[b]Batumi Docks, Georgia[/b]
The sea was a heaving mass in the darkness, an angry monster's chest rising and falling. The sky was a dark, navy blue. Clouds covered the moon, casting a weak light that made itself through the thick, foggy clouds. The docks were a desolate place, largely unused by the warlords. One ship came every month to pick up shipments of tea and deliver them around the Black Sea. They were built by men with big ambitions before the Turkish Invasion in the early 70's. Shipment containers littered the area, making a maze of rusted iron and concrete. All containers had been raided years of all goods years before. Obviously, these raiders had poor manners, as each container door was left open or ajar for the creatures and lowlife of Batumi to make their homes in. Wind and rain battered the iron frames in the darkness, causing a strange echoing effect of howling wind and pattering rain on the containers.

In the darkness, a match was lit. It was quickly raised to the face of a pale Georgian, who sheltered from the rain and wind in the doorway of one of these containers with his companion. He lit the sodden cigarette that dangled from his mouth and a puff of smoke escaped his mouth. The match was flicked out into the rain, where it quickly fizzled out to ash. 'You should put that out. You know how Sir feels about smoking' whispered his companion in the darkness. The man gave him a lazy wave as an excuse, not caring for the consequences. 'Fuck 'im' he whispered back, the cigarette clenched between his teeth. His whisper echoed slightly in the container and then reverted back to silence. The only sound was the heavy bashing of rain on the rusted container. Both men sat in the doorway of it, their legs outstretched into the rain. The smoking man touched the floor beside him and his hands closed around his weapon. A stick with a serrated knife tied around the end. The smoking man frowned. 'I wish they'd give us better weapons. A stick with a knife of the end. What are we, African spear chuckers?' he smiled at his own joke. His companion did not laugh. 'Keep your voice down, Giorgi. I don't want Sir coming around' his companion pleaded. Giorgi chuckled to himself but even so, made sure to keep his voice down. He acted like he wasn't scared of Captain Mildiani. But everyone knew the man who lead them around. And they knew his horrific temper. 

Captain Saba Mildiani was a former boxer and served in the Imperial Russian army for several years. He was a personal friend to Giorgi's father, Davit Patarava, but that didn't stop him disciplining him any lighter than the rest of the unit. He was a stocky, well built man with a shaved head and a face clean of all hair. He was a fair yet stern man who treated all his soldiers equally. 'Anatoli, what is the time?' asked Giorgi quietly, tapping the end of his cigarette onto the ground. Stray ash and tobacco fell to the ground and was carried away by the wind. Anatoli, his companion, pulled an old fashioned watch from his front pocket and squinted at the screen. 'Five to twelve in the night' he answered, wiping the droplets of rainwater from his watch. Both men were dressed identically, with thick, fur-framed parkas, heavy boots, scarves and black beanie hats. The scarves hung down around their necks but the parka hoods were up. Their standard weapon was knife or stick-with-knife, which sat beside them. These primitive weapons would do little against the armed soldiers of the warlords but a weapon was a weapon.

The sound of quickly approaching boots caused Giorgi to quickly flick the cigarette to the wet ground and stamp it in. His face was hidden by the darkness and a thick scarf but this didn't muffle his anger. 'What the fuck are you doing, Private Patarava?' snarled Captain Mildiani. In his hands he clutched a shotgun. Firearms were usually reserved for officers or important people as they were in short supply. 'Were smoking on the job?' growled the officer. 'Get on your feet'. The two men quickly jumped up, clutching their spears in their right hands. 'Yes, sir' mumbled Giorgi, shifting his feet uncomfortably. 'You're on discipline' he whispered, poking the man in the chest with the nose of his gun. 'And if I ever catch you lighting so much as a spark of light tonight again, I'll have you hung upside down by your bollocks. I don't give a rats arse if your father runs the show, because he'll most likely agree with me. Do you understand me?' Giorgi nodded and murmured an apology. The captain glanced at Anatoli. 'See anything suspicious, private Anatoli? Apart from your prick of a friend giving away his position' he glared at Giorgi. 'No, sir' answered the Russian, his eyes glued firmly at his boots. 'Good. I received the signal a few minutes ago. We're all taking the defensive positions. Get going' said the captain. He turned and walked into the darkness, still clutching his shotgun. 

The captain was somewhat shorter than both of the men but still struck terror into their hearts. 'Cunt' whispered Giorgi, cursing his commanding officer as he was swallowed by the darkness. 'Say it a bit louder, would you?' answered Anatoli. 'Come on. We had better get going'. The privates grabbed their scarves and pulled them over their faces, covering their noses. They both took one longing look at their post, a fortress of dry in this rainy dockland before stepping into the darkness to follow the Captain. 

