The water lapped at the rocks gentlely, they could see several small fish and some crabs at the bottom of the rocky pool. There were hundreds of just these types of formations on the island. After the awakening much of the island had been reclaimed by nature as people left and didn’t return. The islands had always been a tourist attraction, drawing hundreds of thousands each year-but the awakening, the crash and the wars had changed that. Now people were too poor to take vacations. Too busy just trying to survive.
Ponta was the last remaining city on Ilha De Porto Santo. The Port of the Saints, once a gateway for the trading vessels that traversed these same waters from Africa to Portugal and back.-it was now a relatively uninhabited island. Ponta was the only real city on the island for centuries, and not much had changed in all that time. Only 8 miles long and 3 miles at it’s widest, life has barely changed in 500 years, since João Gonçalves Zarco and Tristão Vaz Teixiera, who discovered Madeira, landed on Porto Santo in 1418 when they took refuge from a storm.
The people still fished the waters for shell fish and fish, growing what little they could from the island that was dry and rocky, which was great when tourism had supplemented the islands economy. Now they grew what little they could: Melons, figs, tomatoes and barely enough grain to sell at local markets The Lime Kiln and the Water Bottling Plant had been destroyed, and long since reclaimed by nature. In ways this is what made the island the perfect place to start.
The people still walked the craggy paths that winded through the islands mountainous terrain. The roads had long since been reclaimed by Gaia and the local economy couldn’t support itself, let alone build new roads. Now few locals even owned motorized vehicles at all-a few dirt bikes that were a half dozen decades old, or more, a couple of ATV’s and a smattering of quad runners. Most people owned a small boat, a few even had engines.
For all intents and purposes Porto Santo was cut off from the rest of the world. Although technically still a provincial territory of Portugal, it had been a contested claim for the last 30 or so years. The Spanish hoping to reclaim the pristine beaches on the island for their own tourist industries have fought the claim in several European courts for the last few decades, but to no avail. The island remained a place unto itself, a land without time.
It was here that they had laid their humble roots, and therefore fitting that they return for this. There were fourteen of them, gathered around the edge of the shallow pool; watching the fish dart through the rocky bottom of the pool. They could see crabs crawling across the slick rocks, and across the pools bottom. A few even had managed to snag unsuspecting prey; ripping chunks of flesh from the dead fish slowly, consuming each bit as if they were savoring their last meal.
“Dutch” Schaeffer was a long way from his new home in the south of Spain, a long way from his wife, and his children. The call had come two days before, and had been simple enough. “We’re putting a team together. We want you in on this Dutch.” At first he’d been reluctant- this sort of life was hard on his family. Hard on his body- at thirty four he wasn’t a young man anymore, and war was always a young mans game.
His wife didn’t say word when he told her, just nodding, somehow she just understood what sort of man he was. She never complained about his prolonged absences, never questioned where the money that paid for their new luxury home, and the ranch in the south of Spain. She never once even asked him what he did. She simplely loved him unconditionally. He knew that she expected him to be there, to be at the tip of the spear with his current team. Just the thought of letting her down was enough to make Dutch puff his chest out a little more, and hold his head just that much higher.
Dutch eyes the rest of the team casually. They’d all worked together in some fashion or form. He knew everyone else on the team by name, or at least by reputation. He mentally began to review each of them silently in his mind.
Mark “Big Ivan” Kaminsky, the Ukrainian Troll heavy weapons specialist, and former tank platoon sergeant who’d spent ten years with Romping Stomping Red Ass Army-five years as Spetsnaz, another five as the platoon sergeant in the 45th Koshkin Brigade, five long hard years fighting in the Caucasus Mountains. Dutch knew it had been a brutal theater, and “Big Ivan” had cut his teeth the hard way, watching good men die and learning from that ultimate lesson. He also knew Ivan had six sons, two sets of triplets a year apart, just now hitting puberty. Ivan was here for the money, having long since resigned his Red Army Commission for something that actually put food on his families table.
