[center][b][u]PCMC North Arctic HQ - Armory/Tactical Briefing[/u][/b][/center]

The pair had dragged the subject to medical without incident, as expected. Romanov played nice when he went outside the wire. Hell, it was the most interesting thing he had to do, besides all the free movies they let him watch. Walker would probably assault some poor fucker with a chair too if he didn't have anything to do all day but read shitty magazines and jerk off all day. After the commie bastard was out, the doc handed both Eddy and Walker their "failsafes". The detonators for the thermite charge the placed in his chest every time. It was strict protocol to never tell Romanov about it, but it was a little extra insurance in the case of him going rogue. If an agent hit the detonator, he was dead. If all agents had been KIA, he was dead. If he escaped the mission area, he was dead. Simple concept, really. Play nice, follow the rules, and you get to live to see your shitty magazines again. Walker pocketed his detonator in his grenade pouch and headed out with Eddy.
"Y'know, much as I hate that Russian asshole, he's grown on me a bit. Man's got fire. Gotta respect that." Walker stated. As he reached the tactical area, another agent in full tactical gear much like the two of them stood with a P90 in one hand and a scanner in the other. Poor bastard. Scanning duty was always the worst. At least when you're in the holding blocks you could fuck around and had someone to talk to. Fucker was in so much gear you couldn't see an ounce of skin on him.
"Names?" he asked the two of them.
"Honey Badger Agent Eric Parker. Code word [i]Radio Shack[/i]," Walker stated. Eddy gave his own statement and they waved them on through. The two of them marched up to issue and began collecting gear for the mission. Agent Richard Rodney was behind the bullet proof glass, like he always was. Rodney was a shorter New England guy, looked to be in his early thirties, buff as hell. Man looked like he hadn't missed chest and shoulders day in decades. Rodney was the Supply Chief for PCMC North Arctic, knew all the gear in and out. Could probably take apart all the different weapons in sequence blindfolded and put them back together starting over from the first one.
"How ya doin' Rowdy?" Walker greeted in his familiar Southern drawl. Called him 'Rowdy' from his Little Man Syndrome and the fact that he could probably bench two agents in full gear. Before the nanofiber muscles surgery. Now it was probably one of the Falcons.
"Doin' good, doin' good. Got some nice little gifts for ya." His accent spoke of Jersey, as did his slicked back raven black hair. Man more than likely had some Italian in him. He slide the standard gear issue through the slot for the men fresh off guard duty to pocket. Couple flashbangs, NVGs, TacComs (tactical computers, little cool wrist-mounted puppies. Survive a 9 mil round straight to the display and keep on truckin'), choke collars (a snap on collar meant to "disrupt a target's neuro-spinal response. Pretty much made an insta-paraplegic as long as they had the collar on), and other little goodies they'd need like flashlights and shells and pistol rounds.
"Hold on there, Hoss. I'mmonna stop you right there," Walker interrupted. He pulled out the non-essentials from his person and began setting them on the counter. Helmet, NVGs, shells, M1014 shotgun, and Glock 21 handgun (standard issue on both counts) all came back. Eddy was apparently content enough to keep his shotgun, and had been issued a little extra. Flechette and slugs came with his standard 12 buck, and a spellbook and ritual bag were supplied as well.
"Gimme the Ranger special," Walker stated. Agent Rodney, expecting as much, shrugged and went further back to retrieve his gear. Walker wouldn't go into a mission without personalizing his equipment. It was bad luck to change your socks before a baseball game, and it was twice as bad to change out a gun that works. Rodney returned with an armful of gear and began to pile it through the slot.

