The group of soldiers backed off and stood behind Desmond. Although he looked angry as well, and the same situation could very just arise again.

“This is my platoon, and you’re embedded to it. That puts you under my command. You can keep your mooks, but they are ultimately under my command, and you as well, until someone higher than me says so,”

Volke silently consoled himself.

“Those supplies also go to the soldiers that aren’t as well equipped as yourselves. Put back what you took, they go to the soldiers who need them. We’re undersupplied as it is.”

Volke motioned his soldiers to put back what they took. The ammunition wasn’t compatible with their weapons anyway, all of their weapons being .223 caliber and the magazines carrying .30 caliber rounds, “Anything else?” asked Volke.

“See the trucks over there?” Desmond pointed to the trucks that were lining up on the road.

“What about them?”

“We’re going to check out what may be an encampment, and you’re going with us. We’re leaving in five minutes, don’t be late. The convoy isn’t waiting for you.”

Volke and his group did as requested, while most of the garrison at La Passagne got mobilized. Slaves found in Eastern slave camps were reliably prisoners from the NET, which the West would use for their prisoner work forces back at home abroad. The NET though had caught on to this fairly fast and had resorted to killing their slaves before leaving the work camps to deny assets, which is what made this camp spotted unique. It was the first one spotted where most of the prisoners were alive, milling about the camp locked in by chain link fences topped with razor wire. Orders were orders. They were to enter the facility and investigate, and capture the slaves to be assimilated back home into local work forces.

********

Jagdgeschwader, Destroyer, Westhybrid, Apocalypse, KGBoom

Desmond rode with Burdick who drove the lead jeep, two other soldiers in the back. Hunter sat in the second vehicle, a five ton truck with fifteen other soldiers, Volke’s team included, and then a third five ton truck which held the rest of the soldiers. The ride was bumpy, the roads to the camp being unpaved and weathered, which shook the soldiers much to their dismay for twenty minutes straight.

Desmond held on tight in the jeep, being jolted about on the hard road. In the back of the jeep, Kirschenbaum tried to smoke a cigarette, but the cigarette just flew out of his mouth when another bump was hit. It was starting to annoy everyone that Major Burdick insisted on driving 50mph on the dirt road.

“Why-” Desmond hit his head on the roof of the jeep, “Why do you insi-insist on driving so fast?”

“Speed is life Lieutenant,” replied Burdick straightly, “In these rolling hills and fields, there isn’t a lot of cover. Speed is the only protection we have,”

“It’ll be-” Desmond hit his head on the windshield again, “It’ll be pointless if we don’t survive the trip-” interrupted by another bump, “THERE,”

“Don’t be such a lightweight Lieutenant!”

Burdick pulled up in front of the gate to the camp, which was locked and chained. He put the vehicle in ‘park’ and disembarked, the other trucks in the convoy following suit. Inside the gates, the workers just stared at the men. Hunter jumped out of the second truck and met with Burdick and Desmond.

“Sergeant, go and get the sledgehammer from that five ton, would you?” asked Desmond,

“Aye,” Hunter ran back to the truck, and Volke from the group came up to the pair.

Soldiers gathered at the gates and looked at the workers. The soldiers who had before thought they were fatigued, hungry, and tired were by and large proven wrong when they laid their eyes upon the men and women inside. The workers inside were skeletal in appearance, their faces sunken, theirs eyes blackened, and their bodies weak. Hunter returned with the sledgehammer from the five ton and smashed the lock, the chains falling off with it. Major Burdick opened the gates and the reality came in.

Hunter, Burdick and Desmond led the men into the camp, almost as if they were parting the sea, the skeletal figures divided amongst themselves, some diverting left, some diverting right, all heeding to the soldiers. They looked at them, but they didn't speak.

"This is nuts," said Bishop

"Just stay calm," replied Corsican,

The soldiers were confused. Unknowing of what to think of the situation. Who were these people? Were they prisoners or worse? Were they mad? It was common in the West for high ranking prisoners to be sent to similar camps, as well as the insane.

One man had enough strength to speak, and approached the officers. Major Burdick, Desmond, Hunter and Volke took the man off to the side and talked to him, gave him water, and tried to communicate. The man spoke in French, which made it difficult to talk.

"He's speaking French," said Burdick, "Lieutenant, do any of your guys speak French?"

"Um..." Desmond thought, "I think Wells does, Sergeant could you get me Wells?"

"Sir," Hunter turned back, "Wells! Wells! You're needed!"

Elsewhere, Volke's group looked through the camp, investigating as they went. Termous and de la Fuente entered one of the barracks, climbing down the stairs into a structure about as large as a barracks. In darkness, they pulled flashlights from their belts and looked around, revealing what looked to be jail cells. Hay matted the floors of the cells, with buckets in the corners, and more than a few corpses strewn about. Some alive were mistaken for corpses.

"This is something else," said Termous,

Wells came running over to the officers, holding her belt and rifle while she ran. She adjusted her equipment, removed her helmet and got in the circle with the officers, "What's going on?" she asked.

"We need you to talk to this man," explained Desmond.

"Comment êtes-vous?" she asked the man. Desmond interrupted her.

"Ask him who was keeping him and the others here,"

"Qui vous garder," she asked the man,

"Ils étaient ... ils étaient soldats de l'armée. Je pense qu'il y avait trop de mercenaires," the man responded, quietly, and weakly.

"Soldiers and mercenaries?" questioned Burdick.

Wells nodded.

"Does he know who actually ran this place?"

Wells turned to the man, "Qui dirigeait cet établissement?"

"Durov..." the man said.

She turned, "Does that sound familiar to you?" Wells asked the officers.

"I know exactly who that is," said Volke, "He's a slavetrader. Big one too,"

Desmond crossed his arms, "Who is being held here?"

Wells cleared her throat, "Qui se tenait à cet endroit? Quel genre de personnes?"

The man began to explain, and the list seemed to go on and on and on. Wells tried to keep up with him explaining and translate at the same time, which was difficult to do, "Um...the prisoners referred to themselves as...condemned? I think? Uh..." she listened, "Electricians, artisans, factory workers...mechanics-just normal people,"

"Normal people?" said Desmond and Burdick together, they then looking at each other inquisitively.

"Just...normal people,"

"Nous sommes des esclaves," said the man sternly.

"They're slaves," she translated.

Corsican, Bishop, and Dietrick meanwhile explored other parts of the camp, giving water and rations to the prisoners they came across. Trucks in the back of the camp were filled to the brim with dead men and women, starved and worked to death and thrown to mass graves. The prisoners were very hesitant to approach the soldiers, purposely avoiding them and denying conversation at first, but once a few started, the others lightened up, accepting gifts and embracing the soldiers they thought would free them.

"They're slaves?" asked Desmond,

"It would appear so, Lieutenant. Not prisoners, not mad, just...people,"

The man being talked to left the officers and met one of his fellow prisoners, sitting against the wall. Officers once known for having answers to everything were notoriously quiet at such a moment, just as bewildered as the other soldiers at the situation before them.

"What are we going to do with them?" asked Hunter,

"Take them back to one of the FOBs," suggested Desmond, "They'll get shipped back to the West, but if these guys are prisoners, they shouldn't get put into labor,"

"I'll notify the rear echelon," said Burdick, "I agree with you, there's nothing wrong with these people, this is just...wrong."

