NationStates Jolt Archive

"Hahaha, yeah man, I remember that time Bull dropped the flashbang in on that couple... It was on some training mission with them foreign SpecOps units. Man, that girl jumped out of that tent like a bat outa' hell, her shirt half off and all that. That dude, like a Lieutenant or something, was so pissed! Bull got all up in his face about it too... Wanted to shoot him with one of those rubber bullets... Man, those were the days," said one of the men sitting around the small fire. Of the eight men sitting around the fire, he looked to be among the middle of the age group. He took a long swig from his canteen. "Yep, then the whole crapstorm in Omz222 took place, and here we are," he said again. The men grew silent, as if gazing into the memories of their dark past.

Each of them could remember the war in their own ways, their own specialties, each contribution they had made, or sacrificed, during that time. They had all been in some branch of the Special Forces, on the ground during the time. Four had been in the SOF-D, one in the DB, two SALT operators, and the last in Sierra Hotel. Since their escape from Omz222, they had wandered with the rest of the Citizens for what seemed like an eternity, but now that they had settled down, they had plenty of time to think. And that was one thing they knew was dangerous.

The member of Sierra Hotel spoke up through the silence. "You know, there's not a day that goes by where I don't think about those days. I remember watching an entire company from the Fifth Marines get massacred by artillery fire. I remember watching a squad of SOF-D boys rig a museum with C4 and blow it to crap. I remember getting our briefing from General Howe to infiltrate Port Hagras. And I still remember running into an armored column on the way. We were in two jeeps. We didn't have any big weapons. We were going through the woods at about forty, and all of a sudden, the next thing we know, we're out in the open- this clear field, just been tilled for planting, it seemed. Then as soon as we notice that, we see a road about a hundred feet away, and several Omzian armored pieces, stopped. I was in the front vehicle. We started to turn and floor it, throwing mud and dirt all over the place. We, we just had to get out of there. Then, bam! The second jeep blows up. Explodes. Shrapnel hits our jeep, one of our guys gets hit in the arm and screams in pain. I look back, against my instincts, and see the jeep just completely demolished. Nothing left. The four of us barge out of our vehicle and start running for the woods for cover. We dodged behind a bunch of brush and crap, hiding for just a second to get our weapons and stuff in order. I mean, I don't know what we were really thinking... We were almost two hundred miles away from Honjaksgrad... But we knew where there's an armored column, infantry's not too far away. So we were set, our M249 gunner was ready- he had a Para model so it was smaller and he carried more ammuntion- me and the three other guys with our weapons ready. The column blew the other jeep, probably just to intimidate us. Then all of a sudden hell just broke loose. The column just started firing like crazy. Then here they come. Seemed like a hundred Omzian troops rushing for us. Of course it wasn't that many, I don't think. If it was, it doesn't show much for the Omzian troops, but anyway," he took a breath, as the others around him gave a smile. It was rare they got to hear something like this talked about, and coming from one of the most elite soldiers in the world, it was just that much greater. "We start to fire, hiding behind this little gully we found a few feet away from our initial position. Our SAW gunner just starting blasting away. He was trying to keep calm, God bless his soul, but we knew he was going into shock. He wasn’t doing anything it didn’t seem. He sure wasn’t hitting anything. The guy on the other side of him- I was on his left- glanced at me once between firing a round or two. I glanced back. We knew what we had to do. It was our duty. He yanked our SAW gunner back by the collar, as I reached down and put one in his head with my pistol. He just, kinda’ slumped over. I threw my weapon over my shoulder and grabbed the M249 and started bursting rounds out. I saw a couple fall, but now we were taking fire from them too. So we’re taking armor and infantry fire. The guy on the end told us two to run and cover him in fifteen seconds. So we started running. I ran backward some of the ways, firing my pistol, trying to help. We counted to fifteen and stopped, and started taking shots. We could see through our scopes now for guys to target since we weren’t under so much pressure, being a ways back. We counted ten more seconds, and we started getting heavy fire again. We assumed he’d been killed. So we both started running back again, and finally we sort of plopped into a little firehole. I set the SAW down and set it up to fire and put my M4, you know we had ours tricked out to no end, down beside me. I pulled out all my grenades, all of them, HE, WP, even those little golf-ball sized mini-grenades they issued everyone. And I just started chunking. I’d fire along with them, but I was just trying to do as much damage as possible. The guy in the hole with me started doing the same thing. He’d throw and I’d shoot, then I’d throw and he’d shoot. We held them back for a while. I had been in such a hurry I’d forgotten the ammo for the SAW, so I threw it down and grabbed my M4, and continued with my shooting. Then my partner there took a round to the neck, and fell over. He managed to tell me to get his radio, show me where his claymore was, and tell me to get out of there. I got his radio, that long-distance thing, all I had was my COBRA set, and put the claymore under him. As soon as they moved him it’d blow. I set it up just as I felt the rounds getting closer and closer. I jumped out of the hole, fired a few rounds, and started running. I didn’t fire again- didn’t want them knowing I was still out there. I just ran and ran and ran. I heard the claymore blow, but that was it. I got to the edge of the woods on the other side, I’d say at least a good fifteen miles or so, the next day. I was exhausted, but managed to get across on SECNET to SYNOP and let them know my location and get out of there. On the way back I just wondered… How could it have happened? It wasn’t until later we learned an Omzian spy had entered our ranks somehow and placed one of those “wrong” maps in. I don’t know how it went unnoticed. But it did and that’s what we got. We never got any real AAR, and never got any recognition. We didn’t even exist, ya’ know? But I have to say I don’t see how we could have killed less than twenty or thirty Omzians. But we were decimated. And that’s all I’ll ever remember. It doesn’t matter how many we killed, we were still overrun and destroyed. Let me tell you something. War isn’t about killing the enemy, it’s about getting your men and yourself out alive. You don’t win wars by killing the enemy. You win ‘em by surviving. And did we survive? Sniper Country as a whole, I mean. No, no we didn’t. Because we didn’t care about surviving. We just cared about taking them out. That’s all. That’s all…”

