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.

When the vehicle pulled to a stop and ordered the run to halt, Dacovetti did his best not to show any sign of relief.  He could run.  Really, he typically pulled six to eight miles several days a week, but under no circumstances did he run those miles at any speed approaching six minute miles.   If that is the mean of this group, he is at least one standard deviation slower.  It would have to be corrected.  At least he held the pace for one lap.

And hell yeah, its a "tragically dry Hash run."

Dacovetti doesn't really scope the commander out too much.  He simply offers up a shrug and an "On-On!"  Then after a second or two, tacks on a "Ma'am."

Durand is breathing a little heavier when the run is brought to an end by the arrival of the Humvee, his t shirt bathed in sweat that has turned the grey a much darker shade.  Coming to a halt, he places his hands behind his head so he can breathe in as much oxygen as he can, squints his eyes, trying to make out what detail he can of the female figure, but the headlamps thwart him. He hears a Polish name spoken with an American accent, makes the assumption that she is probably American. It was a NATO tasking but it wouldn't surprise him if an American was heading up the team.

He takes another deep breath as he listens to Bannon.  When the Chief has said his piece Durand simply climbs up into the back of the Humvee and takes one of the seats. Well, looks like we found the girls, now we just need the beer. He's worked with women bosses before, generally found them no different from men, some knew their shit, some didn't. The ones that know their shit he doesn't have an issue with, the ones that don't...well, that's a different matter. He just hopes that Captain Kowalska is here because she knows her shit, and not because someone higher up the chain is trying to make sure they've filled all of their gender diversity slots. From what Maatsen told him about this unit he thought that was unlikely, but you could never be sure, could you?  It sounded like we were headed for the armory, so perhaps he'll soon get an idea of some of her capabilities. He sits back, uses his t shirt to wipe sweat from his face.

Easily pulling onto what passed for a road on this base, Hannah pushed the M1097A2 around a tight turn to bring her and the vehicle inline with the line of jogging (or at least recently jogging) men.  Given the lighting situation, she had a much better view of them then they had of her.

Hannah dutifully revved the engine, both when she was introduced as well as when Captain Kowalska ordered the boys into the back of the Hummer.  The second was a bit louder and more of a throaty growl than the first; however, they both served as satisfying punctuation she felt to the statements being made.

Though the others might not have seen it, the lithe aviatrix frowned a touch when the RPMs doubled.  The engine of the base vehicle sounded a bit rough.  Perhaps she'd take a look under the hood when she got a chance.  She had always felt that one didn't take care of their equipment, it caused trouble down the line.  Something that Hannah was pretty sure that the team couldn't afford.  Not that this vehicle was going to be used in the field, but one just never knew.

People could also be like that.  Calling over her shoulder to those piling into the back of the Hummer, Hannah brushed an errant lock of hair from face and noted, "Hold on.  It might be a bumpy ride..."  Either she knew something about the way to armoury.  Or Hannah didn't necessarily intend to take the beaten path.  She wouldn't disobey orders, of course; but the brown-haired warrant officer preferred to think of it as 'initiative'.  Or maybe a sort of first date.

"Well played, Captain.", James thought. Catch the crew while they're high on endorphins and dripping with sweat; a couple of the guys didn't smell too fresh either. Clear-headed and physically uncomfortable, meeting the new boss. Was this a subtle power play meant to establish dominance, or just poor timing? James' money was on the former. He paused by the shotgun window on his way to the back of the Humvee.

"Nice to meet you, Captain. Say, they wouldn't happen to have showers and a change of clothes where we're headed, would they?"

-

”I’m pleased to meet you as well Special Agent Choi.” Lina said, extending her hand.  After the brief introduction, she followed behind Choi and Crewe, intent on answering his question once they were all in the back of the vehicle.  Lina found a seat across from Chief Bannon, then spoke.

”We are heading to the base kill house for live-fire training.  Chief Bannon has graciously agreed to serve as Range Control for tonight’s exercise.” Kowalska said, nodding to Ted Bannon.  She turned to Choi.

”My understanding is that the range does have a shower room and spare clothing available.  They may even have a cot if anyone needs a nap.  You may certainly take advantage of those if you choose.”  Choi could sense that the Captain’s tone was something akin to a Professor whose University's policies required the option for an open book test.  You could do it and get an A, or keep the textbook closed and earn a B, plus a considerable measure of respect.

”Chief Bannon will be evaluating all of us on entry and shooting technique, weapon control, communication, and other tactical elements.  As she continued, Lina leaned forward.  The team members in the back could see that her hands held something, but it was difficult in the light to see exactly what the Captain was holding.  She continued, ”What I am looking for however is commitment.  The ability to get the job done, even when your body and mind are screaming for you to quit.  Stance and sight picture can be taught, but courage comes from character and belief.” Kowalska words carried an earnest and fervent intensity.

Leaning back, Lina pocketed whatever had been in her hands.  She turned toward the team’s medic.  ”Corporal Crewe, please ensure the range as an adequate trauma kit before we begin tonight.”

With a dissonant chorus of worn parts, Omdahl brings the HMMWV to a halt outside a squat beige cinder-block structure.  Despite being sandwiched between Durand and Choi, Bannon somehow manages to be the first one through the double doors.  In the foyer, he reaches into a pocket and does a one-handed shuffle with a half-dozen ID cards, expertly dealing them out as the team enters the building.  Each one appears to be a standard CAC - a common access card, the universal identification of the 21st-century American military machine.

The two Air Force SFs on the security desk sign the team in.  Each person - even Bannon, whose banter clearly indicates he's known to them - is scrupulously checked against an authorization roster.  Dacovetti merits incrementally warmer attention once the airmen note his affiliation.

Duly registered, the team bypasses the armorer's counter and is buzzed through a security airlock.  On the other side awaits a heavyset Security Forces master sergeant.  "Captain," he greets Kowalska.  Then, to Bannon: "Yo, Ted.  What's the game tonight?"

"Dealer's choice, Frank," Bannon replies, grinning.  "Open up Four-Bravo and Four-Delta, would ya?"

"You got it."  The master sergeant steps into an alcove, swipes his own CAC, and does something to a security panel.  In the dim recesses of the building, a buzzer sounds, followed by the muted clunk of magnetic locks releasing.

Bannon beckons the team to follow and leads them through a maze of equipment cages.  Most of the heavy steel mesh walls are hung with plastic sheeting to hide their contents.  In the farthest corner of the building, obviously underused, fluorescent lights are flickering into wakefulness over a quartet of cages.  Two of the doors are ajar.  Bannon puts his weight against one and rolls it aside.

"There's a rack of flight suits and BDUs in Delta," he advises.  "Boots and boxers, too.  Locker room is back the way we came."  Glancing at Kowalska and Omdahl, he adds, "Captain, Chief, you oughta be fine with what you're wearing, but if you want to change, there's a ladies' restroom one aisle down.  This place was put up before the Air Force started issuing guns to women."  He indicates he direction with a knife-hand gesture.

On first glance, Cage 4D looks like any stateside military-surplus store.  The order becomes clear after a moment, however: clothing to the left, then body armor, then load-bearing equipment.  A rack to the right holds helmets, knee pads, ballistic goggles, and other PPE.  Four rifle shipping cases are arranged into a rough cross in the center of the cage to serve as benches.  A bank of lockers, incongruously cheery yellow with puffy-paint flowers, stands to the immediate left of the door.

Across the aisle, Cage 4B's walls are a 360-degree panorama of weapon racks, broken only by the door and two armorer's benches.  The weapon assortment is much broader than you'd expect for a standard USAF inventory.  Most of the gamut of NATO small arms is available, but there's also an extensive selection - almost a library - of Warsaw Pact export products and a few guns that, if not museum pieces, are at least older than anyone present.

Bannon hooks a stool from one of the armorer's stations, pulls down a heavy three-ring binder marked Inventory Log, and waggles his eyebrows.  "We'll do solo runs first, then pairs, then a full-team evolution.  Long guns or sidearms, your choice, unless the captain prefers otherwise."

OOC: Gear up for your shoothouse runs.  Ammo is stored separately and Bannon will issue it once you're ready to go hot.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:46, Sun 16 Nov 2014.

"Copy that, ma'am," Caradoc responds to Kowalska.  He follows the rest of the team into the armory without further comment.

When Bannon opens the equipment cages, he steps into 4B and murmurs, "Ohhh yes.  Come to Daddy."  He walks slowly down the line of guns, occasionally stopping for a closer examination.  "Sweet Christ, I think this is where they shot that scene in The Matrix."

With obvious reluctance to make a decision, he selects a suppressed Mk 18 with an EOTech sight and a battered Browning HP-35 and places them on one of the armorer's benches.  "I'll be back for those," he advises over his shoulder as he heads for the showers.

”No preference,” Lina said offhandedly about sidearm and longam choices as she looked through the section of Warsaw Pact weapons.  She spotted two GSh-18 pistols and after considering both for a moment, she selected the one that had Воздушно-десантные войска markings.  Moving up from pistols, she searched the SMG offerings, before deciding on a PP-2000.  Kowalska took the minimum amount of PPE required for the range.

Durand walks into the equipment cages with the others, nods appreciatively at the plethora of firearms on offer, suppresses a grin as the Welshman expresses his approval. Durand is more subdued, but no less impressed at the range of weaponry available, including, he notes several examples of le clarion, the bugle, the FAMAS G2 assault rifle that he had used when he had served in the French armed forces.

He passes by les clarions, for where he expects to be going he would prefer not to be carrying something so identifiably French. Noticing what he recognizes as an AN94, he takes it down from the rack, examines it. He's heard about the AN94's allegedly unique two shot burst function, which was supposed to minimize recoil when the second shot was fired, but he's never fired the weapon. He gives the weapon a thorough visual inspection, debates, decides maybe not for a first run through, but he may try it later.

