Two possibilities exist:

Either we are alone in the Universe or we are not.

Both are equally terrifying.

- Sir Arthur C. Clarke
This message was last updated by the GM at 01:40, Wed 03 Dec 2014.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
20 February 2015
1956 hrs local (1756 hrs Zulu)

The three-story dormitory was built at the height of operations in Iraq to provide temporary housing for troops transiting to and from the war zone.  It was never used to its full capacity - the expense of cleaning up after each unit treated it like a cheap hotel was too much to justify.  Briefly repurposed as quarters for aircrews rotating through the base, it then returned to disuse after the last KC-135s pulled out.  Now its 132 double-occupancy suites are host to the echoes of a war that still hasn't have the good grace to conclude decisively with a treaty ceremony.

It is not home, but it is much.  Perhaps overmuch.

At the north wing of the second floor, new construction marks the territory of White Cell, Task Force 47's operational field team.  Someone has roughed in a wall across the hallway with 2x4s and drywall, hung a door, and coated it in Velcro loop.  The collection of morale patches and unit flashes is as intimidating as it is implausible.

The east wing of the second floor is your team's, but it still smells of the cleaning chemicals you had to apply yourself.  No custodial staff has clearance for TF47's quarters.  With White Cell in the field, the second floor is unpleasantly empty.

By unspoken consensus, the central lounge just off the elevators seems a more welcoming gathering place.  White Cell's residency has left enough wear and detritus that it feels marginally lived-in.  Someone has stocked the refrigerator and pantry with the obligatory combination of energy drinks, protein bars, and junk food.  A small, homey plaque gently reminds you to clean up after yourself because your mother does not work here; a hand-lettered addition advises you that your mother can be found cleaning up Sergeant Hammond's room.  A couple dozen books appear to be the communal library.  The leftmost cabinet over the small countertop contains a smoked-glass chess set, a heavily-used Diplomacy board, and an almost-new Cards Against Humanity deck.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
This is the obligatory team introductions scene.  Feel free to begin posting once you're satisfied with the outcome of your prelude scene.  Once all preludes are resolved, we'll roll into the first mission brief.

---

Six and a half weeks have passed since Durand had met with the Dutch Marine officer in the conference room of ‘La Piscine’, or the Swimming Pool as DGSE’s headquarters in the 20th Arrondissement of Paris was informally known. He’d flown back to Guyana as planned, spent some time clearing his desk and briefing the person that would be taking over from him, before flying back to Paris. Barthez had been back in town, with the sort of tan you didn't get in the Côte d'Azur at this time of year and unable to tell him where she'd been, although the first night he'd discovered that her tan was far from an all over one. He had also managed to find time to have dinner with his father and catch up briefly with his brother before he caught a Lufthansa flight from Charles de Gaulle to Frankfurt. Arriving at Rhein-Main Airport he had been met by a nondescript man who had driven him to Ramstein Air Force Base in an equally non descript Opel saloon.

From Ramstein he had flown into Incirlik on a USAF flight, sharing the back of a 37th Airlift Squadron  C130J with three cargo pallets and half a dozen airmen and women newly assigned to the base. He’d spent most of the flight reading a paperback book, a well worn, well thumbed copy of a Tom Clancy techno thriller, in English, and had been for the most part ignored by the American military personnel who had in turn talked amongst themselves, slept, or listened to their iPods. Casually dressed, in desert boots, khaki cargo pants, a black fleece worn over a t shirt of the same color, they had probably taken him for just another anonymous civilian contractor, which was exactly what he was, for he had been offered reinstatement of his old military rank, Maître, or OR 6 in the NATO parlance, but he had declined, for whilst he had earned his rank at the time he had not felt it was appropriate to reclaim it ten years later, not unless he was being called back to the Commandos, and so it was simply as Monsieur Durand that he had boarded the aircraft in Germany.

Coming off the ramp of the C130, he'd found a young woman wearing USAF Airman Battle Uniform fatigues that were absent any badges of rank or name tapes waiting with an open topped Humvee to drive him to the dormitory that would be his new home. "This is where I drop you off." the woman says when the Humvee has pulled up outside the accommodation block.  "You're on the second floor, east wing. The code for the keypad is ten thirteen."

