Jean-Francois walked into the hanger wearing cut off camouflage shorts, Jerusalem cruisers, and sporting the kind of sideburns that get good men killed in combat according to Sergeant Majors the world over. He wasn’t a conventional soldier and having walked across the Astana airport from the civilian terminal he had just arrived at, it was apparent this was not a conventional operation.
The hanger was packed with tan colored assault vehicles loaded down with weapons and ammunition, with individual rucksacks strapped onto the sides. Kazakh mercenaries jogged back and forth carrying out their assigned tasks, loud voices filling what little empty space was left inside. Green and brown jungle uniforms were washed, combat boots broken in, weapons were handled with comfortable confidence.
These guys looked like they were wired pretty tight.
Definitely not the type of Mickey Mouse operation he had half expected.
Behind him trailed two other former military men he had flown from London with. During the flight conversations had been guarded as they felt each other out.
“Ah, replacements,” a voice boomed from across the hanger. “Love me some fresh meat!”
A big black guy with dreadlocks motioned them over.
“Where did you come from,” he asked tossing Jean-Francois a AK-103 rifle.
“I know that dickhead, I mean what outfit were you in?”
“The Legion. 2REP.”
“Jesus, you probably won’t make it back,” he muttered. “What about you two?”
“I was with Force,” the guy with the high and tight haircut announced.
“Recon? Yeah, your fucked too. How about the other guy?”
“Operational Mobile Reaction Group,” the Polish mercenary said in stunted English.
“GROM, huh? Holy shit, I’m really going to have to talk to the boss about this. This shit ain’t right.”
The trio of new recruits looked sullen, the former Marine looking down at his toes.