The year is 2032. The world has become a place of complexities beyond reason. World super powers have risen, but are in a constant stalemate, no longer capable of fighting their own wars for fear of destroying the very ground beneath their feet. Instead wars are fought using Mercenary armies, and Private Intelligence Agencies who spy upon one another almost as much as they do opposing Nations. Money rules the world as always, lining pockets with meaningless paper stained with the blood of thousands. This is the way of the world though, as Russia and the United States use their allies to meet whatever ends they need to achieve. It can be said that any shot fired on any battlefield has at least one of these Nations whispering in the soldier’s ear to pull the trigger. Though it seems that as these private enterprises grow more powerful the fear of them truly becoming a separate entity capable of holding the very world itself at ransom changes into a very real possibility.

So Foxhound is born once more, with the true intent of becoming the most powerful Corporate Military on the face of Earth. Having heard of this company in the headline for months on end as they are on the rise it is not surprising that many would jump at the chance to join this elite mercenary group. Welcome to Foxhound… Enjoy your stay.



The muffled sound of the helicopter blades is the only sound that can be heard from inside of the chopper. It has just taken off from a civilian airport in Syria. Its cargo is six new Foxhound Operatives. Them entering the chopper is the first time they have ever seen each other, with no prior mention that they would be embarking in such a manner. No one introduces them to each other. Instead, they are quietly ushered into a Stealth-Chinook. Inside there are some small crates with the names of each operative on them, containing their uniforms, gear, and weaponry.

Three other choppers fly alongside them likely filled with similar cargo and recruits looking to make a name for themselves as mercenaries. It’s pleasantly clear that it was not just six recruits going into the likely hell that was to be their first day on the job. A red light flares around the Chinook bathing everyone in a eerie glow. A stain was on the floor near the doorway, dark and browned with age, what was likely a blood stain from a former injury or possible casualty.

The pilot of the chopper turns to look at the new recruits and waves. His face is obscured by his helmet, which ends up muffling his voice as he calls back to them.

“Hello everyone, my name is Chet and I have been designated to be your pilot! As you’ve probably noticed, we’ve issued you all some uniforms and gear. I hope none of you are shy because we don’t really have change rooms on this thing. We’ve also included manuals on how to operate each of the gadgets available to you. We’ve got a decent flight ahead of us so study up! If you’ve got any questions, fire away. But beyond that, get to mingling. Oh, and put your earpieces in as soon as possible! Everything will be explained to you soon.”

He turns away from the group and returns his attention to flying, humming a tune to himself. As this happened an enormous sand storm could be seen in the distance. White bolts of lightning crackle and tear at the sky around it. It seemed a dismal thing. A force of nature that could easily swallow whole cities and then some. Chet once more looked back at the recruits as he noticed the sandstorm himself.

“If you all look North you’ll see one of those sandstorms the middle east is famous for. Lucky for us it’s heading the opposite direction of our target. Just hope you don’t get caught out doing something fidgety when one of those things hit. They make for great cover if you’re sneaking around, though!”

She'd boarded in last, and taken the only available seat. It was a small price to pay for not showing her back to anybody as she walked in. The inside of the helicopter smelled of sand and camel piss, but then again so did everywhere else, it was hardly a massive change. She didn't meet anyone's gaze, quickly grabbing the smallest box in the pile of goodies that wouldn't have looked out of place under a christmas tree, and opened it up quick to see what the good little boys and girls had been given.

Her excitement drained a little once she'd looked inside. Just one gun. And a clunky overweight action movie prop from the eighties based on a clunky and overweight gun from the thirties, too. She picked it up in one hand, noting the weight of the thing, dumped the magazine into her off hand and pushed the slide off in one, clean motion. The spring seemed new. So did the locking block, as far as she could make out in the helicopter's half-lit interior. She reassembled it and dropped the thing back into the box, looking for anything else. Four little grenades all lined up like ducks, two little bottles of pepper-spray, a set of binoculars, and right at the bottom like it almost wanted to slip by unnoticed, a full uniform.

