Incorporated

Slavs

The first week had been something of a write-off. His superior, Captain Kayan, was a short, broad-shouldered man with a gravelly voice, who spoke some French, which is a useful skill for business in central Africa. After meeting with the Captain, Blake was issued some equipment- consisting of some second-hand uniforms, which seemed to be more like eleventh-hand judging by how damaged they were, a heavy two-way radio, and some other odds and ends for field use. When they saw he had his own rifle, they took back the abused M99 and instead gave him ammunition for his Sako. They let him keep the Kobra 12 gauge, whose compact size made it easy to pack around.

Blake felt like he would be relying on what he jumped out of the airplane with. All the issued equipment seemed a bit dodgey.  

He was boarded in a small room, much like the one he was confined to during his first couple of days within the compound, save for a small window and a sagging mattress. Moths fluttered around like falling snow. 

Two weeks after their fall from the sky, Blake and Guychel said goodbye. Guychel was preparing to catch a ride with one of the outgoing vans that would take him to a nearby city, and from there, another city with a substantial airport to get him home.  

"I do not know what would have happened to me in the jungle." Guychel said. "I would have died." 

"You wouldn't have been forced into the jungle in the first place, without me." Blake retorted. 

Guychel smiled good-naturedly. The two shook hands firmly. Blake didn't really know the man, and the man didn't really know him. But it felt good to have some sort of a bond outside of written agreements and payments, a mutual respect. 

"Before you leave" Blake said, pulling a folded letter from his vest, "I was wondering if you could take this and send it for me when you get the chance."

Guychel took the envelope and carefully slid it into his pocket. 

"I would walk to who ever you are sending it to. I owe you more than a letter."

Blake shook his head. 

"No, you don't owe me anything. Just send that letter, and we'll call it even."

Guychel smiled again and nodded. 

One last farewell, and the pilot was finally headed for safety. 

One last farewell, and Blake Harvey's mettle was about to be tested once again. 

***

The radio sat on an empty crate like a worshipped idol on an ivory pedestal. Blake and the other men at "base camp" sat around it the way weekend campers would sit around a fire. A green canvas tarp covered an area over the radio and its attendants. During the day, some of the men gathered and waited for the black box to crackle to life and give them their orders as they sweat shirtless in the awful afternoon heat. 

Deneri wiped his smooth, shaved head with a hankerchief. He murmured under his breath in his native language.  

"We sweat like pigs. And the flies..." He spat as he waved off a cluster of buzzing black insects. His accent, which seemed slavic, was thick, sometimes to the point of being comical. His face was vaguely bird-like, with a prominant nose and sharp cheek bones. His temper was short. 

Brevik, who the men rumoured was hired alongside Deneri from the same country, nodded in agreement. He was a solid man, shorter than Deneri, but thick with muscle. His jaw was hard-edged and square. Unlike his counterpart, he kept silent for the most part.  Both men were fluent in Turkish, and confident in English.

Together, Deneri and Brevik lead the "strike group", which wasn't much more than a foray into enemy territory. For days they were instructed to wait for further instructions. Deneri didn't like instructions, or waiting, and let the camp of 30 soldiers know it.