"Thanks" Durand says, getting out of the Humvee and grabbing his bags from where he'd slung them in the cargo bed.  "You're welcome." she replies before she drives off, dust rising in the vehicle's wake.

Home, sweet home Durand thinks to himself as he walks up to the main door, his bergen slung over his shoulder and a waterproof duffel bag held in his left hand. Following the standard military signage, he takes the elevator to the second floor. Emerging from the elevator he sees a door that is secured with an electronic keypad.  He knows enough about locks - and how to tamper with them - to know that they keypad is of a fairly new and robust design. He punches in the digits 1013 and the door opens.

Durand opens it, steps through into what appears to be a lounge area, looks around to see if anyone else is home.

One of the commandments of controlling CAS is to show up before your airplanes.  The mad scramble that ensues when trying to coordinate and deconflict multiple aircraft in a hostile, or even training, environment leaves something to be desired in Dacovetti's mind.  Consequently, he's been sitting in a nearly empty barracks for two days killing time and waiting for someone else to show up.  Not that he's bored.  He was able to link up for a short two day with his wife in Milan before hopping a cargo flight to Turkey and has spent the remainder of the time buried in the wonderful world of emerging satellite communications theory.  When he hasn't been heading off the range to shoot a few hundred rounds or running laps around the base.

Dacovetti looks up from his makeshift work station at a table in the dayroom when the newcomer walks in.  There is a moment where the two men sized each other up, not in competition, but in what the other looked to be capable of.  Michael knows what the new man sees: a slim man of indistinct lineage sitting in front of meticulously arranged electronic equipment.  There is the iPhone, the Toughbook, and a stack of stapled papers that look like printouts from academic journals.  After years of working off the grid, Dacovetti preferrs simple white button up collared shirts with blue jeans when he uisn't suited up for more direct action.  He carefully places the printout he has been reading back on top of the pile and stands up to greet the new man.

"Finally," he smiles.  "Some one to talk to."  He takes in Durand while the man drops his bags.  There is the easy lope of someone with strict confidence that he is in control, that he has options to execute.  Dacovetti takes a guess at Operator, but not the kind that oozes violence.

He crosses the distance offering his hand.  "Michael Dacovetti, can I help you with your bags?"

As the room’s sole occupant approaches with outstretched hand Durand takes stock of the man in the white shirt and the blue jeans, as he expects the other man to do of him. He tries to take note of his manner, his demeanour, his surroundings and compress it all into a split second judgement, a normal reaction when encountering someone for the first time, those first impressions that can influence a lifetime of interactions, the fleeting moments when one meets someone for the first time, knowing nothing of the person’s past, their background.

The man’s physical appearance tells him little, for his ethnicity is such that he could fit in to any number of different locales without seeming out of place. The name sounds Italian he thinks when his new colleague introduces himself, but the accent isn’t. American? Canadian? His surroundings, the tools, the papers, speak of neatness. He doesn’t think Dacovetti is an officer. Ten years in the military means he can normally spot officers. One of the technical specialists Maatsen had mentioned? Maybe. No, make that probably. Going by the electronic gear that’s assembled, this guy does not give Durand the impression that he would need to ask his kid how to download music to his iPod.

Durand’s handshake is firm without being overbearing; it’s the grip of a man who has not spent his entire career behind a desk. He takes the comment about having someone to talk to as meaning that there’s no one else around. ”Sébastien Durand.” He pronounces the first syllable of his given name as ‘Say’. ”Just call me Seb. Good to meet you Michael.” Durand’s manner is relaxed, casual, the use of first names a tacit recognition of the other man as a peer. Dacovetti would most likely be able to tell fairly easily that English isn’t his first language, his accent that of someone used to speaking something softer than Anglo Saxon languages.

He shakes his head at the offer of assistance with his bags, the bergen and the duffel both now resting at his feet. ”I’m good, thanks, I’ll take care of those later.” In the right cargo pocket of his pants was an envelope containing his orders, and on that should be a number that hopefully would correspond to the number on the door of one of the dual occupancy suites. He notices a pot of filter coffee on top of the counter that the fridge sits under, the usual assortment of accoutrements next to it, sugar, UHT milk, an assortment of mugs embossed with various crests and slogans, some humorous, some obscene, some both. ”I think I’ll grab a coffee first. It’s been a long flight. Do you want one?” The same casual tone as he walks over to the counter and picks up the coffee pot.