She pulled it out and rested it on the crate. Greyish-green, with barest hints of other colours, it seemed to give off the impression that it had heard of MultiCam and OctoCamo and wanted nothing to do with such modern and unsporting inventions. If it was good enough for the trenches, it's good enough for Foxhound, it seemed to say. Well, it was at least dark. Wouldn't show up in shadows, which was some comfort. And freshly ironed, too. Luna looked up. She didn't want to be the first to start stripping in here, but it seemed like one of them would have to. Until then, she could take a peek at some of her comrades in arms.

Somebody in a human resources department must have smiled on them, since the entire team was gender-balanced. Three girls, three boys. All of them in their late twenties, and with the racial diversity of an episode of Scooby Doo. A shy asian woman, a black man, two vaguely Germanic white men with the beginnings of neckbeards, and a white woman with features so haughty they could have been superimposed onto a Sphinx without anybody batting an eye. Luna almost felt embarrassed about trying to speak up, in case everybody put her down as the chatty latina before they'd even gotten around to speaking. But somebody would have to break the silence left by the pilot turning back to his job.

It would just have to be somebody else, though.

Tavish was more than a little unnerved. Then again, being unnerved was an occupational hazard in his line of work. The chopper smelled vaguely of piss. Wonderful. He checked his gear with shaking hands. A Mossberg Pump and an MP7. He'd been in situations with worse. He'd also used better. No matter.

His uniform was well, uniform. It was fairly standard PMC stuff. He was currently wearing a button of shirt and slacks. How overdressed he must look. As he started unbuttoning his shirt he spoke.

"You guys are lucky, normally I charge for this." Accompanied by a toothy grin. "The name's Tavish. Tavish MacIntyre."

Bloody hell.

How did she end up here? In a helicopter surrounded by five people she never saw before, with a crate full of things she never thought she'd want, let alone need.

She remembered the message she received. It wasn't shocking to find out that, in these uncertain times, there were groups bent on fighting against the chaos. What was shocking was that she was picked to become a member of it.

She looked at her five companions. They generally seemed like everyday people, though she imagined that they all had more training than her. A few years in hand to hand combat, a licence that she could carry a gun, in a country that didn't like guns.

What would her father think? Could she tell him? Probably not. It would endanger him. She could picture the countless spy movies she has seen and how whenever the spy tells their loved ones the truth, the bad guys always target them. She didn't want that. But then again, she was in over her head with this.

Could she back out? Would she back out? She had a feeling she'd be shot if she wanted to leave. Again...spy movies.

She took a deep breath and checked her equipment. A Baretta sidearm. Not the fanciest of weaponry, but it gets the job done. A silencer, handy she figured. She looked at the other contents. A few grenades, some spray things, and a uniform. Like the voice mentioned, she'd have to get changed here and now.

The Scottish man joked and she couldn't help but smile. At least he was making the best of this situation. Was he as nervous as her? She hoped so as she began undressing herself to get into her uniform.

The last time she had stepped on a Stealth-Chinook, she was speaking fluent Russian to the 5 or 6 Spetsnaz operatives, informing them that trying to speak a different language to avoid being caught out for commenting on her body in a sexual way wasn't the smartest idea, nor the most professional. And the Chinook smelled more like Vodka than piss. The blood stain on the floor of the craft didn't bother her too much. It was a common sight, but more often than not, it was cleaned off before the next mission. Strange.

Her gaze flickered between the other 5 members who bordered the craft, she could already tell that some of them had the military capacity of a 10 year old boy playing shooting games in his mother's basement. Just a feeling. A vibe if you will.

The pilot seemed more cheery than most. It was almost unnerving how articulate he was about what they were doing. But this pilot seemed better than the others that she had met, so she felt some confidence in him, even if he didn't show his face to them.

Yuumi opened her crate, which was slightly more rectangular than the others. Standard Beretta M9 with a silencer, standard issue gear/equipment and a PSG-1 Sniper rifle. Although she was more comfortable with a Dragunov, she had no problems with using it, much like any other sniper rifle. She examined her uniform for a moment to figure out it's structure and how to wear it.. She changed into her uniform with the efficiency of a factory machine, not a single action wasted on fiddling with small things. It was a simple uniform, to her anyway.