"How many of these camps have you come across?" asked Volke,

"This is our platoon's first one, but Western forces have seen these all over the front," stated Desmond, "The workers are normally just prisoners from the NET, I wonder now how many of the 'prisoners' we've captured over the months were actually prisoners,"

"If they're from Durov, he uses slave labor,"

"What do you mean?"

"Durov is notorious in the Midwest and Canadian slave trade," explained Volke, "He's a devil in disguise that one. He pays slavers to steal people-just anyone-and deliver them to him. Real bastard,"

"If that's the case, then these guys may not be prisoners,"

"And the boys on the typewriters back home are going to have to do some serious paperwork and get those workers back," said Burdick.

"James!" called a voice from one of the barracks, "James!"

The officers turned to the woman, who approached them and wrapped around Desmond. Desmond grabbed her by the shoulders and kept her at arms length, "Who are you?"

"It's your mother, James!" said the woman, "I'm Lisa! Don't you recognize your mother?"

********

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Post  Desert Sleepy 23rd December 2012, 6:03 am

Jagdgeschwader wrote:You were talking all of that good shit a second ago.
Spoiler:
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 23rd December 2012, 1:37 pm

Desert Santa wrote:
Jagdgeschwader wrote:You were talking all of that good shit a second ago.
Spoiler:

Spoiler:
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Post  Desert Sleepy 24th December 2012, 12:31 am

Jagdgeschwader wrote:
Spoiler:

Spoiler:
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 24th December 2012, 1:07 am

Spoiler:
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Post  snowwolf1996 25th December 2012, 8:35 pm

Spoiler:
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 25th December 2012, 10:58 pm

snowwolf1996 wrote:
Spoiler:


Spoiler:

Kiwi

30,000 feet in the air, condensation gathering on all surfaces of their aircraft, Martin led a flight of four, four-ship formation, on an intercept course against a hostile reconnaissance aircraft, a U2, if the radar cross section on it was correct. The air force in these dark days had been reduced to little more than an annoyance by the West. With reduced funding to the military, fighters were destroyed, and fighters weren’t replaced as often as they should. The Phantoms that once outnumbered the Linebackers three to one were little more than a whisper anymore. The Falcons that once gave the Linebackers and Shrikes the fear that was needed to win in the air was almost absent, as numbers declined to enemy pilots. Pilots that replaced the dead were green, with little to no combat experience even in ground attack, and experienced pilots like Morrison were a luxury that the rear echelon couldn’t afford.

Nevertheless, willing to serve their country to the end if necessary, Morrison and the other aces continued to fly routine sorties. One, two, three, sometimes up to six in a day, but even the aces weren’t immune to the effects affecting the entire Air Force. Their numbers dwindled as well. Not even six months ago, the NETAF had fifty-three pilots that could call themselves aces. As of a week ago, only twelve were still able to fly.

The West considered the Air Force still an annoyance, but today, Martin, Morrison, Caron and Fournier were about to show them how much trouble they could really cause if they wanted to. They throttled up, taking to the skies even further to intercept the U2. On the radar, further signatures showed that enemy fighters were also in the area, but Morrison was more than confident in their strength today.

“Brothers in arms,” Morrison pointed upwards to the Tomcats passing them about a thousand feet above. A pair of Tomcats joined the Falcons on their sortie, much to the acceptance of the flight.

“Did you boys come to join the fight?” Martin asked the Tomcats,

A few seconds later, “Hope we’re not late to the party,”

“Just in time to mix it up actually,” quipped Morrison, “Bandit on the radar, lone ranger, at two o’ clock,”

“Angels looks like…”

“Angels five,” said Martin, “About ten kilometers away,”

“Bandits behind him,” reported Caron, “Hard to tell, but it’s probably a flight of four,”

“Alright everyone, A-game, get ready,”

Every experience in the air was unique, and it was an experience that words could never, and will never, do justice. The battles themselves were operas of battle, duels to the death with man and machine paired together in an epic struggle with victory at one hand and annihilation at the other. How quaint and morbid was that? Such a beautiful thing as flying at the edges of the Earth, among the highest clouds, in near silence with the exception of the hum of their jet engines, that war still raged just as hard as on the ground?

An engagement lasting thirty minutes ensued, with the primary objective of eliminating the reconnaissance aircraft completed only minutes into the engagement. Falcons and Tomcats working together, they achieved victory in the air, and honor in battle. The Tomcats definitely helped in the recent air battles, presenting an unknown to the enemy, even though said aircraft performed at best only marginally better, the influx in new variations of aircraft didn’t do harm to the Air Force.

When they came home, they were greeted by the rest of Minot as heroes. Not only had they succeeded, but everyone had come home alive, which happened nowhere near as often as it should’ve anymore. Between the pilots, five kills had been claimed, with Morrison claiming two to himself, and becoming a forty-five kill Ace, still the highest ranking in the NETAF.

Martin, Morrison, Caron and Fournier entered the commons of Minot airbase, to Martin announcing the news, “Pilots,” he shouted, gaining the attention of its inhabitants, “In the last sortie, Major Morrison has become the Air Force’s first pilot to achieve FORTY FIVE AERIAL KILLS!”

“URA!” shouted the pilots back in happiness. They got up from their seats to give their thanks to Morrison, which at this point was a household name back in the east. Morrison was hailed as a hero in the NET, constantly making the newspapers, becoming famous for refusing to leave the battlefield until the fight is finished, even if it was to be rewarded.

“You’re a hero, Major!”

“Good on you Major, keep up the fight!”

“Keep bringing the fight to those fascists!”

“Death on the West, fight with the best!”

Morrison smiled and tried to work his way through the crowd. Like many heroes, he didn’t consider himself one. He was just another pilot, another man, with his duty to do and the goal to survive. He knew well of his notoriety at home, but chose to ignore it rather. Being famous was strange. It was no different than normal life, it only differed in the fact that everybody seemed to know you.

********
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Post  snowwolf1996 25th December 2012, 11:30 pm

Spoiler:
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Post  DJDemitri 26th December 2012, 3:08 am

I want to set up a trap. If they are taking my slave camp I want them burned or blown to kingdom goddamn come.
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 30th December 2012, 7:43 pm

Mboddz, Cloakey
Spy work is a plethora of jobs, responsibilities, and tests. Something always needs to be found out. Some national secret of a hostile foreign nation needs to be discovered. Someone needs to be trusted with that information. The test is everything involved. Documents from Aurora had confirmed what Washington suspected. Darius Ico was indeed masquerading as Adrian Volke, pulling massive amounts of cash and materials to fund his role in Los Zetas. Los Zetas, a mercenary group and drug cartel worked in tandem with the UGW military, alongside other mercenary groups, and based themselves out of Bakken now that the city had been retaken. The next step was to go to Bakken and get information from Los Zetas’s headquarters in the city.

A few days later, after successfully infiltrating the city (a feat not at all difficult for the operatives) the team split up. The meeting room was a three floor apartment, about a block down the street from the building that Los Zetas used. This is where the game plan would be made.

“They’re going to catch us in these stupid uniforms!” Reznor complained about the long coats and fatigues he had to wear.

“Don’t complain about it,” said Eckert, “That’s a good way to get caught now isn’t it?”

