NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: I'd appreciate expeirence, or at least a basic grasp of the english language and its various grammatical rules. This is a strictly modern-tech RP, not post-modern or futuristic. That being said, I don't want any wall-running or any of that ninja nonsense either, with bullet-dodging and the like. That also rules out any sort of non-human intervention as well, i.e. vampires, werewolves, ghosts, elves, dwarves, etc.

IC:

Nightfall in the Jamaican jungles brought about a changing of the guard the likes of which he'd never seen. Gone were the daytime wild-life and vibrant sunshine, replaced instead with beautiful hues of the setting sun, followed with the inevitable inky darkness the came at the end of the day. The heat was nearly suffocating, humidity beginning to condense on his grease-painted face and on the lense of his night-vision equipment. He'd served in the deserts of Iraq and Afganistan, tracking and eliminating insurgent forces for close to four years before he'd retired from the service and moved to the private sector.

There was a slight click as he closed the dust cover on his M4A2, little more than an attempt to keep the moisture out of the guts of the weapon. Below him the jungle floor was alive with nocturnal creatures, some of which belong to the same genus as himself. He was part of a four-man recon team, operating as the spearhead of a slightly larger force of eight. The recon team leader was somewhere off to his left, his exact location pinpointed on his GPS screen, had he the inclination to tug the cover off of its glowing facade.

Leaves rustled slightly as he adjusted his position in the treetop branches, keeping his legs from going to sleep. Something cracked a twig about seventy-five meters ahead of his position, prompting him to swing the ACOG sight on his carbine in the direction of the disturbance, the gloved grip of his left hand closing around the vertical grip on the front of the weapon, sending the infared sighting beam straight outward into the darkness. The broad aiming laser settled on the chest of an approaching native...

"Two to One, possible hostile sighted..."

The throat mic around his neck allowed him to keep his voice quiet but allow his team leader to understand exactly what was being said...

"One to Two, hold for confirmation... Three, get eyes-on possible hostile..."

Somewhere off to the right, Two envisioned the red-filtered lense of Three's Bushnell scope on his M24 coming to bear on the approaching man...

"Target is armed, Norinco AK-style rifle... Target is wearing BDU-type clothing and Bob Marley t-shirt..."

Two's NVG's amplified a pinprick of light somewhere in front of him...

"Target is stoned as a bastard..."

Two laughed internally, emotion was a secondary thing when out in the field...

"One to Two, do no engage, repeat, do not engage target unless fired on..."

Two remained in his tree, letting the pot-smoking hostile pass beneath him...

"Three to One, targets have entered the camp..."

The team's objective was the apprehension of a Jamacian marijuana smuggling ring leader. The contract was DEA, but the operators were pure private-sector...

"One to Team, operation is go, repeat, go now..."

Two slid as quietly as possible from his tree, back-tracking slightly to throw his rifle sling over the neck of the previous hostile, rotating the rifle and bringing it downwards so as to strangle the unfortunate man and bring him to the ground where Two could stomp his neck in with his size thirteen jungle-boot.

His rear-guard work completed, Two moved forward in a lowered stance as his team-mates came in from two other directions off to his left and far left, but never across from one another. Three remained in his tree-top snipers' nest, awaiting a go-code from One to begin his deadly work. One, Two, and Four reached the exterior ring of the camp, marked by the end of the light from the camp-fire in the center. The NVG's came up, and One gave the go-code. A hostile to Two's front-right dropped with a piece of his head missing and a pinkish mist floating in the air after the thunder-clap release of a .308 round. The three assaulters moved forward, with the main team of eight coming up behind them, bearing heavier weapons and containment gear.

Two popped another hostile to his right, trusting One and Four to get anything on the left and center assault lanes. A wave of automatic weapon-fire arched out in front of him, tracer rounds shredding the tents and weed-laden crates in front of the team...

"RPD! RPD!"

