[b]Kampala, Uganda[/b]

“Herr Lofaine, it's a good day to be in Kamapala. Ja?” the man said as Loffaine hobbled into his office. The battle-tired French man took great strides across the office.

“And to you, Till Hasch.” Pierre greeted with a polite grin, as he took a position alongside a large plush arm chair.

Till Hasch was a German, that was for sure. His background was reflected very strongly in himself. For those in a time a hundred years ago, he might almost be considered a specimen of the Aryan race. Almost.

Those his shortly kempt hair was golden, and his eyes a smokey blue like steel, his features were round in a strange way. There was that German sharpness in his jaw and his cheeks. But either it was the curse of his fat rolling body that gave him more the build of a misshapen pear or it was some other misfortune that widened most of these across his face until they appeared round. His eyes looked down a large bent nose that dropped down over his lip like an ogre.

But under neath it, he still had his muscles. Even under the fat and his finely trimmed gray uniform that was so standard among the corporation – which made them more an army than a business – defined muscles sprung out at the shoulders. And as he walked over to the desk with a bright smile on his face his raised back and high-held shoulders gave the impression he was still on the drill yard, taking orders from a sergeant, or addressing his general. It was engrained, if anything. He was a man with atmy in his background, all the way down to the first world war. And like that distant blood, he had seen a greater war and lived, but hadn't retired from the rifle; not yet.

“So what is the is the matter that brings herr Piere to Kampala?” Till said warmly. Pierre regarded him with a stoic look, treating him to a partial smile.

“I'm here on a inspection.” the Frenchman said, “the World Cup's coming on in a little over a month and I wanted to check the preparedness of the entire force. We still got lingering threats of China's influence down here to worry about, the last thing I want is to see the lingering ghosts from The War coming to life during this. Juba's been very patient for the last fifteen years, I don't want to dampen the Sudanese.”

“July does come fast.” Till sighed, “But I suppose the start of our thirty years needs to be tested at some point then. Is there anything you want to know?”

“Yes,” Pierre began, turning about looking over his office. Till's office was a shrine in some respects to his own career. Adorning the walls were all sorts of photographs from when he was a private in the German Army some ten years before the war. His accomplishments weren't much to speak of in comparison to Pierre, given the general activity of the German army. But what there was, Till proudly displayed.

Pictures of home in southern Bavaria adorned the wall. Smiling family some many thousand miles off, and green fields; not barren dirt wastelands. “I have read the briefings concerning a small regiment of men somewhere out on the Tanzanian border, I hear they've been as far north as Masaka?”

“Oh yes, those.” Till snickered, “I would have sent men to dispose of them if the Ugandan courts agreed. But they seem to be of the opinion that they haven't done much of anything, and they feel they're some small militia group hitting out against trafficking. Or, that's what their 'independent' report said.” Till sneered. His fists clenched around court and report. Deep seated animosity glowed in his face. It was understandable, he was a man of intuition and action, and something said that group should go. But the contracts held him at a tight leash.

“Have you tried to to investigate possible Chinese connections then?” Pierre asked, “Direct, indirect. Whatever as it would be.”

“Well, I tried. But we didn't produce anything conclusive I'm afraid. They are armed with Chinese guns. But, [i]schiesse![/i] You know just as well as I do that now the war's done all of Africa is crawling with AK74 copies and Type 00's. Our own men use them from time to time. But that's all we can find on the group.

“Apart from having to confiscate a few guns because of outstanding convictions on about a quarter. But we both know they'll get them again.”

“I understand.” Pierre said, “What about connections? Have you identified a leader? What's his record?”

“We have, and I was about to send a dossier to you on him.” Till nodded, slowly and stiffly sitting down behind his deck. He grimaced lightly as he rubbed his knees.

“So give it to me now.” Pierre invited, stealing a seat himself.

“His name is Jean-Marie William Monbuka.” Till began reciting, “He is a Roman Catholic priest of the Baganda people. He was born in Masaka, and will probably die in Masaka. As far as we can tell his only foreign contact was a trip to England and France, so he's at least literate enough in French alongside the as-expected English and Swahili. We believe is father came from France too, but information on him is sparse; I can only confirm he paid taxes.

“Now, he runs a small church in the heart of Masaka. He's been known to preach to the youth and has a distate for just about anything modern. He wants to see computers smashed, and our mobile manufacture burned in hell fire. So he's [i]sehr[/i] conservative.

“But, I found no direct affiliation to China. Or anything that would confirm the [i]schwinehund[/i] to be associated. During the years of the war he disappeared, and talking to who I could some claim he fled to the Congo like so many others, but where to is sketchy. I've heard into Goma, or as far as Kinshasha.”

“Why would he go to Kinshasha?” Pierre asked, “That city was being shelled today as the Two Congos fought each other off.”