The men sat, astonished. They hadn’t really thought about it that much since the country’s decimation. Almost immediately, however, one of the men, who looked the oldest, spoke up. “Well, did you ever wish you could go back and avenge your men? Just, do one more thing to make their deaths not be in vain?”

“Nothing will ever bring my men, my friends, back. But yeah, I’ve always wished to God that their deaths wouldn’t have been in such vain, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking. Guys, I’ve been planning something for the past, heck, two, three years. I want to avenge my fallen brothers in that war just as much as any of you. And there’s only one way I can think to do it. Go back.”

Some of the men immediately took a sip from their canteens and bottles, while others smirked or frowned. The man started to speak up again, but more quietly than before. “The Battle for Hagras Bay. One of the costliest battles in history. Majority decimation of Sniper Country and Omni Conglomerates fleets, with near decimation of Omzian and Clan Smoke Jaguar ships as well. Not to mention the billions in damage to the city of Port Hagras, and the successful firing of the TNM torpedo that literally sank the Hagras beach, or at least a portion of it. Now, there was a common commander between the Omzian and Clan Smoke Jaguar fleets that day. It’s some weird name but I have it written down somewhere. Well it looks like he’s been kissing butt because he’s moving up in rank. I figure the best bet we have in any of this, to settle anything, is to make him pay for all the atrocities in Hagras Bay. I honestly believe we have, among just us, the best team in the world able to pull it-“ he was cut off by another of the men, the younger DB operator.

“Hah, so wait a minute here, chief. You want to just waltz into Omz222 and kill a top-ranking military official. You might as well try to kill God. That’s what these guys, these military officials, are over there- gods. And you expect to close enough to one to kill him,” the DB smarted off.

“Who said we had to get close? Heck a clear LOS and we could get him from up to over a mile away,” the old-timer, who probably aged in his mid-fifties, replied. The men chuckled to themselves, pondering the idea. The Sierra Hotel operator spoke up, and all grew quiet again.

“I have to admit, it would be something needed to be done. But tell me, how do you expect to get in the nation? Not to mention the city. How do you get equipment in? Supplies? All that crap?”

