[h3]Sayeret[/h3]
[hr]

[i]Big dudes,[/i] Danny noted as he watched them through the scope. He'd given a quick visual check on his fireteam to make sure the concealment and cover were good. In Guyana, he'd been a trainer for the Negev, but as one of the few Israelis that jumped over, he was more 'just the facts' and cut out the unnecessary military courtesy and kept it down to an Israeli minimum, which was very first-name and nickname basis. Some of the more straight-laced types, such as the company commander, were not pleased but the South African company command staff knew the score and were the ones in charge and he had superiors in his own chain of command to buffer him from the guy. It was a South-African run PMC, and the flavor remained in space; there were too many special operators in the bunch to go buzz-cut infantry, like a bunch of raw recruits.

The place was hot, but he knew how to cope. They'd acclimated to jungle before getting here and it was a good thing. He wasn't sure if the poodles, his new name for the enemy had trained like hell in a similar environment before arriving. They trained in Guyana, familiarized on Sauna and then, when time came, used Pilavian civilian rail to arrive in their AO, permanently sealing the entrances they emerged from as the engineers prepped the network for invasion. They'd have to get out by other transport after the patrol.

Danny had skills. Sayeret Matkal was a tier one recon unit and Israelis were rare but had a rep similar to the Brit SAS in terms of being innovators in the world of SOF. And Danny's had a decade of service from raw kid age, but minimal spit-shine service. He'd done instruction on special recon and patrolling in Guyana. Everything they were doing right now, and he'd been exacting and attentive to detail because this was the part of the work where mistakes and nerves could get everyone killed. He'd been serious about this. But all of Centurion was. Surprise was always an advantage.

So he passed on his considerable knowledge of cover, concealment and other little things, giving them the extra time to watch, teaching them the virtue of pissing icewater during this phase. He wasn't entirely enamored of some of the chain of command, the salute-needy types and because the culture was secrecy in Sayeret Matkal, he also kept the war stories close. There was service rivalry bullshit over Centurion, but Marais was intent on discouraging it. Outside of training where instruction was quiet, competent and reassuring, making sure people learned properly, Danny was not pretetntious.

Israeli military culture was a civic thing, and the attitude reflected that they were headstrong, highly competent warriors. Park got it, at least, and Collins was SAS. It helped, since Danny was it for Israelis, though the 'take the serious shit seriously' approach infused itself in the culture. Grow a beard, but your weapon and equipment better be flawless. That was the way. The shared ethos let him concentrate on taking care of his fireteam, his guys, where they had a job to do, and no damns were given about background or parade presentation; what counted was the job. So on duty, the Israeli was trying to pass on the skills. Off, he was approachable and normal but also tended to stick with Riddler and his fireteam, who needed to braid and gel together as an element.

[b]"Butch," [/b]he murmured into the mic, which was tuned to pick up whispers, on the fireteam freq, which Riddler could hear, [b]"Hammer shots on these fuckers." [/b] He knew the legionnaire, Renard, knew what to do with the Negev and K-ton had the M32, though they were getting a little too close-ranged for it to get used more than once. It meant that they'd be engaging with rifle fire. The Salvesh, in the flesh, looked like they'd take more than one shot to go down, even to the head.

Stopping and seeing have him the appreciation of the Salvesh; hunched over wolf-men of horror movie fodder, but very generally. Four arms, and the photos can give you and idea, but they were no substitute for the visceral impression he had of them through a scope, in a huge alien rainforest. He did not ever want to engage these things up close. They were big, but they were graceful with it, not lumbering. Smooth-gaited, they had a powerful economy of motion to their movements. They also had a snarling dog's terror mated to a sentience that had eyes peeled and nostrils flared alertly. Danny checked the wind direction; they were safe for now.

These had crests, males.

[b]"Riddler, counting crests on all poodle contacts. Upwind for now."[/b] Fobbit, as the Americans called them, types might discount smell, but Danny had smelled cumin, coriander and other smellsof the enemy's meal in these situations before, albeit closer up, evading insurgents in Syria on deep recon jobs, gathering site recon and designating targets for IAF strikes. He wasn't about to take a whiff of the Salvesh, the atmosphere wasn't 'hostile' but it was dangerous to humans. Crests, according to their briefings, meant males. They sex-segregated the units.

Contrary to a laid back approach in non combat situations or essential training, Danny was sparse on commo.

He had his poodle sighted, it was all a tense waiting game.