Gregor “Ed Evil” Moussorsky, the all too lethal Romanian Ork who grew up in the ethnic cleansing wars of South Eastern Europe. He knew Gregor was the coldest, hardest man on this team. Gregor once cut three of his own fingers off for food. Silent as he was ugly Gregor was an expert in most small arms, hand to hand combat as well as having considerable expertise in explosive ordinances and booby traps.
Adam “Dark Angel” Gibson was the only one present who was wearing a suit. Impeccablely groomed, his tie folded into his jacket Adam stood rigidly like only the British could do. His expensive Italian leather shoes shined under the hot sun, shined to high buff polish. His hair was pulled back into a pony tail that was held with a platinum ring that ran down just past his shoulders. He wore a pair of mirror shades, his face expressionless.
If Dutch hadn’t seen Gibson in action it’d have been hard to believe the man was anything other than a snobbish stiff, but he’d seen Gibson gut men with his bare hands before. Where the rest of them worked for money, Gibson worked for the thrill.
Roman “Caesar” Pearce had been one of Spain’s finest- a SEAL. The Troll could swim like a fish and fight like a chipped piranha. His fiery red hair hung down around his eyes as he leaned forward on the massive rock outcropping staring down at the panorama playing out below him in the water. Caesar could do it all-jump, dive, fight and drink. Caesar also, like most of the men and women assembled here, loved gambling. He worked to keep living the lifestyle he liked. The Riviera wasn’t cheap.
Simon “Flak Jacket” Barton was dressed loudly- like always his shirt was the loudest, the cargo pockets on his shorts packed with drinks, a Jell-O shot in his hand despite the fact that it was just past ten in the morning. He claimed, and Dutch believed him, that he worked better drunk. A genius with military technology, and computers Flak did it all: weapons, armor, ammo tech, cyber technology, you name it. An Oxford drop out, Flak had enlisted to defer his student loans, but quickly found that he had considerable talent as an S3 officer, and technician. It hadn’t taken much to convince him to resign and seek out new horizons.
Mira Fuchrer was the least dressed of their team, her bikini barely covering any of her taught tanned body. If she cared, or was even self conscious about it, no one could have ever have known. Her long blond hair was pulled up today, accentuating her dark blue eyes and strong Germanic features. Lean, but pretty she could have been mistaken for a dancer or a piece of eye candy to the untrained eye. Dutch had never made that mistake, and neither did anyone else on this team. Dutch had once seen her smash a hole through a six inch steel armor plate on the side of an armored fighting vehicle. What made that all the more impressive is that she carried absolutely no cybernetic augmentation what so ever. The more Dutch knew about Magic, the more he was afraid.
Aeryn Sun the Ork Gypsy from Poland. She was a skilled healer, who had survived the ultimate horrors. Dutch only knew a part of what had happened to her, but it was enough to make his face burn red with rage. Aeryn however never seemed angry at anyone, always in control. Her skilled hands and knowledge of medicines had saved all of their lives once. Flak had said she was a shaman, but all Dutch really got was that she loved Unicorns. Really loved Unicorns.
If any one looked bored to be here it was Angela. Angela “Green Angry” Kostapas, an elf whose features were classical, framed by her dark hair she was considered gorgeous even if she was a complete and total bitch. If she hadn’t been a virtuoso with nearly security system ever made, and any knife she touched Dutch felt she’d have been given the boot a long time ago. She was also well connected, which meant she got them access to a lot of jobs they might not otherwise get.
Ettore “Big Bird” Moretti was the team’s rock. A devout Catholic, Big Bird was also a mage, or at least that’s what Flak said. All Dutch knew was that when Ettore prayed to god, miracles happened. Ettore had made fire and lightening shoot from his finger tips, he had made Dutch invisible once, a condition Dutch wasn’t all together sure he had the moral compass to do again. Ettore was the youngest son of a large respectable family in Italy, a former policeman he was forced to leave Italy when La Cosa Nostra had placed a price on his head.
