December 14th, 2016, 17:43
Circa 160 km SW of the coast of Cyprus, Eastern Mediterranean
The roar of the airplane's engines and propellers is barely audible inside the cargo box, almost like a hum, the only sound breaking the silence. The doors leading to the cockpit are sealed shut, painted with the Cygnus logo, a stylized swan opening its wings, and the words: "Cygnus Military Solutions Air Force". Next to the doors, a white screen had been set up, with a mini projector on a table a few metres from it, a chair on its side. Suddendly, the door slams open, and sergeant Leonard Miller steps out of it into the cargo box, a grin barely visible on his lips. "Good evening, gentlemen."
Miller's deep voice echoes in the cargo box. "Stand down soldiers. I didn't become a hired gun for more pointless ceremonies." The man wears a pair of aviator shades concealing his eyes; Miller's mullet is also partially hidden by his black beret, adorned with the Cygnus logo with two crossed bones beneath it. Khan's clothes consist of a pair of dark green trousers and an olive green blouse, the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, unbuttoned and with a black shirt underneath it; the blouse's right shoulder is adorned with three black chevrons, surmounted by the pirate flag symbol of the Blackbeards unit, while on the left there's an oval patch you don't recognize, depicting a stylized fox facing left. Miller walks toward the table, the crutch he holds in his right hand rythmically stomping against the metallic floor, as he hums a song you don't recognize, and sits down on the chair besides the table, facing you, with his crutch resting against the side of the chair. Miller produces a small leather pouch from one of his pockets, and takes a pinch of tobacco out of the pouch. While rolling a cigarette, Khan says: "Now, I think you have already been throughly briefed about your mission. But a bit of revising has never hurt anybody, right?" As Miller puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it with a gray metal Zippo, the projector flickers to life, and an image appears on the white screen, depicting what could be described as an offshore plant, only much, much bigger.
"This is Haolam Haba, the Nation of Refugees." A puff of smoke exits Miller's mouth as he starts speaking, putting away the tobacco pouch and the lighter in his blouse. "Unless you spent the last few years living in a cave, you probably know most of the stuff you have to know about it already, and probably more. You also probably know these guys are not as good and saintly as they seem." The projector flickers and shows more pictures, taken from battlefields across the world, depicting soldiers fighting, crates of guns and ammunitions, prisoners of war, trucks full of migrants, cocaine and opium plantations, as Miller uses his crutch, held in his right hand, as a pointer, moving it towards different pictures. "Eritrea. Iraq. Lybia. Rwanda. Venezuela. Syria. These folks have been everywhere, acting as mercenaries for those who could not afford it: militias, rebel groups, cartels, insurgents, terrorists. Normally, only sovereign countries could deploy PMCs: not anymore, thanks to Haolam Haba. And that's not all: HH has been implied to be massively involved in worldwide illegal weapons trade, as well as drug and human trafficking. Thanks to their consistent military and intelligence forces they have been able to move guns everywhere, and drugs from countries like Afghanistan and Colombia into the whole wide world, opening up new markets for themselves in places like Africa and India, and let's not even get into their slave and prostitution trafficking."
"Nobody really gave too much of a damn about all this in the international opinion, because according to the United Nations HH are literally Jesus incarnate, because they offer a good and permanent solution to the migrant crisis: they actively help and shelter migrants from the whole world, offering them a safe haven at no price, and hell, they give 'em a job too. The whole thing is three times the size of Manhattan and was created specifically for housing as many people as possible: I have no idea how many are there, but it's probably above two millions and counting. Also, these people are damn good at keeping secrets and also seem to have comptent lawyers, since no international court could rule that they were guilty of any major crime." Miller lets some ash from his cigarette fall into the ashtray, then puts it back in his mouth. "Still, as you can imagine, HH attracted attention. And I'll let you guess, who's the most curious cat out there in the world?" The projector flickers again, showing a picture displaying information about CIA operations in Haolam Haba, as Miller grins and points down his crutch, resting both his hands on it. "Too late, you lose."