”So, have you been here long?” The process of each establishing the measure of the other moving past initial impressions and into its next phase.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:40, Tue 11 Nov 2014.

"I've been here a couple days," Dacovetti tells Seb.  The other man's accent is soft enough that Dacovetti figures Seb is probably a native French speaker, but that covers about two hundred million people or so.  And he's not about to assault the man's ears with what he has been told multiple times is a rather horrid rendition of French.  Too many other Romance languages bouncing around in the brain pan.  "I've got a terrible habit of showing up early." He grins to soften the comment. "I'll take my coffee black, like the savage I am, thanks.  I'm looking forward to trying the Turkish stuff, and I hear you can chew that."

Michael watches as Seb goes through the mechanical motions of making coffee, watching the precision of his movement.  It's impressive.  After a moment, Michael selects his own mug, a chipped rim beast with penguin wearing a Christmas sweater that was undoubtedly some poor bastard's white elephant gift in a gift exchange gone horribly wrong.  The mug is set down carefully, not in Seb's way, but in easy reach for a pour.

"It's a nice facility really.  That admin and intel folks are around, but I haven't seen them much.  And like all new recruits everywhere, I haven't been all that noticeable on anybody's radar."   There is no trace of bitterness in the comment, it is a simple statment acknowledging the truth of the situation.  "There's a nice gym, the food is fine, and the armory has quite a selection for the discerning practitioner of violence."

Dacovetti pauses for a moment.  "Actually all of the equipment I've seen for utilization is very high end.  This outfit is the real deal.  High-speed, low-drag."  Seb continues to assemble the coffee, while Dacovetti speaks, but Airman has the the distinct feeling that every word and action is being heavily weighed.

That's fair.  He's doing the same thing.  Op-Sec becomes such a permanent and pervasive mindset that to actually tell someone what you can do and what you are there for becomes maddeningly impossible.  "Have you ever been to Turkey before Seb?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:40, Wed 12 Nov 2014.

The red-eye in to Incirlik had been surprisingly smooth. James usually wasn't able to sleep on airplanes, but he'd been able to rack out on the spacious floor of the USAF C-17 and being able to lie down made had a world of difference. He'd caught four hours uninterrupted on the transatlantic leg and a couple more after the brief layover at Lakenheath. The in-flight grub was surprisingly palatable and one of the crew had lent him a portable DVD player with a fairly comprehensive stack of last year's releases, mostly action flicks and low-brow comedies- by no means brain food, but they helped pass the time. If fact, flying cargo class with the USAF was markedly more comfortable and accommodating than economy on any airline James had ever flown with before.

The central Asian sun was painfully bright when the ramp hit the tarmac. Jimmy grabs his bags, a streamlined trail runner's go-bag and a large military-style duffel, and walks down the ramp into the warm Turkish air. A truck and driver are waiting for him. He tosses his stuff into the bed and climbs into the cab, exchanging small talk with the garrulous teenaged chauffer on the drive to his new digs. The base looks almost abandoned but he supposes that's the point. He grabs his things, thanks the driver, and heads for the what looks to be the main entrance.

Jimmy walks into an ersatz lobby/lounge area. Two men are already there, chatting over coffee. It smells like Folgers. He studies them with the quick, practiced glance of a seasoned investigator. One of the them's got the confident, subtly dangerous look of an operator, the other the quietly competent, I-know-lots-of-things-that-you-don't vibe of a tech specialist. But then, looks could often be deceiving. He sets his bags down on a vacant lounge chair and casually approaches the table.

"James Choi. Mind if I join you for a cup?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:05, Thu 13 Nov 2014.

”Yeah, coffee in this part of the World can be a bit of an acquired taste.” The way Durand says this would suggest that he’s speaking from experience. He listens to Dacovetti as he pours the coffee, fixing the other man's first, the penguin mug handed to him, then his own, selecting for himself a black mug that is adorned with an image of Darth Vader’s head picked out in shades of grey, below the Sith Lord a slogan exhorting him to Keep Calm and join the Dark Side.  Eschewing the UHT pots he opens the fridge, noting the contents as he retrieves a carton of milk that he uses to top up his coffee.