[IC]Damage Incorporated
-
Serious Paul
- Devil
- Posts: 6644
- Joined: Mon Mar 18, 2002 12:38 pm
Captain Gerald “Chopper” Lancer stepped across the rocks with a sure grace, and a confidence that comes from being that good. “Chopper” knew his XO, Jager wasn’t far behind. “I trust no one will be late?” Jager didn’t say anything; he knew “Chopper” was a stickler for starting his briefings right on time- the old man, as the men called him, had that one pet peeve. Since he got them home intact more often than not, it was something most of the men in his command had been all right with.
As they approached the rock outcropping that the team had been assembled upon by Master Guns Chopper scanned the members of his new team, Damage Incorporated. He had worked with most of them and the others were suggested by Jager, or the Master Guns.
As soon as they stepped out onto the sunlight rocks the whole squad stopped their chatter, taking notice of him. They realized who was approaching, and came to a relaxed parade rest. All of them kept a good mask, but Chopper could see it in their eyes-he had accepted that the reaction was a fact along time ago. After all, how could he blame them?
If it wasn’t his ghostly white hair exploding wildly from his head that caused them to stare, or his white skin and red eyes that looked through his nearly-clear eyelids, then it would have been his massive well muscled body-bigger than any human could hope to be, even with the best anabolic steroids, and cyberware. That too was just a simple fact. Gerald was a Troll. Trolls were simplely bigger than men physically. Although deformity was common place amongst his kind, few were as hideously looking as him.
Unlike the rest of the squad Chopper and Jager wore their dress uniforms. Dark blue jackets over equally dark trousers, their medals, ribbons and badges perfectly aligned-each one telling a story about the men who wore them. Only these were emblazoned with something the team hadn’t seen before, a symbol sewn neatly on their right shoulders.
Regardless of their different backgrounds and ranks, they were here. He’d managed to pull together one of the best teams he could think of. The squad stood relaxed in a semicircle, the infamous “School circle” every recruit had spent hours in learning their art. As the two officers approached the squad came to attention, all except Simon, who was facing the water and drinking from a large glass bottle that wasn’t labeled. Chopper almost shook his massive head. It wasn’t something he approved of; drinking this early in the morning was a sure sign of what everyone knew-Simon was an alcoholic of the first order. He accepted it though, because of “Flak’s” value to the team.
“I see some things haven’t changed,” Chopper said as he got within earshot of the group. A few seconds passed and Simon, being Simon of course, pretended that he hadn’t noticed he was holding a large drink. Dutch leaned over and quickly whispered a quiet word to Flak, and with a shrug the man set his glass down. Chopper gave Simon a hard glance; his burning red eyes sent all the message he’d need. Turning to Jager he spoke quietly “I guess we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
As he rolled to a stop, people his size rarely just came to a stop. He scanned the men and women spread out before him. He took in each of their eyes, nodding to each one a silent greeting. He was the kind of man who inspired confidence-he knew his people, and would get to know the ones he didn’t. That’s how you ran this business.
He addressed the men and women standing before him, “You’ve all been summoned here for one reason: Damage Incorporated.” Chopper let his words sink in. Each of them had discussed it of course, this was just a formality. Chopper believed in tradition. He believed in showmanship-it’s what made good units great. “This will be the tightest unit of highly trained professionals that ever stepped foot on the field of battle. Each of you is the best. The fastest. The strongest. The smartest. The best soldiers this world has to offer.” He knew Jager would chide him later, in private of course, for his exaggeration, but he knew that’s how he had to get this started. Proud and loud.
“However, you, unlike regular soldiers will stand to make considerablely more money.” This brought a collective chuckle from the men. Good he thought, let them see that the old man still has a sense of humor. “Since your duties will be far from ordinary, your pay will reflect that. So will your training schedules.” That brought a groan of course.
“As you know, there are many different battles raging in the world today; business is booming. From wars with a cause to mindless slaughters, from big corporations to villagers being oppressed, even wars provoked by men too cowardly to fight them themselves. ”
“That is where Damage Incorporated comes in.” He paused to let his words sink in. As he moved closer to them he took a more conspiratal tone.
