Huscarl looked over at the group, nodding to Irish.
"Good to see you mate, welcome to the team- papers, and so on, get your shit together. You probably know me, so I won't go into any more detail- so chop chop." Arran said, indicating a look on his face that said plenty to him that he was good to go and setup with the rest, as he walked out of the armory, and back to his billet with his laptop cradled in his armpit, to sort something out. His radio buzzed again, as Arran ran, going in as he put it down and set the cables.
"Shit, line's got about 5 minutes worth of security Neptune, what is it?" He asked, looking out as he shut the door and switched the light back on.
"We've got another op, just recent. Turns out that we've got a hold of some more intel, regarding this submarine's deployment from Tripoli, Lebanon- and we need a little dry work to be done to find a manifest from the place, to back up what you're going to find. Like I said, we don't expect this one to be guns blazing, but we're going to need one of your guys to co-ordinate the agents we got on the ground. I'd trust them with sitting on their asses and listening in on a bunch of Arabs for a few days, but this needs a finer touch."
"Roger- I'll send Khukuri, he looks bored, and I suppose he needs to get the fuck off this island. You handling the logistics of my man?" Arran replied, as Neptune chuckled.
"Yeah, we will Huscarl. Just tell him to get moving to Stratis Air Base, with his weaponry and we'll go from there- we'l reattach him to your team in about a week."
"Understood. Cutting the line now, if that's it."
"Go get some fuckers, Huscarl. Over and out." Arran laughed, as he disconnected the cable, running a deletion program to begin a cleanup on his laptop, and wipe any trace of any encrypted material that was on his laptop- a process of multiple deletion, which would take a few hours with the high level of encryption that he had just used. He got up, and walked out of the metal billet, shutting the door as he looked out on Athena and the others, before going back to the mess hall to see what was left, and tell Khukuri.

( [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aV2IkSpRPtU]Transition OST[/url] (ie. what I was listening to at the end of this post and the beginning of the next.)

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

"Operation Deviant"

1900 Hours, 2nd July, 2035
On a RHIB somewhere south of Makyrnisi, Pyrgos Bay
Altis

Huscarl sat right at the front of the RIB, adjusting himself as he looked back on the boat, the evening setting in as the sun had now come closer and closer to the horizon in the west. He looked back- Mischief was on the M134 situated in the middle of the boat on a 360 degree swivel and a slightly raised platform, while Hotwheels, the driver, sat a little off-centre. The rest of the team were either sat on the side or up at the front of the RHIB with him, as they swelled over the waves, the sea rough but not stormy or throwing them around. Just a few breakers, and nothing substantial. Huscarl's gear was on him at the moment- his plate carrier, light ECH helmet with a flashlight on the right and a camera on the top, with a pair of swag Tactical Shades over his eyes, already giving him a small ammunition count in his bottom right of his vision, and also clocking up a basic friendly identification system, which of course, was only practical in identifying the team, not enemies. His UBACS fatigues were the team's standards, as well as his tan British Army standard boots, along with the Oakley gloves in his hands. The SCAR-H sat comfortably, the magnifier disengaged but the magazine loaded and ready to spew when he pulled the trigger.
"Everyone, eyes open. For now, AAF forces don't watch for RHIBs since they think we're with the CSAT, but the moment they come close or we fire the fucking gun, we are fucked. Hotwheels, keep going, half pace. Everyone, check your gear, we are at the Start Point, 1km out roughly. I've got no sighting of the AAF Speedboat, and no airborne units currently." Arran said, looking through his Rangefinder, magnifying slightly as he looked over at the distant island.

"Primary Insertion looks good, we'll stick right to the plan as I set out. Remember, quick and clean. Since Khukuri isn't on hand, Athena will take command of the second team after we approach Zephyr and the submarine, and she'll use the Laser Designator. As far as I'm concerned with that helicopter, let's try and keep it quiet- we'll destroy the rear rotor and move on, not fucking blow it to smithereens. And no, we're not stealing it. Last time I checked, none of us have any idea how to fly a freaking helicopter, and coming back to Stratis to convince the AAF that we're just "borrowing" it." Arran said, a wave kicking up as he sat up a little, looking out, aware that they knew each other well, and that they'd be getting this done cleanly and efficiently. Huscarl's Icelandic father, and to some regard, what made him feel more Nordic than Scots, was what he considered gave him that courage and that belief. He always remembered that his father had no fear to go out in the harshest storm, that he said it protected him and he felt at ease with God's wrath. In some ways, Huscarl felt that it was the same today- that if you looked on the tactical map to see how seriously outgunned they were, it was like they weren't going to have a hell of a chance, any normal infantryman or even a SFSG man would look at it and just say "No". But he knew he had the capability, he had the tactical plan, and that they would decimate the island's units with speed, precision and get what they wanted, without even making a audible mark. The only real stab in the side would be the fact that CSAT would lose millions of dollars of submarine, and a lot of troops dead at the hands of a NATO drone and an unspecified team. For some reason, Huscarl had to suppress in his head that what they were doing was not helping the tensions, but this was the only, and therefore, least worst way of getting the intel that they so desperately needed.

They slowed down, the boat quiet as they approached the south-western tip of Makyrinisi, closing much slower now as they entered on the breaking waves, Huscarl's beard and tactical glasses showing an element of an operator who was just sternly deep in thought. He had sometimes gotten stick in the SFSG and even the SBS for it, just being sometimes a little disconnected to which Huscarl always reiterated he was in thought. On how things would happen, and other matters. The chance to perhaps go home after this, with the rest of the troops on Stratis. The chance to see his girlfriend, of whom he had a strained relationship. He wanted to see her, badly, but work came first. Perhaps it was this disconnection with reality that made Huscarl good at what he did. He looked back at the operators, spitting first into the sea as he outlined his last functional order for now.
"A heads up- you find any intel after we raid Zephyr, you report to me and do not even consider going back to NATO troops on Stratis following a debrief. Remember how this works lads- NATO regulations do not apply to our operations, so you are free to engage AAF and CSAT forces now unless I give the word not to. All understood? Good- Hotwheels, aim for the small beach right there, quarter speed as we go. Athena, Irish, Hotwheels, you three take the right flank of our insert, your callsign is Bravo 2. Me, Mischief and Praetorian here will flip the north-west, as Bravo 1. We'll stick to the maps, and quietly act on the Titan emplacements first- my Bravo 1 will flank around and hit Titan No.2, while Athena's Bravo 2 knocks out Titan No.1 quietly. We'll go from there and eliminate every AAF man we see in a pincer, kill wounded and do not spare any surrenders, just to remind Mischief and Irish of that from training a few months back. Silencers set, on my mark." Huscarl said, kneeling at the front with the SCAR-H, as they prepared to hit the very small beach on the south-west, and quietly, and smoothly, move into position and eliminate the Titan emplacements- likely to just be three men at each, and a Titan MPRL AA launcher on a tripod, something that they could possibly use later if things hit the fan.