As soon as the mission objective was revealed, the ex-Spetsnaz rubbed her temples wearily. Hostage rescue, crap. Quite possibly her second least favorite thing to do after demolitions. They’d be one twitch of a carpet pilot’s finger away from their paycheck gaining an extra bodily orifice all the time. Sadly, no payment for frozen goods. On the bright side, she wouldn’t have to stick anything in her eyes, there was that. Well, on this run at any rate. She’d heard nightmare stories from some of her former comrades in GRU, about colored contact lenses potentially screwing up the wearer’s eyes if worn for too long. Something about being thicker than normal corrective lenses. Fortunately, she should at least be familiar enough with the team’s transportation. The Nimr was, after all, essentially a GAZ Tigr, scaled down and ruggedized for desert environments.

If she was counting the MREs right, it looked like they were facing up to ten days in the field. Western MREs hopefully, it would be a pleasant change from the oatmeal Russians put in theirs. The personal equipment wasn’t hard to manage, unless you were a leftie, in which case tough shit with the AK-style safety. What worried her a little was the magazine count. What she was assigned was a few mags short of what she’d feel comfortable with, but seemed downright laughable for the support weapons.

“How much shooting do we expect? Because we’re carrying 100 rounds as a spare for our two marksman rifles, but also a mere 100 extra rounds for our two assault rifles and [i]three light machine guns.[/i]” she stressed the part that concerned her, “And since I’m being loud and difficult already, the gear list includes fuel, but makes no mention of tools. Are they left out for some reason, or are we simply shit out of luck?” Being left stranded somewhere in the Sahara desert because the trucks broke down sounded like a shit way to go out.