“I know you have all paid your due diligence to various organizations or countries, and what has it gotten you? Broken families, empty wallets, and horrible scars. Well, I say no more! No more empty promises of a better life. I'm not going to take it! Today I offer you a new way of life, a way to achieve all that you want while doing what it is you do best.”
“But you must make a choice now. If you choose to follow me, the risk is great but the rewards are much greater. If you die, you will die knowing you stood for something stronger than politics. You will die for your own beliefs and those of your team. Your brothers and sisters.”
He smiled wide. “Besides we hired a private chef. Our food is way better than any mess hall.” As they laughed out loud he knew he had them.
As they approached the rock outcropping that the team had been assembled upon by Master Guns Chopper scanned the members of his new team, Damage Incorporated. He had worked with most of them and the others were suggested by Jager, or the Master Guns.
As soon as they stepped out onto the sunlight rocks the whole squad stopped their chatter, taking notice of him. They realized who was approaching, and came to a relaxed parade rest. All of them kept a good mask, but Chopper could see it in their eyes-he had accepted that the reaction was a fact along time ago. After all, how could he blame them?
If it wasn’t his ghostly white hair exploding wildly from his head that caused them to stare, or his white skin and red eyes that looked through his nearly-clear eyelids, then it would have been his massive well muscled body-bigger than any human could hope to be, even with the best anabolic steroids, and cyberware. That too was just a simple fact. Gerald was a Troll. Trolls were simplely bigger than men physically. Although deformity was common place amongst his kind, few were as hideously looking as him.
Unlike the rest of the squad Chopper and Jager wore their dress uniforms. Dark blue jackets over equally dark trousers, their medals, ribbons and badges perfectly aligned-each one telling a story about the men who wore them. Only these were emblazoned with something the team hadn’t seen before, a symbol sewn neatly on their right shoulders.
Regardless of their different backgrounds and ranks, they were here. He’d managed to pull together one of the best teams he could think of. The squad stood relaxed in a semicircle, the infamous “School circle” every recruit had spent hours in learning their art. As the two officers approached the squad came to attention, all except Simon, who was facing the water and drinking from a large glass bottle that wasn’t labeled. Chopper almost shook his massive head. It wasn’t something he approved of; drinking this early in the morning was a sure sign of what everyone knew-Simon was an alcoholic of the first order. He accepted it though, because of “Flak’s” value to the team.
“I see some things haven’t changed,” Chopper said as he got within earshot of the group. A few seconds passed and Simon, being Simon of course, pretended that he hadn’t noticed he was holding a large drink. Dutch leaned over and quickly whispered a quiet word to Flak, and with a shrug the man set his glass down. Chopper gave Simon a hard glance; his burning red eyes sent all the message he’d need. Turning to Jager he spoke quietly “I guess we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
As he rolled to a stop, people his size rarely just came to a stop. He scanned the men and women spread out before him. He took in each of their eyes, nodding to each one a silent greeting. He was the kind of man who inspired confidence-he knew his people, and would get to know the ones he didn’t. That’s how you ran this business.
He addressed the men and women standing before him, “You’ve all been summoned here for one reason: Damage Incorporated.” Chopper let his words sink in. Each of them had discussed it of course, this was just a formality. Chopper believed in tradition. He believed in showmanship-it’s what made good units great. “This will be the tightest unit of highly trained professionals that ever stepped foot on the field of battle. Each of you is the best. The fastest. The strongest. The smartest. The best soldiers this world has to offer.” He knew Jager would chide him later, in private of course, for his exaggeration, but he knew that’s how he had to get this started. Proud and loud.
“However, you, unlike regular soldiers will stand to make considerablely more money.” This brought a collective chuckle from the men. Good he thought, let them see that the old man still has a sense of humor. “Since your duties will be far from ordinary, your pay will reflect that. So will your training schedules.” That brought a groan of course.
“As you know, there are many different battles raging in the world today; business is booming. From wars with a cause to mindless slaughters, from big corporations to villagers being oppressed, even wars provoked by men too cowardly to fight them themselves. ”
“That is where Damage Incorporated comes in.” He paused to let his words sink in. As he moved closer to them he took a more conspiratal tone.
