Guns, Drugs and Money

[Anonymous]

Ahh, sunny Himyar, beautiful continent, hand up to god, I ain't the kind of guy that tells lies. You ever been to the beaches of Azraq? Even Jesus Christ would pop a boner there and the weather! My God, the weather. Blue skies for days, where I come from a man comes to appreciate an almost endless string of sunny days. Where do I come from? Doesn't matter. What does matter is that I have what you need. SLR2's, Sturmgewehr, you want some fucking fancy gun from Eiffelland? I got it. Hell, if you say pretty please, I might know a guy who happened to stumble upon crate a of Advanced Combat Rifles. Now those Cussians? Them's some mean blood thirsty motherfuckers, but boy do they know what a man wants in a gun. You ever see a man take a burst from an M63A1 light machine gun? The bullets hit him so hard and so fast, it's like watching a retard try to dance.

Guns aren't all I have, tanks, trucks, RPG's, mines both anti personnel and tanks, mortars, and grenades. You gotta a place I can dock and unload the big stuff, then it is yours for the right price. You don't want guns? I got just the thing to put the pep in the step of your boys on the front line. I have pills that will make them fight like it's another round on the eternal battle plain.

Oh boy, do I see a nice business relationship ahead of us, we'll be old friends by the time this is over. I know what you are thinking, how will I get it to you, whats the cost, what if the delivery gets fucked up. We'll talk all about that, don't you worry, but first tell me what it is I can get for you.

 

[Anonymous]

My clients have asked me to place an order for 40 Burgundian-made Carl Gustaf recoilless rifles, used or new, and 200 IAN FAL rifles, used or new, for discreet delivery in Maseru.

A. K.

 

[Anonymous]

Dirt strip outside Sandhavn
Dune Sea

"Hey, Geno, we got a job." Evgeni woke with a startle as his new co-pilot woke him from his drunken sleep. The air was hot and dry, even the shade of his tent provided little relief from the heat. He poked his head out from the open tent flap and peered upon the

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baking in the sun, the sound of the APU firing up replaced the quiet of the rocky desert around them. Tom, his new Sylvanian... or was he Engellachian, Geno didn't care, had replaced his old comrade a month ago after he had died in a bar fight on some beach in Sandhavn over some whore.

Geno had learned to fly as a bush pilot in the West Engell Republic, it was dangerous and thrilling so when his boss had recruited him to work for his "little business venture," as he called it, he signed up right away. The Combat Talon was surplus Continental Air Force and he and his co-pilot had worked around the clock to get it into tip top shape. His boss had even secured the Falwell Surface to Air Recovery System that the O.S.S had developed for rapid exfiltration of men and materiel. The Crew had come from around the world, they didn't matter to him as long as they did the job and operated the winch system and packed the parachutes as they had been trained everything would go off without a hitch.

The MC-13 Combat Talon left the Dune Sea without notice, the officials didn't care, ATC coverage was sparse and easy to avoid and if anyone did ask questions his boss made sure he had enough bribe money to throw at them. The flight would take four hours, they would rendezvous with a cargo ship stationed off Loago in international waters flying the standard of whatever stateless Post Delegationist nation was convenient at the time. His co-pilot Tom talked the entire time, about Sylvania, about some big breasted Austwegian settler whore he had the night before or whatever had come off the top of his head. They flew low to the ocean, not as fuel efficient, but easier to spot the ship as radio contact would be limited to only a few miles.

The radio crackled to life, the ship had been exactly where it said it would be and Geno could already see they were deploying the helium balloon that was attached to their cargo by a high strength nylon line. Geno shut Tom up with a growl and focused on hitting the line with the V shaped yoke that attached to the nose of the airplane. The balloon cut away and the crew in the back loaded the weapons on board. They did this six more times, as the winch could only pull up so much at a time. Without fault the weapons and ammunition were on board. The boss had been paid seventy percent up front and thiry percent on delivery, the buyers would be responsible for being at the designated drop zone to get their merchandise, any failure on their part was on them and not his boss.

After the last crate was loaded on board, Geno plugged in the coordinates for the drop zone. A little field outside of Maseru as the buyer had directed. His flight planning was good so far, they would hit the DZ within five minutes of the drop time, which was good enough for him. Geno flew the Combat Talon to about 500 feet above the ocean as they neared the national waters of Loago. Geno called up to the crew in the rear over the interphone comms and advised them to get ready to drop, the first words he had said to anyone all day. The crew had the parachutes rigged up to the crates and were double checking to make sure the cargo would drop properly. The sun was low in the sky as they reached the outskirts of Maseru. In the cargo area the light turned green and the crew began pushing out the crates in half mile intervals. All chutes had deployed it was time to make for international waters and then the Dune Sea.