Two dropped, checking himself for holes before rolling into the prone position and aligning his crosshairs in the direction of the incoming fire. Some moron was standing out in the open spraying with a Russian machine-gun. Before he could squeeze off a shot, the familiar thump of an M203 reached his ears. A second later the machine-gunning maniac was lying in about three different locations around the camp, the weapon itself coming to rest a few feet from the blackened crater that marked the former location of its owner.

Two cursed out loud, a nasty phrase he'd picked up in child-hood from his father...

"Mother-fucker..."

One has just pirated his kill, albiet unintentionally...

"Move it up!"

One's barking command brought Two back from his mental anger-block. The three moved forward, setting up a quick line of fire as the larger force moved, split into two teams of four, and began to search the camp area's many tents. Sporadic gunfire erupted from a few of them, then all was quiet. One of the four-man search teams called in, confirming that they had the package, that was, their intended target, in custody and requested evac...

"One to Two, drop an IR beacon for the birds..."

Two dug into a hip pouch, his hand coming back out holding what looked like a hockey puck, which he thumbed on and tossed towards the dying campfire in the center.

Fifteen minutes later, the thumping of three Blackhawk UH-60 helicopters echoed overhead, coming in low with drag-lines down. Each team of four clipped on while the choppers hovered overhead, then took off again, hauling their dangling cargoes scarce feet above the jungle canopy. Within a half an hour the UH-60's dropped the assault troops behind the US Embassy, where two DEA agents promptly thanked the troops for their assistance, then half-dragged their captive back into the embassy.

It was one of those rare instances where an operation went off without a hitch. The rumble of diesel engines behind them signaled the arrival of their transportation back to their staging area, then back to their hotels...

The staging area was a US government-owned warehouse near the tourist district where the cruise ships docked and the attractions where located. Their destination was Ocho Rios, a popular cruise destination. After gearing-down and packing their weaponry away, minus their sidearms, the twelve men dressed in civilian clothes and boarded the three black suburbans that had brought them for transportation back to their hotel, a rather upscale Hyatt close to the cruise ship docks.

Two fumbled with his room key-card before leaning on the door to open it. He was beat, dead tired and running on little more than caffine gum and the after-effects of a serious adrenaline buzz. His sidearm, a 92FS Beretta, went on the bedside nightstand before his stripped off his shirt in preparation for a much needed shower. The clock said it was close to four AM, but their flight left sometime tomorrow. Two was in the process of working a kink out of his neck when the phone rang...

"What?"

The female voice on the other end of the line must have been the manager on duty, normal people didn't phrase their sentences quite like hotel staff did...

"Mr. Davis? You have a call from a Miss Suzanne Haley, will you accept?"

"Sure..."

There was a slight pause as the call switched over...

"Jack? You there?"

It was his girlfriend from the states, probably worried about him...

"Yeah, babe, I'm here..."

Her tone was less than friendly, however...

"Jack, I know you told me never to call you when you're on one of your business trips, but this is important..."

Jackson Davis, alias the generic 'Two', felt a frown cross his face. It wasn't that he didn't like to hear from her, but operational security came before any personal comfort like hearing from a loved one...

"What is it, baby? You miss me?"

Her tone went sour in a heartbeat, like milk left in the summer sun...

"You always did think it was all about you... We're through. I'm tired of you always being gone, never knowning where you're going, what you're up to, anything like that. It's like you come in town to screw me then you're off again on one of your trips... It's been fun, Jack, but I can't keep doing this anymore... I'm sorry..."

The click told him she was gone, like a period at the end of their relationship of four months. While it hurt a bit, she had been right. The new corporation he worked for had been getting a lot of work lately, all over the globe, and as one of their top employees, Jackson had been home for about a week over the past five months.

No matter, that shower was forefront in his mind at the moment, then some well-deserved rack-time. Stepping into the small bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like total shit. His eyes where rimmed with 'dark loam' grease paint, the black bruising of near-constant wakefulness showing through where he'd been able to remove the stuff. The stubble of a three-day beard had begun to show through. His upper torso was bruised, battered, cut, bloodied, and patched over a growing collection of scars. His tattoos where still as dark as they'd ever been.