Till shrugged. “The inconsistencies make me wonder, but I can't hold it up in the Ugandan courts when I request warrants to search his home, his church, and any personal information he has. According to the judges at least.”

“So you have your suspicions then?”

“By [i]got[/i] I do!” Till yelled, “But nothing to back it.”

“Alright.” Pierre nodded, “Well, for him I do give permission to put them under surveillance leading up to and through the World Cup when it hits Juba late next month. But, keep is discreet, of course. Send someone to Irish Alley or wherever if you need a mole. But don't arose anything suspicious and put this district in danger.”

“Understood.” Till agreed, “I'll have someone dig through there in the next couple of days. Hopefully have him in and working his way in by the the start of next week.”

“Timely enough I suppose on short notice then.” sighed Pierre, “How are the conditions of the men then?”

“[i]Alles gut.[/i]” the commander said, “we've ample ammunition for our peace-keeping and providing efforts, I haven't had to sign many disciplinary papers lately, and I believe no one in the local units has gone into the dark corners of Irish Alley lately. So I can only pray that they learned not to be pricking themselves with needles since I started breaking jaws.”

“Fuel?”

“Enough to keep the aircraft in the air every day, and twice on Sunday.”

“I'd like to see them then.” said Pierre, “May we?”

“Ja.” Till smiled, standing out his seat, “And I'll have the full briefing on Monbuka to your office in Kinshasha as soon as possible. If we haven't emailed it already.”

“I await the reading.” Pierre said. As they walked to the door he added, “And is your knee bothering you?”

“[i]Kliene, kliene...[/i]” Till responded, “It's lousy Italian production. I should have bought German!”

“I do hear the Japanese have good implants.”

“Don't get me started.” spat Till as they went through the door.

[b]Mbandaka, Congo[/b]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwztADD2W0o](Action Tiem)[/url]

The black Osprey cut through the sky in the breast of a rainstorm that flowed over the Congolese jungle like a wet blanket. The hard rain that poured down on it and across the windshield as it passed over the Congo river below. The brown, dark confluence of water that was the river cut clean through the heart of the jungle. Its wide, deep waters running out to the sea, and Kinshasha-Brazzaville; the twin cities and final gate into the heart of darkness.

Though, light had come to the Congo in the last decade. By sheer force of foreign armies doing the fighting for the Congo, and the need to equip and supply them in the wet jungles of central Africa development had happened. The once darkened city of Mbandaka had power, and it shown in the storm.

Below, through the water-washed, tinted glass of the pilot's canopy of the Osprey with the white mare the African city glowed with a soft yellow light. The ironic fortunes of post-war somehow finding an unexpected home down here. For the war had a way of re-writing the economic landscape.

In the east, India's croplands had come to burn under multiple foes. And while it did someone needed to pick up the slack. When the dusts had settled, the victorious government of the former DRC acted on the new landscape. It chipped away for this city on the confluence of the Congo and the Tshuapa the park that had long protected the jungle that grew up to and butted against the city. With new land, cheap land, anyone looking to try for their wealth in farming came in over the past year and cleared out what they could.

The city on two rivers grew. Fields bordered by still-standing jungle trees cut a pattern of agriculture in the dark tropical soil. Lights shone in the distance as the presence of the ASN worked in. The mercenaries needs had expanded parts of it as well.

As boats shipped the new goods down the river to the capital a bridge long incomplete for nearly a century was being tackled by goods some commanders or private investors in the PMC had acquired. Though, no one talked about it; the talk was about how it was time to lay over the face of the city carved by intense conflict since the 1960's. It was a time for grain, rice, roads, rail, and soldiers.

In the back of the Osprey two bound, gagged, and bleeding captives lay on the cold dirty steel of the helicopter as it pivoted and moved in on its landing. The two run-way local airport was lit for them, and behind the small terminal was its landing pad.

Communications between the two picked up as they neared. Relays on landing orders were given and requests accepted, appropriating a quick landing.

Water splashed and buffeted in the cyclonic winds kicked up by the rapidly chopping motors of the Osprey as it came to land on the helipad tarmac. It had been quickly laid out, like much of the airport. And much of it still was in construction, like the rest of the city.

The rain continued to fall on the town as the engine's died, clicking and steaming as they cooled in the falling rain. The lights shone onto its accented the dripping and falling water, making the black hide of the craft flow. Even the painted mare took on a more erotic look as the fresh rain water fell across its painted pearl-white hide, mane, and raised tail.

With a pneumatic hiss the side-doors opened, sliding to the side as the crew on board jumped out. The captives were handled roughly, ran across the tarmac with a hand at their zip-tie bound hands and another at their necks as they were dashed through the cold, rainy, afternoon evening. Guards posted at the edges followed suit, ready to over see the hand off of the prisoners.

