NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: As usual for crashed aircraft threads, I suppose you get in by having the crash spotted by one of your vessels.

Two weeks ago
Over Valencia Island, the Empire of Hamilay

The E-14B 'Capricorn' electronic surveillance aircraft was on a routine patrol, having been flying for an hour from Chernaya AFB across the strait to the Empire of Hamilay. At the moment, the only non-routine aspect of this patrol was the aircraft's commander and three of its crew, the commander being the CO of the 25th Bomber Wing, which the aircraft was attached to, and him and his three regular flyers of a Tu-160 'Blackjack' transferring temporarily to the E-14B's mission due to a shortage of crew.

As the aircraft got over land, it banked left and began its descent, electronic equipment beginning to power on. The crew sat at their consoles with headphones on, filtering through the signals being gathered. Flight Lieutenant Jeremy Baxter was one of these electronic warfare operators. Through the crackle of static, a few snippets of disjointed conversation were beginning to come through, but they weren't close to hostile territory yet, so it wouldn't be very -

"bzzt... czkch... all prisoners terminated...crck..."

That immediately caught Baxter's attention. After changing some settings on the console, he managed to home in on the signal, and leaned back in his chair, listening more with curiosity than anything else.

"... say again, Captain, have the POWs been disposed of?"

"Negative, sir, we are making preparations now. Give us ten minutes."

"Roger that. Get a move on. Ingram out."

What the hell? thought the flight lieutenant. He looked around at the rest of the aircraft's crew. If anyone else had heard that, they weren't showing it. "Commander, could you come over here a sec?"

"What is it, Baxter?"

"Have a listen to this," he said, and replayed the message.

"What the hell?" muttered Wing Commander Timothy Wells. "Can you get a location?"

"Just a second... there."

"All right, keep your ears peeled, I want to get a closer look." The Wing Commander returned to the cockpit and spoke briefly to the pilot. A few seconds later, Commander Wells returned to Baxter's station.

"Switch to visuals. We'll be there in five minutes."

Four minutes and forty seconds later, the E-14B was at the coordinates. All this time, the camera attached to Baxter's station was showing a dirt road, but then it appeared at a clearing. Activity (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13127978&postcount=87) could be seen below.

"Take us in, Lieutenant."

The camera zoomed, and images of a line of troops showed up. Kneeling on the ground in front of them was a line of huddled figures. Suddenly, there was a series of flashes from the soldiers' weapons and the figures in front fell forward into a pit. Flight Lieutenant Baxter sat bolt upright in his seat.

"Jesus Christ!" muttered the commander. The communications station spoke again.

"This is Captain Spencer reporting in, all subjects terminated. We're on our way back."

"Roger that, good. Ingram out."

"Sir?" asked Baxter shakily.

"Back to normal duties. This is between you and me, understand? This never happened and no one hears of it. Do I make myself clear?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Good man," said the Wing Commander dryly. He turned to go, but moved around again and took a USB drive from his pocket. Putting it into the computer's port, he transferred the past ten minutes' video and audio recordings.

Four days ago
Chernaya Air Force Base

Wing Commander Wells' LY83 vehicle drove across the tarmac to the base officers' club. Suddenly, a traffic control man flagged him down, and he depressed the brake. The base gates opened, and a black SUV and a M101 APC drove through. They stopped outside the barracks buildings, and a number of soldiers got out. Instantly Wells recognised them as Military Intelligence Unit security troops. That was not a good sign.

He turned off the radio and put the vehicle into parking gear. A few minutes later, they emerged from the barracks with a soldier in their midst. He was taken to the SUV, and all the other MIU troops returned to the APC. Both vehicles turned and drove towards the gate, approaching Wells' vehicle once more. The soldier was in the passenger seat of the SUV, and turned to look at the Wing Commander's vehicle as they passed. It was the soldier on the ELINT flight, Wells remembered with a jolt, Flight Lieutenant Baxter. The commander would never forget the look on the Flight Lieutenant's face. He thought the prisoners he'd seen shot from thousands of metres overhead would have looked the same.

Present day

Wing Commander Wells was standing in front of a desk in the Chernaya MIU headquarters, a Military Intelligence captain sitting on the other side. He had reluctantly broken his last words to Lieutenant Baxter, having discussed the situation with his bomber crew in order to not go into the building and never emerge. It was probably just paranoia, but not by much.

"Captain, one of my unit's officers has been taken away by a gang of your security people. As wing commander, I have a right to know when and if he is returning."

"You don't need to know that," said the captain coldly.

"That's all you've been saying for the past ten minutes. The whereabouts of one of my people is a serious matter. I will require a replacement. If it is a security matter, as it would seem by your involvement, I will need to debrief my wing," lied the Commander.

"This information is classified," the MIU captain said curtly, in a tone that signalled the conversation was over. Wells lost his temper.

"Look. Do you see this patch? This is a Wing Commander's patch in the Hamilayan Air Force. Unless there has been a major reshuffle in the armed forces I don't know about, a Wing Commander does have a bit of security clearance, and is certainly a higher grade than an goddamn intelligence desk-jockey captain. If I have to pull rank on you, I will. Now, captain, tell me where Flight Lieutenant Baxter has gone."

"You're out of line. I'm going to have to report you, Commander," said the captain, still coldly arrogant.

"Just answer the fucking question!"

"Very well. If you must know, Flight Lieutenant Baxter was picked up by the MIU for questioning with regards to his cousin's association with the Red Brigade radical Marxist party. He was released the next day and subsequently transferred to the 143rd Bomb Wing for his own personal reasons. Now, please leave my office."

An hour later, Wells was in his own office at Chernaya AFB. The 143rd was a stroke of luck, as he knew the commander from the Air Force Academy. He picked up the phone, and there was just enough time to make a call or two before embarking on the day's training flight...

ring-ring... ring-ring...

"Wing Commander Siegel."

"Siegel, this is Wells, Tim Wells of the 25th."

"Ah, Tim. Long time no see." Wells could tell that his colleague was not all that pleased to hear from him.

"Yeah. Look, one of my officers has been transferred to your unit, but I wasn't informed prior. Anything you can tell me about it?"

"Tim. Because I know you, I'm going to say this. Just put down the phone now and forget we ever had this conversation, okay?" Siegel was instantly on his guard, and it was now obvious to Wells and anyone who could have been listening that something was very wrong.

"This is one Flight Lt. Baxter, did he ever even show up at 25th?"

"For the sake of argument, let's just say he did. He's here. I saw him this morning and said 'Hi, Baxter.' Now, are you done?"

"Look, Dave, this is important. Everyone has their lips sealed, and I would really like to know what's happened to this guy, just for the sake of principle, okay?"

"You don't need to know. I don't need to tell you. And I've said too much already. This conversation is over. I strongly suggest you drop the matter."

"So you do know something, then?"

click.

Wells shook his head and got up from his desk. A short time later, he was aboard his aircraft, and the crew were going through pre-flight systems checks.

"Okay, Lieutenant, we ready to go?"

"All lights are green, sir. Wait, what's that?" asked the pilot, pointing out the cockpit windows. A small group of black vehicles was approaching from across the tarmac. Soldiers poured out and started shouting and gesturing towards the bomber.

"Attention Condor Six and crew. By authority of the Military Intelligence Unit, you are under arrest. Shut down all systems and step out of the aircraft with your hands above your head, or we will open fire." As the voice spoke, the soldiers began moving into position around the aircraft, though at a fair distance. Wells made a split-second decision.

"Continue takeoff procedures, Flight Lieutenant," he said calmly.

"Sir, I can't-"

"That's a direct order. If we go out there, we're all dead, you understand me? Get us out of here."

"But-"

"Just go, or I'll shoot you myself!" shouted the commander, gripping his service pistol menacingly. It had the desired effect. The pilot muttered and shook his head, leaning over the controls, and the aircraft began to slowly move forward along the runway.

"Condor Six, this is your final war-" The Commander cut off the radio link. As the bomber was just lifting off the ground, a smoke trail signaled a SAM had been fired, but it spiraled past the aircraft harmlessly.

Somewhere over the ocean

"I can't believe we just committed high treason," the bombardier said for the third time.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," said his commander. "You know what MIU does, though. It's either run or die."

A fugitive strategic bomber was a serious situation, of course, and all Hamilayan forces in the area were on the lookout for it. The aircraft had the misfortune to come within detection range of a carrier and escort vessels, which dispatched two F-48 fighters to intercept. The fighters took their time moving into position; a lone bomber was easy pickings, and wouldn't be escaping any time soon. The defensive systems operator didn't see them until it was too late.

"Fighters, fighters incoming!" she shouted from her station. The pilot immediately took the aircraft into a dive, just as two R-77 missiles were fired. Countermeasures were released, and one missile went wild, but the other struck the Tu-160 on the wing.

"We're going down!" screamed the pilot. "I have land coming up, going to try and get us near there, brace for imp-"

"Kite to Baseline, target is eliminated. No parachutes. Returning to land."

Commander Wells pushed a piece of metal off himself and got up, gasping for air. He looked around, trying to remember what had happened. He looked forward towards the cockpit, and saw that the aircraft had fragmented and it was lying about ten metres away on the... sand. Moving forward, the ruined aircraft was on a beach, the waves lapping gently over it, whilst on his right was a mass of thick jungle. As he staggered towards the cockpit, he saw two bodies in there, and tried to speed up but was unable. One was the pilot, sitting in his seat. Wells tried to unbuckle and lift him out, but stopped when he saw the shards of glass strewn everywhere, in particular the one which had cut a neat red line across the pilot's throat. In a daze, he looked to the other body, the defenses operator, lying on the floor. Unconscious, but not seriously injured, he moved her out and left her on the sand. A quick search of the wreckage - again, more like dazed wandering than a search - failed to find any trace of the bombardier. Wells moved back to the forward section of the aircraft, and collapsed on the sand, overcome.

Two hundred kilometers away, four UH-96 helicopters with a full loadout of troops took off from an aircraft carrier. Said carrier and its escorts followed close behind.

how do i made popular rp?

OCC: cool!

um... thanks?

how do I make popular rp?

(OOC: Inform you started to kill -insert political, ethnic or religious minority here-, in a few hours your thread will become full of 2003 and 2004 nations dogpiling on you and among the most popular ones of the day.