The Special Forces motto, 'De Oppresso Liber', had been inked across his back, below the pair of crossed rifles at the base of his neck. The Army Star, complete with the 'US ARMY' logo beneath it had been tattooed on his left bicep, where the complete Special Forces logo had been inked on his right. Both had become surrounded with a rather wicked-looking network of tribal work that ran down to slightly below his elbows. The word 'SPECIAL' ran across the bottom of his right forearm, while 'FORCES' ran down the left.

The entire ensamble had been professionaly done over the course of about two years in Miami by an excellent artist who had been paid time and a half for his work.

Jackson got the shower running nice and hot, steam begining to billow from the bathroom as he shut the door...

Jackson emerged from his shower somewhat better looking than when he entered, at least minus the grease-paint and grime he'd accumulated from his seven-hour stint in the jungle. Not even bothering to dress himself, he slid into the double bed and drifted off into an unsatisfying sleep.

The telephone's annoying ring awoke him what felt like an hour later, but the clock told him it was seven PM...

"Jesus..."

He fumbled with the phone, eventually bringing it to his ear...

"Rise an' shine sleepin' ugly... Figured you'd wanna get some R an' R in before we fly out. The rest of us are headin' down to Margaritaville down the block. You wanna roll, too?"

The drawling voice on the other end of the line was Dekker Bray, alias 'One'. Unlike Jack, Dekker hailed from southern Kentucky, unlike his boyhood home of Denver, Colorado...

"Sure thing, Dek... Lemme get dressed... Meetcha in the lobby in 5..."

Davis hauled himself out of bed, throwing on some shorts, a pair of jeans, and a loose-fitting polo before jamming the Beretta in the waistband of his pants and slipping into a pair of tennis shoes. He met Dekker, Peter Zion (Three), and Marcus Scotts (Four) exactly where he'd said he would, but they were much better dressed. Dekker sported a black t-shirt under a jean jacket and a pair of well-worn Wranglers finished with his still-muddy jungle boots from the night before. Zion had opted for a red polo with the Marine Corps logo on the pocket along with a pair of khaki shorts and his long hair in a short pony-tail complemented with a pair of red Converse sneakers. Scotts was clad in an olive-drab wifebeater that showcased his Ranger ink and a pair of Levis much like Davis' own choice. His shoes where a pair of Timberland hiking boots in natural tan.

Needless to say, Jack felt a bit out of place, he hadn't even bothered to wear a belt. This feeling of discomfort softened, however, after he got a few brews in his system. The local beer, Red Stripe, was shit, but they had the favorites from back home as well. He had chosen Miller Light as his drink of the evening, while Marcus downed Amber Bock with Zion. Dekker did his usual of Jack Daniels and Coke-A-Cola, at about a 1:1 ratio. The fact that there where only four of them surprised Jack...

"Hey Dek, where are the rest of 'em at? They decided to call it a night?"

Dekker shook his head, draining his glass afterwards...

"They decided to spend the evening in the Hotel bar trying to score some tail, figured we'd have better luck at the tourist spots. My sources say a cruise ship just docked an hour ago for an overnight stay..."

Jackson's team leader was grinning from ear to ear, wrinkling the scars on his face in the process. Sure enough, there were plenty of afluent females FOB (Fresh Off Boat) and in their AO (Area of Operations)...

"We don't fly out till zero-seven tomorrow, so we might as well enjoy ourselves..."

The steel-drum band started up behind them, playing some local tune he'd never heard before while the four watched the tourists trickle in. Marcus picked up a blonde pretty quickly, and they made for the dance floor. He'd had a few beers, hopefully not enough to forget that he had a Beretta under his shirt.

Dekker's jacket covered his M1911A1 Kimber Custom Stainless II in his usual shoulder holster, while Zion kept his M96FS nickel-plate in a sidearm holster on his right hip, under his polo...

