April 27th 2025
Just inside the border of Taniland
African Continent

The DC-3 transport plane was probably - no, definitely - older than all of the people aboard. It rattled, banged and creaked, and the interior was so loud, there was no way for the operators of Spearhead to talk to one another as it flew, even with their radio headsets. Sat on nylon webbing seats along the inside of the fuselage, their gear was in a small pile of hard-impact peli cases and bags between them, strapped down to the cabin floor.
The note of the rumbling twin piston engines changed and the ancient DC-3 rumbled as its' landing gear came down. Craning her neck to look through the porthole behind her, Meg peered over the top of her shades at the outside. The ground grew close; reddish dirt and plentiful green vegetation loomed up, broken by the occasional rocky outcrop and winding ribbon of water. There were vague hints of civilisation; unpaved roads cutting through the greenery and the occasional simple building of unclear purpose, and then it was lost behind the treeline as the DC-3's wheels touched down with a rumbling roar, and the props joined it as they went into reverse to slow down. The tail came down, tilting the cabin as the plane slowed enough to land, and the noise dropped away as they came to a stop.
The co-pilot picked their way past the seated operators, nodding to them and pointing to their seatbelts, before he undogged the hatch in the side of the fuselage and heaved out a set of steps. The dusty, earthy smell of the outdoors invaded the cabin, interfacing with the musty, artificial smell of the ancient plane.
Meg gestured to the others to handle the gear, and for one of the others to come with her as she dropped down the steps, and into the dying heat of the early evening. The roar of the DC-3's engines had died to a low hum as they idled, and the plane was unloaded.
Standing close by, and somehow managing to look almost immaculate despite their surroundings in a white dress shirt, jeans and a suit jacket was Jamison, the team's handler and contact. A short way behind her a minibus was parked up with the doors open and waiting.
"Welcome to Taniland, Spearhead Team," she said over the sound of the engines. "Glad you made it in one piece"
"No thanks to the transport arrangements," Meg said back, shaking hands with the slightly taller, more slender woman. "The pilot was great, but I think to keep that thing in the air, he'd have to be. I'm pretty sure that DC-3 was probably over Normandy, and hasn't been serviced since".
"It was inconspicuous, and at short notice," she replied with a shrug. "And it got you here, that's all that mattered, right?"
Megan acceded with a shrug, looking back to the plane as their gear was being unloaded.
"I won't argue with that," she said with a nod, before nodding back to the pile of their gear. "I assume you've got a place for us to go? And that we won't have time to sit around long, either"
Jamison shook her head, face falling into more of a grimace. "I've got several safehouses set up across the region, in association with the local resistance. I've made sure there's multiple points, and they'll be safe enough for you to use to sleep, eat, and rest otherwise, as well as store your gear. And as for getting you right into it; as long as you're ready to go, I can get you out there right away".
Megan looked back at her team and her lips wrinkled. "We'll see; once we've got the gear on the bus and are away from the strip, we can get a better idea".

***

A short while later, the bus was loaded up and the plane clawing its' way back into the darkening sky. Jamison put the vehicle into gear, and it moved off down the rutted, bumpy road. She talked loud enough for the whole team to hear as they moved.
"So the situation on the ground is that the Order are definitely in charge. Taniland's military and police forces are basically owned by them and at their beck and call, and they essentially own the government too, through payoffs, bribes, blackmail and all the usual methods. Most of the civilian population are stuck working here for them, whether they like it or not, and open dissent is very harshly punished. Worship of their fucked-up ideals isn't enforced per se, but it's... highly encouraged. There is a resistance movement, but they're underfunded, under-equipped, and are on the back foot. That's why we're here; to give them a boost and try and help them get on the right path"
The blonde fished in the door pocket on her side, before pulling out a file jacket and passing it over to Meg, the kiwi flipping through it, before passing it back for the others to look through.
"That's the dossier on Thomas Adebayo. He's one of the Resistance chief officers. While he's not their primary field leader, he is their top point of relations with the local population. Well educated, local boy, from a family with a strong history of helping the local people. He was running for office before the Order took over". Jamison took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance across at Megan, who returned the look, the minibus turning onto a more finished road surface, other traffic - sparse as it was - starting to appear around them, along with telephone poles lining the sides of the road.
"...He was taken into custody by the police in the town of Mbaiki, this morning, and then transferred to a compound in the village of Boukoko. Getting him out would be a perfect first step for us in establishing a good contact with the Resistance, and it would show the Order we mean business as well. Freeing prisoners from what has been, until now, a place that couldn't attacked and dealing them actual damage would send a clear message. Not to mention, there's bound to be intel on their operations in the local area as well that would be worth getting our hands on, and other assets we could seize that would be worth putting in our hands, or those of the resistance fighters".
Meg leant back against the sweat-sticky seat of the minibus and nodded, pushing her shades up onto her head now that the sun had died away into twilight. A village loomed ahead, lights breaking up the purplish haze of the encroaching night.
"Sounds like time is a factor here; the longer we wait, the longer they'll have to try and pull more out of him. Or transfer him somewhere harder for us to reach him. How far is this place from here?"
"About twenty minutes drive. There's a safehouse here too".
Meg considered, and then shuffled around in her seat to look back at the others.
"All right. We de-bus, unpack our shit, get chow and then get our heads together. No time to get into things like the present, right?"

