The Firm IC

[kingkonrad]

"War's a terrible thing. Then again, the one I'm fighting is different. Throughout time, mercenaries have always existed. Just that now, I think the world's realized in the last century that if you pay people to kill others in a war, that isn't serving your country. That's being a scumbag, that's being a greedy, soulless murderer. It's in the Geneva Convention, for Christ's sake.

Us, we work at a PMC. Legal, and all. Don't fire on unless you're fired on first, and all that. It's a load of rubbish. Do that, you'll be dead first. Blue Sword pays me well enough. I'm no murderer. I mean, all we do is security, and the odd anti-insurgency work. I tell you now- the UN here have done fuck all. Iraq turned into a shithole straight after the Coaltion left- the Iraqi Armed Forces don't protect places like these, they simply work against the terrorist groups that threaten to destabilize the entire system.

What we're about to do, like we did in Venezuela earlier this year, is what we still do well. Secure areas of high importance, work against the local insurgency, stabilize the area so that when our contract ends, this place doesn't have two more smoking refineries. Our contract states that we are to use any acceptable force to eliminate whatever local wants to blow up the next PB refinery. Well, I say that what force we'll give, is the force that at least cleans this area.

I know this isn't like 2 Para, from a couple years back. I was in command, I was leading men into combat. Now, I'm leading a few people who are also ex-army, and are here for the same reason as me. Not Corporal Jones, Private First Class Matthews, Sergeant Kendal. I'm with two Americans, a Canadian, another fellow Brit, and a Swede. All pretty experienced in how to point a gun, fire, kill, repeat. Same as me really. We share that, camaraderie, the fact that we're contractors in Iraq, but apart from that, we're all completely different. Personalities, background, specialty, and former rank. Why we left, why we came here, and what leads to us doing what we want. Last time I was here, I was clearing insurgents and winning hearts and minds, along with the rest of the squad. Red Compass- a 2 Para QRF, moving fast according to what the recce sections got us. That was in 2008, now, it's 2013. Time really does fly, I guess. Now I got this lot. They're not the same, but I know that sure as hell, they'll do what they do best.

So is war really a terrible thing? Well, not completely. It brings you closer to certain fellow beings, by killing other ones that would kill others. It's a bit crazy, but for me, I get nearly double my previous wage, and flexibility to do what I want, wear what I want, and at least see my own change do something. I know they won't see it the same way though. Not my old squad, Compass won't see it ever like the same way they thought they would. So I know this lot shouldn't either." Mark "Falcon" Richardson

5th December, 2013
1400 Hours, Near Al Salman, Al Mutthana Region, Iraq

Mark leaned back against his seat, peering out of the window at the desert, and what it was. They were flying roughly 900ft above it, and he knew that a crash here would kill them. It was a depressing thought, he thought humorously to himself. But that threat was always real. Right now however, it was him, the rest of his squad, and the Ka-60 helicopter they were aboard going to Al Salman, a very small desert town halfway between two PB refineries in the area. They were coming in now- he had been briefed back in Blue Sword's office in New York, and had already gotten most of his kit just before he left. They had arrived last night in Baghdad, and now, they were aboard this chopper, till they reached the site at Al Salman. close to the Saudi Arabian border. There had been one refueling at some random airstrip a few hundred miles south of Baghdad, but that was long ago, he thought to himself. Surprisingly enough, for the middle of the desert, a bit of cloud was visible- it was probably as much as this place got, he thought to himself. This was truly the middle of nowhere, when you peered out at the sight outside the Ka-60's thick windows. The seating itself wasn't too bad- he had sat on worse, back in his own Para days. He didn't want to think too much of what that had turned into- he had to enforce the drill, as he had been taught to, and probably respond to his CO's anyway. Now, he was taking command. This lot were being led by him- he knew they fought how they fought, but he had some degree of orders nevertheless.