The milk replaced, he leans back against the counter, facing Dacovetti, his mug held in right hand, his left against the counter. ”Sometimes staying under the radar can be a good thing.” He’s grinning as he says it, for it’s intended as a joke. Clearly neither of them is the sort to stay under the radar for any length of time; if they were they wouldn’t be here right now. He listens as the other man speaks, fairly sure by now that he’s American. There’s a nod when the armory is mentioned. He’d plan to go down there tomorrow, see what they had, and find out what the process was going to be to requisition weapons. Durand wanted some range time to familiarize himself with whatever he might end up using, put some rounds down, zero the sights, generally get used to the feel of the weapon - or weapons. Yep, he’d take care of that tomorrow. He’d invite Dacovetti to join him. If he accepted it would give him a chance to subtly assess the other man’s skills with a weapon.

When Dacovetti asks him if he’s ever been to Turkey Durand knows that there’s more to the question than whether or not he’s ever vacationed in Marmaris. In any other line of work two professionals meeting for the first time would most likely trade stories, discuss places that they had been, mutual acquaintances that they knew dropped into the conversation, a way of establishing bona fides, each demonstrating their credentials to the other. But in their job that directness is often not possible, so one must become adept at reading between the lines, answering the question that remains unspoken. It is what it is.

He takes a sip of his coffee before he replies. It’s not bad for filter stuff. A deliberate pause to give him time to consider his answer? For sure. ”I went to a conference in Istanbul about five years ago. Other than that I’ve passed through once or twice.”   En route to other places, places not far from here he thinks. Another sip of coffee. He looks like he’s about to say more, but his attention is drawn to the door as it opens and a third man walks into the room. Durand’s eyes meet the newcomer’s gaze and again it’s those first impressions. The guy carries himself well, looks sharp. Could be military maybe, either current or former? Almost certainly American he thinks when Choi introduces himself.  So two Americans and me so far…wonder who else is joining us?

Durand places his cup down on the counter, offers his hand to the newcomer. "Hi James. Welcome to the party. I’m Seb and this is Michael.” He indicates Dacovetti as he makes the introductions, somewhat superfluously as there’s no one else in the room. “One coffee coming up. How do you take it? Oh, and did you bring the beer and girls?”

The sound of the door opening behind him brings Michael's head and eyes around, but not in any great rush.  He watches Seb's eyes for a moment as the other man assess the newcomer before turning and making his own assessment: easy movement, calloused knuckles, broad shoulders and narrow waist.  Another operator, but one out of a different mold than Seb.  Less worn, more styled, but not necessarily any less competent.  The new man's face certainly wasn't one that Michael had seen wandering the halls at JSOC or on any deployments, but that only meant so much. And Choi's eyes shone with the same calculated intelligence that Seb and Michael were both probably radiating.

After the men take turns shaking hands and chuckling politely at Seb's joke.  Choi picks a stool near, but not next to, Dacovetti, and the conversation resumes to some degree.  Another cipher has entered the scene making the whole "who are you? you won't tell me and I won't tell you, but maybe we can drop some hints" thing, start taking on an almost physical presence in the room.  There won't be any blatant challenges, but one way or another, they are going to start displaying and evaluating competence in the various fields they are skilled in or need to see demonstrated relatively soon.  The comfort level for survival prospects depends on it.

That or they are going to need a briefing with formal introductions from someone cleared to do them before the circle gets much bigger and everybody retreats to their own little corners so they aren't driven mad by small talk and half statements.  Especially if this is a team that will be expected to operate together for the full 18 months on his TDY orders.  One shots are one thing, long term teams are something else entirely.  Seb's use of first names is a good first step though.  They aren't keeping it formal, not if there's no point.

"Bit of a runner, James?" Dacovetti asks, motioning at Choi's trail runner pack with his coffee mug.  "That's a well built bag you have."

"... so I'm holding onto his helmet to stabilize his neck, staring straight ahead, thinking to myself, 'don't look down, don't look down, don't look down and see brains.'  So, of course, I have to look down right as he opens his eyes and I about shit myself.  Bastard walked right between the blades, felt the wind on his back, realized what he'd done, and went over in a dead faint.  Not a mark on him."