April 27th 2027

Soundtrack: J Balvin / Metallica- Wherever I Roam

Holding his KS-1 in a safe hold, the Chilean's badge-adorned helmet, gruff look and stern hold on the webbing reflected in his knowledge of how shonky, bumpy and uncertain landings in DC-3s were these days. An aircraft used in Normandy? Probably, but this thing made a racket and his ears were buzzing, even with the Peltor headset on, let alone his fingers and forearms from just how fucking unruly it was an aircraft. Jesus, he'd have rather jumped out than landed this thing.

He stayed quiet, as the DC-3 clattered into the gravel, coming to a stop as the fading of the light started to kill the sunshine that burnt down, even in spite of the scattered clouds and highly humid climate he'd arrived into- much akin to Colombia and Haiti, but just...well, it had something else.

Looking beyond the runway's environs, the green jungle, red-sand like soil and feeling of malaise, malaria and being in a risky area immediately felt glued to Santi's soul, as he kept his rifle's grip tight, his Camelbak on his back hucked over from the feet he'd had it in, his Ops-Core helmet and AOR2-like fatigues revealing a new world operator, much like Megan, a Southern Hemisphere native transplanted to the equatorial heat. Whilst looking modern as an operative, there were holdouts from Lautaro in some of his smaller gear choices, from pouches on his plate carrier to the more worn, older mountain-spec Scarpas he chose to walk in. It felt strange to be here among Spearhead's initial deployment, but considering the threat, and the need for a sensitive hand to be involved, it made sense an operative who could fly a drone, and work in asymmetric combat was here. Much like the others, this was a team willing to fight war without air support or help. Vaqueros indeed, Santi smirked to himself internally. This would work nicely.

The threat at hand was different to cartels, even if drugs were involved. They were different to just smugglers, even if they were certainly bringing in something even worse than illicit contraband, the demented God they chose to worship, in no way any that his mother would ever call Christian. Let alone anything even anything normal at all. These were the devil, taking from the poor to give to the rich, and doing all sorts of untold horror inbetween. The sorts of people you buried under the prison, and Santi had met some real pieces of shit in his time.

With it, the Chilean took another good look at the others, taking a good look in at each. Lukas, a short US Airman, the team's medic, tooled up with a beard that made Santi's own reconsider length. Juichi, with his rather unique Howa rifle, and deeply calm nature, as Santi would expect of a Japanese modern-day warrior, sitting near Arsala, the Cowboy of the team, the mirror to his own Vaquero-like personality, and then Sohee, who actually seemed to stand taller than even Lukas did- a 707th operative with teeth and a penchant for Israeli gear. And lastly, Karishma, the Indian-American Marine, carrying a mean looking couple of pieces for breaching and blowing shit up. That rounded things out, outside of the twine-like voice of the Kiwi team lead, who approached the American, Jamison, and dealt with pleasantries.

Following in the shadow of Megan, Santi did not need to say not much in response to the look of Jamison, and the intel. As she turned back after dealing with her, Santi piped up, ready as ever. This was not a normal arrangement, this was not rank and file. This was a job with a scalpel to be performed with a multi-functional team.

"Ready to go when you are, boss. This place is as humid as Colombia, mierda." Santi's Chilean-tinged voice struck like charcoal, rifle at the ready, nodding as on that note, he put himself to work, helping with anything that was required- helping to load the bus. He held off small talk with the others, the initial introductions already made, and as fast as the plane had come down, it had gone, they were in a bus, and away.

Clambered inside, every bump echoed through the metal and glass of the rackety Japanese minivan, as Jamison and Megan conversed, hearing the intel of what was to come. The CIA lady was dressed to the nines, but Santi knew her type, they were business at the front, torture behind the scenes if you got on the wrong side. It sounded like they were going straight into the fire with the target. He was ready to go as and when. The answer was rather simple, once he'd read the dossier.
"Sounds like a chance for us to get some goodwill early. Showing them we mean business will bring heat. They'll be prepared for an assault, but nothing with more thought behind it. Yet." Santi looked back, looking across the minivan, across to the team in general.
"Into the frying pan straight away, no?" He called with a husk in his Spanish accent, a smile returning as he knew well, as fast as they were getting involved, there was no bullshit here today. Sooner they made a dent in the order, the better.

April 27th 2027
Just inside the border of Taniland
African Continent

Sohee adjusted her gear as the old rickety DC-3 rattled its way through the humid evening air of Taniland, the roar of the engines drowning out all attempts at conversation. She sat quietly on the nylon webbing seat, her hands resting on her knees, her body swaying slightly with the constant vibrations of the ancient plane. She had long learnt to tune out discomfort. Her eyes were closed, breathing steady and her mind relaxed, despite the environment. It may be meditation or simply preparation that allowed her to set aside the rattling fuselage, the loud engines and the metallic tang of its interior.Her previous experience had taught her that ‘rest can be as deadly a weapon as a pistol or grenade.’ When the plane descended with a jolt, she opened her eyes and glanced at the others in the team.

She caught Meg peering out of the porthole, her shades perched on her head. Sohee didn’t bother to look out of the window. The details of the outside terrain of Taniland would be visible soon enough anyway.