"He shoulda worn a looser shirt..."

Dekker said, elbowing Davis in the shoulder as he ordered another drink. The outline of the handgun was becoming visible in the small of his back...

Dekker set his glass down on the bar, dropping a few bills for a refill before slipping out onto the dance floor, bumping into Scotts, and coming back with the Beretta tucked neatly under his right arm. Covertly, he tucked it into his rear waistband...

"Problem solved..."

The merc nodded to the bartender in thanks before downing half his glass. Jackson had never been much of a brown-booze fan, and how Dekker went through so much of the stuff was a mystery to him. He guessed it must have been the divorce he'd been through a while back, the fact that he had a kid at home, and that he'd been shot at scarcely eight hours ago. He acted cool and collected, but his mannerisums began to show the recklessness of a man reaching the edge. At 34, he was the oldest member of the team. The rest hadn't even reached their thirties yet. Jackson himself was 29, Dekker's junior by five years...

"What now?"

Jackson asked, nursing his beer a bit faster...

"We watch Marcus step on that female's feet a few more times before she gets fed up with his ass and he wanders back over here..."

Dekker responded, tipping his glass towards the dance floor. Scotts' dancing abilites were a step above the 'two left feet' stage, but no-where close to the ballroom grace of his partner...

"I give him three more minutes..."

"I say he's got four, have a little faith, Dek... At least he's got something to hold onto, all we've got are bottles..."

Dekker shrugged...

"True, but bottles don't have feet..."

Minutes stretched into hours as the team sat in the bar, doing nothing in particular besides throwing back alcohol and engaging in the occasional dance...

The hour grew late, and the team headed back to the hotel, Scotts joined by his blonde lady-friend from the hours before. They seperated, each going to his respective room. Davis packed quickly before rolling into bed.

Zero-six-thirty rolled around two hours later, with the entire deployment rolling towards the airport in a series of yellow cabs, boarding several seperate flights back to the states.

Jackson exited the cab out front of Final Solution Inc.'s New York office, handing the cabbie a folded fifty held between two fingers. Like any post-op procedure, there had to be an after-action review. This meant that he'd have to sit in a dimly lit room, stay awake, and listen to the operations officer jabber for an hour and a half. It was no picnic, Jackson wound up dozing off a few times during the 'improvements' section, but no one caught him.

Afterwards, it was time to head to the on-site quarters for a bit of rest. Dekker, Marcus, and Peter probably did the same, but there was no way to be sure. Dekker, truth be told, spent an hour on the phone with his son before heading to the firing range to put a box of ammunition through his Kimber before detail-stripping it. Constant practice kept his mind off of the shit he'd screwed up on in his past, like having a son at seventeen. Then again, it had set him on his current path. He wouldn't have joined the Marines if he hadn't had a kid on the way, which meant he'd never have become a SEAL, and never ended up where he was, making the kind of money he did, and providing for his son so well. While he didn't see him much outside of the summer time with school and all, that would change after he graduated.

He was torn between tradition and that nagging sense of wanting his kid to do better than himself. The Bray family had been in the private sector since the 1960's, Dekker's father Samuel followed by Dekker and his younger brother Jack, a former Delta badass with a failed acting career. Dekker wasn't sure if he wanted the family name to have a third generation in the mercenary trade. Then again, for those who survived there was a lot of money to be made. For those who survived, however, being the key term, and he wasn't sure how he felt about his son doing the kind of things he did...

Escape, Toma had wanted an end to the life he had known. He wanted an escape from the oppresive life he led. Escape was what he got. He slipped out with a shipment of dead. His trials in escape were less than pleasant, but he had managed.

Life on the outside, apart from everything he had learned, was no cake walk. Without a penny to his name, he found that securing a job was nearly impossible. Every situation he met was only worsened by the common sense answers of the wars, and the routine training missions that had been a part of his life. Physical labor seemed to be the only the only thing he could secure a job in, but when he came inches from killing a coworker with his barehands, he was shunted from this line of work. Going back to whence he came was a option, but the punishment would be severe, and more than likely not worth it.

