A regiment of Red Army Chemical Warfare troopers sat in the dark, gloomy cargo compartment of a Zubr class LCAC hovercraft. They had not yet been informed about the details of their mission, so they took to speculation amongst themselves. Suddenly, the door behind the cargo compartment opened, letting in some light and an officer in a red battle uniform.

“All right, comrades, listen up,” said the officer, “Our heroic Krasnorussian intelligence, being the idiots that they are, have forgotten to inform us of several things regarding our mission. First, this island is a civilian facility, which means indiscriminate firing will not be tolerated.”

“What? Aw… but comrade, we’ve-”

“Shut up. Second of all, there appears to be some kind of privately sponsored fighting event that is presently being held at the combat zone – island wide, in fact. You are, under no circumstances, to make yourselves known to the participants; third, we will not be strictly infantry. We have been allowed the use of the T-120/95 “Nerushimiy” and a Krasnorussian AvSam-10 UCAV for support.

“As you may or may not know, I am to be the commanding officer of all forces involved in this operation. My name is Major Alexei Mikhailovich Kazansky. You may either call me comrade major or sir. Do not attempt to address me by my first name or my nickname as there are many ‘Alexei’s and ‘Alyosha’s here. The pilot has told me that we are exactly fifteen minutes from the landing zone.

“Captain Kindjal, the leader of the SpetsNaz group involved in this operation, our sister team, has gone ahead to secure our LZ.”

ISLA OC
BEACH

An abandoned Isla OC Coast Guard vessel lay on the beach, with the sleeping coast guards neatly bound and concealed below deck. There was a solitary bullet hole in one of the life preservers aboard. Suspicious? Extremely.

Captain Kindjal and the rest of his forward team lay about a kilometer away from a small fishing village dotted with nipa huts.

“All right comrades, English only from now on.” said Captain Kindjal in a heavy Russian accent, “You are to be known by your English nicknames for the duration of the mission – if we want to obtain the cooperation of the authorities of this island, we have to speak their language…”

He then pointed to each operative and called out their English names.
“Smoke, Hammer, Sickle – you’re the assault team; Wires, Welder, Spider – engineering team; Blackie, Sword, Bear – demolitions.”

A transmission then came over the team’s PTT communicators.

“Raven Sierra, this is Wolf Kilo. Report.” it was Kazansky.

“Raven Sierra here – we’ve taken the beach head, comrade major.”

“Excellent. Did you engage any hostiles?”

Suddenly, a man wearing a black suit and tie with shades and an earpiece appeared behind a coconut tree – he was aiming an M9 pistol straight at Kindjal. Thinking quickly, one of the operatives quickly charged the man, kicked him in the gut, and judo-chopped the pistol out of his hand. He then palmed the man in the face, which knocked him out.

Kazansky’s voice came over the PTT,

“Raven Sierra, I heard some kind of noise…”

“That was nothing, comrade major – negative on the engagement.”

“Roger that, Raven Sierra, we’ll be arriving shortly. Secure the LZ.”