Boddy handed the two of them microphones, “Put these under your coats,” he said, “We’ll get clarity for about two, maybe three blocks, but don’t get any farther away than that. Crane and I will be here, listening for anything that the guys inside there say that may be important. You guys are looking for personnel files. It should be under ‘V’, but check ‘I’ if that doesn’t turn up any fruit. Remember, no French, and keep your accent sharp. The IDs from Stefan’s people should do you guys just fine, but start sounding like the stink of surrender and they’ll make you.”

“Yes sir,” said Reznor and Eckert simultaneously.

“Alright, off you guys go. Eckert, follow Reznor’s lead and watch his back. Things go south and you two need to disappear. FAST.”

They nodded.

“Remember there’s no backup here. We’re it. Good luck,”

Reznor and Eckert exited the building, making their way down the sidewalk. Eckert was nervous, but was also a pro at keeping a straight face. The headquarters used by Los Zetas was a hastily refurbished building, just down the road from a UGW camp. The goal behind the operation was to pose as soldiers who were checking on personnel files. Regulations on mercenary and outsourced groups had tightened since the incident with Ico’s planes being hijacked. One of the regulations was weekly checks on personnel numbers in said outsourced groups. Soldiers would come by to check on numbers through the personnel dossiers, and this was the way to find out if Adrian Volke was in with Los Zetas, and where he may be.

“Here goes everything,” Boddy adjusted himself on the chair, “I’ve been here once,”

Crane looked up, “In Bakken? We all have,”

“No, this building. I got into a fight with another sniper here a couple months back,”

“Did you drop him?”

Boddy grimaced, “I’d like to say so, but I didn’t. He was good. If just both of us were fighting, maybe, but he had guys on the ground and I didn’t want to risk it,”

“Good call Captain,” said Crane, “Can’t be risking our lives over risks just for ego.”

Reznor entered first, followed by Eckert who shadowed him. They targeted the clerk at the front desk, obviously tired from phone calls, and already showing chagrin at more work.

“Can I help you?” he asked, putting his hand over the phone.

They showed their IDs, “We’re here to review personnel numbers,” said Reznor.

“Where’s Leslie? I thought he was chained to this job.”

“I just do what I’m ordered,”

“Personnel files are in the hallway. First on the right,” he explained, getting back on the phone, but then covering it again, “Your right, that is,”

Reznor nodded, and went past the desk to the hallway. First on the right was a wooden door and more armed guards patrolling the hallways. It didn’t matter how many guards there were though, security on this place was abysmal, although you couldn’t ask for much in the skeleton of a city. The two went into the room and started looking through the filing cabinets.

First was to look through ‘V’, which turned up the dossier that was needed. Volke, Adrian was towards the middle, in a manila folder with everything needed. That was the guess anyway since the dossier was coded. Upon comparing to other dossiers, it wasn’t abnormal either. Apparently Los Zetas put everything in code.

“Captain,” said Reznor lowly into his chest.

“Go ahead,” replied Boddy,

“We’ve found the dossier, rather easily I might add, but the dossier, along with the others in here, are written in code. Bring it to you?”

“I might be able to crack it. Bring it here.”

Just as soon as they had entered, they were leaving. With their full uniforms on, they were harder to identify from the other soldiers and slipped past the overworked clerk, exiting with the dossier under Reznor’s coat. Trench coats were suddenly favorable to him as he made his way back down the street. He and Eckert went around the meet building and exited from the back, meeting again with their Captain. Information was truly the greatest weapon that could be possessed. Classified information that only higher ups and special personnel in Los Zetas could even ask for were just stolen in less than ten minutes, all through information.

“Have the dossier?” asked Boddy,

“Right here,” Reznor threw it to him, “What do you think?”

“Well let’s see…” Boddy opened the dossier and took a look at the code. At some point, someone had to be looking down on this man and smiling because he didn’t even have to try at this point.

“What do you think?” asked Reznor, “I know you’re happy, I see that grin!”

“This is Mexican government three tier encoding from a long while ago. Luckily, yours truly knows how to read it.”

“Where did you learn?” asked Eckert,

“Back in ’97 in Juarez,” explained Boddy, “Well…information on that particular operation is still classified so I won’t go further, but the point is that this is old government three tier. The Mexican government doesn’t use it anymore, but apparently Los Zetas does. It’s been over fifteen years though, you’re going to need to give me a little time to decipher it.”

“Sounds good,” said Crane,

“Good work guys,” complemented Boddy, “The paper trail is taking shape.”

********
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Post  WestHybrid 360 30th December 2012, 8:16 pm

Volke:

Volke pulled Stefan and Sarah over with him for a private conversation. "We just lucked out. If this camp just got packed up, it means Durov is close." Volke said. He turned to Stefan. "There's always the chance that they're going to shoot on sight with Durov. Don't. We need him if we're going to find Wooten. Let the squad know." Volke told him. Stefan nodded and walked back to the group. Volke turned to Termous. "Durov is the first step to getting the people who killed your father. Stay focused." he said. He walked off, the same names going through his head in order. Durov. Wooten. Crane. Boddy.
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 1st January 2013, 1:05 am

DJDimitri

An angered Dimitri stormed about in his camp. At this rate, he was going to be out of business in North Dakota if the war kept up in this direction. Incompetent NET soldiers couldn’t beat back the West, Rising East couldn’t protect his assets, and now he could clearly see that his most profitable income was close to an end. Oil production here was done with convoys headed east constantly targeted by the Western Air Force. Reinforcements were constantly slow to come or never arriving, and with nothing for the workers to do…

“You need to calm down Dimitri,” said Luna,

“Calm?! WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO BE?!” Dimitri flipped the table in his new office,

“Those fascists came in and they destroyed EVERYTHING!”

“And yelling about it helps? Whining about your problems helps?”

“I CAN COMPLAIN IF I WANT TO!” He yelled, “I’m the one who works! I’m the one that is constantly finding new ways to get payroll with these tragedies, unlike YOU!”

“Me?!” Luna yelled defensively, “I’m damn near your partner in the fields!”

"Who acquires the product? Me!" he paced, "Who enforces around here? Me!" he slammed his hands down on the desk, "WHO! BRINGS! IN! THE! PROFIT?! ME!"

"Without me, you would've had a rebellion on your hands a long time ago," said Luna, "You couldn't do this without everything I do. Everything I command!

“Really?" asked Dimitri, "That's how it is? You only do what I tell you to! If I'm not giving you something to do you're too busy toying with yourself to care!"

Luna’s face was a mixture of embarrassment and anger, “It’s better than your cocaine!” she accused, “I don’t even know you anymore!”

“Actually, that’s a good idea,” Dimitri went to the corner of the room to an end table and pulled out a syringe of cocaine, “Are you sure?” he held the syringe to her.

“I’m not injecting that stuff.”

“You could stick it in your vagina or something,” suggested Dimitri, “Might give you best of both worlds!” he said sarcastically, injecting himself.

Luna grunted in disgust, “I’m going outside. I’ll talk to you later,” she passed Krieger on the way out who was coming in, greeting him and walking away. Liam opened the door and waved to Dimitri, who was a little relieved to see him.

“I’m glad to see you,” said Dimitri, sitting down, “Pull up a seat,” he laid back and relaxed in the chair, took a deep breath and thought for a moment, “Cocaine?”

“I’m fine,” replied Liam,

“That’s makes one of us,”

“I heard shouting, what’s going on?”

