ISLA OC
NORTHERN BEACH
2015 HRS

As the Zubr hovercraft landed, its cargo door slowly opened with a mechanical whine. Instead of the traditional image of troops landing on the beach, a humongous battle tank noisily rolled forward, its dual turrets pointed at the general direction of the “enemy”. The T-120/95 had arrived.
Machine gun barrels stuck out from the sides of the tank, like it was some sort of pillbox on treads. Missile launchers stood at the sides – and the most formidable aspect of all, a giant spiked mine plow, which could also be used for infantry if they got too close.
The big black tank rolled through the jungles, crushing the coconut trees and rocks under its enormous treads. Major Kazansky, the tank commander, then spoke,
“Raven Sierra, this is Wolf Kilo, come in, over.”
Kindjal immediately replied,
“Wolf Kilo, this is Raven Sierra. Please advise on your 10-20.”
“Raven Sierra, we should be…” Kazansky trailed off as he looked at the GPS display on the tank’s screen.
“We should be right on top of you. What is your 10-20, over?”
“We’re uh… at Oscar 15, I say again, Oscar 15.”
“Did you say Oscar 15?”
“10-4, Wolf Kilo.”
Kazansky slapped his forehead,
“Raven Sierra, you are off-mission! I do not need to remind you that deserters will be shot! What the hell are you doing!?”

ISLA OC
SOUTHEASTERN BEACH

Kindjal frowned and looked at Spider – the operative who was in charge of navigation.
“He’s right – we’re at Oscar 15. We should be at Delta 8. What happened?”
“Um… we hijacked the coast guard vessel, remember? We stayed on their course.”
Kindjal swore in Russian and got back on his PTT,
“Comrade Major, I assure you, we do not plan to desert.”
“Then what the hell are you doing way over there?”
“There has been a misdrop, I repeat, there has been a misdrop. I am presently requesting immediate pickup.”
“Fuck you, Raven Sierra, you come to us. We are at Delta 8 on the northern beach, and will be moving to Delta 7 immediately. We will hold that position until you arrive. I suggest you start moving now. Wolf Kilo, out.”
Kindjal buried his head in his hands and said,
“Okay, comrades, you heard the major – we move out and secure All areas from here to Delta 7. Oorah?”
“Oorah.”
Kindjal clicked off his PTT and looked at Spider.
“Okay, asshole, you got us into this mess, how do you plan to get us out?”
Spider opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another operative who yelled, “Contact!” The whole team hid in the bushes.
A little car pulled up to the beach, with a surfboard on top of it. The driver, wearing a yellow tank top and Hawaiian shorts, stepped out of the vehicle to stretch his legs.
“These are some killer waves!” he said, looking out into the distance, “I better catch them while I can!”
But before he could unload his surfboard, he was looking into the barrel of a Saiga 12 shotgun.
“Okay, comrade, we are commandeering this vehicle. Complain and be shot.” said Hammer, the one holding the shotgun.
“What’s your problem man?” was the last thing the surfer said before he was hit in the back of his head by Sickle, a member of Kindjal’s assault team.
“Put him in the back.” said Kindjal, “If we get lost, he might know the way.”
Kindjal clicked his PTT back on and contacted Kazansky,
“Wolf Kilo, this is Raven Sierra. I’ve just picked up a civilian – ah… he wandered into our position, so we had to knock him out. We’re taking him along as a guide.”
“Raven Sierra, today is a Sunday, there should be no civilian activity in your area. Take his picture and send it to me.”
Kindjal focused his bionic eye on the subject and activated camera mode, taking a high-resolution image and sending it to Kazansky.
“Picture received.” said Kazansky, “Be advised that the subject is not a civilian, repeat, not a civilian – his name is Eppy Zaldin, and he is a competitor in the island’s tournament and an American citizen – I say again, American citizen.”
“Shit.” said Kindjal, his teeth grinding.
“Regardless, Raven Sierra, get to Delta 7, but make sure no harm comes to him.”
“Will do, Wolf Kilo. Raven Sierra out.”