She glanced at the Scotsman that spoke, whom she now knew as 'Tavish'. His comment.. or rather joke made it sound like he was from a more vulgar background, but it was best that she kept that to herself. Unrest and disagreement between comrades led to petty mistakes in missions which can lead to failure of the operation. Something she had experienced before, but it didn't involve her personally at the time. "Aoyama Yuumi." She responded in a perfectly normal Japanese accent, however slightly deeper than one would expect of a Japanese woman. "You may call me 'Yuumi'." This time her voice held a pronounced Russian accent. She didn't expect anyone to constantly call her by her surname, she wasn't with any other Japanese people either. She didn't expect Westerners to understand the Japanese way of Surname-First name basis.

Then, they gave me a friggin' mission...

Former Légionnaire Sergent Dornier, hefted the small black duffel over his shoulder, walking onto the tarmac. The warmth from the day's sun resonated hotly from the tarmac. It was that familiar feeling of heat baking one's soul permanently into the earth.

He removed his dusty ball cap; the dark navy blue one with the familiar Red and White B stitched across the front. The down draft from the helicopter's blades would send this sole memento from his old world; his old identity scattering into the wind. He tucked it into his olive drab button shirt with the salty pit stains from over-use. His black leather Legion boots, broken in from years of use felt comfortable on the hardened surface.

A small group of people clambered aboard the Chinook. He gave each of his companions a cursory glance, took a seat and shuffled through the box of materials with his name. He determined what he had to do next. Pushing modesty aside, he stripped down, one item at a time and replaced his clothing with the new Foxhound equipment. He replaced his broken in Legion boots; knowing it would be better to keep his feet comfortable. They were designed to be stealthy.

Next, he opened the duffel and removed his sand colored assault vest. He brought his own 30-round 5.56mm magazines. He figured he could use at least nine of them. He pulled the assault vest over his head and snapped it into place. A sand-colored Camelbak slid onto his back filled with water. He attached a tactical holster to the right side of his leg and inserted the 9mm Beretta. It was a pistol he was familiar with and that was most important. The four grenades, he inserted into four grenade pouches on his vest. Next he loaded the nine magazines with the 5.56mm ball ammunition in his box. He then tapped each magazine against the aluminum seat framing to insure the rounds were seated in the mags properly before storing two in each of four slots on the front of his vest. He did the same with the five 9mm magazines he brought with him, storing them in pistol ammo pouches. The combat knife would find a home in its sheath on the waist of his vest. The Int-Scope he slung around his neck. The NVGs, Fulton Recover Device, Med Spray and Silencer went into the lower butt pack in the rear at his waist. He then removed a camouflage make-up kit with mirror, three bic lighters, a pocket knife, notepad and pencil. These items were all tucked into whatever pockets were available on his uniform or assault vest. Finally, he pulled on a pair of black leather half-finger gloves and the balaclava, which he pulled down around his neck so that it was not covering his face yet. He picked up the M4 Carbine and removed the issued sling from its swivels. He attached a sling adapter kit to the rear butt stock and front sight post. Then attached the issued sling to the adapter kit and slung the carbine over his left shoulder so it hung down comfortably on his right side. He adjusted the sling so that the carbine fit comfortably on his body--kind of high so that he could grab the pistol grip easily. Finally, he removed the Boston Red Sox baseball cap from inside his shirt and tied a length of 550 para cord to the back. he tied this off to the back of his vest and placed it firmly on his head. The ball cap was covered in dirt and filth from three continents as well as the white lines of salt. The brim curled in its proper form and under it the words, FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY inscribed because, hell, "aren't we all just a weapon system?"

With his equipment wired tight, dummied off and taped up for noise discipline, Jean Dornier sat back to enjoy the ride. He inspected his new co-workers to see who he was dealing with. Wherever they were going and whatever they were doing, he hoped they would have the opportunity to rehearse as a team in some secure facility. To go in blind would mean they were nothing more than cannon fodder and as good as dead. Jean was OK with that, if that were the case.