Replacing the Russian gun on the rack, he opts instead for a G36C, the uber cut down version of the G36 assault rifle, complete with the ZF3x4 optic that was standard Bundeswehr issue, combining telescopic and red dot sights. For a sidearm he selects an H & K Mark 23. Following Crewe over to the bench, Durand puts his haul down next to the Welshman's. Deciding to eschew a shower until later - he's been a lot sweatier than this when he's ran through ranges before - he opts instead to grab a set of US Universal Camouflage Pattern fatigues, boots, helmet, and the other assorted paraphernalia that range safety required. Pulling his grey t shirt over his head, he begins to change into the fatigues. Anyone happening to glance in his direction in the time between his own t shirt being discarded and the beige military issue one being pulled over his head would perhaps notice the scar tissue on his upper left bicep, a jagged white gash that stands out against his tanned skin.

James has to suppress a smile when the day's first official activity is announced. The shoot house is as much his element as the running track or the combatives mat. In his experience, however, the old maxim often holds: when something seems too good to be true, it usually is. He mentally preps for the curve ball he's sure must be on the way.

Cage four 4B is a veritable Playboy Mansion for gunbunnies. There's lots of slick gear he'd like to try on for size- the tricked-out G36C carbine is particularly tempting- but James goes for familiarity over flash. He's trained with most of the weaponry on display but he has the most reps with M4s and their clones; he finds an HK416 with 11.5" barrel, fore grip, and Eotech XPS reflex sights and pulls it from the rack. The HRT's special Colt .45s were custom gunsmithed with personalized sights and triggers- James' own carry pistol was locked away in his luggage back at the dorm. The M1911s on hand look to have been issued in that year so he chooses a Glock 23 instead, the Bureau's standard-issue carry pistol for special agents. Moving on to clothing, he finds a one piece speed-suit in his size and takes it off the rack. Body armor, chest rig LBE, a pair of boots, Nomex flight gloves, some knee pads, a bone dome, and ballistic goggles round out the panoply. With a few minor differences, this has been his office monkey suit for the last four years.

He stacks the gear neatly on one of the armorer's tables, announcing "Dibs." Grabbing a fresh pair of skivvies, he makes his way to the showers.

Despite Kowalska's brief motivational talk, James decides to wash off the residue of the last 24 hours- just a quick soap and rinse so as not to put clean clothes on over a dirty body. He more than half expects the gear he's selected to be gone when he gets back from the showers. It's the kind of cheap trick the instructors routinely pulled during HRT selection, upping the stress level to test how the candidates reacted when shaken. It wouldn't be a problem. He'd run the shoot house in his birthday suit with a water pistol if he had to.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 04:53, Mon 17 Nov 2014.

This would be Christmas come early if I were a gun-nut, Dacovetti thinks silently.  Still, he can't help but smile slightly at the arsenal before him.  Electing for a clean towel as opposed to a shower, the Airman quickly assembles a pile of clean standard US BDUs and a pair of side zip combat boots.  Knee pads, elbow pads, and the rest of the standard safety equipment get placed next to the clothes, followed by body armor, helmet, and Nomex gloves.

"Nice," he mutters.  It's almost obscene how much equipment is piling up and he's not even to the good stuff yet.  "Chief Bannon, can I get a PRC-119 in here?" To the sharp looks and unasked questions, he answers: "I'm probably going to have it in the field, I might as well I have it here."

Then Michael crosses to the armory.  MP7A1 with the foregrip assist and the ZF3x4 optic.  Extended magazine, sling, and tactical flashlight too, thanks.  Six magazines and the primary weapon is taken care of.  Another Mark 23 is removed for a sidearm with the accompanying magazines.

The assorted pile of gear is a rough shape, but it is one Dacovetti is familiar with.  What could have been taken for a certain level of OCD is revealed to be a certain methodicalness instead.  Each piece of clothing and put on and tested for proper movement.  Each piece of equipment is strapped into place and checked for proper clearance and protection.  It's a thorough process, but done rapidly without extraneous movement.

Hannah was last out of the vehicle, as though it might be a sort of ritual.  Even if this wasn't a helicopter, she seemed to be running through a post-flight checklist of sort before exiting since this wasn't an emergency ditch.  The brown-haired aviator gave the higher Chief Warrant Officer a curt nod and a soft, simple, "Thank you, Chief." as she accepted the ID from him, clipping it onto her sand colored BDUs.

Following the Captain's lead, Hannah didn't bother to change, but did take a few extra items for personal protection.  With live fire imminent, a helmet with goggles and some torso and joint protection seemed in order.  As she slipped on those items whilst sitting on one of the benches, Hannah watched the others as they made their weapon and armour selections.

For her herself, Hannah went straight for the US Army issue - with only a few light embellishments for night time and her very fresh Green Platoon training.  Plucking an HK MP5K-PDW with some night-sighting and an additional suppressor from the racks, she checked the breach with a simple gesture before slipping on a tactical sling and its webbing for the weapon.  An M9 and its holster gets strapped on to her right thigh as well by the female warrant officer.  Then three magazines for each firearm were requisitioned by Hannah, the first slipped into their respective weapons proper and the others into the holsters and webbing for easy access.  Her gear wasn't flashy and she seemed rather matter-of-fact about their selection and use.  She didn't expect the others to need to use the weapons she had selected, but one never knew.

She indicated her readiness to both Kowalska and Bannon with a nod and a small gesture of her hand.  Of course, Omdahl had the advantage of not having had to shower.

"No CAS in the shoothouse, Sarge," Bannon chuckles, but he picks up a stained beige phone and makes a quick call.  By the time Crewe and Choi return from their showers, the SF master sergeant has delivered a manpack SINGCARS.  He lingers until everyone has finished gearing up, then ensures the equipment cages are locked as Bannon leads the way to the back of the building and out a steel fire door.

Twenty yards away is a windowless two-story concrete building.  Bannon's CAC unlocks its doors, admitting the team into a large vestibule with a bank of lockers, three clearing barrels, a wall-mounted fire extinguisher and trauma kit, and another armorer's counter.  The airman on the far side of the sliding glass shoves a tray of loaded magazines toward the team and resumes cramming 4.6mm cartridges into an MP7 magazine.  Choi, closest to the counter, glances at the pile of empty ammo boxes and notes that frangible rounds are in play tonight.

Bannon does another conjuring trick, this time with an actual deck of cards, and begins shuffling.  "Okay.  Aces high, low card goes first."  He deals out a card to each team member and grins at the round of smirks and groans as they're revealed.

OOC: Sweet, the dice roller has a card draw function!  Order is:

Sebastien Durand drew the single card: 3D using a deck of 52 cards.
Karolina Kowalska drew the single card: 4D using a deck of 52 cards.
Caradoc Crewe drew the single card: 5S using a deck of 52 cards.
Hannah Omdahl drew the single card: 7D using a deck of 52 cards.
James Choi drew the single card: 9D using a deck of 52 cards.
Michael Dacovetti drew the single card: KD using a deck of 52 cards.

"Mister Durand, you're up," the chief intones.  "The scenario is movement through a structure with an unknown floor plan to the notional exit area, which is marked with a green chemlight.  This is a one-vee-ex, unknown number of hostiles, unknown number of no-shoots.  I will be scoring with a standard Vickers count.  For those of you who are unfamiliar, Vickers count is based on your time to complete the course, adding penalty time for inadequate accuracy or engaging no-shoots.  Bypassing a hostile target without neutralizing it will be a fail.  You will receive three magazines per weapon.

"When you are ready, step through the red doors, then load and make ready.  The first buzzer is your 'go' signal and starts the timer.  Consider yourself in play until hear the buzzer again.  When the second buzzer sounds, clear your weapon, exit the range, and join me upstairs in the control booth to watch the rest of the festivities.  Any questions?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:11, Tue 18 Nov 2014.

Caradoc pulls the trauma kit off the wall, rummages through it, and gives Karolina a quick thumbs-up before replacing it on its hook.

Durand listens carefully to the Chief’s briefing. He was quite happy to be going first, if for no other reason than it will allow him an opportunity to observe all of the others from the control booth after he has completed the course. He’s looking forward to watching Kowalska in particular. So far she’s come over as a bit…what? Serious for sure. A hardass? Maybe. Is she trying to assert herself as the Alpha Prime in a group that is by its very nature made up exclusively of Alphas? Time would tell.

When Bannon is finished, the Frenchman gives him a nod. ”I have no questions, Chief. It’s clear” . The casual first naming has been put to the side for the moment. He slings the G36 over his right shoulder, secures the Mk23 in the tactical holster that he has strapped to his right thigh. His heart is beating faster, the adrenaline is beginning to flow, a consequence of the fact that they are exercising with live rounds, which adds a completely different element to the exercise. He places small yellow ear plugs in each of his ears, dons the tinted ballistic protection goggles before stowing his six magazines – three for the G36 and three for the Mk23 - in the ammo pouches attached to the MOLLE webbing on the plate carrier vest that he had taken down from the rack earlier

His expression is a serious one, his earlier joking gone now. Not only is there the inherent risk that is involved with using live ammunition, a risk that proper procedures and training can minimize as much as possible but never completely eradicate, but there is also pressure, for just as he will be watching his colleagues, scrutinizing their moves, he fully expects that they will be doing the same of him, for whilst he doesn’t know them, they don’t know him either. They may not have the advantage of being able to watch him literally, on monitors in the control room, but he’s quite sure that any fuck ups will be noted.  First impressions and all that…

He takes a deep breath. A casual observer might mistake it for nervousness, but it’s just his way of settling his mind. Donning the helmet, the latest US Issue ACH, he secures the straps with his bare hands, having eschewed gloves, then steps up to the red doors.

”OK, let’s do it.” he says, pushing open the doors. If he’d wanted an easy life he’d still be sitting behind a desk in Kourou.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:33, Tue 18 Nov 2014.

Durand steps forward into a small antechamber with a second set of double doors, offset from the first to abate noise and reduce the chances of a ricochet.  As the first pair of doors close behind him, a revolving red light switches on in the vestibule, illuminating a Range Hot sign.

Durand pushes through and finds himself in an open area about five meters deep and seven wide.  The walls are the familiar rubber bullet-stop panels.  Plywood partitions and door frames mark off notional interior walls.  Overhead, steel mesh catwalks span the ceiling.  The lighting is a flickering mix of incandescents and neon tubes, reminiscent of an alley in one of the worse sections of town.  Overhead, Bannon's silhouette looms into view behind the armor glass of the range control room.

