Skies over Sinhai
Gelid gales pummeled his ashen goggle obscured features, as the hatchback of a sturdy military transport cracked ajar for the first time in hours. He could hardly contain himself from hurling his body readily in to the fray of these Sinhai skies, but more then a minute of planning helped him refrain from preceding several tons of Artillery pieces descending in a windswept glide from a respectable altitude overhead. Aged and faded was the uniform he stood defiantly in as the Air Corpsmen of Životinje made their final checks, the planes loadmaster calmly rigged each mechanism in to place like herdsmen to his flock.
"All systems are a go, sir . ." the Loadmaster said with a near whisper, unemotional and strangely comforting to his busy crew. The 'Sir' he referred to was Lechosław Kowalczyk, a privateer amongst the brilliant blue sea of enlisted and commissioned Union men. To exist amongst these swathes of soldiers and airmen who took oaths to their country made Mister Kowalczyk a very odd man out. Some semblance of allegiance was there at his core, but his exterior displayed only the strict illustration of a business professional. Articles in newspapers foretold a rise in fortune for men like him, the Union Army began integration in to the Air Corps and its sister branch of Air Troopers. Perhaps not so much a sign of fading need for a standard Infantry ground unit, rather bureaucratic dealings that minimized funding to several parts of the Union Army -- such as the Field Artillery Brigades who were essentially breadwinners of the Eastern Front during Europe's Great War. Millions of dollars worth of Artillery pieces literally skillfully 'abandoned' in the Divovian Wilderness so Kowalczyk and his associates could find them.
While the nation speculated who might have scavenged nearly a quarter of the Union's Field Artillery, Mister Kowalczyk was watching three parachute rigged artillery guns slip from the tail end of his rented out plane with no debate as to who they now belonged to. Several of his 'associates' stood stupefied at the sensory overload of hearing the screaming engine and seeing several tons carelessly gliding over tracked wheels, before plummeting dangerously below. For the Airmen aboard, this was by no means their first Rodeo. Several could now be considered "Veterans" of the war in Abruzicstan, where movement of troops and equipment and a moments notice was still critical in a time of relative tranquility. Ceasing his stroll around the cabin, likely for the first time since taking off, the Loadmaster captured Kowalczyk's eyes with a confident gaze.
"Respectfully, sir: Get the hell off my plane before the reds take those guns we just dropped." the Loadmaster jabbed with a warm chuckle.
Kowalczyk shuffled to the cabins rear "Take my word Senior Airmen, if the circumstances are right these Easterners will fly any color that brings relative prosperity. And I'll sell anything to them for prosperity of my own" saying in his most vigorous slime reducing tone. He had no illusions as to what sort of man he was, or the despicable transactions he arranged. Today the Militant Republic of Životinje was a 'friend' who was ready to grease the right gears that placed his merchandise in the hands of desperate customers, but tomorrow Union Soldiers might be finding sight pictures around his frontal lobe with an intent to kill. Dealing arms around the world materialized as a wise teacher to Kowalczyk, one who taught the cold realities of Europe with both a carrot and the stick.
For every practical man, three or more idealists lurk in their stead. Kowalczyk's staff fulfilled this unreservedly. Following him in to swift descent to the ground was an intelligence officer, a field combative unit soldier, and even one of the Sindikat Maresal's spiritual advisors who had already admitted to Kowalczyk in private that he was there to advise Maresal Huszar whether Mister Kowalczyk should be imprisoned or killed.