"One [url=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M27_Infantry_Automatic_Rifle]H&K IAR[/url], 6.5 Grendel modified with all the bells and whistles, check." He fed it to the slot stock first, per the norm, with the bolt forward so the recipient could see for themselves there was no round in the chamber. Walker lifted it to the light, saw the light through the barrel, and sent the bolt home with a mighty clap of stainless steel on stainless steel. A beauty of a weapon, clad in all black finish with a longer barrel, reminiscent of a heavy-duty M4 without the front sight post. Outfitted with an Eotech holographic sight, a sloping foregrip, and a flashlight and laser sight on each side rail. 6.5mm Grendel gave it the kick of a 7.62 without the drop for the range, and the stock was perfectly fitted to Walker's shoulder. [i]Roberta[/i] was crudely scratched into the rifle just above the magazine well.
"One M1911A1, SpecOps model." A black Colt .45 found its way to the other side of the glass, starkly plain compared to Walker's rifle, which he slid in his modifiable holster. 
"One pig sticker." A standard issue K-BAR tactical knife came through the slot afterwards, to which Walker affixed to the bayonet tab on his compensator. Most people would claim that a bayonet was more to inspire confidence in a soldier than it was useful, but Walker had used his enough to tell those people where they could stick their opinions.
"One Comanche butter knife." In through the slot came a tactical hatchet with a Molle holster. Walker would have to take the time to affix it to his waist later, so he stuffed it into his mag dump pouch for the time being.
"Six pull tab mags, 25 rounds each for a total of 150 rounds of 6.5 Grendel." Walker scooped up the mags and quickly fit them all in his mag pouches, sliding the velcro top of the pouches behind the mags themselves. Much quicker to pull mags that way.
"Four pistol mags, 7 rounds each for a total of 28 rounds of .45 ACP." Walker also pocketed these in the smaller pouches on his right shoulder.
"Single pair of tactical Oakleys." Rodney slid a pair of combat-grade bulletproof shatterproof sunglasses Walker's way. They were infused with the same technology as the other agents tactical goggles, giving him IR, NVG, and a combat HUD akin to Warrior Net all in one badass package.
"Ball cap and a can of Grizzly." Last but not least, a simple black baseball cap that looked as if it had seen some wear and a tin of smokeless tobacco came through.
"You know what I like..." Walker commented, smiling at his can of dip. 'Bout time he caught some nicotine. "Much obliged to ya fine sir," he thanked, pulling his cap and shades onto his head. Motioning his head for Eddy, the two made it into the locker room to wait on the rest of the crew and for Walker to adjust his newly found gear.

It wasn't long before they were joined by a familiar Russian face, asking Walker a question. The gun. Yeah, he knew. It's significance wasn't lost on Walker, but he didn't know its history. All guns had a history, y'see, but this one was a mystery.
"Sure as shit, Princess. Wasn't easy, but it's yours," he commented, rolling his sleeves up to just before the elbow. Walker always went out into the field looking like a Ranger and always would if he'd have his say. Many of the "Plan B" Tactical Team were prior something or other, and they often took their own flair into the field, Walker being the only ranger among them. Most units would have unified weapons, but not Bravo Team. A hodgepodge of guns and uniforms. Squad worked better that way. Everyone knew who everyone was just by the way they looked and they weapon they carried. All in all, it was six of them including himself, the demonic subject, and the Englishman. No room for fuck ups. Walker began to attach the straps for his hatchet to his waist as more of his tactical team ran around trying to get dressed in a hurry.
"I ain't surprised too much. You commies tend to be old fashioned 'bout that kinda stuff. I kinda liked to upgrade, myself," Walker chatted with him casually, slapping his IAR twice to send home his point. Walker stood up, slinging the weapon around his shoulders and loosening the clip on his three-point so he could bring it to shoulder, and walked over to the trash can. Sure enough, he retrieved a Gatorade bottle from the trash and sat back down as Eddy joked his own threats. Agent Parker didn't seem to worried, wasn't the first time he was around the Ruski with a gun. What the hell was he gonna do? He was surrounded by agents armed to the teeth. The man was good, maybe as good as Walker himself, but he stood no chance of walking out of the locker room alive. He flicked his wrist repeatedly to condense his dip, the can snapping in his fingers before taking out a fat pinch.
"Brit's right, commie," he said with a point, "Don't be gettin' no funny ideas now, or I'll go elbow deep to get it back and put one in your skull."