Hidden speakers crackle to life with Bannon's voice.  "Ready Player One."  As Durand runs his Mk23's slide, the opening sounds of Five Finger Death Punch's cover of Bad Company come up.

Durand holsters the big .45, preps his G36, and gives Bannon the ready sign.  Bannon makes him wait for it...

The buzzer is piercing.  One second later, the door to Durand's front left slams open on a hydraulic ram and a motorized 3D target - a mannequin holding a dummy AK-47 - rolls into the room.  The door to the right is opening too...

Movement to the left the same heartbeat as the buzzer ceases. Durand is crouching, right hand on the hand guard, finger poised on the trigger, left hand holding the carbine’s foregrip. The selector switch is set to semi automatic. He can see the weapon in the dummy’s hands. Target. He squeezes the trigger. Two rounds fired, two good hits, two to the chest, striking the mass where the heart would be if the target had been a living, breathing person. A kill shot. (T1 down).  Even as he’s firing the rounds he catches the peripheral movement out of the corner of his right eye. He spins round rapidly, to his right. Dummy. Gun. Target. Fire. Two more rounds gone, two more solid hits, one to the upper chest, one in the throat. Another kill shot. (T2 down).  Two down in what must be as many seconds.

The adrenaline is rushing now, pumping through his veins. His heart is pounding as he experiences a rush that is all too familiar. Four shots, no misses, two targets down. So far so good. He hears movement ahead, looks down the sights of the G36, the light secured to the picatinny rail illuminating the source of the noise. A dummy. Civilian. No weapon. His brain screams no target, no shoot; his finger lifts off the trigger. (NS1 ID’d). How long has he been in the kill room? It feels like minutes although it clearly can’t be.

He sprints to the intersection of the room he started in and the hallway that the civilian dummy has come from, flattens against it a moment before he turns into the hallway, going down to one knee as he does so, the light throwing its beam down the hallway. Something coming.. Armed. Another target. The Zeiss optic’s red dot rests on the target’s forehead. Two more shots squeezed off. Two head shots, the grouping less than one inch apart, one shattering the dummy’s right eye socket, the other quite literally between the eyes. Either on its own would have sufficed (T4 down). He doesn’t have time to appreciate the accuracy of his marksmanship at the moment, but when he reviews this later he’ll give a quiet nod of satisfaction when he sees what happened to that target.

He rises up, advances cautiously forward. Measured footsteps carry him down the hall, his weapon poised, ready to engage any hostiles. He pauses at the end junction. His own breathing sounds loud to him, although it’s probably not. He leans forward, glances into the hall, sees the two doors, the green glow coming from under one of them, the one on the right, marking the way out. Six rounds fired. Three double taps. Three kills. He debates reloading, decides against it, concludes that the twenty four rounds remaining should be sufficient.

He’s about to make a move for the left hand door when the one on the right opens. He sees the rifle held in the dummy’s hands as it emerges. Target. Two rapid compressions of the trigger, two more spent cartridge cases ejected, two solid hits to the target’s head.  If that dummy had been a real terr his brains would have been splattered against the wall behind. Durand will be pleased with those shots as well when he sees them afterwards.  (T3 down).

The dummy hasn’t even gone down when he’s continuing his move for the door to his left. Through the door,  the light reveals he’s stepped into  an empty room, a door opposite him, the green glow under it. He crosses the room quickly, his left hand leaving the foregrip of the carbine only long enough to pull the door open. A heartbeat later he’s through the door. Two dummies confront him. One partially shielding  the other. The one at the back is holding a weapon. Target. The one in front isn’t it. Hostage. No shoot (NS2 ID’d). He fires, two quick shots, both strike the target dummy, one to the head, one to the shoulder. The head is the killer. (T5 down).  If the hostage had been a real person he would be walking out unscathed. And five terrs would now be on their way to meet whichever God they believed in.

Durand gives the room one more 360 degree scan, sees no more threats, exhales as he slowly lowers the carbine to point to the floor and walks over to where the chemlight is lying. The buzzer sounds as he reaches it. He takes a few moments to make the carbine safe before slinging it over his shoulder and exiting the range. Once he’s out he removes his helmet, turns it upside down, drops his goggles and ear protectors into it and makes his way to join the Chief upstairs where he can watch the others as they work their way though the same routine. For the moment though it's job done. Ten shots, every one on target, five kills. He’s satisfied with the marker that he’s laid down.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:26, Wed 19 Nov 2014.

Karolina set up her GSh-18 holster and PP-2000 sling for right-handed shooting, but when the buzzer went off, she tucked her right arm close and reached for SMG with her left hand.  She moved quickly through the doorway at an angle, intent clearing the fatal funnel before engaging any targets.  As T1 entered the room, Lina fired off a burst from the PP-2000, but with the sling crossing over from her right shoulder, controlling the SMG left handed was difficult and the rounds went wide (T1 miss).  Recovering quickly, the next set of rounds hit the target center mass (T1 down).

When T2 entered the room, Lina brought the PP-2000 around and fired a series of shots that skirted the edge of the target (T2 miss x 6).  Controlling the SMG left handed proved formidable and as her mental count of available rounds decreased, she realized that she was burning both ammo and time by firing off-hand.  When the final two rounds in the SMG hit the second target (T2 down), she transitioned to right handed Center Axis Relock using the GSh-18.  NS1 comes into view just as she brings the Russian pistol up and Kowalska bypasses it as she continues to move through the shoot house (NS1 identified).

With time against her now, Lina begins pushing through the rooms at an accelerating rate.  Encountering T4 first in CAR high, she fired one round, which went low (T4 miss).  Before she processed the miss, Lina had already brought the GSh-18 up into combat high and snapped off a second round which hit the target in the forehead (T4 hit).  Moving with increasing speed to make up time, she swung right to clear the T intersection in the hallway and popped a target center mass (T3 hit), before clearing the left side of the hallway and moving aggressively into the next room.

Bursting through the final door, Karolina spotted two targets (NS2 not identified) and fired three rounds, missing with one, but catching each target in the head with the other two rounds (NS2 miss, NS2 hit, T5 hit).   Spotting the chemlight, she moved to the exit area, applying the safety and holstering the GSh-18 once she’s there.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:11, Wed 19 Nov 2014.

Caradoc sniffs the air, listens to the faint moan of the ventilation fans, and decides that the airborne lead levels are probably acceptable in here.

He's in motion as soon as the buzzer sounds, breaking for the left doorway even as it opens.  His Mk18 comes up and the suppressor coughs as he double-taps the oncoming target at hip and thorax (T1 down).

He hurtles the falling dummy and braces in the doorway, swinging back toward half-glimpsed motion at the other door.  His first trio of shots are rushed and only the frangible rounds save him from a nasty ricochet off the lock plate.  He puts the EOTech's holographic ring over the dummy's head and recovers, punching two rounds straight into its ocular cavity (T2 down).

Movement to his left brings him around with the taste of iron in his mouth, but a flicker of his weapon's scout light confirms what his intuition already tells him: this is a no-shoot (NS1 ID'd).  He grins beneath his balaclava and follows along in the mobile target's wake.  As it turns right to flee up the hallway, he breaks left, correctly assuming that the hallway is only wide enough for one target and his back is covered.  As he skids across the hall, his movement drags another oncoming hostile into his sights.  He hammers the trigger until it staggers with a half-dozen holes across the width of its torso (T4 down).  Behind it, a fourth enemy rolls into view and he kills it as he maintains forward momentum (T3 down).

Caradoc stops at the T-intersection and wills his heart to stop hammering.  He can see two doors, and little beyond them - but behind the right one is the telltale green glow of a chemlight.  He raises his eyebrows, swaps his partial magazine for a fresh one, and moves carefully to the left.  Sliding through the other door, he finds an unoccupied room with the connecting door he expected.

Having the only suppressed gun in the team comes in handy here - Caradoc's running lighter hearing protection and just barely catches a faint squeak of rubber tires on the floor.  Slowly working the angles of the connecting doorway, he catches sight of two targets as they swing back toward the door to the hall.  Ah, only one gun... got you, Chief, he silently exults (NS2 ID'd).  He lets out half a breath, then surges forward to brace the Mk18 on the door.  The twinned targets are moving back to face him as he shaves plastic from the ear and neck of the hostile.  His third controlled pair catches its shoulder and elbow, sending it toppling to the ground (T5 down).

He walks over to the chemlight, picks it up, and waggles it at the catwalk and the presumed cameras there.  The buzzer sounds and he slings and safes his carbine and claps the no-shoot on the shoulder.  "Right, lad, you're safe now.  The SAS - aw, hell - Task Force Forty-Seven is here!"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:56, Wed 19 Nov 2014.

As the exit door slammed shut behind her, Hannah kicked the chemstick along in pure, unadulterated disgust.  Given the way things had gone she was just thankful the thing had hit her on the way out.  The safety on her MP5K-PDW clicked into the 'safe' position, even as her other hand went to the clasp on her helmet to undo it.  She stood for a long moment, staring at the glowing stick that lay before her as she reviewed what had happened:

---

Even before the alarm went off and the lights illumination, Hannah could feel the perspiration on the palms of her hand.  She had taken a deep breath to try and calm herself, but it obviously had not been enough to do much.  The personal defense weapon felt slightly leaden in her hands, even as she released the safety and braced herself for action.

Then the buzzer had sounded and the entry door swung open.  It wasn't an unusual situation to her, nothing external would account for her poor performance; it was purely internal for her.  It hadn't been a disjointed effort either, Hannah had felt in control the entire time.  And perhaps that been the most disconcerting part of the experience.  She had crossed the threshold into cement walls of the shooting run.  The first target presented itself from behind the door on her left and Hannah depressed the trigger of the MP5K-PDW; she heard the familiar pop and to her chagrin saw the shot go slightly errant (T1 miss), having lead the target too much.  A second squeeze of the trigger, brought a more satisfying shot, finishing the threat with a satisfying thud to the head (T1 down).