"Fuckin' lucky.  The flight deck will kill your ass in an instant.  This one time I was on Saipan-- oh, hey, boys.  Who made the coffee?"

The door opens again to admit two more men.  The one leading and issuing the coffee inquiry is close to six and a half feet tall, weathered to an ambiguous forty-something, with unmilitarily-long silvering hair and three days of stubble.  He's wearing cargo pants and a well-worn MA-2 flight jacket that bears a name tag with jump wings and CWO3 BANNON.  The baby-faced redhead behind him is of more normal height and military grooming; he wears jeans, a black Patagonia fleece pullover, and a velcro-patched baseball cap with a Welsh flag.

Bannon crosses the room and offers his hand to each man in turn.  "Mike, Jim, good to see you again.  You're Sebastien, right?  Nicetameetcha.  I'm Ted Bannon, Chief Bannon if there's brass around.  I run this outfit's intel shop."

Turning to the counter, he selects a mug bearing a dinosaur's skull and the legend "TEA-REX."  "Crad, jump in if you want one.  Guys, this is Caradoc Crewe, your ditch doctor."  He gestures toward the redhead, swirling tendrils of steam around his knuckles.

Caradoc smiles and nods to the room as he drops his bags in a corner and busies himself with a tea infuser.  "Hi, lads.  As the chief so elegantly puts it, I'll be your medic.  I fear I've the advantage of you, having seen your charts already.  Sorry, sort of a necessity.  For your curiosity, I'm Territorial Army - Artists' Rifles.  And the junior man, I think, being but a lowly corporal."  He grins self-deprecatingly and throws himself into an overstuffed armchair with the boneless ease of youth, draping his legs over one of its arms.  "Christ, that was an awful drive.  Next time I won't spend the last days of leave playing local tourist if it comes with roads like those."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:16, Thu 13 Nov 2014.

Deftly transferring his coffee cup from right hand to left, Durand takes Bannon’s hand when it’s offered, a nod to the man who stands at least six inches taller than him. ”A pleasure Ted. Please, call me Seb.” He watches as the American moves on to shake the hands of the others, noting that he seems to be already acquainted with Dacovetti and Choi.

He looks at the other man who entered with the American. His demeanour is clearly military, a fact confirmed when he introduces himself, the first of the group to break cover so to speak, Bannon’s presence appearing to give the green light for a little more information to be revealed rather than drip fed in hints and half answers to half questions. Artists Rifles’...Durand casts his mind back to when he was in the Commandos, to exercises in Corsica, and in the wild and bleak Welsh mountains where he had met men from the same Regiment, its title obfuscating  slightly its role as a Territorial or Reserve component of the British Special Forces. He recognizes the flag on the cap as well, having seen it many times at the Stade de France  when the French Rugby Team has clashed with Wales. So, a Welshman.

Durand nods to the medic. ”Hi Caradoc.” He’s never heard that name before, hopes he’s pronounced it properly. ”I’m Seb. Sebastien Durand.” He prefers the informality of first names, but offers his full name so you can match it up to the names on the charts that you’ve seen. “Formerly French Naval Special Forces.” And a little more information trickles out, enough to confirm his nationality, establish that he and Crewe have moved in the same circles, perhaps enough to persuade the Americans to reveal a bit more about themselves. But not the whole story. Time enough for that. “Good to meet you. So, you a rugby fan?” And the conversation continues, the ‘business’ interspersed with small talk.

James shakes hands all around. Farley and Spade's entrance had interrupted the introductions and sent the small talk spinning off on a different tack. He pours himself a cup of coffee, hoping to quickly shake the jet lag that he already feels around the edges, and stands just out of arm's reach of the table, listening to the conversation developing between sips. He needed to clear the cobwebs and focus. Others might take Ritalin or Aderol to tune in; James ran.

"I think I'm going to go for a run, breath some fresh Turkish air and check out the facilities. Anyone care to join me?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 05:36, Fri 14 Nov 2014.

Caradoc grins at Sebastién.  "That I am.  The Scarlets are the hometown team; it's sort of a moral obligation.  Like church, but more serious."

He perks up at James' suggestion.  "Aye, I'm in.  I could stand to move on my own hind legs for a bit.  Give me ten to find my room, drop my kit, and change."

