In-character prelude for Dave Ross.  All other players, reading is encouraged but please don't post in this thread.

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Headquarters, Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, Paris
05 January 2015
0759 hrs local (0659 hrs Zulu)

Outside the conference room, bitter winter rain lashes Paris.  Capitaine de Frégate Joachim Maçon turns from the window's gray-on-gray panorama as you softly close the door behind you.  "Sébastien.  Welcome back.  Quite an unpleasant change from Kourou, hm?"  He gestures toward one of the leather-and-chrome armatures that someone in DGSE procurement considers suitable furniture these days.

As you take a seat, another chair facing the window slowly revolves toward you.  The man sitting in it would not be out of place anywhere on the Mediterranean coast or in a good portion of Africa.  Dark skin stretches taut over a hawklike bone structure except where a thin scar runs from his left cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.  Incongruously blue eyes peer out of an outdoorsman's perpetual squint.  He's wearing pressed fatigues in an older American camouflage pattern but with unfamiliar cut and insignia.

Capitaine Maçon leans on the windowsill rather than seating himself.  "I'm sorry I've kept you shelved for so long, but the politics..." He makes a throwing-away gesture.  "I'd intended to ask you to take an instructor position at CPEOM until we could sneak you back into the field, but our, ah, friends at NATO have expressed an interest in speaking to you."  He gestures to the silent guest.  "Please hear out Capitaine Maatsen.  Capitaine?"  With an apologetic nod, he excuses himself.

The stranger extends his hand across the table, bringing the Dutch flag on his shoulder into view.  "Good morning.  I'm Kapitein Bram Maatsen of the Korps Mariniers."  He clasps your hand firmly, then perches on the edge of his chair.  "I'm the executive officer of a joint intelligence unit operating under NATO high command.  We deal with technological threats and their implications for unconventional warfare."  His French is machine-precise, but his accent is faint enough that you wouldn't notice it without the benefit of your own linguistic training.

"We're a very small unit - only one direct action team with six men right now.  We're assembling a second team to share the workload.  Your name came to us through our channel to CNES as a potential candidate.  Our theatre is effectively global, though most of our operations to date have concentrated on the Middle East and eastern Europe.  The official tasking is ISR.  If you're interested, I can tell you more about the mission.  Within limits."  He falls silent, awaiting your reaction.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:42, Thu 06 Nov 2014.

The door closed behind him, Durand nods to Maçon  He’d flown in on the Air France A340 from Cayenne to Orly overnight on the 03rd, eight and a half hours in coach, arriving to find the City of Light grey, overcast, and cold. He’d tried to call Lucile Barthez but she was out of town, so he’d spent the night in a non descript Mercure Hotel near the Gare du Montparnasse. His flight back to Guyane was booked for the following day. He hasn't called his father or his brother. Perhaps he’d call them afterwards. Perhaps.

”Thank you. The climate is certainly far less agreeable here.” he replies as he takes the offered seat. It looked like the procurement guy must have been let loose with an Ikea catalogue. When the room’s other occupant turns to face him Durand takes a moment to assess him. His initial thought is that this is not a man who has spent the majority of his career sitting behind a desk. He nods again when Maçon comes to the end of his speech, the momentary pause before he had described our NATO partners as friends not lost on him, nor his colleague’s choice of words. ‘Sneak you back into the field’ suggested furtiveness, a sense of deceit.

Turning his attention fully on the man sitting opposite him, he extends his own right hand, takes the offered hand in a grasp that, whilst firm, isn’t some stupid macho attempt to prove his manliness in a bone crunching clench. Durand doesn’t need to do that and he doesn’t think the stranger does either. ”Good morning Capitaine” he says after the Dutchman – or at least the man in Dutch uniform he thinks to himself wryly –  introduces himself, before sitting back to listen to what the man has to say. He’s worked with Dutch Marines before, in the Balkans. Was that really nearly twenty years ago? They were good guys, knew their shit. He listens in silence as Maatsen makes his pitch.

So, a Joint Intelligence Unit. One that had a back channel into CNES. He finds that interesting, idly wonders who their source might be. A global remit, but no surprises where their operations have been focused so far. Maatsen is telling him things without giving him any real information. That doesn’t surprise him, it’s to be expected. You don’t find out the really interesting parts until after you’ve said yes, and by then it’s usually too late to change your mind.