Dimitri took a deep breath, “Have you seen my sister’s collection of toys?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Dimitri changed the subject, “I’ve got work to do, and your boys are apparently the only ones who can be successful,”

“I’m listening,”

Dimitri stood up, shuddering from the rush flowing through him, "I'm pissed,"

"It shows,"

"I'm losing my empire out here. All to the hands of fascists!"

"The Western enemy isn't to be trifled with," warned Liam, "They're formidable foes,"

"You think you tell me what to do?" asked Dimitri, "Think you can just order me around?"

"NO!" defended Liam,

"You've got your team still?"

Liam shrugged his shoulders, "I think they're still around,"

"Go down to the camp that was just taken, there should still be soldiers there,"

"What do you want me to do?"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK?!" yelled Dimitri, "Get out there!"

"If the pay is good," Liam threatened,

"Don't do it and I'll pay one of these other mercs to off you. GET OUT THERE!"

Liam kept sitting down.

"GO!"

Liam exited the room, feeling like there was no other action. Anymore, it was normal that he was sent out to do various tasks for Mr. Durov, and with every camp lost, his anger only grew. Dimitri Durov was not known for his understanding, he was known for effectiveness and orders.

********
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Post  Desert Sleepy 1st January 2013, 3:07 am

Cody: Take off your pants. Go the rest of the story without pants.
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 4th January 2013, 1:12 am

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, KGBoom, Westhybrid, Destroyer

Soldiers were always on the move. With the lack of replacements arriving and the lack of new arms coming to the front, platoons were constantly moving from place to place along the frontlines to reinforce weak points and consequently cause others. The upper echelon continued to have problems organizing what would be the best places to place units, what could be left unprotected at this point and what needed to be guarded, it was all a balancing act, like spinning plates.

Durant and Corsican sat next to each other, crowded together in the back of the truck. The wooden benches of the five tons actually became comfortable after a while. Comfortable enough to sleep in actually, if you could sleep sitting up.

Durant looked at Corsican and smiled, he asleep with his head hanging almost off the truck, “He jumps so high when someone wakes him up,” she tapped him on the forehead quickly, and expectantly, he almost jumped out of his skin. The soldiers in the back laughed.

Corsican shoved Durant playfully, “Don’t do that! You know I jump through the roof,”

She laughed, “That’s the point!”

The soldiers quieted down again. Long truck rides had become a norm among Castle platoon, and most of the 7th Battalion for that matter, but this didn’t bother them. This was the life of a warrior in war, and against raiders without actual frontlines, that was all that being a soldier was. Sitting down somewhere, until called, and then shooting up bad guys.

Corsican looked over to Ferrel, sitting on his other side. He was reading a letter just opened out of an envelope, “What’re you reading?”

“Girlfriend gave me a John Dear letter,” he replied, sunken.

Dietrick began to laugh, trying to hide it under his breath, but Ferrel took it offensively.

“What?” asked Ferrel

“It’s a ‘Dear John’ letter idiot!” explained Dietrick, “Not a ‘John Dear’!”

“Well how am I supposed to know that?”

“When was the last time you got a letter that was introduced as ‘John Dear’?”

“Go to hell, I don’t need it right now,”

“At least he can get it in, Dietrick,” said Desmond.

The soldiers laughed, causing Dietrick to silence.

Gunfire rang out and woke everybody up from their stupor. Ferrel took a hit in the chest and fell limp still sitting in his seat, while the others tried to hide themselves in the beds of the trucks. Desmond, riding in the front, ordered the convoy to stop to fight the hostiles and the five trucks pulled to the side opposite the hostile fire.

“OUT! OUT! OUT!” yelled Corsican, taking Ferrel with him down to the ground. Automatic fire lit up the truck he was in, and the sounds of metal being punctured overwhelmed him. Corsican dragged the unconscious Ferrel to the rear of the truck to get him to safety when he felt a sharp sensation in his arm. Ferrel dropped dead, and Corsican fell out of the truck, yelling in pain as he fell on his arm.

Pedraza came to Corsican and got behind the road, low into a roadside ditch with the rest of the platoon in cover. Corsican informed Pedraza that Ferrel was dead while Pedraza looked for the injury. Although he was overwhelmed by sadness in the last moments of his life, Ferrel had been enough of a bullet stop to keep Corsican from being seriously wounded.

“Where are you hit?” asked Pedraza, “Where are you hit?”

“Left arm!” replied Corsican. Pedraza went looking for the wound and found it in his upper arm.

“Try and move it,” asked Pedraza, and while Corsican screamed at the pain, Pedraza could see it wasn’t serious, just tearing muscle. “Kick those high heels off, you’re fine! You need to fight now!”

Desmond at the front of the convoy grouped with Hunter and Volke, who were riding in the same truck. They, along with the rest of the platoon, took cover in the ditch behind the road, using it as the only defense between them and an unknown enemy.

“Lieutenant, I think we ran right next to entrenched positions!” said Hunter, looking through his binoculars. At the least, he saw entrenched HMGs, which were punching through the five tons like they were paper.

“WHY ARE WE BEING SHOT AT THIS FAR IN?” asked Volke, “WE’RE AT LEAST TWO MILES FROM THE FRONT HERE!”

The soldiers pinned could hardly put their heads up to return fire as they were showered with dirt and rock from the road. Hunter continued to try and get a good look, but again failed. Leaders began to think of ideas.

“Any ideas, Lieutenant?” asked a soldier.

“Private Glass! Get over here!” ordered Desmond. Benjamin Glass down the road raised his head and started his way over, crouching low behind the road to cover himself. Upon reaching Desmond, he leaned on the incline in the road, helmet seated lopsided on his head.

“L.T.?”

“Do you have rifle grenades?”

“A couple,” he responded, pulling a long mortar out of his rear pocket, “Need me to hit something?”

Desmond brought Glass and himself up to the crest of the road, lying down as to avoid gunfire, “Do you see that emplacement?”

“Yes!”

“Put a mortar down range!”

Glass went back into cover with the rest of his comrades, taking out his current magazine, ejecting the current round, putting that round back into the magazine, and then taking out his magazine of blanks. Rifle mortars were armed and fired by blanks, as to not damage the mortar itself. He loaded the magazine of blanks, chambered the first round, and mounted the grenade.

“Hurry it up Glass! We’re dying here!”

Nervous, he fired. The mortar landed short but made a decent explosion which suppressed the machine gun. A few NCOs in the platoon took advantage of the situation and acted upon it.

“MOVE UP! MOVE UP! They’re suppressed! Return fire!” rallied Hunter, other soldiers following suit on his actions. He climbed up the incline and got onto the road, firing his M14 fully automatic at the hostiles.

“What are you doing?!” said a flabbergasted Desmond, “GET BACK HERE! HEY!”

But the rallying cry was enough to get most soldiers moving. The platoon clambered up and advanced, the combined fire of the approximately fifty soldiers being more than enough to give them the new edge. Desmond, being one of only three soldiers who didn’t get up and move, went with the crowd anyway and fought with them. The entrenched position was at least a hundred yards through a field and then up a short hill, which left the platoon open as sitting ducks, but with their charge came green smoke from the hostile position; green smoke generally being a marker to communicate ‘friendly position’.