What I meant with this comment is that popular roleplay != good roleplay and in fact n00b threads tend to call lots of unwanted attention sometimes. Just be patient and try to form a small "community" among the experienced RPers to invite people OOCly about it in offsite threads and in NS, this might increase your chances of attracting people. Also making an OOC Interest Thread first helps, and if nobody becomes interested, you can always turn it into a story, like what I do when I open a RP thread(usually semi-open or closed though for several reasons) and nobody becomes interested.

Now with this finished... Third Spanish States is a socialist nation which believes in complete freedom of speech and there is only one way to betray the Army: accepting bribes. In fact one of their mottos is something like "All authority: No authority. Question Everything: Ensure Freedom". I would be interested in having them land... but Third Spanish States isn't exactly a tropical country, and logically has no jungles, just temperate and mediterranean forests)

(OOC: Inform you started to kill -insert political, ethnic or religious minority here-, in a few hours your thread will become full of 2003 and 2004 nations dogpiling on you and among the most popular ones of the day.

What I meant with this comment is that popular roleplay != good roleplay and in fact n00b threads tend to call lots of unwanted attention sometimes. Just be patient and try to form a small "community" among the experienced RPers to invite people OOCly about it in offsite threads and in NS, this might increase your chances of attracting people. Also making an OOC Interest Thread first helps, and if nobody becomes interested, you can always turn it into a story, like what I do when I open a RP thread(usually semi-open or closed though for several reasons) and nobody becomes interested.

Now with this finished... Third Spanish States is a socialist nation which believes in complete freedom of speech and there is only one way to betray the Army: accepting bribes. In fact one of their mottos is something like "All authority: No authority. Question Everything: Ensure Freedom". I would be interested in having them land... but Third Spanish States isn't exactly a tropical country, and logically has no jungles, just temperate and mediterranean forests)

OOC: how do I meme?

Yes, thanks, TSS, but that was tongue-in-cheek. :p

Anyway, I wasn't intending them to crash in anyone's territory, just on a little island in the middle of nowhere. That way soldiers can land and start hunting for the crew without causing an international incident. *nods*

OOC: how do I meme?

Yes, thanks, TSS, but that was tongue-in-cheek. :p

Anyway, I wasn't intending them to crash in anyone's territory, just on a little island in the middle of nowhere. That way soldiers can land and start hunting for the crew without causing an international incident. *nods*

(OOC: To the first question: CTSS actually has two Internets so its inhabitants always call it "The Internets"... and there is a Internets TV channel called 4chanTV where there is, among others, the "Become an Hero Show" and the "Roleplaying Show"(Actually LARP). As I mentioned before, the price of absolute freedom of speech and of having ridiculously cheap costs for broadcasting because all TVs are in the Internets, because "TVs have cathode tubes and the Internets is a series of tubes" D:

Third Spanish States is a large island in the middle of nowhere in the Atlantic Ocean... and the only "International Incident" that might happen is an angry band of gun loving militias getting involved in the middle of it, because... sometimes it seems there is actually no government there and that it is literally an anarchy.)

OOC: I'll do it if No one else will.

IC:
"Captain, this is watch, we're passing island 194 and the bridge officer has spotted a smoke column, looks like it could be a downed aircraft, we're going throught he channels looking for anybody whose lost a commercial liner but so far nothings turned up."

"There's a carrier group nearby innit?"

"Aye sir."

"Whose is it?"

"I don't recall, I could check if you want."

"No, that's alright, keep an eye on them, and dispatch a message to Fleetcom, see if they have anything to say."

"Aye sir."

Routine TrafficXXXXXXX
To: MNFLTCOMSOU
From: MNS Brutus
Encrypt:XXXXXXXX
Decrypt: XXXX

Smoke seen rising from island 194, request proceedings.

ACT TRAFFICXXXXX
To: MNS Brutus
From: MNFLTCOMSOU
Encrypt: XXXXXXXX
Decrypt: [redacted]
Proceed with caution, intel indicates Hamilayan TU-160 bomber, possibly carrying persons of interest, seek recovery with minimal risk.
-stv


"Ensign, have the marines prepped for a Cee-Sar to be given callsign Western, the CIC should have current satellite images and more details, this is a false flag, time critical op."
The ensign rushed off and orders were spread throughout the Gobi class Cruiser 'Brutus'. To an outside observer, the ship was a flurry of activity, the Mondothian Standard was pulled from the mast and replaced with a generic black flag, on the helipad, aircrews were hastily painting over Mondothian insignias, numbering and other symbology with quick-drying paint that was then covered with decals transforming the ships two helicopters visually from Mondothian ownership to Doweiran. within an hour, a part of the ships marine complement boarded the helicopter in generic, insignia-less uniforms, fully armed and equipped and were off, while the ship shut down all electronic broadcasts, effectively hiding itself from anybody who wasn't actively looking for it.

The pilot of the lead UH-96 was unhappy. Normally, this was a Hamilayan Marine Corps transport chopper, which suited him just fine, but behind him now were ten Intelligence Special Troops, who creeped him out in an appropriately clichéd way. Not surprisingly, he hadn't been briefed on what was happening, and didn't care to ask. Land, take off, extraction later, and no asking questions along the way, he thought to himself.

"We're coming in for landing. ETA is five minutes," he called to his passengers. The captain in their command gave the pilot a cursory nod and turned back to his men.

"You heard him," he said, jerking his head back towards the cockpit. "Okay, one more time. We're to secure a perimeter 'round the crash site whilst teams two and three do a sweep. Team four is providing overwatch. You all know the targets, we are weapons free at this time."

The soldiers responded with nods, and went back to preparing their SCAR weapons. Back in the cockpit, the radio crackled to life.

"Monitor 1, Hunter 1, this is Swift, be advised, we have unidentified contacts inbound towards the LZ, two-two-zero degrees from your current position. Avoid contact, but this remains secondary to your objectives. Over."

"Wilco, Swift, Monitor 1 out." The pilot looked at the radio in silence. This was trouble. "Captain?"

"Affirmative, we got that," was the terse reply from in back.

On the ground, Wing Commander Wells was woken by a splash of water and a shake. "Hey, Commander! Commander Wells!" He opened his eyes to find he was lying back out by the shoreline and the bombardier standing over him. "Oh, thank God, you're awake. Come on, we have to get out of here."

OOC: Sorry, got to go.

encrypted radio traffic:
"Western Actual this is John Wayne, we have confirmation of uh potentially hostile helicopters en-route to the objective, we're going to try to arm up one of the birds and get some air support out to you ASAP."

"John Wayne this is Actual, what's the time-frame on that?"

"Actual, the hostile birds will land about ten minutes before you under eyes, we can get the birds armed and back over to the island in about 45. at thistime we do not believe there to be an enemy gunship and we're working on verifying that with a UAV. Weapons are free, go get 'em."


CIC of the MNS Brutus

"We have UAV visual of the island, beginning the scan for the subjects."

"Alright, how're fixed for images of the hostiles?"

"Uh, coming up,, they'll pass the second UAV in about...two minutes and we should get some nice pictures."

"Sounds good, make sure the boys on the ground get those ASAP."

"Can do."

The Two UAVs were high endurance Storm-Crow reconnaissance craft, designed to provide high quality tactical information from a variety of cameras including thermal and starlight night sights and a stabilized laser rangefinder/designator while themselves remaining unseen due to small, stealthy design and materials, making the small aircraft the first choice for Mondothian tactical intelligence gathering.

"Go, go, go!"

Two helicopters touched down almost on top of the wreckage and soldiers swarmed out. The third landed some way down the beach, and the other hovered overhead. Ten soldiers surrounded the aircraft, beginning to set up machine guns using sheets of metal as cover, whilst another ten, 'Team 2' went over the aircraft sections with guns raised.

"Clear."

"Clear over here."

"Woah, we have a body in the cockpit. Target Two, confirm Target Two is down. Killed in the crash, looks like."

"Clear. No signs of life."

"I have tracks, some trampled bushes, leading into the jungle."

Fireteam leaders returned to the captain commanding the operation, who was setting up a command post sheltered in the aircraft midsection, to make their reports.

"Damn it! All right, you know what to do. Team two, team three, you'll have to search the jungle. We want out of here by nightfall. Go. Sergeant, get me Swift."

The radio link was duly set up. "Swift here. Hunter, sitrep?"

"Hunter to Swift, one target is down. Other targets appear to have fled into the jungle. Beginning our sweep now."

"Copy that. Group ETA is four-twenty minutes. Hold the crash site until then."

"Wilco, Swift, Hunter out."

The twenty men of teams two and three uneasily disappeared into the trees, and the three helicopters on the ground lifted off to return to their carrier. The fourth helicopter still circling turned to fly ahead of the search teams.

One Battle-class carrier, one Questralia-class patrol cruiser, one Type 31 and two Type 38 destroyers continued towards the island numbered 194 by Mondothian forces from 200 kilometers out.

Encrypted Radio Traffic:

"Western Actual, this Is John Wayne, we have eyes on the hostiles, looks like thirty, three zero on the ground, with another ten still airborne. They've set up on the beach by the crash site, machine gun nests and what looks to be a commo shack, suggest you stay away from that position, they've broken into teams and are beginning a sweep of the island.

We've also got a small carrier group headed your way, we're trying to position ourselves on the far side of the island from them and will be rushing support your way ASAP."

"Thanks Again John Wayne."

"Any Time Western."


Island 194
The Helicopters barely touched down about halfway around the island from the crash and 24 troops each piled out, almost before the last one was out they were already lifting back into the air and headed back to the Brutus.

"Alright team, lets do this by the numbers, these guys probably don't want to be found so I want Bravo and Charlie teams to cut around to the far-side of the island from the crash and come back towards the crash, try to cut them off, Alpha and delta are on me, I want to get between the hostile search team and their LZ, We'll catch 'em in a crossfire with Bravo and Charlie. I want the snipers to cut in at an angle between, try to set up a good ambush point, then signal me and Bravo Six to the position so we can time our advances, other than that, keep radio silence everybody, weapons are free but don't hurt the targets. Let's go!
With that, the Marine platoon split itself into three groups, Two large groups that angled off into the jungle, while the pair of two man sniper teams cut straight into the jungle. Everyone was tense and ready for action, the soldiers all had combat experience from the Revolution, but only a few of the officers and the snipers had fought in jungle actions before that, their advance was slowed by unfamiliarity with moving in the dense vegetation, but the officers with jungle experience served as examples and the pace quickened within a few minutes.