"According to the intel they gave us, Langley had a SAD SOG team undercover in HH, codename Gray Fox. They told us they were there to monitor HH activities and they got caught, but I think you can smell the bullshit from here as well. The CIA knows better than send guys on top secret assignments just to keep an eye on things, and most of all, they usually don't get caught in missions as simple as this. They had a task, something went wrong, and now they're probably all dead, since contacts stopped around a month ago. Of course, since the CIA doesn't want us to smell their dirty laundry, they fed us a fake story: and we don't ask questions. Your mission is very simple, and has barely anything to do with the CIA's task." Another picture is displayed on the screen, depicting a bald caucasian man in his forties, from the front and from the side; with his right hand, Miller smacks the bottom of his crutch right between the man's eyes. "This handsome gentleman is Seth, one of the Gray Fox members. No idea if that's a codename or his real name. Anyway, one week ago, the CIA received a radio transmission from Haolam Haba: apparently, it was Seth, who claimed he had been taken hostage and needed immediate rescue, and also gave out his location. Yes, I know, it's a trap. That's also one of the reasons Langley sent us instead of their own guys to investigate. Your orders are to infiltrate Haolam Haba, locate Seth, and free him if necessary; you'll get more orders once that is done." Miller blows out a stream of smoke from his nostrils, once again resting his hands on his crutch. "You think that's all? Well, you think wrong." New images appears on the screen, depicting what looks like a well-manned and equipped military base in the middle of the desert.
"These photographs were taken by one of our spy drones in Syria. Five days ago, we noticed a spike in activity in Soviet bases in the region. This is the Khmeimim base, south-east of Latakia. Lots of trucks, cargo airplanes and choppers, tanks, gunships, troop movements...they're planning on something big. And then, three days ago we get this." Another picture appears on the screen, resembling the Haolam Haba photos at the beginning; only, there are evident signs of fighting, with fires and smoke rising from the structures. "The authorities of Haolam Haba announced that a terrorist attack, led by unknown forces, had taken place in one of their platforms. And guess what, it's in the same area where our CIA guy, Seth, was located when he sent his call for rescue. We have no idea if the Reds have any involvement in this: our spy drone was spotted and shot down before it could get any closer, and we couldn't risk send another or our operation could have been compromised." A new image appears on the screen, which appears to be a drawing of one hexagon, surrounded by six smaller hexagons.
"This is a crude map of Haolam Haba; as you can see, the facility is composed of one core structure, surrounded by six smaller platforms, connected to each other and to the core with bridges. The platforms are named from Alpha to Zeta, clockwise, starting from the northernmost one: so the northern platform is named Alpha, the north-eastern one is Beta, the south-eastern is Gamma, and so on. Seth last made contact in Delta, the soutern platform, and that's where the recent attack took place too. You will perform a HAHO jump landing in this platform, reach Seth's last known location, and report back. There's probably fighting going on down there, so watch out, and shoot only if someone shoots at you. The microcameras mounted in your helmet will send me a live feed of your mission, and I will keep contact with you through the transceivers headsets you are equipped with, as your mission control, from the Cygnus air base of Halfaya, Egypt. My codename for this mission will be Khan. Your codename as a squad is Greyhound; private Morse will be the squad leader. In case communications with mission control is interrupted, he's the one who gives orders." Miller's cigarette, or what remains of it, flies into the ashtray, thrown with a swift movement of his fingers. Khan stands up, holding his crutch. "Remember, this is a top secret infiltration mission. Don't expect any official support from Cygnus. If you run out of ammo or supplies, all replacement gear must be procured on-site. Once you're out there, you're on your own." The projector shuts itself off, and Miller stands up and begins to walk towards the door he entered through. Openining it, he turns towards you. "Good luck, soldiers."
Circa 30 minutes later
The airplane speakers buzz to life, as Miller's voice echoes inside the cargo box. "Gentlemen, this is your stop. Thank you for flying with Cygnus Airlines, we hope you had a pleasant flight. Don't forget to grab your free parachute on the way out. Ramp opening in 3...2...1..." The cargo ramp slowly begins to open with a loud hiss, allowing the roar of the engines to be fully heard inside the plane, and letting a blade of light cut through the dim inside of the cargo box. Soon, the clouds and the sea below are visible on the outside of the plane; the Sun is setting on the horizon, bathing the sky in a deep orange hue, reflecting on the clouds, of a bright pastel colour, and the sea, shining below. "Begin Operation Dog Shelter."