Mark checked the M14 EBR that sat barrel up, his right hand holding the end of the barrel, the selector being on the safety rather than semi or full-auto. No magazine was loaded, and the M14 itself looked like it had been an effective rifle. The stock was half extended, Mark wanting it to be a little more compact for CQB over marksman duties, but with some of the latter's abilities in a firefight. The Trijicon ACOG/RMR combo sat nicely on the top picatinny rail, a foregrip on the underbarrel one. The paint scheme was a clearly desertish one- it looked a pale yellow, on most parts except for the foregrip and optic itself. Mark wore a blue baseball cap with a British flag stitched on for identification, along with his wrapround and slightly yellow tinted Oakley sunglasses already over his eyes. The "CIA style" headset he wore, as he liked to call it was a relatively simply design. From a firmly placed ear piece practically shoved deep in his ear, it went to a throat mic, mounted just above the top of his shirt by a clear plastic coiled cable, along the side of his head. The throat mic hooked up to a transponder, which effectively made up the system of communications quite well, functioning much clearer than a normal Bluetooth headset and much more comfortably after he had gotten used it. (I can't explain it very well- this does it better). In addition, he already wore his Crye Precision CAGE body armor, and had a few MOLLE pouches on it, containing a few 20-round clips of 7.62 NATO rounds. He had a black backpack by the other side of his M14, containing a few personal things- his laptop, binoculars, phone charger, and so on. Miscellaneous stuff, he thought to himself. He wore a navy blue t-shirt under his armor, and some tan colored Craghopper trousers. His Oakley combat gloves were already on his hands, clearly the stuff of a US Special Forces operator. Most of his kit wasn't British made, or used- but in a holster on his hip, sat something that was used back when he was in the Paras. His P226, chambered in .40 was his backup, with an attached flashlight on the underbarrel rail. It had enough rounds to put into a target, and felt good in his hands, when he used it. Effective enough to put a man down at a good range, with a good clip. His Ka-Bar BK3 Tac Tool knife was in another holster on his armour, just next to a set of the MOLLE pouches. A few grenades of various kinds dangled above- 4 Frags, 2 Grey M18 Smoke Grenades, and 1 M18 Blue. The camelpak sat on his back- aboard the chopper, it had come in handy, and he had already drunken half a litre, in the heat of the country. Mark knew it was a bit much to be carrying- but he knew that it was possible that as soon as they arrived, they would get down to work- so he had to be prepared for anything. That included already having his kit prepared, and he knew that the rest of the team would have it also ready. He looked like your standard contractor- a soldier on dress down Friday, a smart-casual appearance of one anyway. A cap, a shirt and Craghoppers, against the body armor, MOLLE pouches and grenades that were attached to it- the M14 finalizing that he wasn't just a civilian in a warzone. He was a contractor- not necessarily a mercenary, but he knew that the reality was, that was how the company really worked.

Looking over at the rest, as he adjusted his position in his seat, Mark kept looking out, waiting for someone to break the silence. He didn't feel like starting a conversation, but knew that they would do something in time. For the last two hours, he had slept, and now, looking out at a slightly overcast sky, and a desolate desert, to at least think that they were going to work again was something most of them weren't expecting. They all had the fire in their eyes- of being under fire, of being shot at. And killing, of course. He knew they were back in a nation that had seen nothing but American intervention for the last 10 years, tyranny for the 20 years before that, and probably nothing else in particular even before that. Nothing of interest to them, anyway. Hussein was gone, along with the Coalition. It only kept Mark thinking about what the next thing would be.

[BigPapaBelial]

(Music I figure is darn good for this intro)

5th December, 2013
1400 Hours, Near Al Salman, Al Mutthana Region, Iraq

Louie bobbed his head to the tune playing over his chromed Skullcandy earphones. His Nano playing out the tunes the whole way here. Hell he even air-guitared some of the riffs in the song playing at the moment. Hell he'd been doing that the whole trip. What is there better to do? Too flippin' loud to talk in here anyway. Hell his Nano is turned all the way up and he can just hear it. His tech didn't have eleven volume settings unfortunately.

As the song switched over to something new, Louie took a moment to look around the heli. He honestly felt like the odd man out in all of this. He could see it in the way the rest of the occupants in this heli held themselves. They were all Military. Everyone of them seemed to hold themselves like a Marine, or a Paratrooper or whatever else. Couldn't really helped. It took all kinds in a Private Military Company honestly. Though he wondered if it wouldn't have been better if he had miltary training himself. The PPLI maybe, or the JTF2. Hah, right him in the JTF2, like that would have ever happened.

A new song began to play. And just for the hell of it he started to air-guitar right from the start. Impression made? Not flippin' likely. Just trying to pass the time. He took a moment to adjust the Mossberg that is strapped to his pack though so it doesn't bang against the side of the heli with his every movement. The unloaded shotgun settled in for the trip. Same with his other weapons. The last of his kit, his breaching equipment stowed above him in the webbing of the helicopter, better to keep it out of the way then wear it all after all. This would be a slightly new experience for him over all. His time in the RCMP and the RCMP ERT often had him only carrying absolutely what he needed and not everything else in between.

He began to silently sing along with the song. Goofy Canadian that he is. Head banging and air-guitaring along like a baws.

But when it all hit the fan and they needed his help he'd be there. Just because he's trying to keep the nerves from hitting when he's in the presence of so many people who are far more qualified then him doesn't mean he doesn't know his business. Just let him have his fun for now.