OOC: I'd jump in but at this point I'm not sure if my participation would be welcome. I'm thinking something low-key, small team of special forces on the island to recover a relay transmitter that was deployed earlier for insert generic reason here when the Blackjack decides to faceplant the sand. Their ride off the island would be a submarine currently submerged, possibly bottomed, near the island. Mondothians or Hamilayans to encounter them as it happens, possibly the SERE'ing Hamilayan pilots running headlong into the RSF hide without realizing it - entirely possible, I do try to RP a force of personnel extremely skilled at personal camouflage. Flip side is that they're not too good when it comes to peacekeeping operations. Not good at all. Anyways, that little aside put to the side (I apologize, I've always wanted to say that), what say you?

OOC: I had had a similer Idea to Russya, but however this looks like its full enough now. Have a good RP.

OOC: No time for post now, sorry (may be a little busy this week, just moved interstate), but you're very welcome to join in, Russkya. SaintB, if you still want in I'm sure we can manage that, unless the others think it would be a problem?

OOC: Well my idea was I had two squadrons of special forces operatives field testing new equipment to make sure it meets my militaries standards in a wargames scenario, but I don't have much online time so I will let Ruskya take it.

OOC: I don't have any problem with Russkya and/or SaintB joining

OOC: Saint B, if you want to jump in with that, that's a fair bit different than what I've got. I've no problems, and since Mondoth and presumably Hamilay don't either, feel free. Any more OOC discussion to be had here, or should I progress to introducing the small team recovering the relay system?

OOC: lols, 7 ooc posts in a row, ooc thread is probably in order. Voila (http://www.forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=13482764#post13482764). Russkya, fire away, I'll wait for you.

5000th post!

ohgod what have i done with my life?

OOC: Oh Hamilay, I feel your pain. I've been here since '04, roleplaying offsite.

They'd been on hard routine since the Tu-160 - or at least what looked to be a dying Blackjack - had impacted the island. Matters had only gotten worse when the distinctive noise of helicopters was heard, experienced ears listening to the changes in pitch and direction that would suggest that they had flared in and then lifted off again: As if dropping someone or something off.

Currently, Rinat was holding the handset in his left hand and crouching next to the R110C manpack radio. On its carrying frame, the radio was plugged into a signal booster and then to a thick, short UHF antenna. Surrounded by the thick underbrush that had been gently moved aside and tied in place, and with a camouflage net overhead with further foliage applied there, Rinat was in perpetual shadow. Given that it was a thick jungle, the canopy kept most light from filtering down anyways, but the abundance of ground cover suggested that this particular patch of the jungle was very mature. He kept clicking the transmit toggle, timing the breaks in squelch to correspond to letters in morse code. The R110C then "compressed" the signal for burst transmit, and encrypted it. Relayed to the signal booster and then fired out of the antenna, the signal consisted of a concise SITREP that would be relayed to their supporting asset at the next comms check-in.

They'd been utterly silent for the past few hours, communicating by hand signal alone. Belonging to Operational Group Two of the Russkyan Intelligence and Security Service, each of the five man team was highly trained in two specialities and more than a little annoyed at the unwelcome and sudden attention the island was recieving from at least one nation.

Halfway up the monstrous tree trunk that had held the antenna, Anatol was held in place by a four meter length of rope that circled his waist and the trunk in one large loop, and the pressure of his boots against the decades-old bark. His weapon was slung across his chest tightly to keep it out of the way, leaving him with only quick access to his sidearm, something that wasn't currently required. A wrench helped him loosen the third-last segment of the rigid antenna, and a rope secured to his belt had its free end pulled up from ground level again and tied about the two meter long piece that was then lowered down to his compatriot Filip. Storing it with the others, next to the already disassembled radio beacon and automated relay device, Filip waved slighty and the rope disappeared upwards again.

Vasily was on local security, patrolling rather quietly about the tree in question with his camouflaged head on a pivot, constantly scanning from side to side.
And that was when his personal role radio - PRR - clicked twice in his ear. Contact. The fifth member of the team had sighted helicopters flaring in quickly and professionally, unknown soldiers disgorging rapidly from them and moving out into the underbrush and jungle.

Dmitry moved carefully, keeping objects between him and the unknown force. He also moved quickly and as quietly as possible, but wasn't stressing stealth for the sake of speed. Encountering tracks in the jungle, he saw an unrecognized tread pattern and made a mental note of it to report to Rinat once he reached the hide. It appeared as if one set of spoor belonged to someone who was slightly dazed, judging from the irregular pace pattern. Trained never to assume anything, Dmitry thought they could be tracks from any surviving flightcrew.

Flight Lieutenant Callaghan was seeing a soldier pointing a gun in his direction behind every tree and fern, and wildly pointed his pistol at the dark shadows. Behind one of the huge tree trunks, there was a rustle and movement, and something darted out into the open. He fired three times, his first shot whining off into the jungle but the next two rounds hitting the target. There was a thud and a large shape fell to the leaves on the ground with a thud. With the shots the other crewperson from the bomber had instinctively whipped out her own sidearm, letting go of the Commander who she'd been supporting and causing him to stagger forward. The woman helped him up with one hand, with her gun raised in the other and scanning the forest intently. Callaghan cautiously approached the shape on the ground, aiming his weapon at it. He groaned as he saw it had four legs and a snout. Relaxing his deathgrip on the pistol, he waved to the others standing further back in what passed for a clearing, who also breathed sighs of relief. The three resumed their pace, moving closer to a patrol of Russkyan soldiers.

The lieutenant in command of IST Team Three heard the distant sounds which could only be gunshots, and he ordered his troops to pick up the pace towards the noise, which they did so reluctantly as they were moving carefully, each man having his own visions of leaping jaguars or giant snakes or natives with poison-tipped blow darts. He made a short radio communication, and the helicopter overhead changed direction to follow the squad's movement. The soldiers on board would rappel down when the targets were sighted to surround them, if necessary, and the helicopter's heavy machine guns could provide some fire support.

When Dmitry reached Rinat, a brief conversation about his observations confirmed what they'd suspected based on "worst case scenario" thinking. There was an active hunter force, at least one, tracking the surviving flightcrew. The effectiveness of the helicopter that sounded to be supporting them would be limited severely by the jungle, though any onboard weapons would likely be able to chop through the canopy and a weighted rappel rope and a hard-assed soldier could still penetrate barring an unfortunate impact with a high branch.

The last section of antenna came down and was bundled with the others. Filip hurridly camouflaged the pieces by tossing brush over them as Vasily clicked his PRR transmit toggle three times. Halfway down the trunk but not out of the canopy yet - it was a very mature jungle, afterall - Anatol turned around to face the ground, pulling his sidearm free of its holster. In the "Inverse Rappel" position he was comfortable, it being a technique taught by Operational Group One during the brief urban hostage rescue training received by OPGRP2. Keeping the sights of his integrally suppressed PSS pistol aligned, he watched the ground and saw Vasily and Filip move out from the tree trunk to form the outside edges of a forty-five degree wedge. He lost sight of them both as they concealed themselves and froze in place.

The sound echoed through the trees, a sound any soldier was intimately familiar with.

The lieutenant swore "Gunshots" He signaled the nearest soldiers to halt and they passed it on to the rest of the group, the soldiers hunkered down, getting comfortable, but staying alert and read to move on an instants notice.
kneeling where he was, the Lieutenant hit the transmit button on his radio.

"Bravo six, this is Western actual, We've got gunshots, advise you to hold position real fast, out." All he got was a radio click of confirmation in reply.

"John Wayne, this is Western actual, we have gunshots fired in the jungle, what can you tell me?"

"Western this is Wayne we don't have much, this jungle is a bitch and a half on every view we've got, we'll never spot your targets from the air. We are tracking thermal signatures that look like your hostiles, nothing definite, but they just picked up and changed direction, if there's been gunshots, sounds like it's either the targets or we're watching the wrong tracks."
The Lieutenant clicked a confirmation back at them and signaled the squads to set off towards the apparent origin of the gunshot at double speed while back on the radio to Bravo and Charlie.
"Bravo six, Western actual, boffos are all neg, they do say that it probs wasn't our guys gettin shot at, but that may change if the bad guys get to wherever those shots came from first, we're double timin' it I think at this point we should try and meet up while moving towards the origin, will have the boffos relay our course and recommend a rendezvous, I'll have Sierra try to set up a new ambush, or at least get there first, out." He didn't have time to wait for the clicked reply before he was on the snipers channel.
"Sierra, this is actual, we're headed towards the shots, gonna meetup with team two on the way, we want y'all to try and get there first, maybe set up a nasty surprise, keep me appraised when you get there, out.
A clicked reply

"Wayne, this is Western again, we want you to pick up everybody's tracks, try and find somewhere on the way for a rendezvous between me and Bravo, and keep an eye on the hostiles."

"Roger Western, we'll mark a spot on you're maps, good hunting."

The three groups were moving as fast as the could with the number of inexperienced, Few of the soldiers were afraid of the fauna, having experienced what the believed to be far worse in SERE training, but the thick foliage still obstructed all but the most skilled jungle-walkers, holding the whole squad back. By comparison, the experience sniper team practically flew through the jungle, silent and as invisible as hunting jaguars.

In a few short minutes, the soldiers digital maps updated with an orange glowing point, indicating the proposed rendezvous, the lieutenant also got an arrow with a timer in the corner of his unit, indicating that one of the choppers had been armed and refueled and was on the way, by his reckoning, it would be on station shortly after the rendezvous, he couldn't have wished for better timing.

The man below clicked on a radio set:

"Bravo six, this is Western actual, We've got gunshots, advise you to hold position real fast, out." All he got was a radio click of confirmation in reply.
After a moment he treid again.
"John Wayne, this is Western actual, we have gunshots fired in the jungle, what can you tell me?"
*Soft noise in reply*
"Wayne, this is Western again, we want you to pick up everybody's tracks, try and find somewhere on the way for a rendezvous between me and Bravo, and keep an eye on the hostiles."


He was almost afraid to breathe; they didn't call him Lucky for nothing. From 15 feet above the man's head he watched the soldier push farther into the jungle along with the rest of his team. His hand slowly, instinctively moved toward his chest holster wherein the only gun with live ammo he possesed, the .357 magnum Argonaut pistol if they were hostile he told himself he wouldn't go down without a fight if spotted; fortunatly he seemed hidden in the canopy well enough that he hadn't been seen.

