"The Hot Hell"
April 2nd, 2011
H-Hour- Minus Sixteen

The noise of helicopters above was crystal clear, revibrating across the rugged terrain as the Chinooks passed into the distance, from the view out the side of the UH-1Y Venomd. Within that helicopter, was a certain team aboard. This was Charlie Squad, of 1st Platoon, 3rd Battalion Canadian Regiment. But a set of Americans joined their ranks, from the US Marines. And made things a little different in this situation. More than just a little, they had slightly different weeapons, nationalities and camoflage. But most crucially of all...well, they were different in ways that everyone already could simply guess. Staff Sergeant James "Chaplain" Bishop looked out the helicopter, sitting at the right of the chopper, looking out into the abyss that lay below out of the helicopter. Redeployment, back to the front. Back to Camp Spear. And he had a new team. Introductions had been made, but they were still gelling together, on this flight to the encampment.
"We're approximately ten minutes out from Camp Spear, we're to be well recieved I hear." The pilot added, as James adjusted his sunglasses, checking his headset.
"Understood. Welcome to the Hot Hell, ladies and gentlemen. Out there, are enough dirty bastards wanting to get their hands on us. If you've never been, Afghanistan is just about best now. First poppy harvest of the year, so expect every farmer that has half a braincell to be given an AK by the Taliban and told to shoot on sight at ISAF personnel." He said, sweeping his hand out of the side of the helicopter, adjusting his helmet and his chest rig, looking over to his left, inside the helicopter. The team. The designated marksman of Charlie, as well as his 2IC, was Corporal Pelletier, with Petty Officer Duke, as along with Corporal Westfield and Private Jennison. They all had a wide spectrum of combat under their belt, James included. They'd seen enough war between them somewhat, and Charlie knew that they'd be sent right into the fray.
"Looks like it's going to be just us on this deployment. Might end up getting a ride with one of the LAV crews, you never know." James added, looking to the rest, the team well balanced and forged, ready to take whatever shit was coming at them. In his head, Pink Floyd came on, as he looked across the expanse through his Oakleys, aware that this tour would have a bit of action, but perhaps not too much- so that at least the men he came with would come home.

James had his C8 by his side, pointing downwards to the floor of the helicopter. His assault pack sat on his lap, with his helmet and various other equipment just on him. They'd left Kandahar Airport roughly an hour ago, and were sweeping across the Afghan countryside, quickly. They'd been previously in some light work with a Provisional Reconstruction team, for almost a week. So it was safe to say, that James was still learning the team's niches, and inversely so.

(Short post, to establish the scene and so on. Things will get more developed.)

Pvt. Nathaniel Jennison, Anti-Tank Rifleman of the 1st battalion, 5th Marine Regiment.
Insertion into Camp Spear.

Nathaniel looked along the horizon, looking for any traces of human activity. Aside from the occasional splattering of poppy fields, there was no real sign of human activity. But Nathaniel knew just as well as any other that they were here. Likely, their flight route was already being passed along through cellphones, going from one farmer to the other until it reached someone of some actual importance. And even those people were not really important, captains of sorts. There were thousands of them, likely. They were like cockroaches, for every one you take out of the fight, another one rises just as quickly. The bad part was that these men did not really care, either. They were fighting for their God, Allah, after all. In heaven there would be virgins waiting for them, so death was meaningless. In some ways, atleast. They didn't dive into death just to get to the virgins. It didn't matter though. They were to be taken out, these pawns of the real terrorists, the dictators and warcriminals. In reality, Nathaniel felt he was as much a pawn as these ''soldiers of Allah'' except he wasn't fighting for his God, but for his president. Nobody believed they were here just to promote justice, democracy and freedom. But this whole ordeal, the entire reason he enlisted, was something much different for Nathaniel. It was about honor, protecting and doing what none other wish to do. In some ways, Nathaniel was still idealistic, but that would probably be blunted away from him in this war as well.

He awoke from thought by the pilot alerting them that they were aproximately 10 minutes away from the camp. After that he got welcomed to Hot Hell, which Nathaniel guessed was the nickname for this area. He nodded absently at the staff sergeant, who was also the squad leader. Jennison hadn't had much time to get acquainted with his team, as he arrived a bit later than the others and got put straight in the helicopter. The least he got in was a “Hey, I'm Nathaniel.” before they took off. But he figured just about now was the right time to let his voice be heard. He faced towards the Staff Sergeant, directing the question at him. “Staff Sergeant, sir. Can I ask what the expectance is for the amount of combat on this mission, or how likely it is we get to be under attack at Camp Spear? Don't get me wrong, I'd prefer to fight them where you choose the terrain, where you can decide when and how to attack. But I wish to be prepared when they dó attack Camp Spear. And do we have any idea about what types of armaments they have, besides the standard stuff?” Maybe his tone was a bit too formal, as he wasn't speaking to a drill sergeant here, and Staff Sergeant Bishop didn't seem to make a point out of it to be formal to his crew either.

The expanse of the desert stretched out nearly as far as the eye could see — broken only by the jagged protrusions of rocky peaks. From the window of a UH-1Y chopper, the beige of the ground below began to meld together into one big, foreign blur. Zackary Pelletier, Corporal in the Canadian Army, stared out at the blur intently, but his mind was elsewhere. I am a long ways from home, he concluded matter-of-factly at the forefront of his thoughts, before snapping out of the absent reverie to examine the rest of his squad for the first time. Of all the soldiers, only Staff Sergeant Bishop was a relatively familiar face. Corporal Pelletier had met the squad leader a week back and, being the only other Canadian in Charlie Squad and having also served a tour in Iraq like Zack, the two had much to talk about. However, they were all still strangers to each other, and the sooner that was resolved the better. A soldier feels a whole lot safer when he knows that the guy watching your back actually gives a damn about them.

Zack wasn't the type of guy you'd expect to ship off to Afghanistan — or to Iraq a couple years prior, for that matter. Off the field he had a devil-may-care attitude and sharp enough wit to make any commanding officer wish the Corporal had never left Quebec. He was an odd sort: a strange mix of native Quebecois custom and American influence. He was a legend on the violet, but insisted it be called a fiddle, and it wasn't uncommon to see him covering anything from classic folk right up to classic rock, right there on base. Furthermore, he positively oozed optimism. Two years of Iraq may have hardened his combat skills, but four years working toward a liberal arts degree and a lifetime of marching to his own drumbeat had left him unperturbed.

The chopper flew closer and closer to Camp Spear, their new home, and the team had just begun to prepare themselves. Zack watched as Jennison, the most junior soldier in Charlie Squad, began to ask Bishop about what they might be facing ahead. Beside him, Petty Officer Duke, the corpsman, and Corporal Westfield sat. He took time to study each one of their faces. This is my family now, he noted, now very aware of the four soldiers around him. [i]Let's kick some ass.[i]

Uh, can I join?