Jarek held on to whatever kept him from falling out of the boat, hoping the ride would end soon. It was a long time since he went through something like this and it served as a good reminder of why he hated water. Good thing Czech Republic was land locked. Taking his right hand off the rail in front of him, he opened his admin pouch, trying to compare what little he could make out of the distant village with the map when the boat crested a wave, reminding him to hold on tight.

He didn’t mind being grouped with Bastion and Yen. Though the 601st was the best of the AČR, they were still like a poor cousin of the SAS or SBS, so there still was probably something to be learned from them, though he hoped someone else would be told to watch their six, rear guard being a position he’d rather avoid. The yellowish lights of the encampment were slowly growing, the weak lighting working for them as they wouldn’t be blinded by bright lights. The mountain of a Captain yelled something about rough sea and lack of enthusiasm for swimming in such conditions. “Nepovídej” the moravian rifleman whispered grimly to himself. According to the Captain, approaching the village should be quite simple. Once there, quietly reduce their ranks. Like peeling an onion. Simple enough. Than he remembered Merlin’s briefing. 40 to 60 militants. Maybe not as simple then. He strained his eyes in the island’s direction, barely making out the outline of a bell tower. Soon, the other team would be up there, giving their guardian angels a helping hand.