The older man gave a smirk. “Okay, here’s what I’m figuring. Five of us get different flights to Honjaksgrad International. I have intel that this guy is supposedly taking vacation in the area for roughly three weeks. We don’t carry any weapons, nothing. Just some guys on vacation. We don’t even know each other. Remember, we’re on totally different flights, times, all that. The other three are going to use their specialties right off the bat. There’s a cargo ship carrying imports, probably military weapons, goods, or something, headed for Honjaksgrad. Tomorrow afternoon, the three- I’m assigning the two SALTies and the Sierra Hotel operator to this since it requires water infiltration- of you will board a small speedboat. It’ll take you to the route of the ship and drop you off. You’ll have your LAR-V equipment, and the weapons and such for the operation. It’s a little bit of weight, but it shouldn’t be anything you can’t handle. You’ll sit in wait, probably two hours, for the ship to come to pass. When it does, you’ll board, using a side ladder, and lie in wait on the ship for approximately sixteen hours. At that point you’ll get off the ship and begin a five kilometer swim to the shore. Yoda,” he donned the name to the Sierra Hotel operator, alluding to the Sierra Hotel infiltration at the start of the Omzian War, “it should be just like old times for you. You’ll get to land, in the woodlands well outside the city, and sit tight for our call. Just avoid any patrols by police or Omzian forces and you should be just fine. Now, back to the other five. We’ll all check into three different five-star hotels. From there, for the next twenty-four hours, we have no contact with each other at all. Feel free to roam the area, check things out, familiarize yourselves with the surroundings once again. After twenty-four hours, I’ll check out of my room, and go retrieve our equipment and the men taking care of that stuff. From that point, we’ll contact each of you, designating a meeting and prep area, and finalize planning. What do you guys say?”

The men looked around, almost bewildered, dumbfounded.

“Hey, us snowballs survived one trip to hell, why not another?” replied one of the SOF-Ds. Some of the men laughed, shaking their heads, all giving their signs of approval.

“Alright,” the eldest of the group, the planner, acknowledged. “We’ll get together in the morning, distribute plane tickets, get everything rigged and ready to go, and be on our way by tomorrow afternoon. Thanks, guys.” The men smiled, as many stood, shaking hands and exchanging a few crude comments about Omzian women. They were going back.

OOC: I'll have a reply later, so this is more or a less a fancy tag with some introduction to the Omzian side. My factbook, if you ever need it, is in my sig; map is here (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v693/Omz222/Omzmaplarge.png)

"Department of Naval Operations?", the young Lieutenant watched as he picked up a wrinkled piece of paper from the emptiness of the dusty cabinet. Small particles flew on and floated by as he wiped the surface of any dust and hair. "What is this old document, anyways? They still called it Department?"

"Well, that cabinet hasn't been touched for such a long time - I can't remember", the Captain said as he rapidly maneuvered his finger on the surface of the keys, each tap tap tap filling the void of the air.

"Is there a TAG on the doc in the database?"

"Don't think so," the Captain replied. "Don't worry too much about it, what's old is old. I'll have to get back to the base at Hongazgrad (Honjaksgrad) at eighteen-hundred. Finish your work, and then get me the security detail on the upcoming visit. I don't want to look too shabby with an Admiral visiting. I'm expecting you to make some calls to the Fifth PP Unit and Faststream."

"But sir," the lieutenant hesitated for a flash of time. "You are inviting mercenaries!?"

"It's not a big deal, and Faststream is a privately-owned security contractor, not as bad as you suggest," the Captain replied as he tapped a small pen on the screen of his tablet PC, a distinctive buzz coming from the small speakers embedded in the oversized tablet. "The Fifth PPU, and the rest of the Marines PPUs, are short on personnel anyways for the moment, big time. This is not wartime to begin with."

Faststream Offices, Noveske Federal District, Hongazgrad

A stream of sunlight peered through the windowblinds shadowing the windows of Konkare's office, as these rays of light casted a grid-like impression on the polished wooden surface of the large table. A small buzz emitted out of the overhead lights for almost an eternity, as if it was unwilling to go away until its host object puffs away from existance. Under the omnious stream of vibration, Konkare skimmed over the lines of Roman alphabets, on the screen of his computer. The sizes of these text were comparable to the width of the whole computer unit, as a sign of how technology has evolutionalized for the middle-aged Konkare.