Hector wasn't very excited about this mission. On the one hand, the name of Foxhound was legendary in the independent military world, even if these guys weren't the originals. He decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, though- one didn't call themselves "Foxhound" without the credentials to back it up. No, what concerned him was that he was walking blind onto a Chinook transport, same as three other helicopter-fuls of recruits, on his way to be dropped off in some kind of warzone, with little to no idea what they were meant to do there.

If there was one thing Hector prided himself on, it was his intelligence. And said intelligence was currently telling him some very bad news.

Cannon fodder, is what we are. They're seeing just what we're capable of. See if we can get our feet under us. Most of us are probably gonna be dead by mission's end. He shrugged internally, though he still wasn't pleased. It wasn't really his problem- he figured he was talented enough to do just fine, and get the hell out of Dodge if things went particularly pear-shaped. Still, it seemed rather cold of his new employers to throw them into the crucible like this.

Regardless, he kept his face carefully neutral as he boarded the Stealth-Chinook, alongside five other recruits. He spared them all a cursory glance before following one of the few instructions he'd been given before boarding, and went to find which crate had his name on it. His was the largest, obviously, and he grunted in approval. Clearly, they'd read up on his preference in armaments. He popped open the crate, brows knitting slightly. It was all serviceable enough, but he'd expected something more out of the famous Foxhound.

He then remembered that most of them were likely going to die, and wrote that up to not wanting to lose too much materiel when the doomed ones bit it. It wasn't really that big of a deal, anyway- guns were guns, bullets were bullets, and he was very comfortable and proficient in the use of both.

First things first- get changed. He began pulling off his clothes, ignoring the other five members of the transport. One didn't keep shyness for long in his line of work. He cracked a smile as one of the other passengers cracked a joke. Nice. Hopefully he wouldn't die. He turned toward the Scotsman, still smiling his small smile.

"Perhaps I'll still buy you a drink after all this, just for the courtesy," he said, pulling on his pants. "Hector Slade. Pleasure to meet you, Tavish MacIntyre.

The earpieces of each of the operatives crackle as a signal comes through. The voice on the other end is that of a woman, distinctly British with a refined air to it. Her voice comes through with a somewhat tinny electronic sound.

“Good morning operatives, if I may I have your attention. I would like to start by congratulating each of you on your joining Foxhound. My name is Mason Eliss, you will call me Eliss. I am in charge of providing you all with intel and status updates throughout your missions, as well as issuing you with new orders if need be. My information will always be as up to date as possible and every order I give carries the same authority as the Second in Command of Foxhound, Raging Scorpion. The only time you will ignore my information or orders are if Raging Scorpion or Big Boss himself informs you otherwise. Trusting me is one of the first steps to surviving as a Foxhound operative.

Before you were all recruited you had different positions and ranks within your organizations, but you are now all of equal status. I’m sure that the natural leaders amongst you will take charge and you will eventually organize yourselves, but ensure that your interpersonal relationships do not interfere with carrying out orders given to you. Foxhound does not tolerate any form of disruption or violence within its ranks, especially during missions. To do so will lead to severe punishment.

As for contacting me and requesting information, I’m sure each of you are familiar with how to use your earpieces to speak to different members of your squad, your helicopter pilot, and key members of HQ. If you are not familiar, there is a manual that explains its usage amongst the equipment we have provided.

In order to request intel, you must equip your int scope and focus in on the subject matter. The int scope is the small handheld device reminiscent of binoculars. Once again, we have provided a manual detailing its usage. When using the int scope, the imagery will be broadcast to me and I will respond to any requests for information within moments. If your int scope is unavailable, you can verbally describe the subject matter and I will respond as accurately as I can. The intel I can provide you with covers a wide variety of subjects, so don’t hesitate to ask me to inform you on something that catches your eye.

Now that that’s out of the way, I’ll explain your upcoming mission. You will notice that you have each been given combat centric equipment. The reason why will be explained shortly. You and three other squads have been tasked with the extraction of a man by the name of Richard Brosnan.”

A hologram appears in the middle of the helicopter showing an image of a man in his early thirties wearing a grey military uniform with a red beret. He is cleancut with blonde hair and blue eyes. His name appears below the image. Eliss continues.