[Gunther]

051400 DEC13
Near Al Salman, Al Mutthanna Region, Iraq

It was one below Celsius at JFK in New York when we left the US. I was really starting to get used to the night life in the The Big Apple. Having grown up north of Stockholm, Sweden, I never really minded the cooler climates. It was appealing. Then we flew to Heathrow in London for a three hour layover. I put on my favorite white pullover for the flight. I figured since we were heading to a desert, I wouldn't really need a parka.

London was a bit warmer at four degrees Celsius. Still, felt like home. I do prefer the British food over American. Naturally, Swedish food is better than British too, while we are on the subject. My favorite Swedish food would have to be Inkokt lax or Boiled Salmon. Apparently there are a few restaurants around Boston, Massachusetts that serve up boiled Salmon, but we never got that far. Too bad, I could go for some boiled salmon. They have some wonderful Seafood restaurants in London. Since we had a three hour layover in London anyway, I couldn't resist a meal of fish and chips at Scott's on Mount Street. A few of the lads joined me.

The second to the last leg of our flight was from London's Heathrow to Baghdad International Airport. This is why I wore the pullover with just a T underneath. As soon as the door to the Airbus 300 opened, the dry desert air permeated the cabin. All of a sudden the temperature in the cabin was 25 degrees Celsius. I pulled the heater off before we left the British Airways flight and headed to our base of ops in Baghdad.

Most of us had to change into our work clothes and check our kits. Our equipment was there ahead of us at the Baghdad base. I pulled my assault vest on and checked the Minimi they issued me. It was one I had used on a previous Op. I opened the cover feed tray and checked the bolt and chamber. Then I worked the feed paws back and forth to make sure it was functioning properly. They gave me four hundred rounds ball/tracer mix, but Falcon told us not to lock and load yet. He wanted us to wait until we arrived at our base of operations down south. Apparently we are looking at a three hour flight over the desert.

My shit was wired tight and within minutes we were all aboard one of the company's newest lift helos, a Russian built Orca or Ka-60 Helicopter. I climbed into the canvas and aluminum tubular frame seat. Without even thinking about it, I pointed the muzzle of my Minimi toward the deck at an angle so I could bring it up to bear on any hostiles out the open door of the Orca. Not that I had any bullets to shoot, but still, training was intended to make you react rather than think about what you are doing.

The flight was long and boring. I sipped at the water in my camelback along the way. Probably need to fill that back up when I get there. I adjusted the Oakley sunglasses I was wearing. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. All I could do was stare at the open sand, mile after fucking mile. God, this place sucks. How can this place suck more? Right? I know what you are thinking.

Remember that time in Chad? That sucked too, but it was a different kind of suck. I acquired a new trophy or should I say I lost a finger during that deployment. I miss my pinky. Man that sucked. This place sucks too. But you gotta love it if you do what we do.

Boss gave us the high sign. Thirty mikes to the PZ. Shit is still wired tight. Just like it was when I got on this fucking bird. Man, this place sucks. Stinks like shit too. I smiled and gave a wink at Louie. He appeared to be enjoying the flight.

[SilverwindBlade]

Martin sat opposite Mark as the KA-60 thundered across the Iraqui desert. His G3 was nestled between his knees, muzzle pointed down to the floor, and both hands folded atop the stocks' buttpad. He'd stripped off his gloves and helmet, and even his hat. While it might've been cold 900ft up outside, inside the cabin of the helo it was warm, cramped, and smelled like all helicopters do, of sweat, metal, oil, and faintly of vomit.
He shifted in hsi seat again. After the flight here from Heathrow to Baghdad, everyone was wired tight. They'd exorcised some of the excitement by making a night on the town in London at Scott's, and then around some of the bars and clubs in the UK's Capital City, sampling some of the more exotic and high-end of places, alongside some of the more down-to-earth drinking establishments that the cosmopolitan city had to offer. It had been an excellent night, full of fun and good times.
Since arriving back in Iraq, though, he'd felt the fire start to build inside his belly; that feeling that he was going to be out here again, living on an edge and using the skills and routines he'd honed and lived for years for something.
It wasn't an adrenaline junkie rush, or at least he didn't think it was. It was more a feeling of 'completeness', like something was missing when he wasn't putting in his time clad in the garb of soldiering - or at least, something like it - and doing the job of defending, protecting, guarding, or whatever else came up.
He shifted in his seat, eager and impatient to get back to work. Looking up from his own thoughts, he cast a glance around the cabin, first meeting Marks' eyes - he knew the other man from before Blue Sword, and it was the former Para who'd approached him for the job. He nodded to him and gave a tight half-smile. It would be good to work together with another Brit, even if he was English.
Then there was the Canadian, who was absorbed in his music. He couldn't help a smile as he watched him really getting into his thing, twitch-dancing in his seat, and strumming an imaginary guitar.
The Swedish guy had been good company last night when they'd hit the town, but now he was going through the motions already - a sign of damn good training. He was someone he wanted alongside him, when the shit started flying.
Marty rolled his shoulders and leaned back against the wall of the chopper again - there wasn't much more to do but sit back and wait. Thirty more minutes, and they'd be on the ground. It couldn't come soon enough.