The roughness of the landing brought a smirk to her lips. She’d been on worse flights, but this one was definitely in her top five for “barely holding together.” As the co-pilot moved past, gesturing to the hatch, Sohee unclipped her belt and stood, her movements fluid despite the cramped quarters. She immediately slung on her Camelbak before moving to hoist one of the peli cases as the hatch opened, as the warm earthy air of Taniland invaded the interior of the ancient DC-3.

Following Meg and the others out of the plane, she took her first step onto the dusty ground. The heat of the evening was thick and slightly oppressive, the faint breeze carrying the scent of dirt and vegetation that reminded her of other missions in places just like this. Her gaze landed on Jamison, who stood by the idling minibus, a calm air of authority around her.

She suppressed a hint of amusement at the contrast between Jamison’s pristine attire and their own worn, practical combat gear. Meg handled the conversation well enough, and Sohee preferred to conserve her energy for what lay ahead. When the gear was stowed and the team loaded into the minibus, Sohee claimed a seat near the back. Her hands rested loosely on her knees, her fingers occasionally drumming against the fabric of her tactical pants as she listened intently. As Jamison briefed them on the situation, Sohee’s eyes stayed on the passing scenery, watching out for anything that could pose a threat to the team. Jamison’s voice carried over the road noise, detailing the situation with pinpoint accuracy. Her expression remained neutral, but her mind worked through the possibilities.

When the dossier made its way to her, Sohee flipped through it with systemic precision, committing Adebayo’s face and profile to memory. She knew that time was crucial, every second they delayed put Adebayo at greater risk. As Meg mentioned “No time like the present”, Sohee smirked once more and replied “Copy that. We move fast, hit harder, and pull him out before they even know what hit them.”

April 25th, 2025
Hotel in Yaoundé, Cameroon

"Do you know when you'll be back?"

Mirwais posed the question genuinely, either forgetting or ignoring that he had asked her at least a dozen times over the past month. He was a smart boy, bright in the unsure way of a teen still figuring out his place in the world. In all likelihood he had known that she couldn't answer him before she had said so the first time, her vagueness on details making it clear that whatever she was doing was not just another trip to Austin. Still he asked, hoping that he'd be wrong and his mother could give him some soothing definite answer.

Arsala could do no such thing. She couldn't tell him where she was going, when she'd be back, if she would make it home in one piece or at all. The only thing she could do for poor Mirwais was smile, sink into her seat on the cheap bed the hotel had provided, and swallow her doubts.

"Soon, I hope. But I don't know. This case I'm working, I don't know all the details yet but it's complicated, complicated enough they're calling for help from all over. It might take a while, but I'll call as often as I can."

"Sounds good."

He was better at hiding his feelings nowadays, but there was no getting past Mom. It was the little things that gave Mirwais away. His inflection, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, hints of discontent that he wouldn't recognize until he himself had children. She could stomach the standard teenager fuck you, I won't do what you tell me! acting out, even if it made her grumble. This genuine loneliness he was giving off, the sense of abandonment that he couldn't hide?

That hurt.

"We'll do video call; that way I can make sure you've been practicing your signing!"

"Okay, if you want to."

Her smile wavered. After a couple of years humping around her homeland and then another two decades as a cop she was pretty good at keeping a game face. Car wrecks, shootings, burn victims, once she saw enough of them they all blurred together. Her only weak point was her children, and Mirwais blowing off the project they had been working on was enough to give her pause. Arsala considered her name prophetic, for what she was if not a lioness taking care of her cubs? But sometimes she had to step away from the pride, and they lacked the context to understand why.

"Well, I know you're supposed to go to Thomas's. I won't keep you. Make sure to call your dad if you need a ride home. Have fun!"

"I will, thanks Mom."

She wanted to keep him longer, tell him all the things she might not get to if the operation went badly. How proud of him she was, how grateful she was for him setting an example for his sister, that she saw him grow and change day by day and year by year into a fine young man. But he valued his space more than her sentimentality, the same way she had valued her own at his age. Arsala resigned herself to sending an email or something later, waving goodbye as she moved to switch off her laptop.

She waved, and instead of reciprocating Mirwais crossed her arms over his chest, holding them tightly just long enough for her to see before pointing at her.

This time her smile stayed strong.

"I love you too."
-----
April 27th 2025
Just inside the border of Taniland

She thought she had left long-haul flights in clapped-out cargo planes behind her when she got discharged but there she sat once more, surrounded by capital-o Operators and enough gear to fight a small proxy war. It was like being in G Squadron all over again, except this time she wasn't a young grunt with something to prove but an experienced officer, the oldest on the team if she wasn't mistaken. She also had more to lose these days and less experience working with people she wasn't familiar with. She knew more about the rest of Spearhead than she knew them personally, with the obvious exception of her partner.

Zaland sat between her knees, the dog panting contentedly as her fingers traced lazy circles between his ears. The other hand was busy with the booklet she had made for herself, combining the information Spearhead had provided on Taniland and pages of notes from her own research. She had started the flight with a nap, the brim of her hat tipped down to shield her eyes, but she could only sleep so much. With shuteye out of the question she felt it was prudent to review as much as she could before touch-down.