His rent was long over due, and he was being evicted. Toma realized that the only life he knew was impossible to retrieve, no military would accept someone with no citizenship. His highly structured life was falling apart. He left his empty apartment, he didn't own anything. On his way out he slid the key under the superintendent's door. He started aimlesly down the street, when he noticed a business card on the ground. He picked it up and read it.

'Final Solutions Inc.
private military contractor'

It also had an address and a phone number. In one last beacon of hope he made for the address shown.

About a halfhour later he strode into the building, holding a military aura about his young muscular body. He walked up to a secretary's desk.

"Ma'am, I'd like to seek employment options in this company."

He stood in a modified parade rest while waiting for an answer.

The secretary reguarded him with a slight smile at first, then a furrowed frown...

"Son, how old are you?"

Her tone showed no quarter for bullshit. Her job wasn't in the recruitment division, she was just a front desk manager...

"We don't hire kids here..."

Without waiting for a reply, she went back to her report-writing...

Jackson awoke an hour after he'd tumbled into bed, rising bleary-eyed and groggy from a combination of jet-lag and alcohol abuse the night before.

He dressed slowly in something similar to what he wore the night before, minus the shirt. Davis exchanged it for a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Vietnam-era Special Forces logo and motto across the back, with the modern symbol and motto situated in a much smaller fashion on the right side of the chest, a momento from his enlisted days. The Beretta rode where it always had, in the small of his back.

The weapon was the standard M92FS model from Beretta, outfitted with Hogue half-wrap cobblestone-pattern grips. The matte-black finish was non-reflective, and a set of after-market high-contrast tritium night-sights had been installed. The factory-standard magazines had been sold in favor of more reliable Wolf-manufactured magazines, three of which Davis kept loaded with Winchester Black Talon ammunition, on his person with one in the weapon and two others in a magazine holster on his left side.

Final Solution was merely a hiring agency, deploying mercenaries to locations as requested and providing services like living quarters, weight-rooms, and firing ranges. They did not, however, supply equipment or weaponry to their operators. An equipment allowance as well as access to civilian-restricted armaments, however, was provided. Arms dealing was not a publically-released facet of buisness, nor even confirmed during interviews.

This meant that Davis purchased his own equipment within the allowance given, and made up the difference from his own pocket. The allowance covered the basic things, like ammunition, a rifle, a sidearm, basic body armor, and a knife. Anything worth a damn in the field usually eliminated the allowance and then some.

Prepared to leave for the evening, Davis moved downstairs into the lobby via the elevator...

((OOC:Edit Pending))

-deleted For Unrealistic Content-

((OOC:Yes, I did read the first post, and nowhere did you give an age restriction, and nowhere did you indicate black market arms deals didn't happen.))

-deleted For Unrealistic Content-

The scene in the lobby looked tense when Emilo Zelig walked akwardly into the room, clutching a long duffle bag. He was an old German, pushing fourty at the moment. A man of average height and thin build, Emilo's contract with his old employer had recently fallen through, and the aged mercenary was looking for a job. Emelio knew his years as a soilder of fortune were winding down; indeed, they should have been over with a long time ago. Still, he was in desperate need of money. As his eyes scoured the lobby, he seemed somewhat suprised at the situation around him.

"Ah. Sorry to be interrupting anyzing, but zis is ze Final Solutions Inc. building, is it not?" His accent was quite thick and his english difficult to understand. His dark green eye drifted between the young kid to what looked like the professional, then fixed on the secretary. "Who vould I need to see for a job?"

Jackson nodded, pointing towards the woman seated at the desk in front of him...

"She might be able to help you."

Davis stepped out from behind the desk, crossing the space between himself and the newcomer in a few seconds time. Extending his hand in greeting, he introduced himself...

"Jackson Davis..."

((OOC: I hate to do the OOC in a post of it's own, but I edited out his age, and left it open to interpretation.))