On the background of his screen, it was an old skyline of Honjaksgrad - commonly known as the "Old Hongazgrad". It might just be another name for Honjaksgrad since when the Homeland Defence War has finished, but for Konkare, the memories resided in the complexity of his head for such a long time. Though he has been in the civilian field ever since the chaos of the War had faded away, memories of that time still occasionally appeared in the mind of the 45-years-old Retired Major Jonares Konkare. Not far from him, the windows has offered a full view of the Hongazgrad skyline. Before the renaming of the city, Honjaksgrad had been a deserted wasteland for the countless numbers of the torn structures of architectural beauty and the darkened foliage of Mother Nature. However, since that grim year of mourning, Hongazgrad has been rebuilt into a sprawling metropolis, with countless numbers of skyscrapers piercing the vastness of the sky.

However, despite the changes in Hongazgrad that he still admires, he wasted no time to deviate from his current task. One of the top regional heads of Faststream Private Security Incorporated, a multitude of tasks waited, each competing for Konkare's exclusive attention. However, probably the most important among them all is the upcoming visit of Admiral Harage to Hongazgrad's Naval Headquarters. Such event is highly important for the military and government affairs of the entire region, thus it would demand for the best security possible. Being selected to augment the Naval Marines, he did not let such opportunity to pass away, as it not only offered a list of responsibilities, but also a mountain-full of cash, something that were often provided by the Omzian military to the few Private Security Contrators in the Omzian Republic.

Though it meant much financial gains, getting the job done right is still the utmost importance. Thus, there would be a multitude amount of tasks to attend and pay special attention to. Among them, is the preparation for the dispatch of more than 20 security personnel for the entire operation - roughly the equivalent of two full squads in the Army. At a flrst glance it might seem a bit too little, but it was felt that such number is more than sufficent for providing protection for the Admiral's visit. Furthermore, there are also the equipment - not only the weapons, but also the wares. Ammunition isn't much of a problem for Faststream now, unlike previous times; however, they are also preparing to install several new systems for the visit, two being radio jammers for use against radio-detonated explosive devices, and an acoustic-based detection system for use against sharpshooters and snipers.

A bit too much, but probably it will get the job done, Konkare mused with satisfaction.

========================

Office Building, Konsare Naval Station, 30km From Hongazgrad

Admiral Harage waited in his office with enthusiasm as he enjoyed the quiet provided by the two simple wooden doors, acting as defiant shields against the invasive noises of telephones, computers, and foot-taps. Though not too old of a man by any means, a collection of medal ribbons attached themselves onto the Admiral's uniform. At age fifty-two, he was a moderately-aged man for his three-star rank, having raised through the ranks through the Officer's Corps of the Navy. A mosaic of events dotted along his lifetime, though probably the most important was the Homeland Defence War, and the Battle of Port Hagras that quietly slipped along with it. A young Lieutenant Commander at that time responsible for directing aerial operations, he saw the horrors and shock of the battle, which had an irreversible impact on his determination to succeed.

However for now, it is a different matter. Progressing through the ranks and positions, this fleet officer-turned Deputy Commander of Southern Fleet Operations has been one of the contributors of the new backbone of the Omzian Navy. A well-known figure within the Omzian Navy and beyond, his reputation for being rather liberal in regards to the naval strategem has allowed him to earn popularity from the senior officers of the Southern Fleet, and the small group of Fleet Admirals that used to suspend over his head like a virtual and untouchable group of policymakers and commanders-of-commanders.

His upcoming visit to the headquarters at Hongazgrad is equally important. Though it is more of a regular attendance to a meeting in nature than anything else, eneryone in the headquarters depended on him and a couple of other comrades to appear, making it a rather symbolic visit in actuality. The topics and subjects that will be discussed would be related the preparations to draft up the latest White Paper of the Omzian Fleets, something that he preferred over idly staring at various artworks in the office. Equally, security seven more important. Though it is overly obvious that something resembling a fragging would be almost suicidal against a three-star, it was and still is the security personnel from the Naval Marines and other trusted Private Security Contractors that will shield him from danger.

"Commodore Pelen, nice to meet you there," he grinned, ready to greet the visiting officer.

========================

Cargo Ship Northlight Star, 280nm off Omzian Territorial Waters

"Hey, you have any extra batteries for the light?", a sailor asked his co-worker, not far away on the comfortable cushionings of the top bunk, as they both relaxed under the relative darkness in the relatively cramped room. A book resided on a small counter not far from the sailor's reach, and a large, cylinder-shaped flashlight pushed its weight against the surface of the book.

"No," the other sailor replied with a sense of boredom. "You don't suppose that we are shipping anything other than guns, correct?"