“I know you have all paid your due diligence to various organizations or countries, and what has it gotten you? Broken families, empty wallets, and horrible scars. Well, I say no more! No more empty promises of a better life. I'm not going to take it! Today I offer you a new way of life, a way to achieve all that you want while doing what it is you do best.”
“But you must make a choice now. If you choose to follow me, the risk is great but the rewards are much greater. If you die, you will die knowing you stood for something stronger than politics. You will die for your own beliefs and those of your team. Your brothers and sisters.”
He smiled wide. “Besides we hired a private chef. Our food is way better than any mess hall.” As they laughed out loud he knew he had them.
_</HR>On the Highway to Hell!
Christoph had made the 2000 kilometer trip from Stuttgart to Sagres in just under eight hours, one of them spent going 300 kilometers per hour in a phalanx, a short line of cars driving decimeters from each other's bumpers so the traffic drones could only read the plates from the front and rear drivers; the cars would rotate, lead driver dropping back every so often, to share the risk. It was a trick he'd have sworn on his father's grave only a rigger could pull off, but there had been one driver, in an aged-looking but well-maintained 3220, who had been operating the controls manually, his young, unlined face very still with concentration and covered with a thin sheen of perspiration. When Christoph had finally left the phalanx to let the Winter unwind its legs, spinning the turbine up past 40,000 revs toward the car's top speed of 800 kilometers per hour, he'd used the rear cameras to take several high-res shots of the unaugmented driver; if the man was military, or mercenary - or could be led away from whatever he did for a living - he might bear recruiting when it was time for them to get a secondary driver for the squad.
Thinking about such things was part and parcel of his new rank, the position he'd left a comfortable career in MET2000 to attain. He'd been promoted as high as he could reasonably expect, having reached the rank of Stabsfeldwebel, or Warrant Officer, but he knew that another promotion could take a decade or more within the stable framework of the mammoth mercenary organization. Only by striking out on his own, joining with a group just starting up, could he attain further rank and responsibility without spending his entire young life doing it. He'd joined MET2000 at 16, and spent the last 16 years living and working with the men and women of the various teams to which he'd been assigned, but unless he wanted to spend another 16 working at it, he'd never see command. This - this incredible offer from Damage Incorporated - was his chance. He would move from Stabsfeldwebel to Oberleutnant, effectively skipping Leutnant altogether, and with only one promotion before he reached his goal of Hauptmann. Of course, there was only one Hauptmann in Damage Incorporated: the Captain. But as the organization grew, they'd all have to accept promotions, to make room for the ranks below.
His mother had said goodbye to him as always, with no sign of strain or concern, but she'd had two decades of experience saying goodbye to military men before he was even born. Her father had been German regular army, and so had her husband. His father's death, in the ill-conceived attack on the Black Forest, still tugged at him, and he was certain it was never far from his mother's mind, either. She had seemed somehow diminished after the funeral, neither grieving nor moving on, simply biding her time in a sort of fugue; certainly, she'd had her whole life to prepare for the possibility, but the reality seemed to have simply stopped her cold, like a Nuremburg clock with a gear missing.
He'd taken the ferry across to the island, relishing the feeling of the salt air on his driving-wet skin. Eight hours with no stops, no matter what the car, left him feeling glad to be outside, even if he did have to let someone else pilot the ferry. He'd never been comfortable with leaving his transport in someone else's hands, like a master surgeon submitting to the minstrations of a first-year nurse. He spent the ride leaning against the fore-rail, indulging in a hand-rolled cigarette and chatting with the ferry's crew about the Porsche. None of them had ever seen one of the new Winters up close, and once he'd explained that it was actually the F.zero - Porsche's rigger-only, top-of-the-line racing model - they'd been fairly beside themselves at the chance to talk with him about it. Having grown up in Stuttgart, the ancestral home of all Porches, he'd never once desired to own another car. From his first - an aging and frankly atrocious 959 - to the Porsche Winter F.zero he'd spent his entire severance package from MET2000 to buy, he had never wanted anything else. Most youths in Stuttgart avoided them, feeling as if the cars were too common, "too Stuttgart;" they spent a little of their rebellion hating Porsches and buying themselves Citroens or Ferraris, depending on their means. Christoph had never felt much impulse to rebellion.