The platoon halted their advance and stopped firing, but remained alert. The smoke was definitely thrown from the position, and as soon as rounds stopped firing, it was obvious that the emplacement was actually friendly.

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid

“Wow,” said Alvarez, “Did this really happen?”

“What?” asked Sarah defensively,

“Did they really friendly fire their own guys, well behind friendly lines, with an entrenched position facing the wrong way?”

Sarah didn’t want to bash her own soldiers, even though a few of them did just try to kill them,

“Ugh…” she pinched the bridge of her nose, “I just, I just don’t know,”

Volke came up to his guys, who all grouped in a circle. Upon his approach, Fierro asked, “So what’s the verdict?”

Volke sighed, “Their NCO, a corporal, had the only compass, which was broken. He decided to go by the sun, which according to said corporal, ‘Rises in the west and sets in the east’,”

“Really?”

“Yes,”

“Really?” repeated Sarah,

“Really.”

“Wow,”

The mercenaries spread out and settled down, with Volke bringing Sarah alongside him. Volke knew he was getting closer and closer all of the time, with that camp being just abandoned. His superiors didn’t approve of his wild goose chase, but he hoped that this platoon he was attached to would end up following them, hopefully he would get his answers by following the rules, but Volke was still ready to break rules if he had to.

“How comes the search?” asked Sarah,

“That camp we came across-”

“That camp was an insult to humanity,” interrupted Sarah,

“It’s signature of Durov though. Finding Durov is one step closer to finding another man, who may have connections to the man I’m searching for,”

“May have?”

“It’s not certain. The men I want are…hard to find,”

“It’s sounds like they’re invisible,”

Volke sighed, “It seems like that at times…”

“I’ll follow you,” assured Sarah, “We’ll follow you, but you may benefit from actually thinking about what you’re doing and your goals,”

“You don’t need to tell me,”

“It seems like I do. I’m over my father’s death, but will avenging your family bring them back?”

Volke was quiet.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” said Sarah, leaving afterward. “Hey Camilla!”

Volke knew that nothing he could do could bring back anything. But something that Sarah may never get was that he also had nothing to lose. He’d already lost everything that ever mattered.

"You're more right than you think, Sarah," Volke said to himself.

********
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 7th January 2013, 9:13 pm

Snowwolf

All twenty five years of his life, Liam had always been the subordinate. From childhood, he and his brother were nothing but servants to his father, working to satisfy him and be successors to him. Officer training as a child, education in military environments, leadership positions at early ages; nothing was exempt from creating he and his brother into military men like himself.

Mordecai followed that path and failed. Liam followed that path and quit. His father was equally disappointed in both. His brother wasn't the warrior type, but Liam...he relished in it. Combat was the ultimate adrenaline rush; life and death in an epic struggle with each other, life constantly dodging the cold hands of death. His father would not be proud of him today, being a gun for hire, but this work brought in more revenue than 80% of the population saw in a year, in three months.

On order of Mr. Durov, they were out again. This time the goal was as old as humanity itself, revenge. With the loss of countless slaves, and over thirty work camps, and the ceasing of oil production in Bakken by the NET, Durov's empire was coming to a close here in the West, but his name wasn't one to be insulted, at least if you asked him. The last one lost, would be avenged. Durov had ordered its Western occupants eliminated in a drug induced stupor, but what was requested wasn't as easy as it sounded.

Gaston and Marcel were off elsewhere, taking notes and gathering information while Liam and Guillaume stayed put at their truck behind a hill about a half mile away from the camp. Liam was beginning to question his bosses in the field, especially Durov, who was hardly ever lucid. On the orders of Wooten, not even a week prior, they had tried to attack a village with double the number they had now, only to be beat back by the Western occupants and losing half their number. How they would retake a camp, or at least bother it, without dying was beyond them, but one problem at a time was also a good way to think, or at the least a more comfortable way to think.

"Hopefully the guys are OK," said Guillaume,

"They'll be fine," Liam puffed a cigarette, but he was worried still, "They'll be fine..."

Guillaume paced a bit nervously, "We should take a look," the waiting was insufferable to him; an emotion also felt by Liam.

Liam instantly agreed, "Yes," and threw the cigarette on the ground. The two left the truck and went up the hill to get a look at the facility. The sun was setting and the time to start the attack would be soon.

"See anything?" asked Guillaume,

Liam scanned the ground carefully, spotted their comrades and pointed them out, "There,"

"You see them?"

"That's them,"

Marcel and Gaston were on another hill, hidden from view of the garrisoned soldiers in Durov's former camp, but not from their vantage point on a higher hill. The pair made their descent to Marcel and Gaston, who were scared out of their minds and barely able to move. Their breathing was labored, theirs eyes alert and their ears up. Upon arriving, this was painfully noticeable to the other two.

"What's wrong with you guys?" asked Liam,

"Damn near got spotted just a second ago," explained Gaston, "Wasn't good, wasn't good at all!"

"Hopefully you've got a plan," said Marcel,

"We'll wait until night. When it's dark enough, we'll make our run. I'll explain more later,"

"Why later?" asked Gaston,

"Because I haven't really thought of it yet,"

********
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 11th January 2013, 10:45 pm

Jagdgeschwader

While the friendly fire incident resulted in a few unfortunate casualties, it wasn't enough to keep the platoon still for long. Onward, they went, but Desmond being a Lieutenant, he wasn't in the immediate knowledge of things, which was a common theme in this business. He would simply be given an order, such as mobilize your platoon and move them to 'x' position, and he would be expected it to fulfill and expedite that to the best of his abilities.

Knowing how these things always worked out, he would probably be alerted at the last possible moment, and be expected to accordingly charge everything he was doing on the spot, but being human like anyone else, he was naturally curious at what all the commotion was about. Whatever was happening, it looked big. Many convoys had been going back and forth through the area, taking advantage of the overcast, rainy weather for the past couple of days to obscure them from the view of prying eyes at the hand of a U2. He tried to get in on the game plan further, but so far it was futile. Nothing was being relayed, which was suspicious in itself. Somebody always knew something.

"Pretty hushed today, aren't they, sir?" asked the driver of the lead five ton. Desmond sat shotgun.

"It's about all they're good at," said Desmond angrily, "Where are we now?"

"Um..." the driver multitasked looking at a map and driving, "If this is right, we're about..."

"You don't know, do you?"

"No,"

"It's alright," Desmond tried again to prod.

But poking and prodding for answers got nowhere. Normally word of mouth spread easily enough and you could find bits here and there, and piece them together and get at least an idea, but this time around, nothing, which spoke its own tale. This was purposely being kept secret, with the upper echelon doing their best to keep information inside, the most valuable commodity.

Up the road, they regrouped with what appeared to be the entire 7th Battalion, and probably elements of the 16th through 20th as well, with the amount of armor present. Groups of what appeared to be NET soldiers dotted the grounds, sitting in circles guarded by Western soldiers, probably being held for now to be killed later or sent to work camps. Desmond's platoon disembarked the convoy and settled in, while he went to go find out what was going on. On the way to finding a higher officer, he was curious about the prisoners.

"Why haven't these men been dealt with?" he asked the sentry,

"Captain Grant gave specific orders not to. These men will be sent to auxiliary programs back west," answered the man,

That sounded like a bad idea to Desmond, but he put his opinion aside, "Where is Captain Grant?"

"I believe he was with General Mendoza?"