The rattle of chunking engines signaled a turbulent landing, Arsala taking hold of her rifle as Zaland made a plaintive whine for attention. The requisitioned MRAD was an exact copy of her own, a condition of her deployment. When asked what weapons she required, Arsala gave them the specs of her personal armory, her favored weapons that she wasn't willing to lug around the world to get banged to hell in a firefight. It was something like twenty-five thousand dollars worth of longarms when factoring in scopes and suppressors, before all the taxes and fees that came with getting licensed to own suppressors and full-auto submachine guns. It had been a ridiculous request, one designed to give her an excuse to turn the op down, but she had forgotten just how quickly the military could spend tax dollars.

She had her guns within days, and now it was time for her to hold up her end of the bargain.

The only weapons on Arsala that were hers to own were her knife and her pistol, custom-made keepsakes that couldn't simply be dragged out of an armory. As loathe as she was to put her own equipment in harm's way she wasn't about to leave those at home. The plane managed to skid to a halt without snapping its landing gear, Arsala standing and stretching as the door was thrown open. She put on her aviators before stepping out, trailed closely by Zaland.

The lady meeting them was a classic spook, an obvious foreigner in business casual attire hanging around the dusty ass-end of nowhere. Khattak had worked her kind before, and quite frankly she hadn't enjoyed the experience.

It was hard not to regret signing up for this thing. There was a reason she had left all that high-speed, low-drag shit behind her to book DUIs and DVs. Shootings happened, and for Arsala they happened more commonly these days, but she liked knowing that pulling the trigger was the last resort, the choice she made when all others were exhausted. Here she'd be expected to shoot in the back, to jump right into the highest level of the use of force continuum. She had signed up for another war.

It was natural for her to feel unsure, but the tension in her gut would either subside or be ignored once the doorkicking began. The Order were a special sort of scumbag, bad enough that they were a military threat and not a law enforcement one. Arsala could compartmentalize for as long as it took to handle it. In the meantime she just tipped her hat at Jamison and loaded her things onto the bus, picking a seat at random so Zaland could clamber into her lap.

The drive, like the flight, was less than comfortable. This part of the world wasn't famous for its infrastructure at the best of times and something told her that the current rulers weren't interested in paying for upkeep.

"What am I supposed to say, no? I'm already out here, might as well get to work."

Arsala snickered as she took her turn with the dossier, committing the details to memory. It was like Afghanistan all over again-the locals weren't going to be clamoring to help a group of heavily armed outsiders without a local headman there to provide bona fides. You needed someone with respect from the community, a warlord or a tribal leader or a politician, and you needed that someone to be willing to work with you.

Pulling Adebayo out of a fire would kickstart a working relationship.

"How many enemies are we expecting in the compound? How many in the village itself? If they've got this place locked down we can expect there to be militia crawling up our ass at the first sign of trouble."

Juichi unlike the rest of his team, was somehow asleep despite the loud noise coming from the engines of the old bird. He figured that would be the best given talking was impossible given the noise and he has slept through worse or at least that is what he thought. Since this time he was barely asleep as the noise made him come in and out of sleep. It was annoying but, he kept at it.

It was only the rough landing that truly woke him up and as he looked around. Juichi realized that the plane has landed and as the co-pilot gestured to them. He unclipped his belt and collected his things. Following the others out of the plane and through the hatch. The warm Taniland air greeting him as he made his landed his first steps on Taniland soil.

Juichi had a smile on his face despite the slightly oppressive heat as he was just glad that the trip was over and they were on solid ground. That flight may have been his worst even though he semi-slept through it. Still, breathing in the fresh open air, it was better than Sudan so far and now it was time to see what their first mission would be in this place.

He kept silent as the team met with Jamison and got in the minibus with their gear stored in it. Juichi chose a spot on the right side near the middle. Just sitting plainly and despite looking out the window and admiring at the jungle scenery. Juichi was listening to what Jamison was saying the entire time. Though being a nature lover and wanting time to explore the jungle as he has never been in it before. This is not a vacation, this is a mission and he was focused on that.

When the dossier was passed to him, Juichi made the effort to remember Thomas's name and face as he passed the dossier to the others when he was finished. So that is their first mission, he thought. A rescue mission and one that will certainly help make friends with the locals and showing the Order that is one else is willing to fight them. Though another thought entered his mind, this would be his first real mission, the ones he has been on were just evacuations. Making sure that allied or foreign nationals were safe from developments in a country. Nothing like this, and was he nervous about it? No, just eager to prove himself that he has earned his rank and position after years of being in the military. Their first mission should be a good test of his skills and see for himself how he handles in real combat.

When the others added their voices to the mission talk, Juichi added his with a Japanese accent with a smile on his face. "Sounds like a plan boss and the sooner we get Adebayo out of there the sooner we can really start messing with the Order."

Boarding an aircraft that was as old as this hadn’t been among Moss’s first choices of how to travel that particular day but, then again, he’d never really had ‘first choice’ upon thinking about it. The seat, and everything else in the DC-3, squealed and spoke and roared as they’d taken the flight, shifting and wheezing with every exertion, every breath of wind, every motion of the rudders and ailerons. Of course, they’d never take an aircraft that was absolutely going to fall apart on such a flight - Moss was relatively certain of that. It’d be ‘a real fukkin waste’ if they just fell out of the sky to their deaths instead of something interesting.

A smile had crept its way onto his face at the thought and image. It’d be a helluva way to go after so many interesting bits here and there, a real stupid way to go. The best anticlimax, that’d be what it was, and with his luck some little part of the man said that it fit. Life had a sense of humor, even if it was one of the worst senses the man had ever known. The smile slipped away, though, and he spent the rest of the flight in as little silence as there could be. The noise seemed to drown everything out.