A brief drive across the island taught him everything he needed to know about the local geography. There was practically nothing here; the landscape was barren and dry, save for a few miles on the southern shore, where Captain Lancer had told him the camp would be. When he arrived, he could scarcely believe what he saw. Tha compound was much larger than he'd anticipated. Mentally, he began picking out locations in his mind: he could have the men dig a breastwork <i>there</i> for a shooting range, cut some pits and build some walls <i>there</i> for an obstacle course, they could run their PT <i>there</i>...it was amazing, and somewhat daunting: where had the money for this come from? Most striking - striking enough that he nearly put his brand-new supercar through the wall of the mirrored-thermal-steel main building - was the view of the ocean. The best part of the beach, of the entire island, was theirs, a mere quarter-kilometer from their barracks!
He'd been in conversation with the Captain for months now, but this was the first time they'd been able to meet in person for several years. The troll looked largely as Christof remembered: large and white, serious one minute, jovial the next, probably deadly in ways Christof had never considered. A few minutes together - in the Captain's office, sharing water from a decanter Christof suspected wasn't really crystal - and it was like they'd seen each other last week. Their history was scattered across a decade and four continents, and mostly made up of secrets the others would never know; they'd agreed their past wasn't going to be a factor in the future of the team. They'd all have secrets; this would be, like so many mercenary groups before, a legion of strangers. Historical convention dictated that so long as a mercenary did his job, his personal affairs were none of anyone else's concern. Many groups didn't even require members to tell their comrades their real names, the French Foreign Legion, the original <i>Legion Etranger</i>, among them. It was only when your secrets threatened your comrades or your contract - in that order - that they could no longer be kept.
As the team had assembled on the beach, Christof changed from his civilian clothes into his new uniform - which he was pleased to note fitted perfectly, though the measurements had been made by machine some months ago - and prepared to meet with them. As the uniform went on, so did his rank. He was no longer Christof Lichtman, but rather First Lieutenant Jager. They were arrayed on the beach, in various states of undress. He wasn't pleased to see Flak Jacket drinking, but there was technically no prohibition against it, only against being unfit for duty. He chided himself for letting his new responsibility make him inflexible.
Once the Captain was done, he characteristically departed. Being in command meant you had to forego the luxury of listening to those beneath you discuss the specifics of their situation. The Captain could only give orders, and policy; he could not fraternize. It was part of the responsibility you accepted with the rank.
They looked to him, now. He gazed steadily back at each one of them. They were all known to him, either personally or through the briefing booklets Master Guns or the Captain had assembled for the recruits they'd suggested. These were the very few they'd all agreed were worth keeping; for every man or woman on the beach, five had been weeded out. Jager was certain they wouldn't be the last; his thoughts kept returning to Gregor.
Jager's voice was low and rough, two decades of smoking and breathing fumes from transports and APCs having ground his speech to dust. His english was only mildly accented with his native german, and all could clearly hear him over the pounding of the surf on the rocks. "I have no heart for speeches. Is Captain's perogative if you are to be 'the best soldiers this world has to offer.' Is my job to make you that way. You all have history, some with each other, some with other people in other places. Me, I don't care. I don't want to know anything about yesterday. I have requested the Captain tell me nothing I do not already know." He looked hard at Kor'vain; the elf maintained his at-ease posture, and his face showed no expression. "Who you were, forget if you choose. Tell if you choose. This does not matter to me. You follow orders, you stay alive, you keep your comrades alive, then I don't care if you eat your own fingers for fun. You step out of line--" he glanced meaningfully at the elven mage, looking diffident, off to one side "--I have Corporal Moussorsky eat <i>your</i> fingers. Understood?"
They all acknowledged him, their responses ranging from Kaminsky's bellowed, "Yes, sir!" to Kostapas' nod and rolled eyes. He allowed himself a small smile. "Still, is good to see you all."