This was supposed to be your run of the mill cake walk field test! As of yet what exactly was going on had proved a mystery to Lucky and the eleven other Golden Lions on the island. A few hours ago an unidentified aircraft had grounded about mid island, Lucky had been sent to investigate, he had arrived at the wreckage site and had found traces of survivors but had not had the time to poke around the wreckage when the sound of incoming helos had forced him to hide in the jungle; he didn't stick around to meet any potential hostiles. It had only been dumb luck (hence his name) that he noticed another armed group heading toward him, and thus far managed to evade them. He wasn't called Lucky for nothing.. but now he had to wonder how well his luck would hold out, or how the others fared.

The whole squad was field testing a prototype Ares rifle with a built in optilink system in war games scenarios on the far southwest of the island. The island had been used for field tests before, it had a minimum of dangerous fauna and was remote enough that almost nobody came there.. but now however it seemed to central hub for military excersises from all over the planet. He wondered if the rest of his squad had been compromised. He needed raise them on comms, but his current predicament prevented him from sending any warnings, all he could do was watch, wait, and hope.

............

"We can't raise him sir, no reply. He either has his com off or he's been compromised."
"Compromised? You really think so?" Lt. Jack "Madman" Simpson chewed his lip, "He can't be compromised; there is no way a couple of jet jockeys could outclass some of the best, it has to be something else."
He paced for a brief moment and issued a new order, "Contact Team 2, try to set up a rendevous, see if they can't raise Lucky too. Perhaps he somehow stumbled into a satelite dead spot, that'd be just his style. Switch to live ammo just in case, we don't want to be caught unawares if you are right."
The clicking of magazines filled with live 5.56 NATO steel core rounds was faintly heard as Buddy Team 1 prepared for the worst case scenario.. here's hoping it wasn't that.

(Nobody was expecting trouble, the team inserted 2 weeks ago by submarine and was actually prepping to extract within 24 hours on the other side of the island when this all started. It might be fun for me to RP them trying to make heads and tails of the whole thing while trying to make thier extract time and not causing an incendent.)

Team Three's commander wasn't green. He had undergone his training as hard as that of any soldier in the Hamilayan military, and had seen real fighting in the civil war in an antitank platoon. This perspective had been one of the rare ones from the losing Imperial side, and he had only managed to escape being unceremoniously kicked out of the army, if not a jail sentence for treason, through the fortuitous intervention of the FSD, who saw it as a shame to waste his talent as a young officer. This was doubly strange due to the FSD's continuing pursuit of imperialist sympathisers through all walks of life, but the lieutenant liked to think it was completely due to his skills that he had avoided a dishonourable discharge rather than his father being Deputy Director of Operations. Despite his experience, though, he was extremely ill at ease in the jungle, since in Hamilay, as a result of urban sprawl, St. Helena's tree-lined avenues were considered to be dense vegetation. For this reason the lieutenant was grateful for his point man, who had specialised in forest warfare and posessed nerves of steel anyway.

This point man, a corporal, raised his hand, causing the ten soldiers behind him to stop and grip their weapons even more tightly. He slowly inched backwards towards his commanding officer.

"Up ahead. Some tracks, but noises. Movement, two, maybe more people. Voices, but too far to make them out," he whispered.

"Targets," said the lieutenant with confidence. "Michaels, bring that radio up here. Hunter Three to Monitor Four, do you read me?"

"Copy, Hunter Three, I read you three by two."

"Targets have been sighted, moving northeast about twenty metres from us at this point. We're popping blue smoke to indicate our current position." The lieutenant nodded to one of the soldiers, who took a smoke grenade from his pack. "Preparing to engage now. Request interception, over."

"Affirmative, Hunter Three, Monitor Four wilco. Out."

The lieutenant cut off the communication. "Hit that smoke. Alpha, go left and cut 'em off. The rest of us are with the corporal. Take us in."

The blue smoke wafted upwards throughout the jungle canopy, managing to break cover in a less dense area. The force of Hamilayan soldiers split into the two groups, moving silently towards their hapless victims, whilst the helicopter changed course and swooped low over the trees, the soldiers manning the machine guns preparing their weapons. Its presence would be immediately obvious to anyone in the area, but other than the hunters and the quarry, there supposedly was no one else...

OOC: Sorry for the delay again. Okay, anyone, here's your cue. :p

It was Anatol who saw them first. Being halfway up a tree trunk and just below the canopy will be beneficial to your line of sight, even in a mature jungle. A trio of shapes in flightsuits, looking haggard, one with an alarming tendancy to swing his pistol towards anything and everything that caught his attention for more than a moment.

They continued on their course between Filip and his comrade, and as they appeared no immediate threat, Vasily padded out towards them as silently as a stalking jaguar on the jungle floor. With his "Black Rook" rifle's stock pressed firmly into his shoulder and a sight picture resting on the back of the apparently female crewmember supporting the wounded crewmember, he stopped in place and whistled quietly.

Filip then stepped from his concealment as Callaghan swung towards the sound, his STV "Black Rook" hanging on its tactical sling. The knife edge of his right hand came down on Callaghan's weapon wrist before the iron band of his grip fastened about the joint, and his left foot impacted the back of Callaghan's right knee firmly. Balance thus upset, Callaghan was spun facefirst into the soft jungle loam to find Filip kneeling on his right shoulder, his sidearm under the operator's left foot, and the muzzle of his rifle pointed squarely at the by now quite alarmed female aviator.

"Western, this is John Wayne, Fox, Fox, Fox, repeat, Western, this is John Wayne, Fox, Fox, Fox, hostile just popped blue smoke and an enemy chopper is moving in"

"Western Six, this is Sierra, Fox, Fox, Fox, we've got eyes on the target but someone else got their first, small number of experienced operators, not our hostiles, looks like at least some of them may be staying concealed but there's at least three, they just took down the targets but it looks like their confused as to what's going on (garbled)-it bird on our position! we need MANPADS frikkin NOW!"
before the flood of reports was finished, the lieutenant was already gesturing frantically for the now re-united platoon to shoulder their weapons and move out at full speed. The heavy weapons crew had a pair of Peregrine shoulder launched, low level anti-air missiles ready to fire and two more in reserve while the rest of the soldiers had their standard battle rifles and SAWs at the ready. Friendly chopper support was close, but not close enough for comfort.
"Sierra, this is Western, we are en route will be on you with all available firepower, recommend you do not engage until we clear that chopper."

The friendly chopper would have air-to air versions of the peregrine missiles to cover it's own back, but nobody wanted them to be needed, and so the heavy weapons crew scanned what of the sky they could see through the jungle canopy for the enemy chopper with the missiles passive IR while the whole platoon moved as fast as it could through the jungle towards the now known position of their targets, ready for a fight.

Meanwhile, the sniper team stayed down and stationary hidden by the jungle and their ghillies, watching the unknown soldiers deal with the targets through their scopes, ready to pull the trigger if it looked like the targets were in danger.

Both Callaghan and the woman, one Flying Officer Hackett, yelled out at the same time. Suddenly on the ground with a mouth full of dirt, Callaghan wasn't doing much of anything, but Hackett glanced briefly at the commander draped over her shoulder, who was looking more bemused than anything, then looked at the pistol hanging loosely in her other hand, then returned her gaze to the soldier with rifle raised, and let the pistol drop to the ground. With a final uneasy glance towards the commander, she lowered him to the ground as well, keeping her free hand palm out in front of her, and then slowly showed the other.

"Intelligence?" Hackett asked softly. She wasn't expecting anything else, and this meant the end of the line. The soldier would pull the trigger right now, if she was lucky, or they'd be taken back to 7 Union Square or a more secluded location, where the eventual outcome would be the same.

The sound of helicopter blades increased to fever pitch, and a black shape was briefly visible above the canopy. Fortunately, it continued forward and disappeared once more. The distant sound of crashing and a few scattered shouts of surprise caused by contact with sharp branches indicated the arrival of the fourth team of security troops. More shouts and crashing occured, as this team was under no illusions that anyone in the vicinity might have missed their entrance. Hopefully the frightened and confused bunch of aviators would do as expected and run headlong into the team approaching from the other side.

Anatol got down from the tree, secured his line, and came up on local security, also armed with the RMSMC-built STV "Black Rook" integrally suppressed assault rifle. Firing heavy 9x39mm ammunition, it was ideal for the jungle, especially with magazines stagger loaded with both jacketed soft nose projectiles and armour piercing cartridges.

While Filip kept the fliers under watch, Vasily collected their weapons. Identifying the slide release, he dropped the magazine and broke the weapons down after clearing the chamber, leaving the frames where they fell at his feet and throwing the slide in one direction and the barrel in the other. Thus made safe, he went on to search the captives. Declaring them "clear" after securing any weapons on the aviators, he turned his attention to the wounded crewman. Filip brought a folded over silk sheet from the cargo pocket of his trousers and flicked it open, selecting a phrase and holding the sheet infront of Callaghan's face, easing the pressure on his shoulder as he did so.

The sheet read, in English, German, French, Spanish, Russian, and Mandarin Chinese: "I am a Combat Search and Rescue operator. You will obey my commands. You will be treated well."

Ignoring Hackett's question for the moment, Vasily depressed the transmit switch on his PRR, speaking quietly in his mother tongue.

"Rinat, Vasily. We have located the fliers. The opposition have contacted each other nearby and unknown forces have deployed nearby. We are withdrawing to your location with the equipment and aviators."

Stepping close to Hackett, he brushed dirt off her flightsuit, near any badges or other markings, and used a roll of nonreflective olive drab tape to cover any insignias, improving her concealment. He handed her a small plastic case containing brown and green greasestick, miming its application with his free hand. The camouflaged operator then turned to Callaghan and taped over his insignias while Filip placed a similar "compact" in the flier's hand.

Vasily then directed the two unwounded fliers to collect the lengths of rigid antenna from the base of the tree. Conducting a quick check of the Commander and deeming him safe to be moved, he slung that man over his shoulder and watched as Filip secured the rucksack containing the relay. With a thumbs up from his compatriot, he let Filip take point and walked behind Hackett and Callaghan on the way out, Anatol cycling behind the patrol to provide rear security.