Eyes flickered from one team-member to another to another. He'd read some files, had to look into some others on that grapevine. Winters, Kiwi SAS with a number of extra trainings here and there, he wondered if the temper bit had ever simmered down. It had been noted in a few of her periodic evaluations, interestingly enough. Valenzuela, Chilean special forces whose record seemed to cover all of South America, Moss had been curious to read no other combat deployments other than the anti-cartel work. Then again, that practically was a combat deployment. Kyoya, JGSDF Ranger who'd gone to Sudan…it took a special sort to be Japanese and want to deploy overseas. That normally wasn't the case. Khattak, Pashtun…all over the place, really. Airborne, though that meant a little less than most thought, Delta, CIA, she seemed to be all over the place. Moss could recall her name coming up in one or two of his own operations with The Activity. He had good expectations from her and the good boy seated comfortably with her. Park, South Korean who he remembered from the news those years back, another Somalia participant. The Israel portion of her recent activities had been sealed, annoyingly enough. It’d been curious. Jha, Marine who'd gotten blown up, Moss was impressed she'd actually come back after only a year. They were all competent enough, considering.

They landed, though it could probably be better described as a controlled crash, Moss gripping the bottom of his seat with one hand while the other tapped impatiently on his knee. If they were going to go up in a fireball after that annoying flight, then things truly would have been a waste. Coming to a rest, or at least less of a commotion, he got out of the plane with the rest of them, got into the bus with the rest of them, duffel bag heaved over a shoulder.

On the way they listened to the speech, read over the almighty manila folder. It was just like what he’d heard before, all things considered, with the religious nuts having control over basically everything, government frozen, and the resistance to it being broken up over not being supported. Having a clear target to extract was nice, though a little worrying. Moss listened to the others chime-in too, most of them offering up ooh-rah while Khattak stuck-out by rattling off a number of specific questions that really wasn't the thing he expected to get answered on a bus. A smile touched the corners of his mouth, wry.

“What a hero, getting up and captured. I like him already. What the lady said, though…we have details on this place at all? Infrastructure and layouts.”

The rattling of the plane around her was a feeling that she could never quite get used to, a strange preference towards older airframes by operators that struck her as odd. This wasn't her first rodeo so to speak, a bit of an amused smirk as she glanced to the cowgirl at her side and the remarkably calm dog. Figures that the dog would be much more okay with their ride, probably would have stuck his head out the window if that was an option. For but a moment Karishma thought of the gathered operators and what she knew of them, though she had not delved too deeply into their backgrounds beforehand. Arsala with the dog, the group's marksman and humint operative. In most cases she found that meant that there would be a need to avoid fighting, but it was nice to know they had someone to work overwatch. Juichi, pointman and combat engineer. There would probably be a few points where the two of them would need to work together, so she made a mental note of that. As pointman though, she would be following his lead for the most part when it came to combat. Then she came to Santi, "Condor" their drone operator and grenadier. Another supporting operator role that she felt would come in handy quite a bit, regardless of who and where they were fighting. Especially considering their rather discrete nature, having some form of eyes in the sky would be invaluable, and with the bit of background she saw of him... The guy could throw hands.

The other three she wasn't as familiar with, only knowing Meg as their team lead, Sohee as their tech and Moss as the medic and thusly "Doc" to her. But some words of wisdom came to her as the plane shook in a particularly rough patch, reminding her of another time in a very familiar ride. She had been much more nervous then, and it had been a lot colder and rougher a ride. But what she remembered was the relatively relaxed attitudes of the men and women she had been assigned to, a group of operators much like this and led by an incredibly overbearing and enthusiastic Norwegian. "Now Rook, I know this is your first time but just remember this." Magnus, his accent carrying over their ride and a hand on her shoulder as he gave the one bit of advice she held to most over the years. "You got your job, we got ours. No one would be here if they didn't know what they were doing, and that includes you. We're all operators, we got nothing to prove to each other. We got your back, and we know you got ours." It had been something of a surprise to hear, remembering her time in training trying to be the best of the batch for selections and just how competitive everything was. But he had been right, and that mindset got her through those two ops with him and his team.

It was why though she didn't know much beyond some basics of their backgrounds and their roles in this op, Kari didn't have any reservations about Spearhead's selections. She was confident that each of them had the necessary skills for what lay ahead, and if it came down to it each of them would be able to cover for anyone down. All she needed to focus on was her own tasks, following her team lead and the mission at hand. A mission that became all the clearer as the plane touched down and the team shuffled their gear into the only slightly less rickety bus awaiting them. She took a few moments to help out in loading the bus before getting on last and watching the countryside pass by while listening in on the impromptu debrief. From what she gathered on the conversation and the dossier, it looked like they were going to be freeing a resistance leader and helping to set up some connections here that could be used by Spearhead in their overall mission. It made sense to her, primarily in the way of making themselves an ally of the locals and having an easier way to navigate the area. Being able to work with the locals and seen as friendly usually made things a lot easier to operate in a region. When it came to be her turn for the dossier, she looked over it and got enough of an overview to tell her what she needed about the man himself.