With his armored boots splashing in the pooling water alongside the Osprey landed Flash Sentry. He took a quick glance to the sky. “Fucking rain.” he hissed. He removed his helmet, and pulled the plush pony that had been strapped to it out of its ties; one having been shot off during the fire fight made it easier.

“Captain Bradely!” shouted a technician at the landing as he ran over, “You still got that fucking thing?”

“You mean Flash?” Bradley smiled, as he flipped his helmet and through the orange and blue pony plush onto his own blue hair, capping it with his helmet, “I ain't fucking getting rid of it, damn good luck charm.” he smiled cockily.

“Yea whatever, but a thing like that should have burned in the war a long time ago!” the man yelled as Flash walked off the tarmac.

“And every soldier needs his lucky charm you motherfucker!” he yelled, smiling, “I don't see you got one! Guess you got it boring!”

“Hey, I got one!” he shouted, gesturing down to his crotch, “Ain't no pussy shit either.”

“And here I thought it got blown off.” Bradley jested, stopping at the edge of the tarmac.

“You wanna fight?”

“Aw shit no, I wanna eat. I heard there's food, where the fuck is that?”

The airport hand waved him off, shaking his head. “Hey fuck you. Grub's in the terminal building. Don't be afraid of any Japs seeing you eat, this ain't the suit and tie place to be.

“But the commander wants a debrief, so go do that first.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” Bradley, or Flash Sentry called back. From behind, the pilot and co-pilot were just stepping out, regarding the rain in bitter taste.

The commanding officer's office wasn't much to speak of. Like the rest of the terminal, it was a quickly built room composed of what was probably pre-fabricated walls welded together and bolted on top of a concrete base. Like the rest of the building. A small window on one side looked out into the dark Congolese evening with the rain still pouring down. The soft lighting gave the room a warm glow, for all its spartan amenities. A aluminum desk, a few chairs, computer, and some creature comforts comprised of family photos filled the sparse atmosphere.

But it didn't need to do much filling, because the man at the helm could fill the room easily enough.

It was not to say Colonel Jacob Mozabe was a fat man. But he was certainly a large, brutish man by African terms. The way he sat at the computer was like one would expect from a comical guerrilla. He peered through – or over – the frame of a pair of glasses too small for his large face. His gray suit was worn tight over him. Even what little hair he had seemed a little too little for such a big creature.

“Capdain Bradely.” he said finally, after a long silence that Flash took standing at attention. Mozabe's voice was thick and heavy, and accented. Flash had once taken him for a Jamaican, though he had politely corrected him by saying he was South African.

“You may sid down.” he added, not changing his position or demeanor as he typed.

Flash slouched from the unexpected command. Sighing defeatedly he stepped around the chair, and took his seat. His superior continued to type.

After what felt like a prolonged wait, Colonel Jacob turned to his officer, his hands still on the keyboard in that off 'too big for this world' way. “Your assignment doday, How'd id go?” he asked.

“It's a success.” Bradely began, Jacob typing along, “We encountered OPFOR patrol across the border in Gabon at around 3:33 in the afternoon. Pilot sergeant Kimbly opened the engagement with a pair of HE explosive rockets, opening a LZ in the jungle and startling the initial patrol for our landing. By 3:35 we had loaded the Osprey, and were en'route for home.

“Total engagement time was approximately forty-five seconds.” Flash said with a tough sigh, leaning back into the chair, “Total searching of, and confirming the dead lasted a minute, after which we detained two injured, but live captives and returned them here to base. They were escorted into custody as we landed.”

“Who dreated the capdves as you flew?” Jacob asked, “Cathlyn Mierrie?”

“Yes, Re- Cathlyn Mierre treated the captives injuries and restrained the bleeding for the return.” Flash Sentry said, restraining himself from referring to their team medic by her call-name, Redheart.

“Injuries or casualdies?”

“Just a single zip-tie.” Flash smiled.

“Dhat will be on your bill.” the colonel said dryly.

“Ooh, a dollar! I'm so sad.” Flash joked, playing at wiping a tear from his arm.

“So what was the ammo expenditure?” Jacob asked.

“I would say about a clip each.” Flash reported, “Mac burned through half a belt on his gun in suppressing our targets for us to mop up with burst-fire.”

“Any potential intel captured during the mission?” Jacob inquired.

“No sir.”

The colonel nodded, brushing his thick sausage hands over a few last keys before mashing enter. “Dhank you capdain.” he said with a smile, the first expression during the entire endeavor he made, “You're free to report in for dinner. What I hear it's a pork barbeque and chicken.”

“Beans sir?”

“Someone skimped on dhat I'm afraid. Sorry.”

“It's no big deal I guess.” Flash frowned as his stomach growled.