[center][b][u]PCMC North Arctic - Hanger 12[/u][/b][/center]

Dizzy was already halfway in the co-pilot's seat when a gloved hand grabbed her by what fabric there was to grab on her flight suit and yanked her down.
"Whoa whoa whoa, slow down there Dizzy Devil, mission brief," came an all-too-familiar-yet-unliked voice. Agent Myers stared her in the face, looking down to her shorter stature. She glared at him in challenge, helmet under one arm, lunch in the other.
"Get some time to stuff our faces on duty, eh?" he taunted. Myers and Dizzy never did have the best relationship, but to the benefit of everyone around them it was always funny to watch. Myers was one of the few ballsy enough to piss her off for fun.
"Fukyoumaars," came Dizzy's retort with her mouth full of wrap, sticking her mush-covered tongue out at him. Myers sauntered cockily over to Richards harassing another one of his maintenance crew with the fiery Scott in tow. The "pit crew" and pilots never saw eye to eye on a regular. Always thought they were big shots because they got to fly the birds. Without the pit crew, the flight team was grounded, and Myers let every hot shot and Blue Angel wannabe know every chance he got.
"We fixed your fuckin' problem, alright? Now chill the fuck out and listen," Myers commanded. Chew him out all he wants, Myers would just tell Mr. Red Baron to go shove it where the sun don't shine. But he'd be damned if a junior agent was going to boss around one of his crew.

"You're goin' to an oil rig, just off the Alaskan coastline. You're job is transport and fire support. 20mm cannons, 7.62 machine gun fire, and tactical drones. No explosives! This is comin' straight from top, and they're being removed from the Vulture anyway so you can't use'em. If you somehow [i]do[/i] have an explosive on the bird, under no directive are you to fire that explosive. I don't care if you get an order from the Director, your dad, Jesus Christ himself, you do not. Fire. That explosive. Are we clear? You will be piloting Bravo Team. You will be assisted by Charlie Team and Eigo Team from PCMC East Asia Division. This is a clean up job, and you are to kill as many hostiles as you have bullets, understood? Your callsign is "Albatross 1", Charlie is "Albatross 2", and Eigo is "Albatross 3". If you suspect yourself to be impaired or hallucinating, you are to give control to your co-pilot, stand down from the mission, and record all your hallucinations in detail. If both of you are hallucinating, you are to contact Albatross 2 and 3, inform them of your status, and pull out of the mission. Albatross 2 and 3 will remain for transport. If you find yourself over Canadian shores and the hallucinations have not subsided, execute Order Sierra One. If all pilots find themselves hallucinating, contact HQ for request to execute Order Mike Gold. If the oil rig is structurally compromised to the point of implosion, contact HQ for request to execute Order Mike Gold. Coordinates are in your SatNav. Try not to get everyone killed, Ace."
With that, Agent Myers walked away to command the rest of his crew, still performing last-minute flight checks.

Order Sierra One wasn't good. It meant serious business. It meant suicide. Order Sierra One stated that a compromised agent still able to do so would kill themselves to avoid contamination of uncontaminated regions, civilians, or other agents. Order Mike Gold was shorthand for their satellite laser system, the Sub-Orbital Laser Array Relay, codename S.O.L.A.R. Shit was usually pretty deep when they brought S.O.L.A.R. out. Burnt everything on the ground below it, melts metal to goo, makes rucks runny, puts everything else to the 'extra crispy' setting. Dizzy looked over to Henry.
"Did you hear the way he talked to you? I think he found out you were retarded," she snarked, smiling a little to herself. "C'mon! Pre-flight checks, ya? Get checkin'!" Dizzy hustled off again around the other side of the Vulture to clamber into her seat, wrap in her mouth to free up a climbing hand. Sat down, buckled in, helmet half off, wrap still in her jaws, Dizzy began to go over the vehicle status indicators. Today wouldn't be the day to fuck things up.

