Waking up. “I better get an explanation from someone, as to why I got a cottonmouth the world have never seen before” Hedberg muttered. “Worst then that brown Hashish.” His body felt like he had been at Roskilde and decided to do every drug present. Which, knowing the Danish, were a bad idea. Luckily, he was a soldier, and the second a voice of authority rang true in his ears, he back straightened and those others thoughts fled his mind. He didn’t salute, his arms weren’t exactly super responive at the moment. Instead he took in the bullwarks about them. “Ett Skepp?” He asked himself in swedish, thinking it was a ship. “No. I don’t feel the gentle sway under my feet.” Slowly, it began to dawn on him. When he realized where they were, his jaw tried its best to hit the floor. ---------- Briefing. Hedberg had seen a lot of weird and terrible things in his life. He had seen what war did to men and women. What fanticism and a split in opinion led to. The loss of civlian life as a raid became to drawn out, to chaotic and a stray bullet hit a window. Making War was not a precise artform, no matter how much they strived to make it so. War was messy, bloody, inherently savage. Yet the men and women of the SOG had not been savages, they had been as precise, as professional as war ever allowed them. He wasn’t in Afghanistan any longer. Not in Iraq fighting religious fanatics either. He was in space. If his father could see him now. Listening to the Colonel, he was as attentive as ever. The payday for this was immense, he got that much. It only made sense for the risk to match the reward. They would help one race of aliens fight another. What’s more, it seemed their enemy was just as savage as he were trained not to be. He had spent the last five years training Pashmerga and Afghani troops. He listened intently to every word spoken, calmly dissecting the information in his head. This was why he had been fast tracked trough ranks back home. He was finding to many vectors and variables for his liking. Sure, he had been dropped into a shit storm before. Northern afghanistan and its Pakistani border had been like fighting ants, the Taliban hiding in caves and never staying long to fight them. But this, this was quite literally alien to him. He groaned inwardly at the mention of tropical climate nad heat. He was half Yazidii. He was used to dry, Arid heat from his time in the middleast. But Jungle? That was another ballgame entirely. One he wasn’t to fond of. He remembered all the horror stories from the commander back home, who had been part of the Congo conflict. “Damn.” He mumbled. “I hate the Jungle.” ----- Planetfall. “God. I really hate the Jungle” He mumbled under his breath as they advanced trough the strangely colored foliage. Trough some lovely coincidence, they had put the Ruskies on in his squad. He wondered idly if they knew he had been trained specifically to fight Russian forces in a defensive war. But, he was more then happy to have spetnaz on his side rather then facing them, that was for certein. HIs feet barely made any sound as he advanced. His attention on his surroundings. He didn’t mind the purple or pink he was wearing. In fact, the realization that all these rugged men and hardass soldiers had to dress up like a militirized pride parade was more then weighing up for the cryostasis cottonmouth he was still struggling with. He should look up whatever he was knocked out with, he had problem sleeping back home while that stuff knocked him right out. The purple founa did present them with a different problem however. Human eyes were not accustomed to such a explosive mix of colors, and it took some getting used to. The pollen clingin to everything was pretty damn annoying as well. But that was jungles for you. Instead of the usual sea of green, it was a sea of purple. His squad was a colorfull and interesting bunch, he had to give them that. But they were a capable bunch, he had helped train with them, and he had seen the kind of killer instinct and hardened veteran experience you wanted with you during such a unique operation. To his immediete left walked Mathiel Leqba, a French Tunisian who swore more then a sailor and likely made half the races feel better about their ugly physiology due to his own god awful face. Not even a mother could love a face like that. Behind him was Joe Anoi. A pacific islander and american Marine who was one hell of a shot with his rifle. He was also as wide as he was tall, with the most jarhead look the swedish soldier had ever encountered. ------ “Contact” The word made his mind whirl into action. Without hesitation, he spoke to his squad members. Rossi, Anoi, Leqba, on me. Co-ordinate and pick a target. C-team, B-Team. round to my left. I will put a 40 mil present in their midst. Iko, you do the same as soon as you see me fire. Space to the backline, push them towards our fire. C-team, as soon as weapons are hot, level them to the ground.” He said in short bursts of information as he moved. He saw everyone fall into place and take position. Looking trough his holosight, he saw their quarry move up. They were ugly sons of bitches to be sure. And big to. Way to big to be mistaken for as human. He felt a sudden relief in bringing the axe with him. “ Mind your cover and watch your line of fire.” He spoke silently. It was nothing they needed to be told he was sure. But reinforcing it was part of his job. A squadleaders voice was there to steer but also reassure. They were all under his umbrella once the shit started raining down. He steadied his own breath, flexed his fingers in a soft drumroll across the handle. Had one of them moved towards them? The order came from the platoon medic. Weapons free. “Second squad! Open fire!” He let the grenade sail over the first hostiles head, landing between the early group and in the midst of the reinforcements. The Heavy Explosive round showered them it dirt, erupting in fire and shrapnel among the suprised aliens. “Rossi! Focus on the ones scrambling for cover. Leqba, let it fucking rain.” He shouted over the din that now filled the air as several dozen proffesional let their tools of death speak for them. They had the advantage, and it was paramount they utilized it to its fullest. On his command, Leqba let his gun spit heavy bursts of automatic, heavy caliber rounds into the enemy. The negev was one scary weapon to be sure, and its heavy smattering was deafening.