Lucky
His Luck Held out, again. As soon as they were clear Lucky flipped his comm on and slid out of the tree. "Team lead, this is 3."
The subvocal transceiver in his gear allowed him to speak almost silently as he crept along the ground toward the last known position of his team.
"This is Alpha lead, good to hear your voice 3, what happened?"
"Soldiers sir, unidentified but at least form two separate factions. I can confirm that they both have air."
"How do you know?"
"Well I spotted the first group's air as they were coming in to the island, I overheard a conversation from the second group with their air. I also found out that one has at least 2 squads and the other is unknown."
"How do you know all this 3?" Madman's voice was very doubtful.
"Lets just say I got up close enough to hear their conversation and if I wanted to; Identify their cologne..."
Silence was the only answer for several seconds; "Listen 3, we are set to rendezvous with Team two in grid S4 ETA 15 minutes, lets link up and get to our Nav."
"Yes sir Lt."
As quickly and quietly as he could Lucky made his way through the foliage, pistol at the ready heading in the direction of his buddy team.

"Western Six, this is Sierra, the guys with our targets are confirmed not enemies, they appear to be escorting the targets out of the area without struggle. Will trail 'em and report further, the helicopter just circled past but we think it dropped more troops on the far side of the target location."

"Sierra, this is Western six, message confirmed, don't get caught and we'll be there as fast as we can."

"Charlie, looks like things are headed towards and end-game, take a couple of Merlins and secure an extraction point."

"confirmed, on our way"

As the Mondothian force continued through the jungle, the twelve soldiers of Charlie squad broke off to locate and secure an extraction point, while the rest continued towards the sniper's trailing the air-crew.



OOC: internet access! will be on afternoons.

The aviators were unsurprisingly very confused by this point, but followed the Russkyan's directions, camouflaging their faces and handling the antennae very carefully, so as to keep their captors happy. They trudged along in silence for a short while. Callaghan alternated between looking worriedly back towards the direction of the search teams and casting angry glances at the soldier on point who had knocked him to the ground.

They were startled when the helicopter passed overhead again, and instinctively dove straight to the ground. However, the passenger bay was now empty, and the pilots were now only too glad to be returning to the carrier to refuel and hopefully con some of their buddies into taking over this mission. It disappeared again after a second, and Callaghan and Hackett picked themselves out of the dirt with embarassment, still looking around uneasily.

"Any chance we could get our guns back?" muttered Hackett. "No, I guess not."

The pilots stopped in their tracks when a voice speaking in English suddenly spoke from distantly up ahead. "You hear someone talking?"

"What? Nah, I got nothing," someone unseen replied.

"No, I swear I heard someone, just after the helo went by. Come on, let's check it out."

"This is crazy. If they're there, it's three of them and they have guns. Get on the radio and call the L-T if you're so worried." It was clear that these were Hamilayan out to hunt for the aviators, and that there were apparently only pair.

"You kidding me? Three air force pukes, one of them wounded? No, we can take them, be a feather in our caps. Come on, hold that rifle like you mean it and follow me." The noises of the two soldiers moving came closer.

When Filip's left hand came off the forestock of his rifle, it formed a closed fist up over his shoulder, signalling the column to halt. A quick turn of that hand had the palm facing towards Vasily, then two fingers held up and apart. The hand tilted inwards, pointing at Rinat's ear. It then returned to the Black Rook as the operator stepped off slightly to the left and crouched behind and slightly to one side of a bush. Vasily gently laid the wounded flier on the ground behind a treetrunk and motioned with a slow and smooth movement for Callaghan and Hackett to join them.

Crouching there, he watched Anatol step past him, the soft rubber soles of his boots making little noise on the soft undergrowth. With the fliers behind cover and both Anatol and Filip in position to conduct a snap ambush, Vasily leaned in close to Hackett - assuming, based on a half-decade of field experience that a female voice would be more alluring than Callaghan's, thus more effective in drawing the contact into the hasty killing field. He spoke very quietly, in slightly Scots-accented English.

"Talk. Ask him where he is."

Turning to Callaghan: "Don't answer her."

Then he felt his nerves beginning to go on edge as he attempted to maintain rear and flank security, while simultaneously keeping a watch on the captives.

Hackett raised an eyebrow at the revelation their captors - or one of them, anyway - could speak English, but didn't question it. She nodded and looked at the Flight Lieutenant, then began.

"Callaghan! Callaghan, where the hell are you? Mike! Oh, god." She was a surprisingly good actor, adding a convincing quaver to her suitably fearful and confused voice, though Callaghan looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"Mike! Mike!" she called again. A short distance away, the two MIU soldiers looked at one another with glee.

"Told you we could take 'em. I'll go ahead, you cover me." They moved forward, with SCARs raised and set on full-auto; their orders were to kill, not capture, which also made things much simpler. This would be a walk in the park.

[OOC: Would have responded sooner but was too busy vomiting violently into the Porcelain God that is the toilet. This disease is some seriously fun shit, if by "fun" you mean painful.]

In the claustrophobic confines of the jungle, there really was no point in attempting anything at range; foliage would almost always conceal your target were it beyond fifty meters on average, and that was a generous range. With that in mind the integral suppressing of the Black Rook rifles still offered a slight advantage, but not as much as it would have at a greater range.

So when Anatol squeezed his trigger twice on the center mass of his target and elevated the muzzle quickly for a third shot to the nasal bridge, he was expecting to receive fire. Being an ambush, to duck behind cover would defeat the purpose of filling the killzone with sharp bits of metal at respectable velocity, and thus he performed a Drake Shoot while Filip searched for the second target through his sights.

Drake Shoots were simple: Given a sufficiently powerful cartridge and rifle combination, you could shoot through much cover. The basic principle was to double tap all of the spots where you'd like to be hiding if you were in the opposition's boots.

In a small clearing less than 350 meters from the pilots and thier rescuers(?). Buddy team one regrouped with thier lost member. "Welcome back Lucky."
One of the teams Jr. members jokingly named Hard Ass offered thier wayward mate's weapon back, "She's live now, El Tees orders." Lucky just nodded as he chambered a round for firing.
Madman signalled for the team to gather, "Alright, we are to meet with Team 2 near extraction there is an unknown military presence on this Island and I want to try and avoid it at all costs, whoever they are they only want the downed pilots and we want nothing to do with it, questions?"
The team was silent as they looked at one another, "Alright then, I want to form a 3 point wedge, me and Lucky will take point, Hard Ass and Beaner will be the left, and Rommy and Kombat; you two take the right. Lets keep a 7 meter gap between point and the ends. Saddle up!"
Almost as soon as the plan was layed out several gunshots alerted the whole team...

Anatol's shots rang true, tearing through the ribcage and lungs. The soldier felt a pair of hard punches to the chest, and looked down to see a rapidly spreading dark stain. He began to open his mouth, but then the third bullet struck him between the eyes and he toppled backwards, crashing through the foliage. His companion heard the thud-thud-thud of silenced gunfire striking flesh, and saw the body drop below his line of sight.

"Shit!" he shouted, and immediately sprayed half a clip of 5.56mm in a wide arc ahead. This was not silenced, as the job of the soldier's Team Four was to make as much noise as possible, and it wasn't MIU's style anyway. He steadied the bucking rifle in an attempt to track the unseen enemies, but more bullets came his direction, cutting through ferns and leaves. This forced him to fall backwards to the ground behind the nearest 'cover', a rotting log which probably wouldn't stop a well-thrown rock, let alone a bullet. Holding his rifle in his right hand, he awkwardly fumbled for the radio at his belt.

"Delta Six taking hostile fire! Five is down! I need back-"

As expected, the log did not stop a bullet. Two rounds cut through the wood and hit the soldier's left hip and thigh, eliciting a scream. The radio dropped to the dirt as he brought out the rifle again, firing suppressive bursts whilst frantically shuffling backwards in pain.

"Delta One to Delta Six, come in! Delta Six, respond! Goddamn it!"

The other eight soldiers of Team Four regrouped and began moving swiftly towards the direction of the gunfire. Five men of Team Three followed close behind, the others staying behind to finish combing the immediate area for the pilots, just in case this was a clever diversion.

"Contact. Wait, out."

With that, the two members of the team that were not already in the contact, were well advised of it. The potential presence of any highly sensitive high-frequency direction finding equipment no longer mattered; as D6 attempted to shred the jungle with his assault weapon, their location was advertised to all and sundry.

Rattled by a few near misses, but not hit, Filip made eye contact with Anatol as he changed out a magazine, dropping the spare down the front of his shirt, tucked into his combat trousers.

"Break contact!"

Anatol fired the remainder of his magazine as Filip fell back ten meters and turned, dropping to one knee. He shouted: "Firm!" and began firing at the last known location - plus fifteen degrees to either side - of Delta Six. Filip sprinted back past him, passing Vasily, who simply slung the unconcious flier over his shoulder and motioned for both Hackett and Callaghan to get up, ready to go. The concussive thump of a grenade detonating - one of the freakishly powerful F.1 fragmentation grenades used by the RA - signalled that Anatol was now running back, followed up by him shouting "Coming through" and smacking Filip as he ran past.

Vasily, knowing where they were, decided to slide around the side of the contact and continue withdrawing towards the second part of their unit at the hide. "Shift left! Shift left!"

Complying with Vasily's order, Anatol changed course and ran on a diagonal to the left-rear of Filip.

"Delta One to Hunter One, Delta One to Hunter One, come in!"

"Delta, what the hell is going on? This should have been finished hours ago!" yelled the force's captain CO, still with a squad of troops at the Blackjack crash site.

"We're under fire! Estimate at least one unit of hostile spec forces. I have two men down! Need air support and possible medevac!"

"For christ's sake, the choppers are all back on the carrier! You're going to have to wait at least one-five minutes. I don't care what it takes, just finish these pilots off!"

"Affirmative, sir, I - grenade, grenade!"

No one had expected grenades. Of course the fliers would be armed with pistols or SMGs at least, but they shouldn't have managed to sneak explosives past base security and onto their aircraft (ironically enough). The small object was easy to miss with trees blocking lines of sight, and the point man was already concentrating on firing. The squad leader was the first who registered what it was. He shouted and dove to the ground, narrowly avoiding a rain of metal shards, but the point man was instantly killed and another two soldiers were cut down. The standing soldiers took that as the weapons-free signal, and immediately opened fire, the squad's grenadier responding with a 40mm HE round from his rifle's AG-C/EGLM, adding to the chaos.