The second target had proved to be her nemesis.  Knowing that she was under a time limit, Hannah had whirled to face the second opening door while switching her firearm to fire in a burst.  A staccato burst of the bullets emanated from from the Heckler and Koch firearm the first three of which plowed in to the thick wooden door (T2 miss (x3)).  All at eye level.  Her trigger finger flicked off of burst mode on her PDW, forcing herself to do a quick reset.  She snapped off a more controlled shot and the last bullet, however, found it's mark and was another head shot.  It had only taken four bullets for her to find her mark this time (T2 down).

Another deep breath was taken for just a moment, while she was ensconced against the wall near the corner of the hallway.  She heard movement; so Hannah primed herself, her sidearm at the ready and held with two hands.  Popping around the corner, Hannah tagged the oncoming figured in the arm.  Only then did she realize that the figure was a noncombatant.  A single, softly-muttered expletive in Norwegian was uttered from her lips (NS1 not identified, NS1 down/winged).  She had grossly miscalculated.  And now, some civilian could have paid with their life, if this had been an actual mission.  Sloppy, sloppy work.  Her left hand went to wipe a bead of perspiration from her brow; it was all too surreal.  She gritted her teeth for a moment.  Or too real, much like Mogandishu.

She hadn't much time to dwell on things, though.  Hannah heard another sound and another figured came around the hallway corner at the far end.  The thin warrant officer snapped off a shot which missed to the right of the head of the approaching manikin (T4 miss).  She steadied herself and leveled the PDW one more time.  And with the more aimed shot, hit center mass on the target (T4 down).  She rolled her shoulders gently to relieve some of the building tension as she made her way down the hall.

Three-quarters of the way down the passage, Hannah heard and then saw another bogey flit passed in the cross-passage.  She padded down to the corner at the end of the hall, flicking the firing switch back to burst.  Then the lithe aviator pushed herself around the edge and fired a quick burst.  The three bullets promptly drove together in a tight group into the wall and door jamb that the figure had passed through, throwing concrete pebbles and wooden splinters into the air (T3 miss (x3)).  Shaking her head and stifling a sigh, Hannah pushed quickly into the dust cloud thrown around the door.  Switching her PDW back to single shot, she hit the corner and crouched down.  Peeking around the corner, she snapped off a shot into the head of the figure from her low position (T3 down).

Pulling back for a moment, Hannah took a deep breath and took stock of her situation.  She knew that she had used over half of a magazine, but she also knew she was on the clock.  There should be more than enough for the next room.  Her helmeted head peeked around the corner and tracked two figures standing the middle of the room (NS2 not identified).  Since they were grouped together, she opted to stay on a burst.  The staccato trip hammer blows of the PDW firing reverberated off the walls as she swung around the corner.  The two head-shots and the two pockmarks in the wall beyond, were actually fairly tightly grouped (NS2 down, T5 miss (x2), T5 down).  Of course, one of the targets actually shouldn't have been a target.

A fact which Hannah only realized once once she stood and started to cross the floor towards the exit.  Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, while crossing the room.  Her MP5K-PDW felt leaden once more in her hands...

---

It had cost a lot to get to the exit.  Too much.  She wasn't physically hurt, but her pride was.  Hannah knew something inside that the room had gone horribly wrong: two civilian casualties was an unacceptable statistic.  The thin Army aviatrix gritted her teeth and secured her weapon.  Then with her molded ballistic-grade helmet underarm, she started the long trudge up to the control room.  Hannah was not looking forward to the performance review, even though she knew that it wouldn't be more critical than her own personal assessment.  More than that though, the dark-haired warrant officer was really not looking forward to the fact that her dismal performance warranted a ribbing ... and probably a new nickname...
This message was last edited by the player at 03:50, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

James would have preferred an earlier draw. Going first or second meant the rest of the team would have front row seats for his run. It's not that he's not confident; he is, so much so that he has to take himself down a notch or two lest he fall victim to his own hubris. Truth be told, he wants to make a good first impression on his new team, and this is his preferred operational setting. If the so-called tactical entry expert doesn't produce a quick, clean run, it'll be a disappointment. That's unacceptable. He'd already given enough disappointment to his parents, and that was enough. More importantly, though, a later run would have allowed James to evaluate for himself what his teammates could do in a CQB environment. Now he'll have to count on the instructor's voluntary transparency and/or his new comrades' candor. The investigator in him doesn't relish that.

His GLOCK is cocked and nestled in the drop holster strapped to his right thigh. It'll be his backup weapon. He pulls back the charging handle on the HK416, chambering a round. The red dot of EOTECH and the front post sight are in agreement- the weapon is zeroed for close range engagement. Gear- check. Now, head check. Four deep breaths, at four second intervals- inhale, hold, exhale. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Wait for the buzzer.

GO!

James steps into the room; a man pointing a Tec-9 instantly leaps from a door offset to his left. James didn't expect it so soon. His first two shots miss high, literally by a hair (T1 miss x2). The second double-tap, fired less than a half second after the first, punches two conjoined holes in the bridge of the dummy's nub nose, effecting instant central nervous system shutdown. Target 1 down (T1 hit x2).

Two rounds wasted. He decides then and there to go conservative. Just like that, the early miss is forgotten. Next...

Target 2 arrives just a second after the first. This one's armed as well and so close Jimmy could reach out and touch it. James puts two rounds into its upper chest, right above the collar, stopping its forward momentum. If the tango is wearing body armor, it does him no good. A third round through its forehead seals the deal (T3 hit x3). Moving on...

A third figure charges down the central corridor, heading right for James. Hands clear- non-hostile. If this was a team exercise, the third man in the entry stick would secure the fleeing individual and assure that he/she wasn't concealing a weapon. Jimmy is on his own so he sidesteps the runner, quickly squares up again, and pushes forward, eyes and muzzle acting in unison.
(NS1 identified).

He's got a feel for the weapon now, the sight picture is clear, his confidence restored. He can focus more on his footwork. He's got a lot of building to clear and not a lot of time to do it. He moves purposefully, with urgency, precisely pieing each corner, quickly but carefully sweeping each room. Another armed figure appears, a woman this time, one hand raised at chest level if to say "don't shoot", the other at her hip, pointing a revolver at her would-be savior. He dispatches the duplicitous harpy with two overlapping rounds in the forehead (T3 hit x2). Insta-kill.

The next threat emerges from the shadows at the end of a cross-corridor. This one's toting a Kalashnikov. Jimmy drops him with another two-round head shot (T4 hit x2). He's fired 9 shots so far, he adds three more to his ongoing mental tally just to play it safe. That leaves him half a magazine for the rest of the house. Keep pushing.

The final test is by far the most difficult- the dreaded meat-shield (NS2 identified). The simulated hostage-taker is doing a good job, keeping tight to his hostage, not exposing more than an inch or two of his own flesh. Jimmy smoothly shuffles to his left, firing twice as he does so. Both rounds go wide, shattering against the wall behind the target's head. He keeps his feet moving and squeezes off another two rounds. The second one may have grazed the target's ear (T5 miss x4). Jim's got the angle now. He plants and fires, the fifth and sixth shots hit the hostage-taker just below the right eye (T5 hit x2). It's enough. The final engagement takes just over two seconds, from start to finish.

Fast. Clean. Wasteful.

Shit.

"Clear!"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 04:51, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

If going last is something that bothers Dacovetti, he isn't showing it.  Instead, he waits calmly, sitting on the floor and taking small sips of water to keep his mouth from going dry.  There is a familiar background hum of adrenalin singing along his nerves, but steady breathing keeps it in check.  He watches as the other members of the team gear themselves up and disappear in the live portion of the shoot-house.  He doesn't pass judgement on anyone's pregame.  What would the point be?

When Choi disappears through the doors and Michael finds himself alone, he rises to his feet and straps his helmet securely onto his head.  There is one last check of his weapons, one last sip of water, and the then a simple period of waiting that he spends essentially motionless.  When Bannon gives him the okay, Dacovetti moves into the antechamber and places his left foot forward bringing the small sub-machine gun into his right shoulder.  Both hands grip the weapon lightly, the thumb of his right hand resting on the safety.  The radio is a comfortable, familiar weight pushing down between his shoulder blades.  If he were being honest, he would admit that it is almost a security device.  No CAS in the shoot-house indeed.

Dacovetti trusts his gear.  He trusts his checks.  That is the whole point of his methodical nature.  When it's go time, he's ready.  His thumb flips his weapon to burst and he nods twice for the go.

BANG

The movement to his left is sudden, almost too fast, but the Airman reacts.  Moving his body to the right, into the room, he twists slightly and depresses the trigger.  A three round burst of 4.7mm tears into and through parts of the dummy's throat and face (T1 down).  As much as Dacovetti would like to relax, the door to his right opens almost immediately behind the emergence of his first target.

Swearing would be a waste of time.  Michael brings his body back in line letting another burst out of his weapon, this time catching the target fully in the chest.  The bullets strike solidly, indicating killing shots (T2 down), but he's not loving the idea of not utilizing clean head shots.  He takes a second to breathe and steady his pulse.  The two quick engagements were dealt with, but it was enough to raise his heart rate.

Eschewing the rooms the initial targets emerged from, Michael moves down towards the hallway.  After several rotations, the smell of cordite is hanging heavy in the air over the aging smells of rubber and sweat.  Another burst of movement catches his eyes as another target bolts down the hallway towards him.  The MP7 is brought to bear and his finger begins to tighten on the trigger before the position of the targets arms register in his brain.  NO THREAT. (NS1 ID'd)He can practically hear the voice in his head as his finger lets off on the trigger and he pauses his forward momentum.  The radio on Dacovetti's back thumps him in the back of the helmet from the sudden movement, almost like a slap to the back of the head for being stupid.

"Christ," he mutters as he steps to the side and continues his advancement.  The hallway isn't so long that he's able to get comfortable.  On the positive side, there are few lateral angles for him to get surprised by.  A slight vibration of the wall ahead tells him he's going to have company and another target emerges from the left end of the hall.  The first bullet from his burst goes wide, passing between the target's right arm and torso, but the other two find their range, thumping solidly into the "kill" zone of the target's chest (T4 down).  He'll take it.