[Teddy Commando]

5th December, 2013
1400 Hours, Near Al Salman, Al Mutthana Region, Iraq
kirby sat back and closed his eyes for a few moments, two weeks ago he had buried his Mother, one week ago he was touring the Blue Sword facilities and was still taken aback but what he had seen, it was obvious by the equipment and weapontry he saw at Blue Swords disposal, they difinitely had some serious backing and apparent limitless cash flow and he thought it kinda scary a simple Private Military Companys inventory could rival that of a small nation. He looked around the KA-60, it amused him slightly to think that out of the thousands or so rides in a Helicopter, he could only count the number of times he ever stepped out of the same Helicopter he stepped into on one hand and being more accustomed to either rappling or jumping out and running in search of cover, he wasnt so sure how he was gonna act when they finally touched down at their destination.


The info he was given on the other Operators he would be working with when he came in to take care of the legal paperwork was brief, the Leader was a Brit formally with 2nd Para, a Swedish SOG, a fellow Marine, a former Royal Marine, and of all things a former Royal Canadian Mounted Cop. He was pondering how a Mountie fit into the mix of former militarymen when the RCMP began to jam on an air guitar. Kirby was instantly remined of his buddy James, a burly city kid who joined the Marines to get out of the inner city and who used to listen to ACDC's Back in Black album on mp3 everytime they flew into a mission. Kirby turned his face away from the others and faked a sneeze so he could wipe his eyes quickly, They'd been out on their last patrol and all set to rotate back to the States the following day, he to get his discharge and James to marry his High School sweetheart when James was suddenly torn apart by an IED and Kirbys last duty as a United States Marine was to escort his friends remains home.


The Crew Chief crawled over and opened the door on one side, then the other of the Ka-60 and Kirby pulled his Oakleys down over his eyes and slipped from his seat to sit in the doorway and lean out far enough, holding his breathe a moment as the hot, dry air slapped him in the face and brought his mind back into mission mode. He sat back so his upper half was back inside the Helicopter just as he heard something about thirty minutes till they landed, he sat the M4A1 in his lap and gave it a quick looking over and making sure the Trijicon RMR-A optic was firmly in place, he'd concidered giving the HK416 a try when he was given a choice of weapons, but once he had signed his name on the dotted line, he wasnt going to have enough time to familarize himself with the weapon before being shipped out with the team he was now with. He sat the M4 to the side and took out his .45 and pulled the slide back and carefully checked it over then re-holstered it, then stared out over the arid landscape, going over a mental list of gear stowed away still in his deploy bag.

[kingkonrad]

(Voyage has dropped out. Right now, I am up to my neck in Geography Coursework and other things, so I can't really make a good post. But there we go. I'll make another post at the weekend, because I am really not satisfied with this. Sorry, but if you want to make a post between now and Saturday, to further your character's thoughts, go ahead- I will get us landing, headed to the base itself, and into the fray.)

So here I was. Iraq, near Al Salman, and the Al Salman Oil Exploration Region. But back to my team. The security team, the force that I at least headed up and was a figurehead of. They were a good bunch. Nothing bad could come of them, and for the next few weeks, maybe a month or two, they were listening to me, and working for their pay. I like being paid as much as the next man, but I knew that the team had some moral values, and as did I. We were all running from a world we wished had gone correct- all apart from me. I wanted to be back in 2 Para, really. They were my true friends- only the money, and the Paras SOP had put me off, and made me come here. I liked this place. If I had brought my squad with me, I would be in bliss right now. Those lads were everything to me. Not in a gay way, of course. Fuck that.... Well, whatever. This is where I am. Guess we're on approach now.

Mark looked at the squad, looking at each one with a particular viewpoint. The Swede looked more than overdoing SOP's from his former military times- yet seemed calm and a solid base for the squad's automatic rifleman to based on. The Canadian was enjoying himself listening to his music, Mark smiling to himself, and the man next to him, the former American Marine was in no doubt going over his shit. He looked doubtful, in thought and Mark knew not to interfere The Scot sat opposite, a Scot from the look and accent of him, and the other female American that wasn't part of their detail just here for the ride. The Scot's sniper seemed like it was a stereotype, one that Mark knew would be one to definitely hold the line when they needed precision firepower at 700m. Holding onto his seat, he went over his MK14, taking it from it's position and instead pointing it down, still unloaded. There was no need for ammunition to be live yet- but he knew that when the time came, he would load up, and they would go for it.