"Expected casualties, boss? We going in hard or soft?" She could deal with either, but she tended to find that once things got loud they stayed loud for the rest of an engagement and sometimes it was nice to avoid. Her breaching bag to the side in the seat, she looked over her supplies again. Some thermite pens, a pick kit and of course the heavier stuff. "I'll also second that on any info we can get on infrastructure. I can get us in the door regardless, but could help to know the shortest route possible."

Meg nodded back to Jamison as the others asked their questions, eager to get the answers herself.
The CIA handler pulled the van to a stop outside an unassuming house of the local style, shutting off the engine.
"There's about ten personnel likely to be in the compound; it's a property belonging to the Order and used as a staging post for security patrols. It's less busy overnight, so moving at night would be in our advantage. The compound is walled with three gates; one sliding one large enough for vehicle access, and two person-sized ones; one at the front and one side gate which is where they tend to put out their refuse for collection.
"One central structure. Lower story with an attached double-garage and six rooms on the ground floor, four on the upper floor. Staircase linking the two, with a roof access. No fixed weapon emplacements, but there is a sentry at the front gate, and a patrol checks the perimeter three times an hour, and there's a camera covering the side gate. There may be technicals or other vehicles in the garage or passing by; so be prepared for those. Personnel on site aren't likely to have much other than small arms for you to worry about either. Locally; there's usually a patrol around the village - The Order has enacted curfews across the country due to Resistance activities, from 11pm - 5am. But they're undermanned and they can't cover everywhere at once."

"Sounds like that about covers it," Megan said with a nod. "I say we use stealth as much as possible to get in and out. Anyone gets in the way, we use necessary force to neutralise them and get Adebayo out of there. If there's a vehicle on site; we capture it and use it for extraction".
Meg opened the door on her side and hopped out of the van, moving around to the back and starting to unload their gear, as Jamison rapped on the door to the safehouse. A couple of locals armed with AKs looked out, taking in the scene and nodding to them, and starting to help with bringing things in, as muted light spilled out of the door.

The inside of the safehouse was spartan, but dry, warm, and clean. A main room served as kitchen and lounge both, and a handful of other smaller rooms adjoined with beds, bathroom and other sundries. A rug pulled aside in the main room concealed a rough basement that had a ladder leading down to the wood-panelled room holding comms equipment and a stash of other tactical gear, supplies, weapons and ammunition that their own stuff added to as it was passed down.
The air of the safehouse was full of the smell of cooking and spices as a sturdy, solidly-built woman busied herself at the stove and ladled out portions of a stew into chipped porcelain bowls with chunks of local bread on the side.

"Eat, gear up, and let's get prepped for this op," Megan said to the rest, nodding in thanks as the woman passed her a bowl with a smile.

Moss let out a long exhale as he listened while they got out of the van, filtering out into the building. The local resistance looked pretty sparsely armed, though they were bold in his opinion for being so, well…open. Any other group he’d expect something like a random kid, maybe pre-teens, keeping watch with a whistle or routine that’d signal trouble, but these people were just out and about with their AKs. Sure, it took Jamison rapping on the door to get them out, but still. In his mind it was less than ideal.

As for the structure itself…well, ten people and another group out in the village wasn’t too extreme. They’d just need something to keep the patrol busy, something else to keep the guards inside busy. Thoughts bubbled to the surface on potentials, but of course for all that he needed to know some basic specifics. If he assumed everything worked per usual, well…that’d be hell on earth real quick. Moss sat his pack down next to a seat, taking it with a curt little nod to the chef as well as a bowl of stew, a chunk of bread. Breaking a piece off, he stirred the hardbread about the stew for a few moments, thinking things over.

“OK, question time to get some answers on what I asked before. Fire and communications is what I’m interested about, personally. First of the two…what’s local fire rescue look like? We at lines with buckets, a fire station, or does that local patrol do the lifting there? How do they do things as far as fire when it’s at curfew time? Is the compound fitted out with a fire detector system, carbon monoxide detectors, or what? Are any of those things connected to a box or is able to be accessed from the outside? Do they actually give a shit when those go off and, if they do, what do the guards do? Any of that known?”

Taking a breath, as well as a hearty bite from the bread, Moss continued on. “What’s communications infrastructure look like, both local and for the Order specifically? Fixed, short-range handhelds, satellite phones, what? We got any frequencies for em?”

Sohee settled into a seat at the table, setting her rifle aside but keeping her sidearm holstered within easy reach. She took a bowl of stew with a nod of thanks as she settled onto one of the worn wooden chairs around the table. The rich aroma of spices was mouth-watering, and after a long flight and a bumpy ride, she was more than ready for a hot meal. She tore off a piece of the bread and dipped it into the thick broth, taking a bite as she listened to Meg’s rundown of the plan. After a moment, she set the bowl down and glanced at Meg. “Before we move, I want to take a look at their security system.”

Her tone was purposeful and direct to the point. “You mentioned a camera covering the side gate. Are there any other cameras indoors? Also are the cameras wired or wireless? If it's networked, I can loop or kill the feed remotely. If it’s standalone, I’ll need to be close to disable it.” She took another bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Once we're inside, I'll need a minute to access whatever they have on-site. If there's a server or terminal, I can pull intel—comms, patrol routes, supply caches, maybe even Resistance contacts they're tracking."

Her dark eyes flicked to Megan, then to Jamison, gauging their responses. “Also, any idea what Adebayo’s condition is? If they’ve started interrogation, he might not be in shape to move quickly. If we need to carry him, that changes our extraction plan.” She pondered for a brief moment before continuing.