They found their next post easily, having practised nights before. The rest of the small 'youth unit', as it was known as, were walking from different directions to their new defensive positions. An inlet built into the abandoned dock was where Captain Milidiani stood, crouched at the edge with a torch held in his hand. A distant light shone out from the dark, heaving sea. Around him, the men crowded silently, all desperate to get this over with as soon as possible. This mixture of cold rain and biting wind made the unit wish they were back at home beside the fire or in bed. The captain slowly stood and looked at his unit. 'They're late' he said shortly. 'Did anyone see anything while out there? Any Turks?'. All the men, dressed identically, shook their heads or murmured 'no, sir'. When the captain was happy with the response, he began talking again. 'All of you, defensive positions around the inlet. I'll stand at the end of it and meet our man when he eventually joins us. The rest of you, keep quiet and only do what I command. Keep an eye on our backs too. Go.' He turned back around and held the torch in his hand. This was a tactic that had been practised many times before on this inlet and each man knew his position.

The need for defensive positions wasn't because they distrusted the smuggler. It was because they distrusted the authorities who occasionally patrolled these empty docklands, rooting out the homeless and the smugglers. The authorities were commonly known as 'Turks', due to the fact that the officers were largely made up of Turks and the warlord-businessman who controlled the city was a Turk, known as Demir Polat. The common soldiers were usually local Georgians, along with small units of loyal Azeri's and Dagestani's. In the last few months, Demir's forces had begun a crackdown on smuggling and introduced high taxes to imports in the city, drying up the food sources. Demir had taken to importing food from Turkey and other loyal Turkic states, which was often not enough to feed the citizens. The crackdown on smuggling and the black market meant that four smugglers had been arrested bringing food by land and sea and two Georgian Guard members killed trying to protect them. Most smugglers now refused to even go near Batumi, no matter the price. Only one brave fisherman from up the country was brave enough to bring food and essential supplies down to Batumi every few days. He was paid previously by Zurab and was known by a common Armenian name, Bedros. Davit Patarava valued his importance highly and ordered he be protected by a squad at all times while on the shore.

Giorgi crouched down beside an old crate, rotten, drenched and smashed. It wouldn't do much for cover but at least he wasn't easily seen. The rain began beating down again and Giorgi sighed. He watched as Captain Mildiani, crouched at the edge of the inlet, shone his light to the boat far out in the sea. The sea pounded against the bay, spraying the Captain with salty sea spray. He took no notice, instead concentrating on shining his light in a morse code. The two conversed briefly until the light when silent and the torch was hidden down. The boat was no less than a few miles from the shore and the unit knew it. They sat in total silence and darkness for 15 minutes, Giorgi quickly feeling a cramp in his leg and gave it a quick smack to stop it from going to sleep. 

If he had blinked, he might of missed it. A small boat silently slid into the inlet. Not a single light could be seen aboard it but through faint light from the sky, a man was illuminated on the deck. A rope was thrown to Captain Milidani, who quickly tied it to a wooden post. The boat slowly turned until it's side was facing the captain. In the darkness, one could probably make out it's features. It was a small, white boat. The paint was chipped off and if someone looked hard enough, they wouldn't find the name of the boat. No flag flew from it's mast. A plank was dropped down noisily onto the shore and a tall figure hastily hopped across it. He was drenched to the skin, his teeth chattering. 'Sir' the man saluted through his chattering teeth. 'Tamaz, my lad' whispered Captain Milidani. He grabbed the man into a rough hug. Tamaz was dressed the same as his other soldiers, only significantly wetter. 

'Well, Captain, I never expected you to be the gay type' came a voice from the boat. It was Bedros. Bedros was of Armenian descent but that was probably the most remarkable thing about him. He looked significantly normal, with no defining features at all. This suited his profession. He could blend into a crowd easily. The Captain didn't move from his position. 'Bedros. I trust you were paid correctly?' he answered shortly. 'Yes. If you would like me to take your crates down myself, you will be here a while'. The Captain gritted his teeth together. He gave a quick whistle and two of his soldiers appeared from the darkness. 'Help Tamaz and I take these crates down. Quicker you work, the quicker you can go home' he commanded. The two soldiers obediently took the first of ten heavy crates from the smuggler and set it down onto the wet ground. 

[i]Thank fuck I ain't Tamaz[/i] thought Giorgi, as he glanced at the shivering man almost drop a crate into the ocean.