Circa 160 km SW of the coast of Cyprus, Eastern Mediterranean
The roar of the airplane's engines and propellers is barely audible inside the cargo box, almost like a hum, the only sound breaking the silence. The doors leading to the cockpit are sealed shut, painted with the Cygnus logo, a stylized swan opening its wings, and the words: "Cygnus Military Solutions Air Force". Next to the doors, a white screen had been set up, with a mini projector on a table a few metres from it, a chair on its side. Suddendly, the door slams open, and sergeant Leonard Miller steps out of it into the cargo box, a grin barely visible on his lips. "Good evening, gentlemen."
Miller's deep voice echoes in the cargo box. "Stand down soldiers. I didn't become a hired gun for more pointless ceremonies." The man wears a pair of aviator shades concealing his eyes; Miller's mullet is also partially hidden by his black beret, adorned with the Cygnus logo with two crossed bones beneath it. Khan's clothes consist of a pair of dark green trousers and an olive green blouse, the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, unbuttoned and with a black shirt underneath it; the blouse's right shoulder is adorned with three black chevrons, surmounted by the pirate flag symbol of the Blackbeards unit, while on the left there's an oval patch you don't recognize, depicting a stylized fox facing left. Miller walks toward the table, the crutch he holds in his right hand rythmically stomping against the metallic floor, as he hums a song you don't recognize, and sits down on the chair besides the table, facing you, with his crutch resting against the side of the chair. Miller produces a small leather pouch from one of his pockets, and takes a pinch of tobacco out of the pouch. While rolling a cigarette, Khan says: "Now, I think you have already been throughly briefed about your mission. But a bit of revising has never hurt anybody, right?" As Miller puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it with a gray metal Zippo, the projector flickers to life, and an image appears on the white screen, depicting what could be described as an offshore plant, only much, much bigger.
"This is Haolam Haba, the Nation of Refugees." A puff of smoke exits Miller's mouth as he starts speaking, putting away the tobacco pouch and the lighter in his blouse. "Unless you spent the last few years living in a cave, you probably know most of the stuff you have to know about it already, and probably more. You also probably know these guys are not as good and saintly as they seem." The projector flickers and shows more pictures, taken from battlefields across the world, depicting soldiers fighting, crates of guns and ammunitions, prisoners of war, trucks full of migrants, cocaine and opium plantations, as Miller uses his crutch, held in his right hand, as a pointer, moving it towards different pictures. "Eritrea. Iraq. Lybia. Rwanda. Venezuela. Syria. These folks have been everywhere, acting as mercenaries for those who could not afford it: militias, rebel groups, cartels, insurgents, terrorists. Normally, only sovereign countries could deploy PMCs: not anymore, thanks to Haolam Haba. And that's not all: HH has been implied to be massively involved in worldwide illegal weapons trade, as well as drug and human trafficking. Thanks to their consistent military and intelligence forces they have been able to move guns everywhere, and drugs from countries like Afghanistan and Colombia into the whole wide world, opening up new markets for themselves in places like Africa and India, and let's not even get into their slave and prostitution trafficking."
"Nobody really gave too much of a damn about all this in the international opinion, because according to the United Nations HH are literally Jesus incarnate, because they offer a good and permanent solution to the migrant crisis: they actively help and shelter migrants from the whole world, offering them a safe haven at no price, and hell, they give 'em a job too. The whole thing is three times the size of Manhattan and was created specifically for housing as many people as possible: I have no idea how many are there, but it's probably above two millions and counting. Also, these people are damn good at keeping secrets and also seem to have comptent lawyers, since no international court could rule that they were guilty of any major crime." Miller lets some ash from his cigarette fall into the ashtray, then puts it back in his mouth. "Still, as you can imagine, HH attracted attention. And I'll let you guess, who's the most curious cat out there in the world?" The projector flickers again, showing a picture displaying information about CIA operations in Haolam Haba, as Miller grins and points down his crutch, resting both his hands on it. "Too late, you lose."