"Don't give me a panic attack again", the sailor rolled his eyes. "Basically, its some rifles, shotguns, and automatics from some foreign arms manufacturer. I don't suppose that there's any gunpowder or explosives, so to answer your queston, no."

"You don't suppose that the Coast Guard will intercept us, correct?", the other sailor asked rather nervously.

"For the last time, this is a legal import. We will unload it off Honjaksgrad-", the sailor replied as he was rather rudely interrupted. "Hongazgrad," the other sailor corrected in an instant.

"Yes, yes," the sailor let out a sign as he lightky shook his head. "We will unload it and then the ship's heading for some more. I heard that its some military accessories this time, don't know. I assume that we will be able to stop at that port again. I still like Hongazgrad though, cheap hotels and nice food. Don't worry, it's just some days away."

It was early. The former Sierra Hotel operator, now so appropriately going by the name Yoda, looked at his watch, which read 0347. A few others stood around him, surrounding a small, makeshift dock, with a moderately sized speedboat roped to it. In the back of the boat was a bag, resembling a duck-decoy bag used by hunters around the world. It was mesh, able to float. What was inside was indiscernible due to the lack of sunlight. Finally, the last of the group, two of the former SOF-D operators, showed up, strapping up their backpacks and donning their caps.

“What’s in the sack?” one of them asked.

“Our equipment. A few laptops, phones, and a couple of weapons,” replied the planner of the operation, another former SOF-D, now known to be the man himself, Lee Ramsdell, founder of the 22nd SOF-D Regiment. Granted, he was getting on in age, nearing sixty, but he hadn’t lost his edge.

“What weapons we got?” the younger operator replied.

“Heh, when was the last time you shot a Glock?” replied Ramsdell. A few laughs cracked the still silence, smiles reflecting the little light from the moon. Another operator, the DB, John Flemmons, laughed up a reply.

“Hah…Plastic Fantastic…,” he said between slow laughs, shaking his head.

“Alright guys, let’s buckle down. Here’s the tickets for each of you. Take a good look at them. Some of you are to depart from Hood Municipal to Backwood International, and from there to Omz222. Others are to depart straight from Backwood Internationa. Note that most of you have different times and locations. A few have flights from your landing location in Omz222 to Honjaksgrad. Oh, that’s a good point. Listen up, this is very, very important. After the war, the Omzians built Hon back up from the ruins. However, for some strange, arcane reason, they changed the name to Hongazgrad. Whatever you do, don’t say Honjaksgrad. You do, and they’ll automatically know something’s up. So from this point forth, Honjaksgrad no longer exists to us. So, those of you that have flights, get on out of here. You got your documents and things last night when I came by. Everybody got ‘em?” Ramsdell asked, seeing acknowledgments from everyone around him. “Good deal, then. Okay, we’ll see ya’ll in a few days. Just stay cool.” He shook a few hands, exchanged a few words, and the men, all of them aside from the two SALTs, Yoda, and Ramsdell, left the docks for their infiltration. Ramsdell turned to the others, and motioned for them to enter the boat. He stepped in and started the engine. As he did, a small screen popped up, displaying a satellite GPS image of the boat’s current location, its destination, and the route to get there. Ramsdell set the throttle, and placed the boat on automatic, allowing the boat to assume “autopilot”. He sat down, smiled, and began speaking.

“Okay, we have roughly a four hour trip. Your insertion’ll be just before daybreak. You’ll have that sack over there with all the equipment in it. You’ll be in the water for about two to three hours. We have the coordinates of the ship’s passage and your insertion point calculated to within a hundred meters, so you shouldn’t have to swim much, if at all. It’s a freighter, so you’ll simply need to climb up the port ladder and find cover. In the back you got two grappling guns that should sustain your weight. Two of you just need to hook your carabiners together and go. Two’s all we could get our hands on. Again, you’ll ride the freighter in for sixteen hours and have a five kilometer swim to shore. Yoda should know how to insert and all that so you SALTies just follow his lead. He’s in charge of this operation. You’ll just hang out in the country for exactly twenty-four hours, at which point the four of us will meet at Point Zulu One. It’s on the map, which is also in the sack. And further instructions will come when we get to Zulu One. For the time being, your focus is to get all the equipment on point, and to stay invisible.”