”You know my background isn’t in science or technology.” It was a statement rather than a question. Although his Masters’ thesis had been the effect technology has on cognitive thought that had been largely on a theoretical level. If they were looking for some sort of uber cyber hacker he wasn’t their man. But he figures they already knew that.

A pause, perhaps two or three seconds after he says that, then he nods. “I’m interested.” Let’s see what Maatsen has to say.

Maatsen nods, clearly prepared for your response.  "We're aware.  However, your recent postgraduate work indicates you understand the technologist's mindset.  That's quite valuable to a unit with our mission parameters."  There's a subtle pause as the Dutchman makes a decision about how much more to reveal.  "Where we have fallen down on several occasions is in anticipating how certain technologies would drive changes in the tactics of terrorist groups that possessed them.  Your thesis has led our intelligence section to re-examine several assumptions.  If you'd prefer not to join the direct action side of the unit, our intel chief has expressed interest in recruiting you for his shop as well.  Though I personally would prefer to employ your HUMINT capacity in the field.  That's a role many of our technical specialist candidates are ill-suited to fill and one we badly need," he admits.

Durand sits, listens to the Dutch officer’s reply, to the choices presented, a billet in the Intel department or the direct action team out in the field. He’s done both during his career, although he’s spent more time doing the latter than the former. Nor does he have particularly fond memories of the time spent sitting in an Ops Centre in Mogadishu watching a cluster fuck unfold in real time imagery. Would the outcome have been any different if he’d been there on the ground? No, simple fact is it wouldn’t, but he might have felt less helpless. Less impotent. But the comment about some of the technical specialists being ’ill suited’ to field work has rung an alarm bell. He’s accustomed to working with men and women with a similar background to his own. He needs to know that the people he might be working with know how to handle themselves. He needs to know that they’ll have his back if it comes down to it. He could still say no of course, walk away, be on the flight back to Cayenne tomorrow, stay there until such times as he could be ‘sneaked’ back to CPEOM in Brittany or back into the field with the DGSE.

There’s a pause, slightly longer this time, perhaps five seconds, whilst Durand looks at the man sitting opposite him. Then he nods. ”OK. I’ll do it. The Direct Action team.” He holds the Dutchman’s gaze, wonders if they’ve been in the same places, perhaps at the same time. “But first I need to know that the people I will be going in to the field with know what they’re doing. This isn’t the sort of thing where you learn on the job and I’m not a babysitter. If someone doesn’t have their shit, together they don’t deploy.” Maybe that sounded arrogant. He is French after all…but there’s a serious point to it. In this business amateurs can get people killed, including themselves. Including him. He thinks you’ll understand, Capitaine Maatsen.

”Fair enough?”

Maatsen bobs his head.  "More than fair.  We're still recruiting but all our candidates are combat veterans - or the closest equivalent from the civilian law enforcement and intelligence worlds, where we need their skill sets."

He shrugs apologetically.  "Not all are commandos, nor are they all adept at human intelligence operations.  But none are green, they are all experts in their own fields, and they should understand the value of working with other professionals."  He smiles grimly.  "If they can't understand that, I will not approve them to deploy with the team.  Sufficient?"

"Quite sufficient." Durand nods, accepting Maatsen's assurance, noting the slight emphasis on the 'I'.  A subtle reminder of who was in charge? Perhaps. The thought had actually crossed Durand's mind a moment ago to say that if any of his colleagues were not up to what he deemed to be the required standard he wanted the power of veto but he had not. He was trusting your judgement Capitaine.

"I'm in."

And with that he is committed.  "So what happens next?" In other words, when do I deploy?

"Very good."  The smile reaches Maatsen's eyes this time.  "I'll begin the assignment process through DGSE.  It will work as any other secondment to a NATO command.  You're familiar with the process and there should be few surprises.  We're based from Incirlik in Turkey; plan to report in four to six weeks for an initial assignment of twelve to eighteen months.  If that window is unworkable, we can accommodate your needs within reasonable limits.

"Welcome to Task Force Forty-Seven, Monsieur Durand."