As the hallway comes to an end, Michael decides to play the odds and assault to the right.  He pushes himself to the left of the hallway, angling his weapon across to slice the pie of the target area as much as possible and makes his move.  If his intuition is lucky, his shots aren't quite so good.  The target exiting a door at the end of this short hall is caught in the forehead with the middle round of his three round burst, the other bullets striking the door on either side (T3 down).  With his bursts starting to range across his field of fire, Dacovetti decides that control needs to be reestablished and flicks the selector switch back to single fire.

Momentum he tells himself silently.  He advances past this last target an enters the next room.  With the doorway opening against one wall, Micahel clears the first corner before even entering the room.  As he steps through threshold, he orients his back to the cleared wall and angles his field of view and weapon out into the space to engage any hostiles.  Two targets immediately fit the bill.  The first he identifies as a human shield (NS2 Id'd).  The second he engages as a hostile.  One trigger squeeze sends a round glancing across side of the dummy's head.  Dacovetti, not being satisfied, advances on the target, pulling the trigger two more times delivering shots on the spot, both in the face.  (T5 down).

As the range goes safe, the Airman moves to the door, placing his weapon on safe.  His brain is already replaying each of his decision and action points, drawing inferences and making plans to correct.  It wasn't the best showing ever, but for a comms guy who doesn't do the whole operator thing on a regular basis, it's one he can live with.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:26, Thu 20 Nov 2014.

The range control booth is larger than it appears from ground level.  Bannon remains seated at the controller's station as the team adjusts their gear and selects from the mismatched chairs that are scattered around the battered folding table.  "I think we'll take this in reverse order," he says, lowering the lights.  A wall-mounted plasma TV hums to life, displaying a four-way split image from cameras on the catwalk.  In the top left quadrant, Dacovetti is frozen in mid-launch from the starting box.  Synchronized digital timers in each image read 0:00.8.

"Sergeant Dacovetti.  Fast out of the blocks, good hits here and here."  The video feed rolls forward, then Bannon notches it down to quarter-speed as Michael points in on the first no-shoot.  "Your speed almost got away from you here.  Don't fuckin' shoot faster than you can see."  The speed returns to normal as Dacovetti kills T3, blitzes T4, and clears the objective room.  "On target, but you need to tighten up your groups with that gun.  Terminal ballistics suck on that four-point-six round.  It works on the reactives here but you can't count on a single torso hit to drop some smelly bearded motherfucker.  Overall, nice run, and a tough time to beat."  The timer is stopped at 1:01.9.

The screen flickers as Bannon loads the next video.  "Mister Choi.  First pair.  You slapped that trigger like it owed you drug money.  Good recovery, though."  The on-screen HRT agent rotates smoothly and executes a perfect Mozambique drill on T2, then hammers T3 as it rolls into view.  "Nice job on my ex-wife there, and no hesitation on the civilian.  Now, on the last guy... six rounds for the headshot at that range?  It looks like you were expecting a longer zero and holding over for an offset that wasn't there.  Unfamiliar gun, I'll give you a partial pass.  Clean that shit up next time."

Hannah knows what's coming, more or less, but can't completely suppress an involuntary wince as Bannon pulls up her run.  "Miss Omdahl.  Lots of lead in the walls tonight, not so much in the meat."  Four tiny Hannahs illustrate his point, sending plywood splinters flying.  "I don't expect you've had a lot of shoot/no-shoot training in your career, am I right?  Not your fault, and I'll unfuck that for you.  There's a laser scenario system on base, you're gonna get some time on it.  And you eventually did kill all five tangos.  And, uh, the babysitter and the pizza guy, too."  The digital aviatrix deflates slightly as she steps over the fallen no-shoot.

"Now for the guy who's overcompensating because he comes from a county that shanked its gun culture and fed the body to hogs."  Bannon chuckles at Crewe's expression.  "Okay, so you're the only one who ran this suppressed, which means you got a little-bitty advantage.  Number Three there was set to roll out on audible gunfire.  What's this parkour shit in the hall, though?  There's not enough room for you to blow through his field of view before he corrects."  The recorded Caradoc pauses to reload and listen.  "You fucked around too long here.  At least your shooting was mostly acceptable."

Bannon clears his throat.  "Captain.  With respect, ma'am, there is a time and place for training up your wrong-handed shooting, and a timed cold trial probably isn't it."  He lets the video run through Karolina's first left-handed shots with the PP-2000, then slows it down for her transition.  "I want y'all to observe, this is a fast fuckin' transition, and once she takes off the training wheels, she goes like a cat with its tail on fire.  But, Captain, remember what I said to Mike about driving faster than you can see.  You made entry so fast, I don't think you even tried to ID the hostage before you killed the shit out of it."

"And last but not least, old age and treachery."  Bannon, the only one in the room older than Durand, grins at the Frenchman.  Video-Sebastien hammers the first two targets, bypasses the first no-shoot, and clears the hallway.  "Spine.  Head.  Head.  This is some quality fuckin' marksmanship here.   And... head again."  Without further comment, Bannon halts the video.  Raising the lights again, he crosses to a whiteboard and scrawls a set of names and times.  "Ladies, the penalty is five seconds per no-shoot."

Durand 0:59.8
Dacovetti 1:01.9
Choi 1:06.3
Kowalska 1:02.5 1:07.5
Crewe 1:18.4
Omdahl 1:13.8 1:23.8

He folds his arms and leans against the wall.  "Go downstairs, hydrate, reload, reset your gear.  The air cops have a fridge in their office, feel free to raid it.  Then we're gonna run the course with a different target mix.  Rather than solo, I want you in high-low pairs this time: Sebastien and Miss Omdahl, Mike with Crad, Agent Jim with the captain.  Talk to your partners."

Hannah did as she was told, pulling up an old wooden chair to the table to review the group's performance; she settled it backwards, so that she might rest her forearms on the chair back.

The dark-haired warrant officer watch the runs of her teammates with intense interest.  It was a touch disheartening that she had been the only one to tag both non-combatants as hostiles.  But, Hannah knew that was her issue to deal with and no one else's.

She'd been about to note that the fleeing pizza guy might have survived, but caught herself and instead Hannah simply nodded quietly and curtly to Chief Bannon's assessment of her piss-poor run.  There was little to joke about, in all honesty; her performance had been quite abysmal.  It wasn't worth noting that Green Platoon had done similar exercises.  The result was still the same no matter what:  she needed the practice as her previous experience had obviously not helped her in this situation.  Hannah had plenty of excuses available to her ... it was a night shoot, she was jet-lagged, &c.  But none of it made a whit of difference.  So, she simply settled for agreeing to his offer.  "Right, Chief." the thin army aviatrix noted, "I guess we know where all of my free time is going to be spent..."

She felt like a greenie again.  And perhaps she was; it was what her time and performance pointed to.  Hannah pursed her lips slightly when the review was done, pushing back from her chair to stand and get ready to do more runs.  She glanced towards the French national, Sébastien, for a moment; he didn't look like a man that suffered fools to well.  She could only hope that she would slow him down too much.  But, that was more up to her than him; so, she simply strapped on her helmet once more.

Durand had watched each run ‘live’ so to speak, standing over Bannon’s left shoulder, and intently studying the monitors as each person went through. He’d greeted each of his team mates in turn as they’d entered the control room, a quick handshake, a bump of his knuckles against theirs, a good natured slap on the shoulder, no one had came into the control room without some form of acknowledgment from the Frenchman.

When the scores go up he allowed himself a wry smile at Bannon’s remark about old age, but other than that doesn’t give any obvious signs of satisfaction when his name is at the top of the board.  When the Chief announces the pairings for the next exercise and Omdahl rises from her chair he nods to her, gives her a grin. He’s trying to put her at ease.

Once they’re downstairs he offers her his hand, does the formal introductions as they haven’t properly met per se. ”Sébastien Durand. Please, call me Seb, at least until some comedian thinks of something else to call me. Good to meet you.” He grins, his manner relaxed as fetches two bottles of water from the fridge, passing one to Omdahl and  opening the other, taking a drink of the chilled water. He’ll chat quietly to her as they get ready, happy to offer her any advice that he can. There’s no trace of any of the perceived arrogance that he may have displayed to Maatsen when he and the Dutchman had spoken in Paris; his demeanour is relaxed, friendly. If she asks him for his thoughts on her first run he wont patronize her, he’ll give his feedback honestly, constructively, and when they’re up for their next run he’ll give her an encouraging  low five as they step up.”OK, let’s go kick these guys’ asses.” he says, referring to the other two pairs.

He intends to be back at the range himself on a regular basis, as he wants to put some rounds through the weapons that they have here that he is less familiar with, for after all, they don’t know what they might be taking into the field, so once they’re done for the night he’ll make sure that Omdahl knows she is welcome to join him at any time, as are any of the others who may wish to do so.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
10 March 2015
0831 hrs local (0631 hrs Zulu)

Conference Room B in Incirlik's SCIF smells of dust and weapons-grade coffee.  The arrhythmic rattle in the air handling equipment almost certainly isn't part of the design specs for blocking listening devices, but it's probably as effective as the officially-sanctioned countermeasures.

Chief Bannon detaches his spillproof mug from his fist and starts flipping a stack of file folders onto the scarred conference table.  Each one bears the usual alphabet soup of classified material with the codeword VEHEMENT HARPIST - a designation no one on the team has encountered before.

The door opens to admin Group Captain Mewes.  He closes it behind him and flips the switch which illuminates the red bulb in the hallway, then takes a seat at the head of the table.  Bannon silently slides another coffee mug onto the table at the RAF officer's elbow, then folds into his own seat at Mewes' right hand.

"Kapitan Kowalska, Miss Omdahl, gentlemen," Mewes begins, "congratulations on a successful final integration exercise last week.  I've been in Brussels over the weekend on consultation with our chain of command and the council is pleased with your workup.  As of zero-eight-hundred today, your team is authorized for operations under the designation Grey Cell.  Well done.  And not a moment too soon, because we have an urgent tasking."