“Howard that,” one of the SALTs said. All the men smiled as the boat continued on.

Coast Guard Patrol Cutter Daring Shield, 20km From Honjaksgrad

The massive cuttor slipped through the dense, salty air of the sea as its silhouette left a dim impression on the cloudy background of the night sea. More of a frigate than a long-endurance cutter, the Halverson class navigated itself in the vincinity of countless numbers of civilian vessels, some waiting to be inspected by the Omzian Coast Guard, while some others were granted a chance to slip through the dense screening into the busy harbour on the shore. Though it never quite used its full array of missiles and guns in anger, it simply could not just slip away from its duty. In the meanwhile however, it would continue to enforce the maritime regulations of the Omzian government with maritime diplomacy, though deadly force was certainly not ruled out of the equation.

In the vessel, it was a center of various activities. Many crews were on the lookout with the digitalized computer terminals, granting them an eagle's view of the emptiness near them. The radar antennas were in full spin, rotating as they emitted a series of powerful pulses of radio waves. However, probably its deadliest weapons against those who dared to disobey its rule of the sea, were the detachment of a squad of Naval Marines from the Omzian Navy, along with the two small helicopters and the full array of inflated boats.

Those not on duty for the time being rested peacefully, some sinking themselves in an ocean of dreams, while others played small games such as poker. However, no matter whether they are sleeping or just enjoying themselves in an act of recreation and socialization, the next shift would be a challenge ahead. Receiving the news of the passage of a weapons-carrying vessel, they will make sure that its cargo meets the full requirements set by the Omzian Customs, no matter whether it is registered in Omz or elsewhere.

==================

Omzian Customs Office, Hongazgrad International Airpot

A chaotic flow of passengers ensued as the shadows of midnight slowly slipped through the large glass roof of the brightly-lit terminals and elsewhere, as uniformed customs officers, policemen, and militiamen continued to dedicate themselves to work, facing an evergrowing flow of passengers who could have cared less about the bright moon just outside the vastness of the airport. Equally, the threats of terrorism, infiltration, and sabotage lurked among the river of people, as advanced electronics assisted these customs officials and policemen, while militiamen from the Provincial Militia were careful to protect the airport and the steady flow of people from deadly threats such as bombs and gunfights.

However, inside the large Customs Office, a state of quietness dominated the cubicles and offices, though the occasional blares of announcement and the irritating rings of the telephone were still present. Customs officers on night shift, still with their uniforms, spent their time with a combination of caffine drinks and work, as a mosaic of computer screens surrounded them in this elegant model of an office of the future.

Inside one cubicle, Hagras motioned his fingers above the keyboard as a massive flat screen spanned in front of him, lines after lines of text appearing like a stream of ants. "What's with the problems with the biometrics recently?" his younger and newly recruited counterpart asked, who hummed a tune in a rather amateurish way as he made an impression on the screen of his PDA.

"You mean the retinal scanners? They've been upgrading them with some new firmware recently, especially in Terminal B. Some of them were apparantly trying to tamper with the scanners, and we needs the improved performance to suit the increased traffic of passangers. The biometric identification system is probably more of a hassle sometimes, I'll agree, but much easier at sorting out false identifications and likes. You'll understand," Hagras answered, as he noticed the icon on the desktop that would allow him to gain access to the retina database.

"But then, why are we still using the scanners, and the trackers?" the younger officer replied with a slight sense of doubt and concern.

"Simple. Paper identification is always much easier to fake than your own eye. People chould just fake some their identification to get in and out of the country, and we have seen these before. We use both the biometrics and the individual's passport for identification of that individual upon their entrance into the country. It's a more or less foolproof when compared to the older system, and I'm sure that the police use it for the identification of suspects too," Hagras again patiently explained the procedures to the young officer, who still doesn't seem to fully grasp the concept.

Pausing for a moment, he spoke again. "The tracker is another way to ensure the safety of foreigners who are visiting the country. It's more expensive and somewhat cumbersome, but you still have the magic of the newer and inexpensive miniature GPS trackers. That's basically what we use on these wrist straps. Many foreigners complained how uncomfortable they are or how they are rather invasive of their privacy, so we allow them to take it off on their own. However, keep in mind that there is still a $50 Omzar fine for that, and we are considering to increase it to $100 Omzar in the near future."