"General Mendoza is here?" Desmond was surprised at that. For most of his career, General Mendoza was always either the head of the division or near it, but he'd never seen the man in person before, "Where is he?"

"Just north of here," the sentry pointed behind his shoulder, "Shouldn't be too hard to find him,"

"Thank you,"

"Lieutenant," the sentry nodded.

********

Westhybrid, Destroyer

Volke and his crew spread out, getting their bearings before something happened. Always on the move it seemed anymore. It'd been so long since any of them had just sat down and relaxed, for some, years. Volke's attention immediately came to the prisoners who huddled together, guarded closely by the Western men. With his father on his mind, just in passing thought the last couple of days, this seemed like a good time to enact a little karma.

"Who are these guys?" asked Volke,

"Prisoners," responded the sentry, "Cowards from afar,"

"Mind if I...?" Volke pantomimed hitting something, with a smile on his face.

"Sure," said the sentry, happily, "Just make it fast, nothing's supposed to happen to these guys,"

Volke kicked one of the prisoners with his boot in the side, "That was for my father you son of a bitch!"

"Oh mon Dieu, arrêtez, s'il vous plaît!" said the captured trooper, holding his hands up to protect himself.

"And this," Volke kicked him in the back "...is for my brother!"

The prisoner fell over, "Pas plus!"

The man sat on the ground, holding his side, which the pain was amplified from a bullet wound earlier. He tried to hold back tears of pain, the bullet had stung for hours.

"Laisser Celice seul!" One of the other prisoners commanded.

"Calm down shiner!" the sentry knocked the other prisoner down, who stood up to Volke.

"Ce n'est pas la peine D'Arras," said another,

"I'm sorry, what?!" the sentry pointed his rifle at the prisoner who spoke, who immediately backed off.

Volke meanwhile kicked the same prisoner again, this time, giving it 110%. Not often did he get to so lividly express his inner machinations, and to do so was a weight off his shoulders. His body ached all over from his past injuries, all at the hands of the NET. It was only fair he gave it back.

"Thanks, sentinel," said Volke, walking away from the prisoner in pain.

*********
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Post  . ADestroyer360 12th January 2013, 12:26 am

Sarah:

Sarah gets in step with Volke. "Shit. Where'd that come from?"
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Post  Desert Sleepy 12th January 2013, 1:32 am

Wooten: Wherever I am, try to cut ties with Durov. He's an unreliable and volatile junkie, and he seems to be circling the drain.

Try to formulate a plan for transferring smoothly into peacetime, assuming it's coming some time in the near future. Although I'm no expert on wars and not sure exactly how it's going, it seems like the NET is getting positively reamed.
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Post  WestHybrid 360 12th January 2013, 4:41 am

Volke:

"It's a stress exercise; and practice for Durov." Volke said, keeping his pace.
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Post  DJDemitri 12th January 2013, 10:46 am

Dimitri sitting in his luxury chair at his desk is staring out the window not moving. He is still and calm when a knock came to the door. Two servants came in and Dimitri pointed to the slave girl on the floor. They dragged her worn, worthless, body out. Luna replaced the servants in the room and she walked straight to the desk behind her brother. "Is this what you've become? A rapist, drug addicted, warlord?" Luna spoke. "You sit at your desk all big and bad waiting for others to do your work? Are you getting bored brother? Is that it?" Dimitri swiveled his chair around to face her. "You can fuck off."

Luna gave a sarcastic "ha" before spitting on the floor. "You sicken me. That was the fourth girl in the past few days. I have been having trouble keeping them all in line and calm because they are afraid that to more hired guns will take them to you!"

Dimitri didn't even flinch "Try too, they are a present to the guys when they come back, I already told staff. Moral is important you know."

Luna enraged "What has happened to you?! Have you become so displaced that you forgot everything you worked for or what you are trying to achieve?! I remember you telling me stories of how we were going to sell off this fucking business and go do something with out lives rather than fucking slaves and snorting ponds of coke at a time! Or are we too fucking high and mighty for your sister you snivelling, cock sucking, worthless..." *Crash*

A bottle hit her in the side of the face, leaving a huge cut from mouth to ear. "You do not talk to me like that! Ever!" Dimitri hovered over his sister. He leaned over and grabbed her by the head her eyes filling with tears. "You, especially you, don't treat me like that. Now get back to those girls and get them ready for those guys Lulu."

He walked past his crying sister into his private bathroom. The door to his office slammed shut when she left. He didn't care anymore, he pulled out his private coke pot from the sink and did a few lines in the mirror. "You're all I need." He spoke to himself. "You're everything I need...." He looked at himself in the eye. "Yea that's...

Ach!" He fell down clutching his chest. "What the hell is going on!" He yelled in pain. He screamed for a few minutes before the sound eventually died with Dimitri Durov.

*I think that his death is in order*


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Post  Jagdgeschwader 16th January 2013, 2:00 am

Jagdgeschwader, Destroyer, Westhybrid, KGBoom, Apocalypse

While Desmond knew he probably had no business even being near General Mendoza, he also knew this man like all other soldiers under him, as a living legend. The temptation to even visit him for a moment was too much to resist, but of course he wouldn't show this publicly, and made sure to keep a stoic face.

To his surprise, the officers just departed as he arrived, but Grant, and Mendoza, approached him with worried expressions on both their faces. Grant spoke first, Mendoza stood behind him.

"Hey, is your platoon here?" asked Grant,

"Yes," replied Desmond,

"Roll call?" asked General Mendoza,

"Forty-four, we're down a couple from skirmishes and a friendly fire incident,"

"More than most around here," said Grant.

"Lieutenant Desmond, Grant here says you're a tough son of a gun and generally come back successful,"

"What needs to be done?" Desmond was secretly ecstatic at the offer.

"I've got six M113s, and they need to get deep in enemy territory," Mendoza turned around and motioned Desmond to follow him, "Come over here,"

The trio walked into the makeshift headquarters, its doors draped with tarps. Mendoza, followed by Grant, followed by Desmond walked through the tarp, whipping it out of the way every time. Mendoza led the three to a map of the local region, and the General began briefing Desmond on what appeared to be a suicide mission if there was one.

"Alright, like I said, I've got six M113s, one of them is a VADS,"

Desmond nodded.

"You need to organize your platoon and get them loaded into the M113s. They'll push through the lines here, then here, and then here," Mendoza showed several lines of defenses,

"What should I expect?"

"A mix of infantry and armor, mostly infantry supported by APCs and modified APCs similar to Vulcans. They may utilize their anti-air defenses against you, since you'll be going through a portion of them."

"What's endgame?"

"The goal is to shatter the lines, then the rest of the 7th will follow through. This is the objective," Mendoza pointed to an airfield, "Minot Airfield,"

"What do we do when we get there?"

"Raze it to the foundation,"

The three officers stood around each other quiet. Mendoza knew this was a tall order to offer, that's why he was personally leading the 7th Battalion to back Desmond up. A concerned Desmond thought about the circumstances for a moment, thought about his chances, then saluted.

"It will be done sir, God as my witness,"

Desmond went back to his platoon and rallied them, expediently and efficiently. Although not trained as mechanized infantry, with General Mendoza well aware of this, they hoped they would just try 'shooting their way in, and mix things up a little'.