“One more thing—power supply. Any chance they’re tapped into local infrastructure, or are they running on generators? If we can cut the power at the right time, we might be able to disrupt their coordination and limit visibility.” She let her words settle among the rest of the team as she returned to her hearty stew, her mind already working through possible tech-based solutions to make their entry as seamless as possible. Every bit of intel meant one less variable, one less risk.

April 27th, 2025

Santi prudently listened to what there was to be said, keeping his lips tight till he had something to add. It sounded secure. They had a refuse collection, which for this part of the world, was genuinely incredible. The Order must have had their eye on solid waste management, if they were putting out and getting their refuse collected. For the third world, that was actually quite impressive. They clearly were a tidy bunch of sick fuckers if they had waste collection.

Walking in with the rifle at safety, Santi nodded in response to Meg's thoughts, and general approach. It made sense, quietly snatch the HVT, quickly, fast, and get out and get a quick win. This wasn't a full blown firefight. It was Guerillero hustle, plain and simple. And without numbers, that made sense.

@Rhona W

"That sounds like a good plan. Move fast, clean house, and grab the HVT. I can use the drone to provide overwatch, and steer you into the compound, and clean up any hostiles on the roofs and outskirts. I'll keep the drone afar so they don't pick up the noise, even with the blades I have installed on it, they'll know something is going on. Put me where you need me, but all I need to know is where we take him and how we minimise civilian contact." Santi started, walking alongside Meg, the bearded, half-Italian operative already letting the landscape bleed into him.

This was not typical special forces warfare, this was asymmetry. And working with what they needed to get to help the Resistance meant a mindset that Santi was already accustomed toward. You didn't win those fights with air support. You won it with surgical precision, intelligence, and being willing to fight fire with fire. Not always ethically either. That Santi had learned when he went up against the Cartels- and the Western-equipped resources they had, often being staggering to those who didn't realise just how well equipped they were. Not taking 7.62 out here was Santi's choice because he assumed most weren't wearing kevlar, at least, not the ones that mattered. So dealing with threats without insight, that Santi had in spades, as he continued.

"Grabbing a vehicle, a Hilux perhaps, would be useful. If our man has been tortured, he won't be able to walk far, if he can walk at all. One of theirs may even come in handy. If it has the right tarps, covers, signage.....we can inflict a little more mess on them, if they do not know what is coming, and we may able to use that to our advantage to get around without being stopped, or at least, noticed as fast. There are rules of war we should play by, of course. But from the file I read, we are not....how do you say.....this is not a situation where our opponent is exactly playing fair, no? Any opportunities like this may come in handy. I will of course, follow what you think is best." Santi replied with his fast, husky Chilean accent still in tow, and with that, headed inside the warm, hospitable safehouse.

The stew filled the porcelain as Santi put his rifle into an improvised rack, optic covers on and magazines unloaded with his plate carrier next to the table, his FNX holstered as Sohee and others had done. He appreciated the food as he put spoon to stew, compared to MREs, this was earthen, hearty food that seemed to just seemed to fill, and dunking the warm, brown bread that tasted endlessly fluffy, given it was relatively freshly baked, it was nice to have some good nutrition before they were back on job. Back on road. And back committing some mess. He'd been in CAR for peacekeeping work, with a fireteam-worth of soldiers supporting the UN. He knew how this place worked, and while he did not have the stellar list of deployments like the others did, from the War on Terror, piracy, counter-terror and policing, he had his own quiet, contemplative thoughts from where he seemed to sometimes end up as the tip of the spear in Chile's own special forces output.

Santi let Moss and Sohee bring out their questions, the questions coming fast, and no doubt Meg thinking over some of them. While Santi was not someone who would step in and answer and mansplain for her, given she'd probably kick the shit out of him if she could from the rumours he had about her anger, he still felt like he could at least break the duck of the conversation and answer from his own experiences. Experiences that he realised, perhaps the Americans and Korean didn't have to quite the same degree. Fighting in it, and then living in it were different things, as he looked across to the Korean.

@Komo

"Killing the power seems like a good shot. Yet, a place like this though might run on a generator. If they have a power grid, it'll be easy to cripple, but it would be nothing you can hack. But, we'll see. And if they have servers.....I am sure we will find out if they have any filth. It's always the people who think themselves God who are the worst pieces of shit." Santi replied back, the Chilean's contrast to the South Korean's angle coming with a tinge of some experience of his own. Something he had half a feeling, she might have known too.

A White Tiger was a very capable operative- they had to be, after all, to deal with the threat of North Korea and wider security challenges in the area meant they did not back down, and the martial blood that ran in much of the ROK SOF was not to be understated. Sohee's baby-face fitting of her nickname hid an identity that no doubt knew how to go non-stop and follow discipline. Santi knew that Chilean warfare was not like the kind that she would have been used to- he was considering a drone and a KS-1 high-tech, while Sohee had access to plenty more fancy equipment. Still, if she had an LMG, and an idea of how to break things, they would be more than friendly.