Mewes gestures for the team to break the tape seals on their briefing packets.  The faces staring up from the photograph within are a South Asian man and woman, fiftyish, bespectacled, captured in a laboratory setting and scowling at the interruption of their work.

"Meet Doctors Satish and Jayashri Tamboli.  They're Pakistani nationals with a taste for oil money.  The late Colonel Gaddafi recruited them in '99 for his nuclear weapons program.  After A.Q Khan and Friedrich Tinner were taken out of the picture, they officially moved into teaching positions at the University of Tripoli.  However, no students or other instructors who were then in the Department of Nuclear Engineering seem to remember them, and they've not published since - which is like unto death for academics.  Our sources suggest their employment there was a cover for ongoing participation in fusion research.  Tab Delta, please."

He waits for you to turn to Tab D, then continues.  "The Tambolis dropped off our radar during the Libyan Civil War.  About two months ago, rumors began to place them back in Tripoli, helping get the local oil industry on its feet again.  That's when they came to the attention of the unpleasant gentleman you see there--" weathered, Middle Eastern, late thirties, sneering at something out of frame, nasty web of burn scar across his right cheek and temple "-- who goes by the nom de guerre of Mas'ud Attar.  Our lad Mas'ud is the prime hatchetman of Abu al Afari al Turkmani, who's the Islamic State's current director of provincial governance."

"This op is a covert extraction.  You will insert into Tripoli, locate the Doctors Tamboli, and bring them out along with any records of their fusion work.  If necessary, destroy the records rather than allowing them to remain in play."  He pauses for a sip.  "Intercepts indicate Attar has an advance team on the ground in Tripoli and is en route to join them now, so we're on an undetermined but definitely tight schedule.  Fortunately, someone tipped off the Tambolis, so they've gone to ground.  Unfortunately, we don't know where.  Fortunately again, we have better analysts than Attar, starting with you."

Bannon shifts in his chair and takes up the briefing.  "Tripoli is still infested with Islamist militias - I ain't gonna say 'under control of.'  So we have no cooperative local authorities to draw on.  We have two ways to insert you.  First option is covert - fly into Tunisia and drive across the Libyan border when the militias aren't looking.  Second choice is to draw on DGSE --" he nods to Durand "-- to build a cover as French-backed petrochem consultants, then fly in commercial from Alexandria.  Westerners are still pretty safe in Tripoli if they're there to help keep the petroducats flowing.  That'll be faster but you'll be limited in the gear you can get in-country until Amber Cell arrives to provide ops and logistics support.  Either way, Amber will be at least two days behind you."

Lina entered the SCIF and glanced suspiciously toward the air handler noise.  She half expected to hear bad 90’s music start up at any moment, in the form of pirated low-bit rate MP3’s streamed off an old hard drive.  In Poland, SCIFs were typically a nexus of intellectual property rights violations and national security.   After Iraq, she had briefed myriad unit CO’s on insurgency activities before they deployed to the South Central Zone in a SCIF similar to this one.  A whole litany of thoughts filled her head about the meeting location and what appeared to be its poor maintenance, but Lina suppressed them.  This was neither the time nor the place, to bring them up.

”Thank you Group Captain,” Lina said, acknowledging the team’s final clearance for operations.  It had been almost a month since they had arrived in Incirlik and Kowalska was pleased that the workup cycle had gone smoothly and without any unexpected delays.

Pulling the briefing packet from the table, Lina popped the seal and began thumbing through it, pausing after a few seconds to listen attentively to Mewes’ briefing.  Her mind raced considering the information and the various options and requirements for the mission.  Lina thought of a dozen different ways to attempt to locate the two scientists, much of which could be farmed out to Bannon and his team, assuming they were not already working on it.  Both insertion options had merit but deciding on one of them now, with the information at hand, seemed premature.   Lina was a backwards planner and needed another piece of information before she could discuss insertion choices with the team.

”Once we have the Tamboli’s and their research, what are our options for extraction?”

"I've got some of my guys working that," Bannon replies.  "Right now, we see three possibilities.  Maybe four.

"Option One is an overland run west to Tunisia, then a CIA or U.S. Air Force flight to Sigonella.

"Option Two is for Amber Cell to procure a small boat - you take that out to international waters and link up with an American or Italian naval vessel.  We're looking now to see what we can arrange for that.

"Third way to do it is for us to arrange an aircraft, either fixed or rotary."  He nods to Hannah.  "Depending on type, range, and sea state, you'd go for either the at-sea rendezvous or Sigonella."

He pauses and grimaces.  "Fourth, which I don't like for what I hope are obvious reasons, is to disguise the packages and fly out commercial, going back to France.  Which, right now, is about the only usable country that still has commercial flights into Tripoli.  But that'll need this to go off so quiet that no one at the airport is paying special attention."

The folder is open in front of Dacovetti with a cup of coffee sitting in line with the right top corner of the document he is perusing.  A legal pad is sitting at his right hand where detailed notes are being taken.  Even though the notes will never leave this room, they help formulate and consolidate his thoughts.  He scans the pictures and info while the other half of his brain pays attention to the conversation around him, but the word "fusion" has him stumped more than a little.  What he wants to do, is interrupt the whole shebang and say: "I'm sorry, did you say 'fusion?'  Pakistani experts in fusion?"  How is it even remotely possible that experts in fusion have come from the smoking hole that is Tripoli via Pakistan?  And everyone here seem remarkably composed discussing a technology that has perpetually been coming "in the next two or three decades."  Oil money, indeed.

Still...more pressing details.

Infil, exfil, primary mission objectives.  The words and phrases burn themselves into Michael's mind as the mission briefing takes place.  It is a remarkably democratic process as opinions are made, taken, and responded to as each person is accorded the respect of an expert in their field.  All things considered, Dacovetti is relaxing into the structure of an actual mission.  After the last month of repeated kill-house runs, most at the side of the SAS man, it feels good to spin up for a real world deployment.  This is what they work and prepare for.

"If our exfil is flexible, or more precisely mission dependent, I'd like to bring up a point or two on the infil."  Dacovetti pauses for a second or two.  "We do have the advantage of being able to split the difference.  Crewes and I could enter via French air and set up somewhere with limited gear.  With a satellite hook up and our computer equipment we might be able to facilitate the rest of the team driving in with the heavy gear.  Especially if we can get some interagency cooperation and tap into the comms from the militias to figure out where they are.  Or more importantly where our people need to be."

Finally Dacovetti smiles.  "Also, just because I'm a JTAC at heart, if the proverbial shit goes down, how much back up can we count on?  Hot extractions? CAS? Boy Scouts?"

Getting out was just as important as getting it, even more so considering the heat on the ground in Tripoli, but James wants to take things one step at a time, starting at the beginning.

"I'm not a big fan of going into xenophobia central unarmed. I'd feel a whole lot better with cold steel on my hip. That said, Option Two provides us with a reason for being there. It's a thin cover, but its a cover. Option One doesn't give us a solid starting point."

He looks around the room his teammates' faces. A week of two-a-days in the kill house has given him a pretty good read on the folks he'll be entrusting his life to. Since no one seems to register any strong objections to his current line of thinking, he continues.

"Using a French connection as a cover story is a double-edged sword. The French have a presence in the region, meaning that the locals probably won't look at us too hard. At the same time, if they start asking around, they'll figure out pretty fast that we're not as connected as we claim to be."

James is going out on a limb here. Making a proposal means owning it.

"I can pass as a Korean citizen. What if instead of a French-backed petrochem advance team, we pose as a ROK-backed one? That'll be a lot harder for the locals to poke holes in. The local jihadis will probably want our heads just the same, but maybe not quite as much. I'm sure that Amber Cell logistics can get us the proper bona fides."

He looks at the briefers for confirmation.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:45, Wed 26 Nov 2014.

Hannah stood and saluted when the Group Captain entered the room, sitting only once Mewes had sat.  She nodded to older aviator, when he greeted her by name.  She was appreciative of the strings that Mewes had pulled to make sure that the younger aviatrix had gotten her required hours to maintain her flight status.  Of course, that had meant that she had been quite busy for the last month.  She'd spent pretty much every waking moment either training with the team, doing extra practice on the range or the shoot house, or flying equipment and personnel around to keep her certs up.  Naturally, Hannah hadn't necessarily considered that last duty to be onerous in any way; it might be difficult and sometimes dangerous, but she had always found flying to be thrilling ... and almost comforting given her familiarity with it.  Well, except for the parts where she got shot at - that was never glamorous, exciting or thrilling really; which probably occurred more often than she would have liked to admit.  Still, the month had passed in a blur almost with everything that was going on.

And now, they got to see if all of the training had actually paid off.  Hannah glanced around the table at the other Grey Cell members.  She felt a better camaraderie with them four weeks later.  Her expression was much more relaxed than when she had first introduced herself to Sebastien and the others during the initial runs in the shoot house.  At that time, she was more beleaguered than friendly.

Her long fingers traced lines on the pages as she read through them while listening to the briefing.  She stared at the pictures of the two scientists, trying to memorize their faces.  "Tamboli." Hannah noted softly putting the name with the faces.

She listened with keen interest to the question and then the answer to the extraction question.  The Kapitan had the right of it, knowing those options could influence their insertion method as well as their tactics (and teaming) on the ground.  Hannah inclined her head towards Chief Bannon when he mentioned the third extraction option, noting simply, "I can fly us out of there, if necessary."  There wasn't an air of arrogance in her tone, but a simple matter-of-fact manner to it; she hadn't spent those many thousands of hours, both real and simulated, with various aircraft for nothing.

"Tunisia is over 50 miles from Tripoli," Hannah noted off-hand, addressing the first option and its potential feasibility, "as the crow flies.  It could be a treacherous ride.  But then so could trying to navigate open water - unless we do it at night."  That is, if she remembered her geography correctly.  Which brought her back to her own questions, "Do we have more information on Attar as well as the team he has assembled for the job?"  She paused for a thoughtful moment, "And what assets to do we already have access to in Tripoli?"  She looked mainly at Mewes, but also at the others, as it was certainly possible that any of them might have contacts there.  It was going to be important to know who they could trust there.

