[center][H2]Operation: Kingpin[/h2][/center]



Sergei Antov strolled into the Elisaveta's Operations Room with his usual air of "business as usual".

Dressed in a well tailored and expensive suit, the large Afro-Russian looked every part a first rate lawyer. A Cuban cigar was nestled between two meaty fingers of his right hand, and a wisp of smoke followed its swaying movements. The aroma of tobacco quickly overwhelmed the ship's meagre ventilation system. 

With a smug smirk, he nodded to each of the gathered Team Leaders in turn, who sat around a simple rectangular table made of hardened plastic. Sterile white walls gleaned with the dim light emitted by a singular LED bulb suspended from the ceiling. At the far end of the room, an empty black screen of an eighty inch LCD monitor looked on ominously. Save for the low hum of the Elisaveta's engines, all was perfectly quiet.

The Team Leaders knew not to fuck with Sergei. Beneath his luxury and smugness was a trained and sophisticated killer, the same as they. In the Spetsnaz, he was called, rather unimaginatively, 'The Black Russian', and his ruthless reputation as a leader ran before him.

"The Boss just called," he grunted, rather than spoke, in heavily accented english. "Its a job close to the old man's heart. Iraqi terrorists have downed a Lockheed C-130 Hercules aircraft heading back from an American Forward Operating Base. The plane was carrying Journalists and Reporters from the BBC, CNN and FOX news. Although the aircraft crashed the crew and the journalists survived. As of this morning, The Pentagon didnt know this. The Terrorists in question released a video online stating their demands or they would kill the hostages. we have 4 days."

As if activated by thought alone, the monitor at the rear of the room flickered to life. A grainy image of a small dusty brown compound appeared on the screen.

"The Pentagon managed to get these photos from a drone before it departed from Iraq. They've asked us to do their job for them," Sergei grumbled with contempt. "Scared of going back to war they told me, bullshit i say. cant be seen still acting in Iraq after they promised to withdraw troops more like it."

The image on the monitor switched to an even grainier depiction of 5 sand coloured squares. "What passes for a home for the enemy." Sergei continued, with a sigh. "the drone picked up 20 hostiles in the area, sources suggest the hostages are being held in the centre building. We shouldnt need to worry about their gear. Kalashnikovs, an rpg maybe, and lots of violent threats no doubt. These guys have no air support and shouldnt be too much of a problem taking down."


Sergei dabbed the last of his cigar against the inside his hand; an old habit, established long ago. Discarding the dead butt to the grated floor, he rubbed at the side of his iron-grey hair and released a long sigh. He dug for the inside pocket of his business jacket, and pulled out a tablet. "We were able to make contact with an american reconnaissance unit which was able to find a small mine field surrounding the south entrance. Assuming our insider is correct then we've got little room for error.." Sergei fell silent, boring his cold eyes into the Team Leaders as if he was trying to telepathically communicate with them.


"Same shit, different day," he chuckled at last. "A the canvas is yours to paint. The Pentagon is offering top dollar for this, and so I'm making all of our assets available to you. If it can get to us in four hours, then its yours to use... so what are you guys thinking? Lets hear it."

He stood with his arms folded, waiting for their response.