“Big Boss has personally issued this mission, stating that by rescuing Richard Brosnan we will be able to fully initiate Foxhound and begin operating. He has not provided any information regarding your target outside of him being ex military and being extremely valuable. Some missions will most likely leave you in the dark like this one, but it is your duty as Foxhound Operatives to rise to the occasion and adapt to any developments that may occur.

Your mission will involve you being taken two and a half miles away from a Syrian prison camp. You will then immediately approach the camp, arriving and taking positions to assault the prison alongside the other three squads. The manner you go about this is completely up to you through communicating with the other squads. Stealth or not, the sheer force of all four squads will be more than enough to push into the camp and retrieve Brosnan with little to no casualties. Once you are inside the camp you will most likely encounter other prisoners. These prisoners are not your objective and are to be left alone. If you decide to remove your balaclava and a prisoner happens to see your face, you must terminate them.

When you find Brosnan you are to take him outside and strap him to one of your fulton extraction devices. They are the packs we have provided that go on the back of your webbing. If you have ever used any sort of harness, it should be simple to apply. Just secure him in it and press the button on the side of the small panel connected to the balloon and he will be swiftly extracted. However, if Brosnan is sick or wounded, we can’t risk a fulton extraction and you will have to keep him protected while you wait for your evac.

Your primary extraction is the same location that you are being deployed from. But if it becomes impossible or exceedingly unsafe to leave the base, we can send in an emergency evac to collect Brosnan from within the base. This secondary evac will be using the balcony of the upper floor of the facility.

We can detect sixty to seventy enemy troops within the camp and forces of similar sizes in nearby outposts that will be able to respond to requests for help within five to ten minutes. The enemy is comprised of Russian commandos who are extremely dangerous adversaries, lethal force is allowed when necessary. The three other squads are also comprised of six operatives each. There are no side objectives to this mission. You are to extract Brosnan and keep him safe. If he resists in any way you are to non lethally incapacitate or restrain him. Any sort of unnecessary violence towards him will be severely punished.

You will be arriving at the LZ shortly. I will be in contact. Good luck.”

A crackle in each of the operative’s earpieces signals that she has ended communication. The hologram lingers for a few more seconds before disappearing. The pilot clears his throat and turns his head to look at the collection of soldiers in his chopper. He gives them all the thumbs up and speaks up.

“You’ll warm up to her eventually, she’s a good gal. Now that the serious stuff is out of the way, I hope you don’t mind if I put on my tunes. Makes the long rides feel shorter.”

Without waiting for any sort of response, he returns his attention to the controls. The internal speakers of the chopper buzz momentarily before music begins to play out of them. The thumping tunes, and recognizable scratchy voice of Tupac comes out over the radio as they prepare to land. For a few long moments they seemed to sit hearing nothing but Chet’s playlist, then they began to move lower and lower. “Alright guys.. Get ready!” The rear ramp began to slide open, ready for everyone to disembark onto the flat stone ground below. “Alright everyone, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Get going.” Chet says through the comms as he cues for them to exit the chopper and waits for them all to hit the ground.

For just a moment, the calm and composed Tavish disappeared. He was replaced by the Tavish that tended to appear before missions. The cowardly one, the one that had been present his whole life and didn't show any signs of leaving. The truth he didn't like admitting to himself is that he was terrified by many things. It was a good thing he liked being scared. The numbness in his limbs, the shortness of breath, the shaking hands, he loved it all. One might say that made him a masochist, and they's be right. Although Tavish always argued that every soldier that enjoyed his work must be at least a little masochistic. And Tavish definitely loved his job. Not that he enjoyed killing people, he just loved the sense of danger. He smiled and exited the helicopter, Mossberg at the ready.

The place was arid, to say the least. The heat made him feel heavy, and the dryness of the place took his breath away. He did a loop of the helicopter, not that he believed there to be any hostiles right next to their LZ. His heart was hammering. His hands were shaking, his breath was ragged. He loved every second of it. The truth was, after being in the military, civilian life was so boring. Whenever he was on leave, he spent the whole time throwing himself into action fiction. Normal, non-fatal civilian life was boring.

He walked back to the door of the Chinook.
"We're all good out here, guys." The ever-present smile still on his face.