The thought of running with a fresh mug of coffee in his stomach isn't something that sounds especially appealing to Dacovetti, but he understands the importance of being a team player.  Instead of grimacing, he shotguns the rest of the mug and walks it to the sink.

"Sure, James.  A run could do me some good as well," he says as he walks.  "Just give me a few moments here to collect my gear and get it secured.  I can give you guys the nickel tour of our facilities here."

There is no hurry through his motions.  The mug is rinsed and set down carefully in the sink.  A precise amount of soap is placed on the sponge and then the mug is scrubbed, checked for any residual coffee stains, scrubbed again, checked again, and finally rinsed a second time.  Instead of flinging the ceramic monstrosity into the drying rack, Dacovetti takes a towel out of one of the drawers and dries it off before returning it to the shelf that he took it from.

If anyone is watching, he doesn't notice.

"I'll see everyone outside," he says and goes to collect his electronic gear.

Durand nods when a run is mentioned. As well as giving him a chance to stretch his muscles after the flight, he’d get an idea of the fitness of his new colleagues. And of course they would have a chance to measure his.  “Sure, why not? Remember I’m an old guy though.” he grins as he tosses what’s left of his coffee down the sink and gives the mug a quick rinse out before placing it upside down on the drying rack and moving aside so Dacovetti can get access to the sink. Bending down to pick up his bags, he notices that the other man taking considerably longer to rinse his mug out, but gives it no particular thought. He’s worked with a lot of people who follow certain rituals, believing them to bring them good fortune. Perhaps that was the case here, or perhaps Dacovetti was simply obsessed with neatness.  Either way, it’s not something that he pays a great deal of attention to as he shoulders his bergen and picks up the duffel bag. “Ten minutes works for me. See you all downstairs.”

A little over nine minutes later he’s outside in the early evening air, doing some stretches to loosen his muscles. His running kit is anonymous, a grey t shirt and black shorts, the only distinguishing marks the maker’s proprietary markings, a white swoosh on the shorts, the same swoosh in fluorescent green on his running shoes, which appear well worn. The shirt is simply grey, nothing on it whatsoever. Judging by his physique he looks like he’s accustomed to exercise, although he’s not built like a weightlifter, he’s leaner, wiry. He’s tanned, his legs as well as his arms, suggesting it’s not a tan he got wearing an issue t shirt and uniform pants, it’s more like the sort of tan you hope to get after two weeks at Sandals.

His loosening up complete, he looks at the others. ”Are we ready then lads?”

As the running group finished its first four-mile circuit around the accessible parts of the base's perimeter, they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.  Moments later, an M1097A2 turned onto the road at a brisk 70 kph.  The heavily-used base vehicle rattled as it began to slow down.  With the wheels on the cusp of screeching, the Hummer stopped just short of the group.

From the passenger side, a female figure stepped out.  With the vehicle headlamps still on, it was extremely difficult to make out any details.

”Gentlemen - I hate to interrupt what looks like the best part of a tragically dry Hash run, but we have another engagement this evening.”  It was definitely a female voice, with a firm, commanding tone.  Polished, practiced American English, with no trace of regional accent, much like that of a major US Network News Anchor.

”Mr. Durand, Special Agent Choi, Technical Sergeant Dacovetti, Corporal Crewe,” she said, naming each of them by sight, ”I am Captain Karolina Kowalska.  With me is Chief Warrant Officer Hannah Omdahl.  If you will please join us in the vehicle, we will be on our way.”

The group of men could see Kowalska motion toward the back of the M1097A2 open-top troop carrier.

OOC: Slight GM edit for timeline adjustment.  Sorry, Spartan.
- Tegyrius
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:34, Sat 15 Nov 2014.

"As the captain pleases," purrs Bannon from the darkness beside a disused vending machine, "Bit earlier than I'd expected, ma'am.  Though I'd say that was a good warm-up for them."  He steps forward and raises his coffee mug in an out-of-uniform acknowledgement that's nothing like a salute but somehow carries much of the same weight.

"Boys, for those of you who didn't have advance access to Doctor Cliff's Notes, meet your team leader.  The captain has read your files, so bull her no shit.  The air cops at the armory are expecting you, ma'am, and the first scenario is set and ready to run."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:55, Sat 15 Nov 2014.