Arran looked over, watching Andrew come up to his bench, taking a seat as he asked the question.
"It's a fucking ballache. Nothing yet, we're still sitting here. I've got a meeting with the Colonel in about an hour, I'm taking a quad down there. He doesn't like the fact that his guys are sharing with a bunch of spooks, and if I'm honest, he isn't really in a position to say anything about it. My word lies with the man up in an office somewhere over in that direction." Arran said to Andrew, pointing out in the vague direction westwards, generally towards Langley, Virginia- where the CTRG reported mostly back to, to a joint US/UK intelligence division within the CIA's extensive compound. 
"Still, what can you do. Nobody likes this shit stain, they want to be back home not sitting on an island and packing shit away. This camp goes full in about three weeks when they're done packing Rogain away, then the only operational centre left on this island's going to be Stratis AFB and Fort Fulton. They'll leave a dozen men, and probably four platoons of fucking greenbacks (AAF soldiers)." Arran added, looking over at the female marksman in the team- Olivia, or Athena. She knew that when it came to designated marksmen, making the right choice was always key. Just like with a second in command, who Arran had known well enough from Northern Nigeria to decide on. But it was nothing but a professional friendship, this shit existed not because Arran wanted to call them up as a perk, but because he knew that they'd be the most suited. 
 
"Hey Athena. If you're about to suggest you're bored as hell, feel free to join us." Arran said, looking over- the HQ was just a storey high, and was a metal structure, the kind that could probably be rapidly disassembled and put back together if needed. A few bits of rust were in one or two places, but it wasn't completely gone to shit with the hydrated Iron Oxide, not yet at least. His geology just remembered that for some weird vague reason, it was what the brown shit that metal turned into when water and heat acted together on something like this for a prolonged period.
"You spooks really ain't what they say you are." Patterson said, Arran chuckling as he brought a plate of fish and chips over, the shitty salad distinctive. No matter, Arran said. He had eaten worse.
"Yeah, I suppose so. Patterson, how's shit going at Rogain anyway? They finished packing that place yet?" Arran asked, looking over, as Patterson brought two more plates for Athena and Khukuri, Arran eating as Patterson turned around.
"Almost, full truckloads today. We got off early, I swear we're fucking manual labor now, not soldiers. They could get contractors for this stuff, I get paid to shoot people, not lug shit around for a living." Patterson said, Arran laughing as he knew that this was a soldier from the 101st Airborne, and he had probably a right to be pissed.
"I understand what you mean. What can you do though." Arran said, eating on, as he ate on, still inert on how things were going.
"Athena, Khukuri, either of you want to go see McKinnon later with me? It might cut out from the boredom to see the flyboys if you guys are up for it." 

----------------------

"Seagull's given us good intel, you've got the transcript." Neptune said, looking over to the other man in the dark office, wearing a full suit and clearly the most formal man in this place. He seemed more than just military ,he looked like a real spook to every letter.
"We're going to need that sub dead for sure. Huscarl knows how to get that done. Bring me a closer sat image of Makyronsi." The other man said, as Neptune panned the satelite's camera, coming in closer to make out the image clearer.
"Fuck, that's it. Fucking Major Arshad Marood, it's the guy, it's the sub we want, we need this done, ASAP. We working on getting Huscarl in touch?" The man added quickly, as Neptune nodded, replying.
"My team is on it already Sir, we'll have him on comms with you when the specs are set."
"Good. Operation Deviant is a go. I don't see any other option. They sail out of the gulf, we have no chance of catching Arshad and whatever documents he's sharing with the AAF right now. I give us at best another twelve hours- the satellite picked this up this dawn, lucky we did or else we would have no chance. We take the sub down while we're at it and clear the waters, and find out what those CSAT recon troops are doing on Altis before we suffer for it when they bomb our troops in the Med. As much as we are walking a thin wire, the fact that this guy brought a fucking submarine and this shit from Tehran that was so under the radar means that whatever it is, we need. Huscarl can figure out how to do this without getting his team killed and putting us into WW3, so we'll send him the images and get him up to speed with this." The man said, looking as Neptune simply nodded.
"Twenty minutes, and I expect that you'll have the details finalized to send to Husky. Get to it." The man said coldly, before leaving, Neptune looking at the three others in the room also by computers, wearing headsets and tapping away, getting the details refined with the sat images, and set to relay everything to Huscarl for the operation. The brief and task was already defined- though the planning element was up to Huscarl to deal with, in order to effectually make this work.