Yuumi's brow furrowed slightly as Eliss detailed the enemy units. Russian Commandos, and about 60 or more of them. Including outposts that have similar forces. she had worked with Russian military for most of her career, and she knew how scary the Russian Commandos can be. The Spetsnaz were known for being pretty screwed in the head, and she didn't doubt for a second that these guys would be the same. Despite her knowledge in their tactics, she had never had to dismantle them. She was never on the planning side of missions to begin with. More often than not, she was given a vantage position, relaying information and asking for permission to fire. Perhaps this mission wouldn't be that different from the others. Perhaps everything would go wrong. For there to be so many commandos in one place, this man must be extremely important.

For this mission, she felt that she should rely on the others to extract the VIP, as it was mostly her job to watch their backs and make sure nobody snuck up on them. She had taken note of everyone else's gear, and she was the only sniper in the group, thus she needed to take up that job.

As the chopper landed and the rear ramp opened, Yuumi took a small moment to pat Chet on the shoulder, "See you at extraction, comrade." She said in a low voice, audible enough for him to hear it, giving him a slight wave before following everyone out of the Chinook. It was a habit that she picked up in the Japanese military, to thank your pilots and your comrades for doing their job. It was very much a respect thing.

She wasn't used to this heat, and she didn't like it one bit. She was too used to Japanese and Russian weather. Being out here was certainly a environmental shock, but nothing that she couldn't shake off in time. There was a little bit of noise from the helicopters, so she used the earpiece to broadcast to the team. I will be taking Sniper pozition at two zs'ousand feet from target. I will watch your back. Remember. Only look for zse VIP, nobody else." She informed before stopping broadcast. As she had been during the flight, she was quite expressionless, keeping a calm, confident mentality.

Thank god they were near the landing zone, she doubted she could bear another second of the hippy and hoppy music. Everyone had gotten dressed in relative silence, with the few attempts to start conversations whisked away by the sound of rotating blades and the mission control voice in her ear. It was all a muddle, like that one time at school she'd arrived five minutes late to a hockey game and had to get changed in the car. But somehow they'd managed to get dressed and fitted without too much giggling, and the helicopter was already touching down on the one stone platform in the desert. Even with the stiff day of heat they'd had, the wind was rising, blowing up dust devils over the dunes. Even in the half light, it was pretty.

No time to be admiring the view, though. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and took a few steps. Not great suspension. Slightly tight around the ankles. Good for walking across country in but she wouldn't be winning any sprints in these. The uniform fit rather snugly, tight around the waist and loose in the chest. She stretched her arms, like she'd just woken up. The sleeves were loose. Nice. Wouldn't catch on anything if she had to shake somebody off if she got womanhandled at some point. She put a finger to the piece of plastic in her ear, and felt it vibrate as it moved to Open bands. "Testing, testing. Everyone can hear me? This isn't a drill, the plastic ear thing is talking to you." Everyone's heads turned in different directions, looking for the noise. "Okay, guys. So, now that we've got some time to think, what's the-"

She was interrupted by another voice on the channel cutting her off. I will be taking Sniper pozition at two zs'ousand feet from target. I will watch your back. Remember. Only look for zse VIP, nobody else." Well, that was just rude. Who did this russian girl think they were, the firing range? She turned towards the blonde, about to make some remark about keeping radio silence or something, until she noticed it hadn't been her who'd spoken. It was the other one, the one who kept to herself and didn't even bother to say hi before handing out orders like candy. Luna bit her tongue, trying not to say anything, and meekly took to convering her point. Being quiet wasn't just a character perk, there was no reason to assume the girl was massive bitch casserole with extra salt. Maybe she had said hello and she hadn't noticed in all the confusion.

Jean watched his teammates prepare for this mission. He wondered what they were all about. He had never gone into a training operation with soldiers he did not know, let alone a combat operation against an elite branch of a foreign military. This was pure suicide. He giggled at the idea. Fortunately, the volume of the aircraft's engine was such that no one could hear him. That thought reminded him to check his ear piece. He adjusted it to insure it was properly seated.