By the time they reached the original location of the gunfire, it was deserted. Only six men were here now, the squad medic left behind to tend to the two wounded. Two of them stood looking at the body of Delta Five whilst the rest combed the area. One stooped to look at the spent shell casings.

"Definitely not pistol rounds. Fliers must have met up with some team to extract them."

Another soldier rounded a log and jumped. "Medic!" He raised his rifle and crouched low, allowing him to get a closer look. "No, forget that medic." Delta Six stared blankly at the treetops, his jugular and throat a bloody mess.

"Tracks going left," said one of the searchers.

"All right, guys, on your feet. Dawkins, Vega, finish securing the area and haul the bodies back to the wounded site to get them out."

At this moment there was a rustling from the trees behind and the five soldiers of Team Three appeared.

"Hold your fire, hold your fire, friendlies."

"Now you show up? Come on, let's go. They've gone this way. What are you waiting for? Move it!

Where the hell is that helicopter?"

Demonstrating great presence of mind, most likely motivated by a desire to cling to life, Hackett and Callaghan had brought the antenna segments with them as the element broke away from the contact. This was appreciated by the unnaturally calm men in their Serzha-B combat uniforms and two-tone green greasestick that covered all exposed skin. Once a quarter kilometer from the contact, the fliers moving ably enough thanks to the recent jolt of fresh adrenaline, the group halted briefly.

With typical RISS thoroughness, the antenna was a high power affair of foreign manufacture - French, to be precise. With no pretense, Vasily laid the commander on the ground and motioned for both fliers to sit next to him. Filip carried the antenna components to a spot just off the brutally obvious trail they'd left and Anatol took up security duties looking down said trail.

Silently, efficiently, the bundled antenna segments were laid between two bushes. Filip's experienced hands made short work of the job. The topcap unscrewed, the time delay portion of the detonation train was removed easily enough thanks to the design of the F.1(RA) grenade and the now instantly detonating grenades were concealed in jungle undergrowth. One of the standard operating procedures of Operational Group Two was to carry a length of transluscent wire (actually 25 kilogram fishing line) wrapped around the body of the grenade underneath the safety lever. The reason for this became immediately obvious as Filip adroitly boobytrapped the antenna segments.

Turning away from this while Vasily checked the Commander's health and tended to his injuries, Filip then withdrew a DAPM-30 which was a widely distributed Russkyan weapon that was analogous to the M18A1 "Claymore" mine. Travelling at twice the speed of sound, the 955 fragments produced by the DAPM-30 would cover a sixty degree arc. Exceedingly powerful, the weapon's major limitation was its weight: a full three kilograms. This was emplaced and as perfectly concealed as Filip could make it. Aimed down the trail, the "Scythe Thirty" would ideally blast any pursuers with an ungodly storm of white-hot shrapnel while shaking the jungle within a twenty meter radius just from the blast effect of its 1.25kg explosive (PESI.7) charge.
In order to trigger the weapon, Filip relied upon the "percussion" detonator setting which would trip it once the F.1(RA) grenades trapping the French-made antenna detonated. Should the unit they'd made contact with not prove foolhardy enough to move the antennae enough to set off the grenades, Filip covered his tracks by rigging the antitamper device that ensured the Scythe Thirty would remain potentially lethal until it was detonated or disabled by a bomb disposal expert with specialized equipment.

As Vasily had been the only one to talk to the Hamilayan aviators thus far, it fell to him to explain their next course of action.

"We will now head off on a dogleg," his low voice still carrying the Scots tinge, "that will then turn back towards our destination. We will be performing antitracker drills: This is not something you know as well as myself and my associates do. I will carry him."

Vasily pointed to the commander while Filip ensured everyone drank deeply from one of the three canteens he carried in and on his assault vest. Anatol maintained a silent count while scanning the jungle around them.

"You two must walk flat on your feet. Put your foot down flat, then step forward and do it again. Don't bother walking in each other's tracks. Step where I step. It will be on rocks, in shadows, ontop of recently fallen logs. We will not step into patches of sunlight. We will not scuff our feet, we will not touch foliage unless there is no choice."

He pointed at Anatol, who opened and closed his free hand - that being the one that supported the forestock of his rifle - once and made a walking gesture with his index and middle finger. Vasily shrugged and tilted his head.

"This man is our rear security. He will cover many of the mistakes you will make and ensure our trail is sanitized. Never come nearer than ten meters to him. Stay close to me. This other man," he paused, indicating Filip "will take the lead. When we are safe, we will determine who you are and who myself and my associates are. Then we will determine a course of action. Now, we must go."

They stood as one, Vasily Petrovich lifting the commander off the ground and slinging him across his shoulders. Though leaving the antenna behind, the team retained all of their equipment and the radio beacon with its associated equipment, much of which was distinctly Russkyan, especially the communications systems. Padding near-silently into the jungle's green hued darkness, Filip guided the column through the shadows between shafts of light that descended dazzlingly from the canopy's breaks.

Anatol, turning a set of leaves back to their natural position before he carried on, scanned their rear arc. His eyes, accustomed to the shapes of primeval Russkyan forest, easily interpreted the jungle's shapes and colours despite the darkness being irregularly lacerated by sharp light from the stunningly blue sky overhead.

"One of them sounds like some kind of 5.56 NATO." remarked Kombat absently as the team stood still, "Far off, perhaps 300 or more meters, no threat to us in this jungle."
Kombat was a weapons specialist, the most common job in the Lions; he had a talent for picking out the type or caliber of a weapon just from the sound; Madman nodded, "Lets get ready to fall out."
"Grenade... pretty big one too."
"Thats enough..." the man known as Rommy, the team medical officer hissed, "We don't know how many they are, or even who they are we need to keep low, don't make it like that time in Firehelper where I had to patch your dumb ass up because you sneezed."
"Hey, I told you that my allergy..."
"Stop bitching you two!" Madman looked back and forth between the two, "Lets move, same plan."
"Yes sir!"
"Okay boss."
Silently and on high alert the 6 men began to tread through the jungle, on the look out for any conspicuous clearings or potential hostile forces they may encounter along the way.

(OOC: yeah I havn't been posting well sorry :(. Anyway, my spec ops men are moving noth by bortheast toward a rendevous with the other team which is holding position near thier shared exfil, they could likely encounter anyone headed southish or the Hamilayan soldiers who have gone to the area of the firefight. The initial response will not likely be hostile but they will demand that whomever they encounter surrender. If one of the groups is in trouble than the other two are within very easy suppporting range and will move in on a flanking position. Right now they are only armed with Optilinked assault rifles and argonaught pistols since they should not have been needing thier regular gear.)

[OOC: Glorified bump.]

With the contact site long behind them, the fliers were told to stop for a moment and rest. The commander was inspected and, while he seemed fit enough to walk, Vasily was not about to let the group's pace slow. In addition, any spoor he inadvertently left and Anatol failed to cover would be artificially deepened as if he were carrying a rucksack - or potentially a heavy weapon of some sort.

Anatol and Filip once again found themselves on security. Vasily lowered himself onto his haunches and stretched his back out experimentally, inhaling deeply. He addressed Hackett, as Callaghan had not too long ago been the recipient of some rough handling.

"Who are you? Where are you from?"

[OOC: Sorry, long week.]

Hackett took a long look at the foreign soldier. She was still in the dark as to his identity, only that Vasily and his companions were CSAR personnel presumably from a Slavic nation. As it had already been demonstrated they were interested in keeping her and her comrades alive, she was beginning to warm to them, but still remained wary. Best to play it safe.

"Jean Hackett. Flying Officer, Federal Republic of Hamilay Air Force. Number zero four nine nine one eight two zero five," she said flatly, giving the book response. Any more would take some coaxing.

The relaxation of the group was interrupted by a muffled explosion, causing the flyers to jump. The pursuing force was now down to five soldiers.

Through all the gunfights, the ten members of Team Two had been stumbling around blindly to the southwest, the increasingly angry radio calls of the platoon leader futile in reorientating them. With the helicopters now on their way back to the island and Teams Three and Four rapidly tallying up losses, it was decided to pick them up so they could play a more active part in the hunt. As two of the UH-96s made a second approach from the carrier, Team Two found a small clearing at which to fire green smoke grenades for extraction.

Flying Officer Hackett, Jean, Air Force of the Federal Republic of Hamilay. 049918205. Vasily would make an effort to remember this information. Name, Rank, and Unit he would remember well enough. The identification number, perhaps not so much. He had never been particularly good with numbers.

He nodded at Callaghan while reaching behind him with his left hand, delving into the center-rear cargo pocket of his VITYAZ assault vest. "And you? Name, Rank, Unit, and Number please, as she did." Unscrewing the cap of the canteen - one of three he carried as a safeguard against the oppressive jungle heat - he handed it Hackett. Then Vasily motioned for Filip to come over and watch the three while he switched out for stag temporarily. Filip produced his own canteen and drank deeply, sitting three meters away from the fliers.

Like the other two, he had a disconcerting habit of never letting his right hand leave the pistol grip of his assault rifle. He rested his canteen on the loam to his front and screwed the cap back on, tossing it underhand to Hackett and then pointing at the commander. With his left hand he motioned for him to drink and for Hackett to assist. Then he motioned to his neck, where dogtags would be, and pointed at the commander again. Finally, he turned his palm towards the canopy and the sky beyond that, fingers outspread. He waited for his canteen to be returned and then passed by Vasily as he returned to the group and Filip went back on security.

"He wants to know, like I do, what this fellow's name, rank, and unit are."

Anatol had, instead of the VITYAZ assault vest, opted for a Eger chestrig and numerous pouches clipped to his pistol belt. This left his back free for the commercially purchased "Camelbak" he was now drinking from without having to make himself temporarily unready to respond to threats by having a canteen out.

The pilots drank greedily, their last opportunity having been on the bomber several hours ago. Hackett began to help her commanding officer raise the canteen to his lips, but he pushed her hand away, speaking in a raspy but clear voice for the first time.

"Okay... I'm okay."

Hackett looked suspicious but watched as he managed to take a swig from the canteen. Callaghan was initially silent to Vasily's request for information, only replying with a suspicious and sullen look. The Commander noticed this with some alarm and nudged him in the ribs, some water spilling.