He paused just long enough to maintain their attention. "Master Guns. Staff meeting at 1900." The elf struggled successfully to keep his face motionless: "Staff meeting" meant, in most any mercenary company this size, a poker game with the officers; Jager had never played poker, but Chopper - Captain Lancer - had been promising he'd have to learn. "Until then, the men are yours."
"Yes, sir," Kor'vain said, smoothly.
"They begin training tomorrow," Jager said, stepping closer to his Master Guns. "They'll need to be fit for duty."
Master Gunnery Sargeant Kor'vain's face looked chiseled from alabaster as he said, "They will be."
Jager didn't doubt it for a moment, as he turned back toward the massive mirrored barracks/garage/command center. He might be XO now, but he was damned well going to inspect every centimeter of his new vehicles.
Thinking about such things was part and parcel of his new rank, the position he'd left a comfortable career in MET2000 to attain. He'd been promoted as high as he could reasonably expect, having reached the rank of Stabsfeldwebel, or Warrant Officer, but he knew that another promotion could take a decade or more within the stable framework of the mammoth mercenary organization. Only by striking out on his own, joining with a group just starting up, could he attain further rank and responsibility without spending his entire young life doing it. He'd joined MET2000 at 16, and spent the last 16 years living and working with the men and women of the various teams to which he'd been assigned, but unless he wanted to spend another 16 working at it, he'd never see command. This - this incredible offer from Damage Incorporated - was his chance. He would move from Stabsfeldwebel to Oberleutnant, effectively skipping Leutnant altogether, and with only one promotion before he reached his goal of Hauptmann. Of course, there was only one Hauptmann in Damage Incorporated: the Captain. But as the organization grew, they'd all have to accept promotions, to make room for the ranks below.
His mother had said goodbye to him as always, with no sign of strain or concern, but she'd had two decades of experience saying goodbye to military men before he was even born. Her father had been German regular army, and so had her husband. His father's death, in the ill-conceived attack on the Black Forest, still tugged at him, and he was certain it was never far from his mother's mind, either. She had seemed somehow diminished after the funeral, neither grieving nor moving on, simply biding her time in a sort of fugue; certainly, she'd had her whole life to prepare for the possibility, but the reality seemed to have simply stopped her cold, like a Nuremburg clock with a gear missing.
He'd taken the ferry across to the island, relishing the feeling of the salt air on his driving-wet skin. Eight hours with no stops, no matter what the car, left him feeling glad to be outside, even if he did have to let someone else pilot the ferry. He'd never been comfortable with leaving his transport in someone else's hands, like a master surgeon submitting to the minstrations of a first-year nurse. He spent the ride leaning against the fore-rail, indulging in a hand-rolled cigarette and chatting with the ferry's crew about the Porsche. None of them had ever seen one of the new Winters up close, and once he'd explained that it was actually the F.zero - Porsche's rigger-only, top-of-the-line racing model - they'd been fairly beside themselves at the chance to talk with him about it. Having grown up in Stuttgart, the ancestral home of all Porches, he'd never once desired to own another car. From his first - an aging and frankly atrocious 959 - to the Porsche Winter F.zero he'd spent his entire severance package from MET2000 to buy, he had never wanted anything else. Most youths in Stuttgart avoided them, feeling as if the cars were too common, "too Stuttgart;" they spent a little of their rebellion hating Porsches and buying themselves Citroens or Ferraris, depending on their means. Christoph had never felt much impulse to rebellion.
A brief drive across the island taught him everything he needed to know about the local geography. There was practically nothing here; the landscape was barren and dry, save for a few miles on the southern shore, where Captain Lancer had told him the camp would be. When he arrived, he could scarcely believe what he saw. Tha compound was much larger than he'd anticipated. Mentally, he began picking out locations in his mind: he could have the men dig a breastwork <i>there</i> for a shooting range, cut some pits and build some walls <i>there</i> for an obstacle course, they could run their PT <i>there</i>...it was amazing, and somewhat daunting: where had the money for this come from? Most striking - striking enough that he nearly put his brand-new supercar through the wall of the mirrored-thermal-steel main building - was the view of the ocean. The best part of the beach, of the entire island, was theirs, a mere quarter-kilometer from their barracks!