"According to the intel they gave us, Langley had a SAD SOG team undercover in HH, codename Gray Fox. They told us they were there to monitor HH activities and they got caught, but I think you can smell the bullshit from here as well. The CIA knows better than send guys on top secret assignments just to keep an eye on things, and most of all, they usually don't get caught in missions as simple as this. They had a task, something went wrong, and now they're probably all dead, since contacts stopped around a month ago. Of course, since the CIA doesn't want us to smell their dirty laundry, they fed us a fake story: and we don't ask questions. Your mission is very simple, and has barely anything to do with the CIA's task." Another picture is displayed on the screen, depicting a bald caucasian man in his forties, from the front and from the side; with his right hand, Miller smacks the bottom of his crutch right between the man's eyes. "This handsome gentleman is Seth, one of the Gray Fox members. No idea if that's a codename or his real name. Anyway, one week ago, the CIA received a radio transmission from Haolam Haba: apparently, it was Seth, who claimed he had been taken hostage and needed immediate rescue, and also gave out his location. Yes, I know, it's a trap. That's also one of the reasons Langley sent us instead of their own guys to investigate. Your orders are to infiltrate Haolam Haba, locate Seth, and free him if necessary; you'll get more orders once that is done." Miller blows out a stream of smoke from his nostrils, once again resting his hands on his crutch. "You think that's all? Well, you think wrong." New images appears on the screen, depicting what looks like a well-manned and equipped military base in the middle of the desert.
"These photographs were taken by one of our spy drones in Syria. Five days ago, we noticed a spike in activity in Soviet bases in the region. This is the Khmeimim base, south-east of Latakia. Lots of trucks, cargo airplanes and choppers, tanks, gunships, troop movements...they're planning on something big. And then, three days ago we get this." Another picture appears on the screen, resembling the Haolam Haba photos at the beginning; only, there are evident signs of fighting, with fires and smoke rising from the structures. "The authorities of Haolam Haba announced that a terrorist attack, led by unknown forces, had taken place in one of their platforms. And guess what, it's in the same area where our CIA guy, Seth, was located when he sent his call for rescue. We have no idea if the Reds have any involvement in this: our spy drone was spotted and shot down before it could get any closer, and we couldn't risk send another or our operation could have been compromised." A new image appears on the screen, which appears to be a drawing of one hexagon, surrounded by six smaller hexagons.
"This is a crude map of Haolam Haba; as you can see, the facility is composed of one core structure, surrounded by six smaller platforms, connected to each other and to the core with bridges. The platforms are named from Alpha to Zeta, clockwise, starting from the northernmost one: so the northern platform is named Alpha, the north-eastern one is Beta, the south-eastern is Gamma, and so on. Seth last made contact in Delta, the soutern platform, and that's where the recent attack took place too. You will perform a HAHO jump landing in this platform, reach Seth's last known location, and report back. There's probably fighting going on down there, so watch out, and shoot only if someone shoots at you. The microcameras mounted in your helmet will send me a live feed of your mission, and I will keep contact with you through the transceivers headsets you are equipped with, as your mission control, from the Cygnus air base of Halfaya, Egypt. My codename for this mission will be Khan. Your codename as a squad is Greyhound; private Morse will be the squad leader. In case communications with mission control is interrupted, he's the one who gives orders." Miller's cigarette, or what remains of it, flies into the ashtray, thrown with a swift movement of his fingers. Khan stands up, holding his crutch. "Remember, this is a top secret infiltration mission. Don't expect any official support from Cygnus. If you run out of ammo or supplies, all replacement gear must be procured on-site. Once you're out there, you're on your own." The projector shuts itself off, and Miller stands up and begins to walk towards the door he entered through. Openining it, he turns towards you. "Good luck, soldiers."
Circa 30 minutes later
The airplane speakers buzz to life, as Miller's voice echoes inside the cargo box. "Gentlemen, this is your stop. Thank you for flying with Cygnus Airlines, we hope you had a pleasant flight. Don't forget to grab your free parachute on the way out. Ramp opening in 3...2...1..." The cargo ramp slowly begins to open with a loud hiss, allowing the roar of the engines to be fully heard inside the plane, and letting a blade of light cut through the dim inside of the cargo box. Soon, the clouds and the sea below are visible on the outside of the plane; the Sun is setting on the horizon, bathing the sky in a deep orange hue, reflecting on the clouds, of a bright pastel colour, and the sea, shining below. "Begin Operation Dog Shelter."