Then across the room, the short American, Lukas Moss, had thoughts also. Santi picked up a strange feeling about him, from a former USAF Parajumper into a spook, working in the Middle East and Central Asia. A medic, comms specialist, and all around hunter-killer. Someone who knew how the dirt of operations worked like this. Santi was an appliance, he knew that much, an operator who understood chaos, asymmetry and working with low tech, but Lukas was a hybrid of a hybrid, it felt like. And he was right on comms, given some electronic warfare could be fun to mess around with.

@Thayr@Theyra

"I'll tell you my drone's frequency, Lukas, Juichi too, but don't go looking at its website history. If you want to start using an EM jammer or that Flipper, I would prefer you don't knock it out of the sky. I doubt I will find spare parts here easily, but, then again, I always am surprised in places like this what you can find when you go to markets. Piña, Piña Granada, Naranjas, AKMs, motherboards, same market stall." Santi remarked, keeping it light, but being happy to poke a bit of his fiery nature into the affair, knowing he could take just as much as he would give. He no doubt gave off the vibe of a bit more of a maverick, nowhere near as precise and clean as say, Sohee or Juchi, but even with his drone and what he did, knew he got what was required of him done and followed to task. Different operators had different methods. He had found what was comfortable with him, but no doubt it would be a point of friction.

With that in mind, Santi looked across to the others, more generally commenting on that aspect of the drone. Arsala and Karishma, the Afghani and Indian-origin were two sides of different coins, one blowing stuff up, the other getting the voice on the ground. Both hardened operatives, Arsala's story one that felt perhaps the most equivalent to Santi's own. He was lucky to grow up in a relatively safe, good upbringing, but he knew what that slip was like with a lack of security. The Vaquero from Kabul, Santi put in his mind. Karishma on the other hand was mean as hell, short but someone who'd spent nearly twenty years blowing stuff up, stopping stuff blowing up, and well, her loadout requisition read like someone wanting to go wreck some homes if she came to it. Plus a fucking Winchester. Jesus, was she more of a Vaquero than Arsala? Santi put the thought away, going back to what he was going to say before his train of thought broke.

"I will try to keep an eye out for you all, if you have PLBs, I will make sure my drone at least recognises your tag. I cannot give you a bird's eye view for your own eyes, but, tell me what you want to see and I will do my best to let you know. If not, 40 mike fixes the problem if you don't want it there? Anyway, please, call me Santi. I'm not truly Italian, spare calling me Enzo, yes?" Santi chuckled with a little sarcasm at the end, with an accent that to the Americans would definitely not sound like Mexican, having a fast, almost Portuguese-like inflection into the Latin accent that was only stopped by Santi's appreciation for speaking French and English in more common settings like this. Santi did not work exclusively around English-speakers, so his accent heightened on some words, not having perhaps the same HUMINT capability of say, Arsala.

Sipping down the bottom the liquidy stew, knowing as much as the others, there was a bit of ice to break, Santi looked to them.

"I read your files. All impressive. No Europeans though. Strange. Perhaps they thought it best to just keep them away in a place the Europeans have fucked up once before, no?" Santi pointedly observed, a wry smirk on his face, as he looked across to Meg more generally, and the lady serving them food.

"Compliments to the chef. This is very good. Once we have them running away, I will find some skewers and sort an Asado, muy bien, that would cure a great deal many things in this place." Santi quipped, as he finished the last bits of meat and veg in the stew, and with it, wiped his face with a spare tissue, cleansing his palette with a swig of his aluminium water bottle within his Camelbak, separate to the Camelbak system itself.

Putting the bottle back into the bag behind him, Santi was first to move and stand from being nicely sat on on the carpeted floor with his legs folded, and headed back over to his plate carrier and the weapons rack. He was silent as he did so, almost unspoken, as if this was just the thing that happened next. If it was what Meg intended, then he was moving on already.

Peeling the KS-1 off the rack and with it, pulling the stock out and checking the receiver, magwell, gas block and charging handle, twitching the rifle over and inspecting it over, his Ops-Core helmet following, the GPNVG-18 setup swifly being mounted on the helmet's specialist mount, as was a side-of-helm mounted ODIN Tactical IR flashlight with a cable press into his plate carrier for close-quarters work. Not that he would likely be breaching, it was more likely the others were kicking in doors today. He looked across to Arsala, coming back to his thoughts from earlier, continuing to prepare his magazines, and rifle in his ritualistic state.

@Smike

"A true Texas Ranger. I see it in films all of the time....but you are real. And the flag is similar, no? That would make us Vaqueros perhaps." Santi cracked a smirk, the Chilean Flag being exceptionally similar to that of the Lone Star State's flag, eying over the Cinco Peso, the coin-made badge what made a Ranger, a true Ranger- literally made from a Mexican Peso originally, though now it was silversmithed out of similar designs. Cowboys and Indians? Well, the blend that came about from the Texan that was also at the same time, of the Indian Subcontinent, it was like she ticked both. An observation that put her apart, as well as Zaland, the Belgian Malinois a fierce looking thing that was half humanitarian, barrier-breaking friend, half tear throats, and another half of detection to boot. Santi seemed to be careful around Zaland, knowing dogs were very, very sensitive to action, and Santi posed himself as no threat, letting the pup figure out Santi.

"I never did ask for his name....you definitely equipped him well. He looks like he has plenty of bite." Santi observed Zaland's armour, generally more open and just observing, before finishing up his own loadup, PMAG slid in, QAC suppressor screwed onto thread, and optic covers peeled back, with Santi ready to go and get after the work to come.