They gathered around the M113 infantry carriers, the crews and soldiers readying themselves. The gunner on the Vulcan spun the 20mm cannon, drivers pre-checked their vehicles, .50 caliber machine gunners did one last check on their weapons and loaded them before heading into the field, and the soldiers going on this ride examined the M113s and tried to figure out how they'd fight from inside a cramped box.

Sarah in the meantime was relatively upset about the whole situation, since being in a cramped steel box with a bunch of men covered in blood and sweat was one of the last things she wanted to do. She spent her time inside one of the APCs, expressing increasingly noticeable chagrin at how small the inside was.

"Something tells me you haven't been in one of these before," said the driver,

"No," said an annoyed Sarah, "I haven't,"

"The top opens," the driver pointed to rear hatches in the back of the APC, which could effectively turn into an open vehicle. Fairly handy for infantry trying to fight from their vehicle, not so good for protection, but the armor on these vehicles could only protect from small arms and small rifle grenades, so it ended up not mattering to the soldiers inside, who would rather die fighting than die cowering inside.

Sarah tried to open the top, which was a series of steel latches and springs. It took a strong person to undo these latches, with a lot of upper body strength and while she was trying to undo it, her sleeves naturally came down, which exposed her marks on her left arm.

"What are those?" asked the driver on suspicion.

Sarah's heart almost jumped out of her chest, "What?"

The driver turned around, "On your arm! Are those tribal?"

Sarah was scared out of her mind, knowing well the societal consequences for playing into the taboo, "I think I'll go,"

Sarah paced to Volke to get away from the suspicious tank crew, and if you asked her, she couldn't get away fast enough. Volke and Alvarez were next to the Vulcan gun, sitting in awe at the profile of the weapon, amazed by its sheer power that resonated from it. Sarah didn't understand the fascination in the least.

"The gun is huge!" said Volke with exhilaration, "We're going to use thing against guys on the ground?"

"6000 rounds a minute, 20x137mm, high explosive..." explained the gunner,

"That's up-calibered, isn't it?" asked Alvarez,

"It is, it's up-calibered from 20x102-"

"YES!"

"Hey Volke," Sarah was curious about Volke's deal with the prisoner, but Volke was apparently pretty one minded at the moment.

"CHECK OUT THIS GUN!"

Sarah sighed, "What was up with the guy back there?"

"What guy?" asked Volke,

"That NET soldier?"

"Yeah? What about him?" Volke was wondering why Sarah seemed to care about the welfare of an enemy combatant.

"Why were you beating him?"

"I don't know," the gunner turned to Alvarez, "Beatin' down shiners sounds like a good idea to me don't you think?" Alvarez, Volke, and the Vulcan gunner erupted into laughter, to the dismay of Sarah. Still, she knew the mood around here and instead just played the card of curiosity.

"I'm just wondering," she said,

Volke lit himself a cigarette, smiling, "Well, let's see here, um..." Volke looked for the right words, "Call it...practice...for Durov," and laughed afterward, before turning back to the gunner, "Gunner, I am sorry, I don't believe I caught your name,"

War changed everyone.

Upwards in the convoy was a similar situation. Desmond sat at the head of it opening the latches so the troops in his carrier could help the crews fight their way in. Outside the carrier, Corsican and Wells spoke to each other, pacing their minds about the fight ahead of them. It didn't take long for the word to spread around the platoon. Most of the new recruits hadn't experienced heated battle, or even battle for that matter, and some were taking it better than others.

"We're dead," Wells said to herself, "We're fucking dead,"

"Don't be like that Charlie," Corsican put his arm around her, "Stick to your training and you'll make it,"

"Are you serious?" she asked, "We're about to run through hundreds, maybe thousands of angry, enemy soldiers and you're saying 'stick to your training'? Weapons only bring someone so far!"

"We'll bring more then!"

She wasn't laughing.

"Hey," Corsican readjusted himself and patted her on the back, "The first time I went into combat, I hadn't even shot a weapon before. I learned everything on the fly, adapted to the situation, stuck to my wits. You, on the other hand, are much more experienced than I was at the time, and you're smarter. You're going to do-"

"You should be glad to serve your country, private," reminded Desmond, "Remember to always carry yourself with honor, and you'll survive."

"My God I am sweating bullets right now..."

Hunter jogged up to Desmond and whispered into his ear the words he'd been waiting for: "We're rolling out,"

Desmond got out into the open and raised his rifle high above his head in one hand, "2nd PLATOON! CASTLE COMPANY! WE'RE ROLLING OUT!"

The platoon responded with the war cry of the West, "U-RA!"

The platoon gather and climbed into their M113s, twelve into each vehicle, which was extremely cramped with every soldier carrying anywhere from 60 to 130lbs of equipment. Desmond raised himself out of the vehicle and saw General Mendoza approach, saluting him as he approached, with Mendoza saluting him back.

"We'll get it done, General,"

"I'll be right behind you boys, God be with you,"

"God be with you, sir," And the M113s started off, bound for Minot Airfield.

********
Jagdgeschwader
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Post  KGBOOM 17th January 2013, 7:36 pm

Hunter: Inside the M113, Hunter checks his weapon. Speaking aloud, "I'm still fucking pissed about that friendly fire incident. I mean Lieutenant Desmond gave me shit for being incompetent a while back. I guess it boils down to how you react under pressure nowadays. One bad judgement call and bang. You're in the shitter, your platoon's in the shitter, everything in the shitter." He looks over to the front end of the M113. "So why the fuck are we doing this thunder-run BS lieutenant?"
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Post  Jagdgeschwader 20th January 2013, 4:49 am

Snowwolf

"Listen Liam," a panicked Gaston tried to get out, "We've done some stupid things, and we've done some things that any normal person wouldn't even try, but we're not getting in that place,"

"We're under orders t-"

"To hell with orders!" Gaston complained, "We're not some soldiers with blind loyalty, we're in this to get paid, and you can't get paid if you're beat, shot, thrown in a shallow grave and burned!"

Liam sometimes thought he was still in the military, but if he was in the military he wouldn't have been ordered to do a suicide mission out of anger. NET officers were a little more professional than that.

Gaston was completely right though. No mercenary in the right mind was going to try something as suicidal as a direct approach on professional soldiers outnumbered seven to one. Durov was out of his mind, and it was something that Liam had known the second he saw him, but he was out of his mind with deep pockets, and also like Gaston said, they were there for cash.

"Alright, I'll take the heat on this one guys," said Liam, "Let's get on out of here."

The weights on their shoulders had fallen off. The four began their way back up the hills to the truck and boarded it, Liam taking the wheel. The engine stalled a bit before starting, but as always, their started, and Liam as well found himself relieved at the disobeying of orders. He knew that the entire operation was suicidal, but it had never stopped them before; before the shock to reality, he simply thought, why not?

He turned to Gaston, "This isn't going to go over well,"

Gaston shrugged, "Listen, like I said, we're mercs. He starts getting mouthy we'll just tell him that we're not going..."

Liam didn't know what he saw, but if he wasn't mistaken, he thought he saw a flash from the truck's five o'clock. Was it just something he saw? Or was it something else?

The truck crumpled like a tin can, being thrown into the air almost ten meters before landing, it rolled down the hill end over end many times, eventually landing on its top and sliding down most of the remainder before rolling once more and settling down on its top.

