[center][i]'Damascus. Shit. I'm still only in Damascus. Every time I think I'm going to wake up back in the sandbox. When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I'd wake up and there'd be nothing. When I was here, I wanted to be there and when I was there all I could think of was getting back into the sandpit. I've been here a week now. Waiting for a mission. Getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker and ever minute Muj [Mooj] squats in the desert he gets stronger. Each time I looked around, the walls move in a little tighter.' [-Adapted from Apocalypse Now][/i][/center]

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, [i]FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY[/i] 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.