She did agree with Michael's assessment, tacking on the tech sergeant's musings, "It is worth considering entering in two separate groups.  Trickier logistics, but may be well worth the effort."  Though with respect to James' suggestion, the army aviator was a bit more skeptical, "I'm not sure that anyone else in the team besides you can pass for a Korean national."  She did readily concede, "Though my Korean is just as good as my French..."  Which meant that while she might be able to fake a scientific background - actually having an engineering degree, she probably couldn't pass for a French national either.

Crad nods at Dacovetti's suggestion.  "That could work.  If we go in with a media cover, we shouldn't even have trouble justifying the comms kit to anyone who asks."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:40, Wed 26 Nov 2014.

When he first opens the folder Durand takes a moment to study the faces that stare at him from it before turning his attention back to what is being said, returning Bannon’s nod when his colleagues at the DGSE are mentioned then listening as the discussion begins. He likes the fact that everyone is getting involved, putting forward opinions, questions.

”I’ve been to Libya” he offers. ”I was there when Gadhafi fell. Not there as in physically watching when he got the bullet, but I was in country. My team was based out of Benghazi.” He turns to Mewes, pre-empts what would be the most obvious question. ”I doubt if I would have any sources on the ground in Tripoli that would be able to help. Even four years ago when we were supposed to be on the same side as the rebels the situation on the ground was fluid. Guys that would be your friend one day would turn on you on the next.” There is perhaps a hint of bitterness in his voice.

His elbows are on the desk, his fingers steepled together. It’s something that he does when he’s deep in thought, that or pace around.  ”I agree with Jim. I would prefer not to go in unarmed, and I also think there are risks associated with going in undercover. The French aren’t too popular with Daesh – excuse me, that is how my Government prefers to refer to the so called Islamic State – at the moment. Of course, just because our cover would be that we are working for a French company that does not mean that we would all have to pretend to be French. The petro chem industry is multinational.” Perhaps having a brother who was a Senior Exec with Total in Paris might finally come in useful after all. He turns to Omdahl. ”Same if we go for the Korean option; Jim could be the big boss, we could be the hired help.” He grins at Choi.

His attention goes back to the group at large, his comments not directed at any one specific individual. ”But whether we’re supposedly working for the French or the Koreans, I don’t think we can disguise the fact that at least some of us will look western, which makes us a target. There used to be some nationalities that were safe, but these days?” he shrugs. ”Anything goes, so if we do go in that way, do we have any options at all to take weapons in or procure them locally? And what about logistics on the ground? Do we have access to vehicles?” He pauses again. ”I also think some people flying in and others driving in is definitely worth exploring. “

"I've requested fast-burners be staged at Sigonella," Mewes tells Dacovetti.  "Most likely either Italian Tornados or your Super Hornets.  I'd wanted a Spectre but they're all tasked elsewhere.  On the other hand, the pointy-nosed lads will be faster to get on station if you have to call."

Turning to Choi, he adds, "Legitimate credentialing will be difficult to arrange.  We're a NATO operation and Korea isn't cleared for our compartment at this time.  That said, we can certainly forge something."  He nods to Omdahl.  "Though my fellow rotor-head brings up a valid point regarding your cell's multi-ethnicity."

Bannon leans forward to address the aviatrix's other point.  "Attar's hard to pin down.  He's originally Iranian - we have photos of him in Revolutionary Guard uniform, field-grade officer rank, through about 2006.  He dropped out of sight after that but an asshole matching his smell showed up in interrogations of captured insurgents in Iraq.  The dirtbag in question was a 'technical advisor,'" he airquotes, "teaching insurgent cells to use EFP IEDs to kill heavy armor.  We're pretty sure that was a Quds Force operation.  Sometime between '08 and '12, he went native - stopped taking orders from Tehran and linked up with IS.  Operationally, he's a micromanager.  His EOD signature is redundant triggers, including at least one wire or fiber-optic command detonator."

"We'd prefer not to make our footprint any larger," Mewes responds to Durand, "but Brussels has given us a couple of local fixers we can use if we have no other options.  CIA has a well-connected officer in place - most of his local connections think he's Egyptian intelligence, and he can arrange logistics.  There's also a militia commander who's nominally friendly to Westerners thanks to some well-timed medical intervention for his family.  Or we can expedite Amber Cell's insertion, try to move them into Tripoli concurrently with you, and turn them loose to procure."  He pauses to drain his coffee.  "They'll be inserting via rustbucket freighter, necessary for moving the Nest."
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:48, Thu 27 Nov 2014.

"I like the media cover," Dacovetti offers.  "Crewe and I could make contact with a fixer under that guise just as well and procure baseline supplies that would provide us protection without significantly altering our operational footprint.  Presumably any western organization operating in the zone is going to want to have a little bit of self defense capability as well as the chance to patch up any wounds they might suffer.  Obviously we wouldn't be able to tap anything obscene, but a couple of pistols and an AK might not be out of the question.  We can work on establishing a safe house as well."

Addressing the commander he asks, "What are the odds that we can get an info feed from our cohorts at the NSA?  They should be able to map the locations of the operating cell phones and radios that the militias are using. If we can get a real time update, we can navigate our people through the desert with the heavy logistics and our own vehicle.  That supposes, of course, that we go with a two team insertion plan."

Durand nods when Mewes mentions the two possible fixers. Mentally he is weighing up the pros and cons of the two. Clearly the CIA officer was likely to be the more reliable of the two, but he suspects that Langley would be less than impressed if their man was compromised.  The militia commander was an unknown commodity. He may be friendly to the west at the moment, but the Frenchman would rather not depend on that.   He turns in Dacovetti's direction when the American airman speaks. "I think that sounds workable. The question seems to be whether we go with just one method of insertion or the two. Six of us going in on commercial air posing as media will look suspicious I think, and I do like the option of being to take in our own kit overland. I wonder though if you guys would need an Arabic speaker with you? You don't speak Arabic, do you Mike?" He turns to the SAS Operator, uses the nickname that the Welshman has acquired. "Painter, do you?"

"Lie face-down on the ground and put your hands on your head," Caradoc replies in badly-accented Arabic.  "I can get around but I won't pass for a fellow traveler.  My French is better but the vocabulary is geared toward leave on the Mediterranean coast.  Bengali's about the same as Arabic."

"Signals intercept support is entirely do-able," Mewes tells Dacovetti.  "If not NSA, then I'll get GCHQ to step up to the table.  I'm still working on prying loose some drone support, too, both for a hypothetical border crossing and for operations once you're on-site."

Lina didn't want to interrupt the brainstorming that was going on, but she also didn't want the team to feel hidebound by the org charts she had disseminated earlier.

"Michael, given the tasks you've identified such as establishing safe house and making contact with local fixers, would Sebastian's tradecraft training and experience be useful?" Kowalska asked, looking over at Durand.  "Personally, I'd have more peace of mind if Caradoc was with us for the border crossing, given the presence of militias in those areas," she added.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:08, Sat 29 Nov 2014.

So a French-backed petrochem company can sub-contract a Korean employee, but not the other way around? James is tempted, his sense of injustice inflated by the indignity that accompanied the knee-jerk emotions that have just flooded through him, but he's too politically savvy to play the race card. Dispensing with all histrionics, he slowly takes a deep breath. In his mind, this sort of thing is a manifestation of the subtle, latent bias he's had to deal with all of his life. His "people"- he felt pretentious just thinking the word- hadn't suffered the way that other American minorities had, but at times like this he could definitely relate to his brothers and sisters of color. Maybe if I'd suggested Kim-Chee delivery instead... He shook his head mentally and tried hard to shrug off the hurt. Maybe I'm just being oversensitive, he reasons. They probably didn't mean anything by it. Maybe I'm just butt-hurt because they didn't like my plan. He knew he stood the risk of getting shot down before he'd put it out there, but that doesn't soften the sting any. The next question on his mind begs asking but he worries that asking it will come across as sullen, pouty contrarianism. If it's his head on the line out there, he's got to say something. How he couches the question is going to determine how they others interpret it.

"If the CIA has elements in country already, why aren't they handling the op?"

It's too soon. Timing is everything. He'll hold off for now.

"A media angle could work, but all the jihadis know that reporters and NGOs are soft targets nowadays. Those are the folks who've been losing their heads lately. If we go in as big oil, a couple of us could play the corporate stooges," Do I come off as a chauvinist hypochrite and suggest that the ladies take that roll? "And the rest can go along as private security. It'll give us an excuse to go in armed. I'm sure there's protocols in place for foreign bodyguards to bring their own hardware into the country. We could all go in together, by civilian charter, if that's how it's done. I know I'd feel a whole lot better going in strapped."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 01:08, Sun 30 Nov 2014.

"There are such protocols," Mewes acknowledges.  "If you go in that way, we can pump CIA and DGSE now for recommendations on reliable sources of wheels and other resources.  Once you're on the ground, you can make your own arrangements through those sources without contacting the Agency's man directly.  As far as the flight goes, we can locate a charter firm that operates in the area, or we can use our own Hawker and Blue Cell crew.  The outside firm would help maintain cover by showing the locals something they already know and expect, but the flight crew wouldn't be in on the mission."

"If you do that, the techies need a crash briefing on petroleum refining so they can pass as the engineers," Bannon puts in, pointing to Omdahl and Dacovetti.  His finger swivels between Choi and Durand.  "One of you is the mysterious Franco-Korean corporate master, the other is his Korean-French bodyguard.  Crad, security too.  Captain, you're the secruhhhhexecutive assistant, which gives you a reason to be in contact with everyone all the time."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:46, Sun 30 Nov 2014.