[center][b][u]PCMC North Arctic HQ - Tactical Briefing[/u][/b][/center]

After giving his troops time to situate themselves, gear up and get ready, Agent Parker spit into his bottle and stood up. His entire time in the locker room had been spent listening to the briefing agent through his cochlear radio, even while he was speaking to Eddy and the Russian.
"Alright you pussies, shut the fuck up!" he boomed in a completely different voice, drowning out the speaking below him. His entire countenance and demeanor changed in a snap, transitioning from good ol' boy from Texas into a mountain of a man, leader of men.
"We all good? We all green? Who is not?" Walker was met by silence.
"Then let's kick this shit. We're headed to an oil rig off the coast of Alaska, where we'll be joined by Chucklenuts Charlie and some slant-eyes from Eigo Team out in PCMC East Asia. But Plan B will be leadin' the charge, hooah?" at the sound of his term, the team let out various shouts of their own flavor. Couple 'oorahs', a 'hooyah', a 'damn straight!', but the spirit was the same.
"Discovered this morning at 0400 and 35 hours, the pipeline became breached by an unknown entity, and that [i]unknown entity[/i] slaughtered the crew like a pig in a butcher shop. Discovered at 0500 and 22 hours, Tactical Team 'Renegade' Romeo was dispatched to find out details and neutralize the threat. Tactical Team Romeo is now KIA or MIA. We are now being sent to clean house." Walker received another round of cheers, but interrupted the team.
"Shut the fuck up and listen! Other than flashbangs, you have not been issued explosives. If you have explosives, turn them in to the armory right fuckin' now." Walker waited another moment for stragglers. None moved.

"This is because we cannot endanger the structural integrity of the pipeline. If that pipeline is ruptured, we will have trouble containing the threat. Your enemy is not human. Your enemy is described as 'flailing corpses with extra limbs and no faces'. If you see something not human, empty the magazine. If you see something less than human, other than our communist friend here, empty the magazine. Your mission is to escort Agent 'Evil Eye' Eddy Doe to the source of the breach where he can attempt containment witchcraft. Failing that, Plan B is to attempt to neutralize the threat. Failing [i]that[/i], Plan B is to retreat and initiate Order Mike Gold. Videos and pictures of the enemy will be shown during flight. You will enter by fast-rope, exit by bay door, and tactical orders will be discussed on touch down. Are we clear?" Walker received another round of cheers, but his face soured.
"Ah know Plan B's better than that weak ass bullshit! I said ARE WE CLEAR!!" The men shouted louder this time, echoing their battle cries throughout the locker room, armory, and even out to the hanger.
"That's what I'm fuckin' talkin' about! Now get your asses in the bird, we leave an hour ago!" Walker slapped each man on the shoulder as the rushed by, but caught Romanov by the back of the flak.
"Not you, Red. Gotta have a talk with you." Walker looked around to make sure everyone was gone, and confronted the Russian when he was sure of it.
"Now listen here, commie. They didn't want me to tell you this to keep up a 'blind', but I ain't havin' it. When you're out there, you might start freakin' out and shit might start fuckin' with your mind, but under no fuckin' circumstances are you to shoot my men, understood!? I don't care if you think one of them is eating your face, I don't care if I order you to kill the team, it's all in your fuckin' head, got it? If we get so much as one friendly fire incident out there and I have an inklin' that it's you, I'll send you straight to Hell myself, and I know you've seen what's there. And you ain't speak to nobody about this. [b]Nobody.[/b]You get me, Comrade?" Walker was downright imposing at this point, face full of red, looking like he would kill Romanov any second if it weren't for some mysterious force keeping him from it.
"Now git yer ass in my bird! We're doin' God's work!" Walker took off with Romanov towards the Vulture and piled in after him.
"Bravo Team's green! Let's get our asses in the air!" he shouted to the maintenance crew as the bay doors closed behind him.