As they neared the LZ, he realized it would be better to not wear the baseball cap. He removed it from his head, folded it neatly and slipped it inside his left thigh cargo pocket. Next he checked his M4. The selector lever was on safe and magazine was seated in the well. He had not yet chambered a round. That was a safety precaution for the aircraft. Pilots and crew chiefs frowned on grunts who put holes in their toys. He remembered sitting outboard on a French NH90 with the doors open of course. The crew chief left personal gear, an olive drab bag on the floor near his seat. His boots were coated in clumps of mud. Jean took the opportunity to wipe his muddy feet on the bag. He giggled at that thought too.

Jean paid attention to the woman named Eliss. She sounded a lot like a man he knew by the name Joubert in the Legion. Joubert grew up in Canterbury, about 35 miles southeast of London. Jean could not remember his real name. Maybe he never knew it? Fuck it. That bloke bought it in Cote d'Ivorie, four years ago.

Map. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a topographical map or at least a digital representation of the terrain they were going into. Need high ground for the sniper. Jean looked at Yuumi. She certainly looked capable. At least she was gung ho enough to get her feet wet. She appeared to be confident. Maybe this was going to be better than he expected. Then he heard the bit about the Russian Spetsnaz. He'd spent some time with them in Africa. They were crazy, yes, but no more than he and his Légionnaires. A person had to be slightly over the deep end to get themselves mixed up in crazy shit like this.

'What do these other three squads consist of? How many men per squad? Who are they? Are they like this lot? Unprepared and ready to die? What weapon systems are they carrying? Do any of them have breaching charges?' The thoughts continued to rattle through Jean's brain. He had so many questions, too many to ask in the short time remaining before their skids hit the LZ. 'Why a Chinook? Are the Americans involved? I expected a British craft, a Lynx or maybe even a German craft, but not American. But then hey. Maybe the Brits or even the French have a few Chinooks kickin' around. Besides, it was probably better to have a large aircraft like this with all these over sized Christmas presents we got. This doesn't make sense. A breaching charge would be nice. I'd rather make my own door than enter by a door the defenders are already aware of. Any type of explosives would be nice. What about perimeter security? We should isolate the objective with one or two squad-sized ambushes. Taking two dozen guys who don't know each other into a place defended by sixty or more elite commandos is ridiculous. But with four squads, there are barely enough people to set up the necessary ambush sites on any roads leading into this compound.' The questions swirled around his head. Jean could make no sense of it.

Then his thoughts brought him back to his comrades, 'Who were these fuckers? Tavish MacIntyre sounds Scottish. Yuumi sounds and looks Japanese...but there is something more? Russian? Wouldn't make sense to have a Russian on the team if we were fighting against Russians. She has to be Japanese. Hector Slade. Got it. On second thought, I'd rather not know these people. They are all going to be dead soon anyway. Me too for that matter. Dead men walking, that's us. The Grave Digger Squad.'

They neared the LZ, Jean pulled out his Night Vision Goggles from his pack. He pulled the balaclava up over his head, then slipped the NVGs over his head. He could still hear the earpiece and the NVGs were in a position to be used properly. He tipped them up so he could use his eyes in the red glow of the interior of the Chinook.

Finally, Jean broke in across the comms, "Mr. MacIntyre. If you survive, I'll take you up on that drink." As the six would-be Foxhound soldiers raced off the ramp of the CH-47 Helicopter, Jean swore he could hear old Tupac humming in his ears. "At least they have decent music tastes on this flight crew; none of that hill-billy crap."

The six Foxhound recruits exited the aircraft and assumed a three hundred and sixty degree perimeter, taking a knee, peering down the barrels of their weapons in the darkness pointing outward. Jean pulled the NVGs down over his eyes insuring they were turned on. He scanned their current Area of Operations (AO), the insertion point and most probable extraction point as they began stepping off in the proper direction. They had a four click movement to reach their objective.

After moving approximately five hundred meters, the team halted in a column formation with weapons pointing outward. The point man keeping his or her weapon pointed in the direction of travel and the trail person pointed in the direction they just came from. The team would wait for at least fifteen minutes to become accustomed to the sights, sounds and smells of the battlefield. The sound of the helicopter's rotors still buzzed in his ears. It was a traditional method practiced by every army in the world. The worst thing you could do is be surprised and have the mission to tits up so soon. Afterall, stealth was a critical task for the Foxhounds. Or so he was told.