Durand takes a sip of water from the plastic cup that is on the table before him. "A thought has just occurred to me. As I mentioned, I have operated in Libya previously. Whilst I think it is extremely unlikely, I cannot completely rule out the possibility of meeting someone who may know me. When I was last in country I didn't wear a jacket with DGSE on the back in big yellow letters like the American FBI do in the movies" He grins at Choi to emphasise to the FBI Agent in the room that he is joking "But by the same token it was quite obvious who we were and what our line of work was. So, if we choose the petrochemical option, I suggest Jim takes the role of the corporate big shot and I play the hired security together with Crad. Let me explain why."

He nods to Choi. "As I mentioned, petro chem is a multi national industry -- forgive me, I did not say, my brother is a senior executive with Total " he pronounces the name of the French oil giant ToTaal "So I have a little familiarity with the industry. Jim, I see no reason why the senior man on this trip must be French, even though we are using a French company as cover. For sure at the very top levels  the leadership is French, but those guys do not go out in to the field, they sit behind their desks in Paris. But at middle level, what the military would call field grade, the talent is multi national."

"So, Jim can be our boss. Crad and I both have the background and skills to allow us to easily pose as PMC's. Jim, I know you have those skills as well, but if I do encounter anyone that knows me - which I stress I think is unlikely - it would actually be consistent with the cover if I was posing as a PMC. whereas if I play the boss that is not compatible. My story would simply be that I left Government service to make more money in the private sector. I would not be the first Government employee to do such a thing." And indeed if he had not been recruited into this organization, it might actually have been the truth. He looks over to Kowalska. "The same logic would apply if we take the two team option and I went in with Mike. The story could be that I was hired to provide security and translation."

"If we do go down the oil route, I think the Chief's suggestions sound feasible for the others." He turns to the tall American. "Chief, if we do go in by charter it's perhaps less likely to arouse suspicion if we use the local charter. I presume that in either case the jet will not be hanging around on the ground, so not sure if there is any benefit in using our own plane?  If we use the outside company can we take in our own small arms? Like Jim I would prefer to be armed from the moment we arrive in country."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:02, Sun 30 Nov 2014.

The lithe army aviatrix nodded to the answers to her questions and comments; there wasn't much to follow up on.  Attar was a bit of an unknown - a known unknown to use a phrase that a previous Secretary of State was fond of.  And she had had her say on her abilities.  Pretty much.  Still, she gave another nod, when the topic of petrochemical engineering came up.  "Oil is not my engineering specialty." she noted off-hand, "I was mainly aeronautical and material sciences."  But then the dark-haired flyer shrugged slightly, "But, I do know a little bit about oil and gas.  Both from a practical use and manufacturing standpoint."  Once couldn't get by without it really in any engineering discipline worth its salt; and she made it a point of knowing something about what she put in the machines that carried her about.

"Oh," the thin aviator added as an afterthought, "I do speak a little Arabic as well, though it is no better than Painter's."  And as a female, it was probably not reasonable for her to insert as part of the cover team.  A lone, unmarried foreign woman travelling with other single males (foreign or not) might be misconstrued - or at least looked upon unfavorably - by the local Arabs.  "Seb?" the young aviatrix asked of the older Frenchman, "How is your Arabic?"  Then turning to Special Agent Choi, "Or yours, James?"  As neither of them had actually answered that question yet either.

Hannah had actually kept relatively quiet during most of the briefing and its subsequent discussion.  In all honesty, it seemed to her that this discussion was a bit over her pay grade in some respects.  Either that, or she had risen to the level of her incompetence.  She had little experience in the strategic planning aspect of covert missions.  More often, Warrant Officer Omdahl was simply given her flight orders and attempted to carry them out to the best of her abilities.  This briefing was much more than that - and it made her a touch uneasy.  The posited mission seemed a very fluid situation, undoubtedly; and that made things tricky.  Or messy, depending on how you viewed it.

"There are plenty of possibilities," she wagered as she listened to all of the brainstorming, "But we have settle on one.  And hopefully it is one of the ones with a high chance of success..."  Though, from her expression, it was fairly obvious that Hannah didn't necessarily know how to assess that properly.  "I still favor the two team insertion." she posited, "It seems the safest, even if it is slightly harder to coordinate."  In some ways, it seemed that it shouldn't be too much harder - as it was merely a variation on the fact that Amber Team was inserting separately as well; though there were obviously other logistical considerations at work there as well.

Of course, if they inserted separately, Hannah was pretty sure that she would be the driver for the overland team.  It was one of her sub-specialties after all.  Even though she didn't drive as well as she could fly a chopper, Hannah could handle most ground vehicles well enough.  It sounded as though Michael and Sebatien were going in the cover team; and Caradoc and Kapitan Lina on the overland squad along with Hannah.  Which left:  where to place James.  There would obviously be enough space on the overland convoy, if he really wanted to enter with the weaponry; but his observational skills might be better put to use with the cover team.

"If we want our top grade hardware available from the get go, we're going to have to use a two team insertion," Dacovetti replies.  "There isn't a cover story in the world that is going to put top end military gear in the hands of a personal security team.  If we can wait for the Amber Team insertion to get our hands on the equipment, the single team option is viable, but I'd rather know our tool box is on the way from the onset."

Michael swallows briefly.  "Obviously this isn't a democratic organization, but for what it's worth, I favor the two team option, as Chief Omdahl suggests."

Durand first turns to face the slim aviator, answers her question.  "I'm fluent. Specifically in Standard Arabic." The Arabic speakers present would be aware that Arabic was split into a number of different regional groups; the version Durand is fluent in was the 'official' or literary version in use throughout the Middle East and North Africa. "I also know several choice swear words that I learned from a Sergeant in the Algerian Special Forces. The sort of stuff they don't teach you at University."

He next turns round to face Dacovetti. "Ok, let's look at the two team option. So we're suggesting that you and I go in on the ground using a media cover. " His choice of words was deliberate. Whilst the American is correct that it isn't a democracy, the team are the ones who are going to be going in on the ground, so opinions mattered. He's using the word 'we're' as an endorsement of the two team insertion, tacit support for Dacovetti's plan. Waiting for a nod from the American, Durand continues. "As you say, that gives us the option to take in certain items of equipment that we could not do so if we posed as an oil executive and his retinue." He's repeating the point that the Airman has just made to emphasise it, stress the benefit.

The Frenchman pauses, looks towards Mewes and Bannon. "Gentlemen, if we go down this road, is it feasible that Dealer and I could still fly in by chartered aircraft? As you said, scheduled flights to the region are limited, so I am thinking that perhaps we could fly in on a charter flight from somewhere like Abu Dhabi? As you are probably aware, France already has a presence in the UAE at the Al Dhafra Air Base, so provided we have the cooperation of the local authorities we could have the equipment that we wish to take flown in there." And after all, the Gulf States were already members of the coalition against Daesh, so persuading them to allow some equipment to pass through their territory should be simple enough. "I am sure you can also arrange for Mike and I to fly from here to the Gulf? We then get a charter direct into Tripoli. Whilst we would not intend to take a small arsenal with us, is it possible that either of our assets on the ground in Tripoli can reach out to the local authorities so they might be...persuaded" - clearly he means bribed - "to not pay too much attention to our luggage so we can take in at least sidearms? Perhaps you could also facilitate passports from nations that are perceived to be less hostile by the Islamists. For me I think the obvious option would be Swiss, or perhaps Algerian, for Mike perhaps something Mediterranean or South American?"

He sits back, takes a sip of water, looks at Dealer. "Mike, if that is practical, how does that sound to you?  Obviously we would need to establish our cover story, but if it sounds workable, my next question is whether we should have a third person with us or not? Clearly that will also be affected by the requirements of the ground team. "

That made three voices in favor of the two team option.

"The background seems workable to me, Seb." Michael answers with a slow nod.  "I'm not in favor, however, of breaking up the team driving in.  While it would certainly beneficial for our initial arrival in Tripoli, for redundancy the ground insertion team will need at two vehicles to handle any possible breakdowns." Or other mandatory complications, he leaves unsaid. "With security concerns, each vehicle will require two personnel to operate effectively.  Two vehicles also gives us the advantage of flexibility on exfil.  With our target package we will need the extra seats anyway should an overland exit be necessary."

Durand nods. "Ok, I agree two vehicles makes sense. So, me and you are the undercover team." He turns to address the room in general. "Then I think the obvious teams would be Painter in one vehicle and Jim in the other, each of them with one of the ladies. Ladies, excuse me, I do not intend to be ungallant and suggest that you need to be teamed up with a man, I simply think that is the best allocation of our available skill sets."

The Frenchman pauses. "Assuming, of course, we are using the two methods of insertion." After all, it hadn't been approved by the leadership yet.

James shook his head at Omdahl's question. "No Arabic, but my Korean's pretty good. And if you need me to pin down the location of the nearest toilet in Spanish or Navajo, I can do that for you too."

It was starting to look like James would be one of the border runners. Although crossing a lawless desert frontier in a couple of civilian 4Runners wasn't without its own inherent risk, going in armed would reduce his chances of featuring in the next viral jihadist Youtube video.

-

”We’ll go with the two team option.  If there’s one takeaway from all the range time these last few weeks, it is that everyone loves their toys.  The last time we went out, Caradoc’s rifle optic had another optic on top of it.  An optic, on top of an optic, on top of the rifle.  Like, what is this character I am thinking of,”  Kowalska’s English deteriorated a bit with the last sentence as she struggled to place the name of the movie character.  ”...Mini-me.  Mini-me optic.” Lina held up her hand and made a pinching motion.  Most of the shooters realized she was probably talking about the RMR’s that the armory had started mounting on some ACOGs a few weeks ago.

”The German economy would go into recession if it weren't for all the HK hardware being used by this Task Force,”  Karolina said with a snort.  ”It strains credulity to think we'll be going in as Petrochems with a few Glocks for protection,” Lina added in an amused tone.

”Let’s work up a load plan for the vehicles and finalize a strategy to get Sebastian and Michael into Tripoli.”
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 02:55, Wed 03 Dec 2014.

Swipe to satellite view of Libya.  Highlight boxes stutter into life:



                                            [ ] Team One
                                                Mitiga Airport, Tripoli
[ ] Team Two
    6 miles east of the Tunisian border
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:41, Wed 03 Dec 2014.