Darkness enveloped Liam's vision, but slowly color came to be, tinted by a dark red. He wiped his eyes, but his hands were red as well. His body ached everywhere, and it hurt to move, and he had this feeling he was floating. Slowly he came to, but he almost didn't believe the blackened metal and oxygenized blood environment he was in.

It took almost ten minutes for him to completely gain consciousness, and what helped him the most was the sun shining through a hole ripped in the roof of the car. All of the gore covering the cabin panicked him into believing his was dismembered, but upon feeling everywhere, he knew that wasn't true. As well, his blood-soaked clothes cleaved to his skin uncomfortably, and the entire situation was a nightmare. Hopefully, it was a nightmare.

"What happened?" he said to himself quietly. He must've been knocked out all night, but that didn't seem right either...

"Good God," said a voice, which chilled Liam to the bone. He stayed quiet, and played dead. They were probably Western soldiers.

"This was hit last night? said another, "By what?"

"Mechanized patrol about a mile away spotted it I think. M60 blasted this thing a new one."

"What do you think he hit it with? HEAT?"

"Probably sabot, see how there's no scorch marks from a detonation?"

"HEAT doesn't have much of a charge anyway, it hits so fast that's what does most of the damage,"

"That's the thing though, notice no scorch marks and still all the effects of an arrow smacking it at 6000 feet per second,"

That was too much information for Liam.

Liam realized he was floating because he still had his seatbelt on, "These things are built well," he said, waiting for the patrol to pass, before undoing his seatbelt and falling out of the driver side down to the blood-soaked ground. The hellish scene disgusted him, which he could only assume most of it was from his comrades. So far, it seemed as though he was the only one alive.

The Western soldiers walked back towards the camp, over the crest of the hill, and Liam bent crunched metal out of the way to escape, badly injuring his hands in the process as the steel cut into his palms. More blood came out of his hands and ran down his arms, but Liam ignored the pain. More blood came out of his hands and ran down his arms, but Liam ignored the pain. After bending the remainder of the roof away to get out, he started to crawl out of the wreck, and only then could he see the true scope of the damage. The engine, itself weighing around 800lbs, had been thrown out of the front of the truck and almost fifty meters away, it mangled into scrap and tossed away. Parts and pieces of the truck made a trail down the hill along with fluids from the car and blood staining following it the length, the wreck itself was missing its front axle along with the engine and the right fender laying far from it. The bed of the truck was bent and twisted, digging itself into the cold stony earth, coated in gore.

"Gaston, God save you..."

His back ached, his legs killed, and his arms felt as thought they were on fire, but he had to keep walking lest the soldiers come back. He limped his way looking for his friends, but the situation wasn't looking any better the further it went. He couldn't be the only to survive, that would just add to the nightmare.

As the nightmare worsened, something caught his eye, and it was an intact body, which Liam was overwhelmed inside to see. He approached the body and knelt down beside him, rolling him over to reveal an injured Marcel's face. Liam, joyful to find the silver lining inside, started to do what he could to revive him, fearing the alternatives to this literal bloodbath.

"Marcel," he shook him, talking quietly to him, "Marcel, wake up,"

Marcel wasn't responding, so Liam felt for a pulse, and listened for a heartbeat. He put his index and middle finger to his neck and felt for a pulse, which gave him joy.

"Marcel!" he shook him more, slapping his face to wake him up, "Marcel! Get up!"

Liam stopped slapping him and instead reached for his canteen and poured it over his face, "Marcel!" he slapped him more, and he began to come around. He was confused, dazed, but alive.

"Liam?" asked the man.

And Liam laughed in shock, and in joy.

********

DJDimitri

Dimitri woke up longing for his home in Germany, even though there his family still didn't escape the insistent questionings of loyalty and honor against the Soviets. That name followed him everywhere. Durov. It was too foreign, it was too untrustworthy, he was an ethnic Russian, he didn't deserve the ground he stepped on!

Fifteen years of insults his family endured, only to move to the Americans and his father outperform all of them! And when he took over? In only ten years, when he inherited it at twenty, he turned the entire operation into a million dollar slave trafficking ring, work force, manufacturing, and oil producing juggernaut in the East! Dreams his father would never achieve!

"Where are those boys now? Where are you, Christian? Where are you Georg? That's right, you're wasting your lives in menial jobs for the military or elsewhere, living day by day like the rest of the rabble. The Durov family has been propelled to the top! I propelled it!"

"But even still I am questioned! Even among my own people! MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD, I AM A JOKE! What did any of you ever do? Did any of you ever show initiative? NO! It was me! It was all me!"

"But the wolves from the West came, and they destroyed everything! They destroyed everything I've ever worked for, and for what?! The damn government let the wolves in, and they destroyed it all!"

"Memories of a time long since passed?" Luna said, leaning against the door frame, the show of sorrow long across her face.

Dimitri scowled, "It hasn't passed!" he exclaimed, "NOT YET!"

"We need to leave, brother."

He pounded the wall, "WE. LEAVE. WHEN. I. SAY!"

"What became of this? Father's manufacturing business turned into human trafficking and slave labor, you became a blight on the continent, and you call this success?!"

"It's far above what we ever dreamed of!"

"It's everything that was a nightmare in Germany. There is no honor in what we do, we disgraced the name!"

"Shut up!" Dimitri pointed at her.

"Why?!" Luna came into the room, right into her brother's face, "If father saw what we did with his business he would turn in his grave and damn us both to hell! We deserve it!"

Dimitri's scowl became worse, "He would LOVE me for it! It's nonsense like this that me do this!" He pulled out a syringe of cocaine, injected, pushed her away and threw the syringe at his sister, although it missed and instead embedded itself in the wall.

"And that too? Now you're a cocaine addict?" Luna continued on, "You did this work for ten years until a year ago and picked up drugs and alcohol, NOTHING GOOD COMES OF IT!"

Dimitri with anger in his eyes swung the bottle of liqour he had in his hand at his sister and shattered the glass bottle on her head, recoiling her back and sending her to the ground. Who did this woman think she was? That she should speak to him like that?!

But with the anger flowing through him, one man could only take so much. His sister, who had been with him, by his side, no matter what happened, rain or shine, in happiness or anger, was down on the ground, bleeding from her head, and crying in anguish. The anger that had followed Dimitri since he was a child in Germany couldn't be handled anymore. His sister was right, this wasn't the way to honor his father, and in working to honor his family's disgrace years ago in Europe had he only facilitated the damning and infamy his name in the Americas. He had become a greater evil. The inferno in his heart burned bright day or night, from dawn to dusk, from nightmare to nightmare. Drugs didn't help, they only amplified. Talk didn't help, it was always fruitless, but now, his sister, possibly his only source of happiness in his world, lied on the ground in agony at the injuries he had caused.

It was unacceptable. It was irredeemable. He was evil. It was spawned out of all the hatred that had been given to him as a child, and the lust he had to restore an honorable title to his family, and somehow, he knew this was the only chance he would have. It was time to erase the evil out of the family name, and while it wouldn't be an immediate fix, it would be a start by ending it.

"I'm sorry Luna," he said, Dimitri pulled out his revolver, the handgun used to defend her so long ago, to defend her again from an even greater danger.

"NO!"

And almost as soon as it had started, it was over.

Luna wept. "Why do bad things always happen to good people?"

********
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Post  Desert Sleepy 20th January 2013, 7:55 am

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