Pippa didn't introduce herself, frankly she wasn't even sure she'd be staying long after they get this done. Hell, she didn't think she'd get this done at all. Would she die here? It was likely.

However, her strict school training forced her to listen to the assignment, and she'd be damned if she would let this mission fail due to her. Before the others dropped, she would speak clearly "Name's Pippa." That was all. At least they could call her something.

Once the copter landed, she hopped out with the others, her gear checked, equipped, and at the ready. She handled a gun before, she knew how to work it. However, there was a difference between shooting training targets and shooting a real life person. If it was between her and her enemy, she knows she could pull the trigger. Perhaps they could do this non-lethally? A quick choke-hold? She didn't know how to do that, but she assumed one of her companions did.

The asian woman took her sniper and trotted off to find a spot. Good, some cover would be welcome.

"I prefer things quiet. The less noise we attract, the better. Let's get this thing done."

She followed the gruff looking man. He seemed to take the leadership position and it was better than her doing so. She pulled on her balaclava and followed suit.

Hector slung the FN Minimi up against his back as the mission brief began- easily accessible enough, but he didn't think he'd need it. The key to this operation was stealth, and an LMG was not the way to go about being stealthy. He briefly checked the sights on the M4, finding them satisfactory, before they were all hustled out of the transport. He thought about the mission at hand, and was again disappointed at the apparent callousness of his new bosses. The least they could have done is told them what was so important about this Brosnan character, rather than just flinging them all into the fire. He bit back a sigh, not wanting to make too much noise.

A proper map would have been nice, too. But it's as they said- we are Foxhound, now. We gotta figure it out on our own. It wasn't really a problem, ultimately- Hector had been in less-organized operations before. They usually involved a lot of blood and fire and wasted ordnance, that sort of thing. At least no one was screaming here. Yet. The sniper spoke to them all in clipped tones, stating her intention to wander off and find a place to cover them. That suited him just fine. He quirked an eyebrow at her accent, but elected to ignore it- his own accent was almost incomprehensible, he had no room to judge. He nodded in the direction of the sniper.

"Good call." With that, he took up the trail position of their column of soldiers, walking briskly, yet quietly, to keep up with their point man. He adjusted the balaclava and NVG over his face, a nervous habit of his that he'd never quite been able to break. He thought he had a right to be nervous, however. After all, this was it. Off to whatever charnel house awaited them.

The day grew darker as time went by, Yuumi was busy making tracks toward a slightly higher sand dune that was closer to their target. Recalling the effective distance of her rifle, which was around 800 meters, she quickly used her int-scope to judge the distance more precisely. She could see the Russian base in the distance as she made it to the top of the dune. She made sure that her balaclava was on and she was moving along the side, at the back of the dune, so that she wouldn't get spotted by any other Snipers.

She went prone at the top of the dune, her body sinking into the soft sand. The only thing visible was her rifle and a little bit of her head. Thankfully the slight breeze wasn't blowing in her direction, or else she'd get a face full of sand. She touched her earpiece, sending a message to her 'team'. "I am in pozsition." She said simply. She didn't feel like she could trust the rest of these 'wannabe' Foxhounds. Half of them reeked of inexperience. But she had no choice in the matter. She was the only Sniper, her position was necessary and quite possibly intended by the superiors.

She brought out her Int-scope and focused on the Russian base, the scope tagged multiple soldiers whom she recognized to be Commandos. But it was best to ask Ellis for some info on all of this. The scope started to highlight vehicles and troops when she stared at them long enough, even when they walked behind something that obscured part of their body, the scope would somehow predicted their body posture and position. She went to her comms again, this time contacting Ellis. "I'm in position, I will begin the scan the base. Please provide me with as much information as possible and broadcast it to the rest of the team. Thank you." She requested in fluent Japanese. It was faster for her to speak in her native language rather than English. She would hope that Ellis was knowledgeable in most languages, as Operators usually were.