"Flight Lieutenant Michael Callaghan, 25th Bomb Wing, Hamilayan Air Force. Zero-one-double six-four-two-three-eight-zero," he said reluctantly. Commander Wells finished drinking and screwed the cap back on, passing the soldier his dogtags. Callaghan and Hackett looked at one another, then did the same.

Vasily didn't realize he was asking an already answered question. A few meters away, Filip clicked his PRR once to get his attention, and motioned Vasily over to him, where he handed the senior operator the fliers' dogtags and reported Callaghan's details.

Given that they were unarmed, seated, surrounded by heavily armed soldiers clearly from a special operations unit of some type, and that their dogtags had just been taken away - not to mention the "last meal" of tepid water - it was completely understandable to the Russkyans that they would be feeling nervous. Especially as Filip had failed to realize that the hand signals he'd made may not have been interpreted as: Help him drink, then tell me his particulars. To reassure the aviators, Vasily made a show of going through the dogtags and crouched down infront of them once more.

"Okay. We are going to keep going in about sixty seconds. Take these back, since I don't need them now. Commander Wells, I will assume that was your Tupolev that headbutted this island. Now I must know three things.

"Tell me why you were not running towards the helicopters, which could have been search and rescue looking for you. Tell me why Hackett asked if we belonged to Intelligence when we first encountered one another. And finally, tell me how you are feeling."

The dogtags were taken back with some puzzlement and hung back around the pilots' necks. The soldier might have wanted something else, but no one was in the mood to ask for clarification.

"Bomber shot down. Choppers wouldn't be rescue. Search, yeah." The commander laughed bitterly.

"Saw something we weren't supposed to see. Intelligence would be looking for us." He was still speaking in short, raspy sentences, but rapidly began sounding more natural and energetic.

"Feeling okay... still a bit dizzy. Must've whacked my head on something." A hand went to the forehead with a grunt. "Think I can walk."

"If you find you can't, I will carry you. Right, on our feet. Let's go."

With a few simple gestures, Vasily collapsed the perimeter. Filip found himself on point, with Vasily walking his slack and the fliers between him and Anatol, who was on rear security once more. They doglegged, which artificially increased the distance they had to tab but also prevented a simple compass bearing on any linear trail of spoor inadvertently left behind indicating their direction of travel.

[OOC: I will wait for the pursuing forces to get a few mentions in here before the column makes it to the hide location.]

The chopper slowly descended towards the forest floor, its whirring rotor blades tossing loose leaves and branches around the landing zone. Team Two's green smoke swirled around the aircraft. One of the crew popped her head out of the cabin door and waved to the silent jungle. There was a rustling and seven soldiers in jungle camouflage appeared out of the foliage. Three provided overwatch whilst the rest ran towards the helicopter and boarded. Two more arrived carrying a semi-conscious comrade lying on a stretcher. The crewwoman nodded in their direction.

"What happened to him?"

"Snakes, fuckin' snakes," called one of the soldiers transporting the unfortunate man. "We need the other helo for medevac."

"I'll call 'em in. Get on board, faster we leave the sooner we clear the area for them."

Uncertainly, the two soldiers set the stretcher down near the centre of the clearing and climbed aboard. The rotor blades began whirring again and the helicopter took off. A few moments later the second aircraft appeared, two personnel rappelling down and securing the stretcher for lift.

In the first helicopter, the pilot activated his radio.

"Monitor Two to Hunter One, Hunter Two is in the air. We are ready to provide air support, over."

"Roger that, Monitor Two, Hunter One is continuing pursuit. Out."

Although a shadow of the forty soldiers who had landed on the island, the pilots and the Russkyans had nine more men and aircraft searching, and the teams would not underestimate the enemy again. The five soldiers missing from Team One were proof enough of that.

[OOC: I know Mondoth has been busy. I think this has lain dormant long enough now.]

It wasn't the foliage that bothered the operators. They were accustomed to that, having trained heavily in the primeval forest of their homeland. What bothered them was the fauna, like the eighteen inch millipede that sprinted up a tree trunk as Vasily passed by. Startled shitless, he smashed it against the bark with the stock of his rifle, letting the remains fall to the ground where they writhed for a moment before stilling.

He nudged it with his boot, and it went to wrap itself around the toecap. A heel smashed it into the forest loam, forcibly seperating the upper half from the lower half. Mouth set in a tight line, Vasily looked back past the fliers and wordlessly apologized to Anatol for the sign he'd have to try to hide.

As a result of breaking contact and doglegging, the operators had not the first clue as to where their opponents were. They did know that they were rapidly nearing the hide, the hairs on the back of their necks standing on edge as they felt Dmitry watching them. Even amongst the Russkyans he was renowned for his ability to merge with his environment. He'd been selected for the Nozhnik program before a training injury knocked him from that program.

The presence of the helicopter overhead was comforting to the MIU troops. The gunfight and loss of several comrades had been an unpleasant surprise, but whilst the black shape buzzed overhead they had enough firepower to overwhelm another ambush. Unless the enemy had obtained SAMs, of course.

The new point man stooped to look at a bush bent slightly out of shape. It could have been the pilots, but it could also have been the work of the native fauna. Still, he waved the rest of the squad forward.

[OOC: Sorry for the short and late post, I'm still here though.]

(OOC: Please forgive these last few weeks)

Just outside of the Hamilayan LZ six men lay prone in the brush, watching every movement and hoping they weren't spotted. Madman recognized them almost immediatly and spoke into his subvocal mike, "Hamilayan... I recognize the uniforms and symbols. I was there once with General Brown when they treid to start an anti terror initiative."
"You sure?"
"Dead sure, we'd best lay low and figure out a new plan of attack; if they have air support we are hosed if they think we are hostile."
"Wats our ROE sir?"
"Nuetral, only fire if fired upon and avoid all contact; same as before."
The special forces troops watched in silence once more as the Helicopters landed and took off with wounded men, alert for any indication they may have been spotted.

Dmitry clicked the transmit button his PRR three times and whistled quietly to Filip before appearing from behind thick shrub. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at the fliers and jerked his head in the direction of the hide. As Anatol passed by, he restrung a monofilament wire, boobytrapping this section of the perimeter once again. The DAPM-30 stood ready behind brush.

Led inside the hide, the fliers were directed to sit on kip mats, replenish fluids, and if inclined, eat something. Rinat tossed them a pair of twelve-hour ration packs, complete ones that included all of the whitener, sugar packets, salt, drink flavouring, oatmeal, and cereal that was normally removed to leave just the entrée, dessert, chocolate bar, and heating packet. Filip unslung his pack with the radio equipment and wordlessly left the hide to join Dmitry on security. He carefully rearranged the infrared-suppressing camouflage net as he left, then took the two ninety degree turns in the entrance "tunnel" through the brush, something that trapped light and prevented people from seeing into the hide.

Anatol and Vasily ate, demonstrating the use of the heating packet as they slipped a meal each - chili con carne and Hungarian goulash - into the heating packet, adding water from their canteens to activate the heat modules and folding the top closed. In five minutes it would be heated through. As they went through the motions in the background, Rinat made no pretensions and addressed the fliers as a group in a quiet voice with his characteristically mild Irish accent.

"I understand that you're aviators. You're probably from the crashed Tupolev. Now, tell me everything you told my friend 'Viktor' and then tell me why you're not running towards these helicopters and their combat search and rescue teams."

The Commander looked at the other two aviators, who glanced back. Hackett's face was unreadable but Callaghan's was laced with worry. Hesitantly, the Commander began speaking, whilst the other two began preparing the ration packs, Callaghan munching on the chocolate.

"I was on a routine surveillance mission on an ELINT aircraft, a couple of weeks ago." He put his hand to his head to give the impression he was at pains to remember. "I... I'm not sure what happened. Some strange signals or something," the commander lied.

"I guess there was more to that than we thought, because the crewman who picked that up was carted off by MIU - the Military Intelligence Unit, NKVD bastards. Never saw him again," muttered Wells, who had reverted back to truth. "Then they came for us. Took the bomber and escaped, but a carrier scrambled some fighters, shot us down over this damn island. That's all."

The other pilots looked up from the food to nod their agreement. "Those are Intelligence troops," said Hackett. "So, yeah, you can see why we're trying to keep our distance."

Meanwhile, at the landing zone, the helicopter crew waited as the stretcher was winched up into the aircraft. One looked out the window - from his elevated vantage point he thought could see something in the foliage, but dismissed it. Maybe just another animal. He considered asking one of the troopers on the ground to check it out, but he didn't want to have to interact with those people any more than necessary. They wouldn't appreciate it if he sent another soldier to be bitten by a snake, anyway.

Unperturbed, Rinat maintained eye contact with Commander Wells.

"How many aboard the Tupolev, and to your knowledge, are you the only survivors?"

Vasily sat down beside the R110C radio, pulling an "All Weather" notepad from his trouser pocket, and jotting down a brief message in Morse. He showed it to Rinat, who nodded brusquely. As Vasily transmitted, he kept his eyes fixed to the notepad. Rinat continued:

"If any of you are interested we can leave you with the Intelligence soldiers. If you'd prefer you can come with us. I am not going to shoot you and leave you to rot in the jungle."

"Four aboard. We lost Stefan in the crash," said Wells, suddenly looking distant. He hadn't really thought about the death of the pilot in the confusion up until now.

"The pilot," said Callaghan, preemptively answering the obvious question. "That's good to know," he said, and then his face broke into a wry smile. "I'm not going out there for an eventual nine mil in the back of the head. I'll stick with you guys." It was the first time he'd shown anything other than resentment towards the Russkyans.

"Sorry to hear it. Commander, are you feeling better?"

Offshore, on the far side of the island from the other naval groups, a Ushakov-class submarine forced compressed air into its ventral ballast tanks slowly and tilted its dive-planes upwards. The vessel, identified as a Project 2232 submarine in Russkyan literature, rose to fifteen meters' depth and raised its periscope to just two meters beneath the surface. The Electronic Signals Warning Mast broke the surface when activated, rising from its housing on the back of the periscope.

When the board showed clear, the submarine rose again until only ten meters of water stood over her sail. The periscope conducted a quick surface and air check, spun quickly by the Watch Officer. Then the comms mast rose to join the ESW mast, the ocean's azure surface chopping around them as the submarine maintained a steady five knots, Bearing 320.

