Scenario 1: City Street- A typical city street, 40-feet wide and 200 feet long from stop sign to stop sign. Ruined storefronts on either side, there is debris on the sidewalks and wrecked cars on the street. Fighters start at either end. Day- 10 AM, slightly cloudy and cool.

The fast movers roared over the ruined city. Dark, delta shaped forms cutting through the air. The sonic booms of their engines echoing across the battered and blasted landscape. Silence covered the ruins as the last of the cluster munition explosions died down. Minutes later a solitary helicopter came, low and fast, toward a rubble free area. The crew scanning the horizon and their equipment for any hostiles. Racing forward in the ever present dust, which seemed to choke the life out of everything.

Keshkaril had been a cluster fuck from the jump. HUMINT had portrayed the city free of civilians. Only war hungry bastards left. No one knew that the captured citizens were to be human shields. The collateral damage was horrendous. Only once the damage assessments came did the truth come out. The city suffered one hellacious hammering. It had been a decapitating attack, one designed to kill the leaders in one overwhelming move. The roads leading out of the city littered with bodies strewn about like so much debris and trash. The mud movers called it death row highway. They hammered the fleeing civilians, dropping their ordinance on them. Killing them where they stood. The human cost was high. So high that the echelons beyond reality deemed it best to drop in operators to hunt down and take out the sick fucks. Hiding down among the civilians, the terrorists felt they were untouchable. They would find out otherwise. The operators sent after them were to be swift, silent and above all, deadly.

The pilot looked back, shouting to JT, 'We're coming in fast, so far so good.”

JT nodded once then glanced out the open door. The gunner scanning the rubble and rooftops for any activity. The business end of his mini-gun swaying. They were two minutes out, and no matter how many insertions he did, JT always felt queasy. That was a good thing as it kept him alive, better to be queasy than cocky. Checking his weapons then his gear carefully. JT felt a shake, looking up into the black lenses of the jumpmaster, who shouted, "Hey bud! Get ready!"

Nodding JT concentrated as the craft slowed and began to hover. With a loud click the side door popped then slid open, hearing her yell, "GO! GO! GO!" JT formed some ectoplasm into a gray-white ball and tossed it towards the winch. Once it caught, he swung out and dropped out of the helicopter. The sudden jolt caused him to grunt as the line slipped a little. Gripping the thick, translucent material, he rappelled down the line, touching boots to earth. As he did, the Blackhawk whipped around and lit a fire as it roared out of the city.

The boom and rattle from the acceleration caused the ground to vibrate. As it did JT was moving, the HK416 ready as he vacated the LZ seeking cover. Finding a still standing brick wall he hunkered down and checked his time. Marking it. He tapped the earbud. The chatter flooded him, when a single voice cut through, "Bolo what's your status? Over."

Peering over the wall again JT chinned the mic, "Six this is Bolo, I am reading you five by five. Over."

"Roger that Bolo. You have some reported soft targets a klick south of the LZ. Over."

Scanning south, he could see what looked like a wide expanse of rubble. Licking his lips he nodded, "Roger six- soft targets south, one klick. I'll service the target. Over. Out."

Standing JT cracked his neck and began making his way towards the reported movement. Covering the kilometer, he came to a small rise. Laying flat, he stretched out and scanned the area with the binoculars. Seeing nothing he continued his search, soon finding himself on a rubble-filled street.

"This is as far as we'll take you, agent. Insurgent presence here's too great. You find your man and take him out, call for evac and we'll be here."

"Got it. Stay safe, lieutenant."

"You too, agent. Good hunting."

---

The city was in ruins. Ravaged. Tapped of all life. Torn apart by the very forces that were its supposed saviours. Bodies littered the streets like trash, forgotten and uncared for. It disgusted him to his core. How could a coalition reduce a thriving city to a mass grave in such a short time? All the warnings had gone unheeded; he'd heard from a friend in the CIA that the higher ups had wanted it that way. Sacrificing the lives of the few for the sake of the many.

They could cover their asses, of course. Plausible deniability. "Oh we didn't know there were actual civilians in the city", "the civilian casualty numbers of the Keshkaril campaign were within projected ranges", "we merely responded to provocation on the ground, by the time we realised what was going on it was too late." All bullshit, but it had to be done. Public relations. Politics. All the under-the-table shit that kept the world turning. Dirty, filthy shit that forever corrupted the men and women that dared dip their hands into the cesspit. Shit like his mission.

A certain warlord was holed up in the city. One of the leaders of the insurgency. For days the concentrated bombings had yet to touch him. But here he was, with intelligence suggesting a safe house in the slums. Only now had the DOD suggested a ground approach and minimal contact. An outside contractor was needed. So they found him. He'd been in this hellhole a week now, scavenging whatever he could, making contact with the locals and slowly tracking his target down. He'd adapted the dress of the locals refugees, donning ragtag clothes and pants. The only things that gave away any sense of true identity were his crisp, almost-clean sneakers and the grey pixelised camoflage cap he wore. From afar, he'd look like a lost scavenger. Nothing more.

Daniel lowered the brim of his cap and advanced across the street. The slum district was just the next block down. Bombing activity here was harsh; the craters in the streets and holes in buildings told the whole story. Decomposed bodies laid in some of those holes, left behind by the fleeing. The stench... Overpowering. The whole district was abandoned. Mostly. Yet he plugged his nose, held his breath and moved on.

He was close. Above the smell of death, blood and cordite, he smelled his target. A scent he'd been given as per request. For hours he'd studied it, memorised it, and now it was paying off. His nose knew the way, his legs followed it.

He stopped at the exit of the alley. Another wide open street awaited him, littered with debris, craters and burned shells of vehicles. Daniel looked around for cover, found it at a wrecked, burned truck, and readied himself. No doubt this guy knew he was coming. His lackeys would be watching.

He drew his 1911 from its holster and held it ready. The pistol, from an age gone by, shone in what sunlight there was. He gathered his strength, counted down from three, and then broke into a run across the street. Once across he ducked behind the wreck and caught his breath.

Nothing. Lucky break.

With pistol in hand he shifted to the other end of the wreck and peeked out. Nothing.

Hopefully on the journey up his luck would hold.