He'd been in conversation with the Captain for months now, but this was the first time they'd been able to meet in person for several years. The troll looked largely as Christof remembered: large and white, serious one minute, jovial the next, probably deadly in ways Christof had never considered. A few minutes together - in the Captain's office, sharing water from a decanter Christof suspected wasn't really crystal - and it was like they'd seen each other last week. Their history was scattered across a decade and four continents, and mostly made up of secrets the others would never know; they'd agreed their past wasn't going to be a factor in the future of the team. They'd all have secrets; this would be, like so many mercenary groups before, a legion of strangers. Historical convention dictated that so long as a mercenary did his job, his personal affairs were none of anyone else's concern. Many groups didn't even require members to tell their comrades their real names, the French Foreign Legion, the original <i>Legion Etranger</i>, among them. It was only when your secrets threatened your comrades or your contract - in that order - that they could no longer be kept.
As the team had assembled on the beach, Christof changed from his civilian clothes into his new uniform - which he was pleased to note fitted perfectly, though the measurements had been made by machine some months ago - and prepared to meet with them. As the uniform went on, so did his rank. He was no longer Christof Lichtman, but rather First Lieutenant Jager. They were arrayed on the beach, in various states of undress. He wasn't pleased to see Flak Jacket drinking, but there was technically no prohibition against it, only against being unfit for duty. He chided himself for letting his new responsibility make him inflexible.
Once the Captain was done, he characteristically departed. Being in command meant you had to forego the luxury of listening to those beneath you discuss the specifics of their situation. The Captain could only give orders, and policy; he could not fraternize. It was part of the responsibility you accepted with the rank.
They looked to him, now. He gazed steadily back at each one of them. They were all known to him, either personally or through the briefing booklets Master Guns or the Captain had assembled for the recruits they'd suggested. These were the very few they'd all agreed were worth keeping; for every man or woman on the beach, five had been weeded out. Jager was certain they wouldn't be the last; his thoughts kept returning to Gregor.
Jager's voice was low and rough, two decades of smoking and breathing fumes from transports and APCs having ground his speech to dust. His english was only mildly accented with his native german, and all could clearly hear him over the pounding of the surf on the rocks. "I have no heart for speeches. Is Captain's perogative if you are to be 'the best soldiers this world has to offer.' Is my job to make you that way. You all have history, some with each other, some with other people in other places. Me, I don't care. I don't want to know anything about yesterday. I have requested the Captain tell me nothing I do not already know." He looked hard at Kor'vain; the elf maintained his at-ease posture, and his face showed no expression. "Who you were, forget if you choose. Tell if you choose. This does not matter to me. You follow orders, you stay alive, you keep your comrades alive, then I don't care if you eat your own fingers for fun. You step out of line--" he glanced meaningfully at the elven mage, looking diffident, off to one side "--I have Corporal Moussorsky eat <i>your</i> fingers. Understood?"
They all acknowledged him, their responses ranging from Kaminsky's bellowed, "Yes, sir!" to Kostapas' nod and rolled eyes. He allowed himself a small smile. "Still, is good to see you all."
He paused just long enough to maintain their attention. "Master Guns. Staff meeting at 1900." The elf struggled successfully to keep his face motionless: "Staff meeting" meant, in most any mercenary company this size, a poker game with the officers; Jager had never played poker, but Chopper - Captain Lancer - had been promising he'd have to learn. "Until then, the men are yours."
"Yes, sir," Kor'vain said, smoothly.
"They begin training tomorrow," Jager said, stepping closer to his Master Guns. "They'll need to be fit for duty."
Master Gunnery Sargeant Kor'vain's face looked chiseled from alabaster as he said, "They will be."
Jager didn't doubt it for a moment, as he turned back toward the massive mirrored barracks/garage/command center. He might be XO now, but he was damned well going to inspect every centimeter of his new vehicles.