Vasily's compressed signal had been received by a communications satellite, relayed to one of the Russkyan Military's communications bunkers, automatically rerouted to a RISS facility, decrypted, a decision made, and a response sent. When the submarine's radio operator confirmed that he was ready to receive, the signal was sent to him. He confirmed receipt and the submarine dove back down to fifty meters with all masts and the periscope stowed. The signal itself seemed part of the world's standard electronic noise generated by huge navies, air forces, and civilian sources.

The Commander raised a hand to his head once more, then lowered it. "I think I'm okay. Thanks for asking. Could do with a bite, though. LT, toss one of those packs over here."

Callaghan duly complied. Some much-needed sustenance had temporarily taken the minds of all the pilots off their situation, but now they were beginning to worry again. This wasn't helped by the distant sound of the searching helicopter rotor blades being heard for the umpteenth time.

"How much longer are we here for, anyway?" asked Hackett, giving voice to their concerns.

Rinat shrugged while Vasily maintained listening watch on the radio.

"A day, at least. You should all sleep, or rest as best you can. Stay hydrated. We need the helicopters to leave before we can go."

He paused.

"Do any of you have families in Hamilay? You will have to come with me to my homeland, for some time, and I do not believe you will be able to return to your homeland. I need you each to tell me something about the Tupolev or the Hamilayan Air Force, the systems you worked on or organizations you were a part of. Cooperation with me and with the intelligence apparat will speed the debriefing process and allow us to decide where you want to settle.

"As part of this, I need you to trust me. We will not kill you. You are more valuable to us alive than dead. You will be well treated. As part of this, I expect your parole as officers of a legitimate military force: Do not attempt to escape. We will find you. Worse, your countrymen may find you. When you have been debriefed, you may settle in my homeland if you wish. If not, you can settle somewheres else. I am certain the intelligence apparat will provide you with a new identity if you require it. All right?"

"I used to have a wife." The Commander laughed, a short bark. He'd also had a son, stolen at eleven by leukaemia. This was the cause of his marital breakdown, which he wasn't about to tell and which neither of his colleagues knew. "Unattached here. LT?"

"Dad, mom, Katie..." Callaghan shook his head and trailed off. Hackett looked at him sympathetically.

"Sorry, Mike. I know she's a lovely girl." The Flying Officer was the one without close family, but the import of the Russkyan's words suddenly hit her like a freight train. Cooperation?

"You're talking treason." It didn't immediately register that in stealing a strategic bomber and escaping Hamilayan military personnel that was essentially what they had been doing for the past day, but this was different somehow.

"We will make arrangements to send word to your loved ones that you are safe." Rinat paused again, regarding Hackett.

"I am, yes. This would only be betraying the same government that has attempted to kill you. I understand your concerns, but understand this: to my knowledge, my nation is planning no offensive action against Hamilay. We also operate the Tupolev. If you are not comfortable telling me about the systems of this aircraft, that is okay. We will meet halfway. Tell me about your squadron leaders, what you think of your superiors. How responsive are they to operational requirements such as additional training, aircraft maintenance?

"Most importantly, from your Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape training, do you recall if they mentioned the size of any combat search and rescue team deployed for your benefit? I am aware that these are not CSAR specialists in the skies above us now. It will however give me the ability to estimate the size of the basic tactical unit we are now facing. CSAR and special operations forces often have many similarities, for instance, operating in four to twelve man teams." He was patiently explaining this now, with a calm, kind tone. "This will, as goes without saying, make it easier for my men and I to keep you alive if we make contact again."

It seemed like a million years had passed before finally all six men could breath a sigh of relief, at least temporarily. "They've gone now, lets move out."
Slowly the soldiers started to creep through the brush again, they skirted around the clearing and stuck to the densest undergrowth they could easily traverse. It was slow going, it took nearly 20 minutes to pass by the clearing. They stayed in thier 2 x 2 x 2 pyramid formation even as they low crawled. After passing the clearing with about 15 meters distance they once again rose and headed forward, rifles ready to be used in case of emergency.
The operation of an Ares III M2 Rifle is seen as unusual to nations who do not use it; the safety mechanism is built directly in to the pistol grip and the weapon will only fire if the operator has a proper grip; this feature was adopted from a Smith and Wesson 9mm pistol on the civillian sector and was proven to not only increase the speed at which the weapon could be prepared to fire but made a discharge from an unwielded weapon virtually impossible. Carefully, quietly, the Golden Lions continued to thier exfil point.

Hackett was initially silent. Commander Wells chuckled when Rinat mentioned her superiors, but thought better of it and stopped. He tapped Hackett on the shoulder.

"The man makes a point, you know. Do we owe anything to the State any more?"

Her head snapped up sharply. Now this was radical talk from an officer of the Hamilayan Air Force - an institution not as conservative as the Navy or Army, but with a strong emphasis on unquestioning loyalty nonetheless. Wells, and Callaghan, had taken the shock of their 'exile' with more anger and bitterness than the Flying Officer, who had been more caught up in the moment, so to speak. Only now was she considering the future, and it looked bleak. She began speaking angrily.

"The State which gave birth to us, which protects us - and billions of others - which feeds us..."

"Which tries to kill us," said Callaghan flatly, echoing the words of Rinat. If looks could kill, Hackett's glare would have been his end, but she fell silent again.

"I'll have to think about it," she said flatly. Wells nodded.

"I think myself and the Flight Lieutenant would be willing to provide your people with some assistance." He looked at Callaghan, who nodded. "For the moment, the C-SAR teams... usually teams of five. However, when a large aircraft with more crew goes down, like the Tupolev, they often operate at squad level, eight to twelve."

****INCOMING DATABURST****
***COMPILING TRANSMISSION***
**ENCRYPTION LEVEL 10 - MAXIMUM SECURITY**
*QUANTUM KEY TYPE = EKERT SCHEME*
*DECRYPTION COMMENCING...*
MESSAGE:
To: CENTCOM
From: Intel Node, sector 04

The IRIS satellite network is currently monitoring the situation on the island. Subterranean Intel Sub-Node 04A is reporting that it is running on Stealth Protocols and is transmitting messages strictly via underground and underwater network relays. All flight, land and naval drones were recalled shortly after detection of the incoming task forces. The Sub-Node on the island appears to remain unnoticed by the incoming task forces.

4 Surveyor-class scout submarines and 6 Guardian-class patrol frigates of Surveyor Fleet 04 have been alerted and are moving to maritime borders nearest the island. Sector 04C Airbase has scrambled 4 Thanatos-class heavy gunships. The air group is en route to the Technocratic Unionates' maritime borders to rendezvous with Surveyor Fleet 04. All three task force groups are strictly ordered NOT to mobilize to the island until otherwise ordered by CENTCOM.

SIGNATURE STAMP: 01104-0602081321
***END TRANSMISSION***
****END DATABURST****

Under the camouflage greasestick covering his face, Vasily's eyes narrowed. Rinat, as was his way, took everything in stride.

"Interesting, Commander. If the basic CSAR unit is five, that equates to the patrol size of many Soviet special operations units. Is the Hamilayan military influenced by Soviet doctrine and, or, organization?"

To give himself time to address Hackett, he passed another canteen to the fliers, handing it directly to Commander Wells and instructing them to empty it amongst themselves. He made eye contact with Hackett.

"When you come to terms with your situation, I will listen to what you may want to tell me. Until then, we will keep you alive and take you with us if you wish. If not, we can leave you here."

OOC: Bump...

OOC: Sorry, everyone, exam time and panic has set in after attempting practice papers. The worst will be over by next weekend.

OOC: NO problem, I suffer from severe lack of online time and being at work.

OOC: Whew, exams done. Back to serious business.

"Recent reforms have made some big changes to doctrine, but yes, we do draw a lot of stuff from the Soviets. Our equipment used to be all Soviet design - you saw the Blackjack. Why, will that be a problem?" The Commander took another drink from the offered canteen. Hackett nodded at Rinat's words, but said nothing, looking distant.

"Won't be a problem. If they operate in a similar manner, we would be familiar with their tactics and what it is likely they would try next.

"Sleep if you can. We have to wait until nightfall for our next move."

"Okay." The Commander stopped there, but appeared visibly relieved. He turned to the other two pilots.

"Well, you heard him. I think we could all do with some rest." A shaky laugh. Wells turned back to look at the Russkyans.

"Listen, I don't know if I ever thanked you, these last few hours have been pretty hazy. But, well, you saved our asses out there. So yeah. Thanks." He held out his hand, whilst Hackett looked mortified. Callaghan was already asleep.

The helicopter buzzed overhead once more. The aircraft were carrying out a final, most likely futile sweep before nightfall, as the dismal performance of both ground and air searchers in broad daylight gave little hope for any more success in the darkness. Even now, the troops on the ground, whilst still making cursory inspections of the surroundings, were moving in the direction of their camp at the crash site, none wanting to stay in the jungle at night which had swallowed up so many of their comrades.

Rinat shook the Commander's hand. Vasily did as well, and a warm smile revealed dingy white teeth and twisted the two shades of green greasestick on his face into something even more confusing to look at than before.

During the twilight and the early hours of the night, the perimeter was pulled back closer to the hide. The Russkyans slept easily, rotating it so that two would be sleeping and three on watch, and slept for an hour apiece. While two watched the outside world, the third kept watch on their unexpected guests.

The fliers were nudged awake by Filip, tapping their soles with the toe of his boot. Crouching with his rifle across his knees, Rinat looked around at the hide and drew his knife. He untied wires, and cut string off tree trunks while Anatol folded and rolled camouflage netting until he could store it all in a massive bergen rucksack. They left no trace, bringing out everything they'd brought in. Shrugging into their rucks, Vasily grimaced.

"It's like having some fat bastard hanging off your back." He sighed and set the rucksack back on the ground, strapping the radio to the frame more tightly and hanging the handset off the shoulder strap. "Then you add his obese kid," he said, patting the radio, "and it only gets more fun. Thank the gods for hip straps."

Tightly fastening the hip straps just under his pistol belt, the operator smiled and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. "Much better."
Rinat checked a map and stared at the oil-filled wrist compass he wore for a moment. He pointed to Filip and motioned him to the north-east. They shook out in a column, Vasily in noticably higher spirits than he had been before. "Just like when we came here, lady and gentlemen. This is Dmitry. He will be providing rear security for our little hike to the ocean." The group began moving through the jungle.