Israeli-Occupied Sinai, south of previous conflict zone.

1200 Hours, October 16th, Third Era.

Baran’s eyes thrust open, feeling the agonizing pain in his chest. The roaring rumble of a tank engine nearly deafened him and the unrelenting sun baked him. Or was it the engine block he lay a few feet from? His pain manifested in a hacking cough that sent him sitting up into a palm that laid him flat again. He attempted speech but found his voice too horse to form a whole sentence. He was sapped of energy, even the act of sitting up felt as if it was an action he couldn’t repeat. Sat next to him, occasionally blocking the sun from his eye with her ears, was Meduza. She looked unhappy, more so than usual. His tan desert fatigues were blood red around the torso and he could feel the mass of bandages and packing gauze nestled between his uniform and his body.

He grit his teeth, mustering a weak, “Sitrep?”

Meduza’s grave expression hardened further as she glanced along the front of the tank where the rest of the squad sat. Enzov admired a stretch of armor and troop transport trucks formed into a convoy some thirty vics long. How he didn’t manage to get a spot in the cross-marked and roofed over ambulance cars, was beyond him. Meduza fought the urge to tear up with considerable steel, staving away her emotions for the sake of their morale. Baran could hardly recognize the tension with all the morphine in his system, more or less doped to numb his already considerable pains further.

“The uh--... The round grazed an artery, narrowly missed your heart. We--... Managed to stop the bleeding, but there’s a high likelihood the wound’ll open again. The whole army is short on blood bags of your type and they’re not willing to give us any until they’ve treated their own. We’re still waiting…” Meduza explained, hand still resting above his heart.

“B-Bheka didn’t bring any?” Baran returned, surprised at their lack of preparedness.

“Bheka’s Fireteam medic got ex’d at the start of our last engagement, we lost him to a machine gun emplacement. Colonel Khaski recovered his pack and found most of the blood bags ruptured from stray rounds.” Meduza’s teeth grit behind her lips at the conclusion of her statement.

Baran couldn’t help but smile, amused at how cruel the world could be when it wanted. He had nothing to attribute his dogged luck to. He could hardly be sad at his own death, nor could he blame his superiors for their foolish decisions which led to his predicament in the first place. Or at least, he wouldn’t. He remembered their shouting match, his unheeded attempts at stopping it. Even past the fog of the pain medication he finally realized why Meduza was so torn. The Major wasn’t a caring individual, at most she would give a somber goodbye to a fallen soldier at their passing ceremony, or give her allies the cold shoulder if it was truly someone she respected and appreciated. But to know that her actions were in direct correlation with the injury of an innocent party under her own command? It ate her alive.

Baran’s sundered voice managed a laugh. A laugh that made Mishel turn away. “So the gorgon does have a heart after all.” But he knew that. He knew it when he found her sobbing after her deceased lover.

“How can you be so cool about this?!” Meduza grimaced, whispering with heartfelt anger. Even her grip on his uniform tightened.

“Because…” Baran looked to his squad, arrayed across the sloped front of the tank. “Because I know I did nothing wrong.” He admitted.

“What?” Meduza’s brows furrowed in her passion.

“Soldiers die every day, and most of them die regretting something. How they hadn’t spent enough time with their family, or how if they had done something different they would be alive and healthy. But I regret nothing… I was simply… Unlucky...” Baran exhaled with a wheeze.

“It has nothing to do with luck!” Meduza spat back.

“There were six of us there and that bullet found me. I’m not a religious man but I’m sure there was some divine karma involved.”

Meduza knew what he was doing. Just like Baran to ease the burden of others with his carefree spirit. Even on his deathbed his enthusiasm got the better of her, eeking out a reluctant smirk and chuckle from the Major. A tear finally streamed down her cheek as she couldn’t help but look him in the eye. Everything about her screamed I’m sorry! Please forgive me! But her stubborn pride, ego and cold heart wouldn’t let her convey it vocally. The hand around his fatigues tightened some more, balling the fabric harshly in her fist.

“There’s… Still a chance we might get some blood for you.” Meduza sighed.

Baran scoffed, he was under no illusions that these hours would be his last. Another ugly cough escaped his throat as he brought a weak hand up to cover his mouth. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Major. The Egyptians don’t respect us like they should, they don’t know what Bheka is. And could you blame them? If it were us in our Red Army would we spare precious supplies for our foreign allies?”

Meduza wiped another tear away, glancing back to the squad to find them still occupied with conversation. She couldn’t fault him for his realist point of view, she just wished it wasn’t so hard to listen to. In her moment of self reflection Baran’s shaky palm rested on her own, drawing her eyes back to him.

“What was it about?” Enzov asked.

Meduza would’ve otherwise stayed quiet if Baran wasn’t dead already. “A couple weeks ago I found a note in my kit… It was a confession.”

“A confession?”

“It was a page worth of fond memories I myself hardly remembered, emotions I didn’t share, hopes I’d never dreamed of… The writings of someone who was in love.” Meduza’s eyes wandered to the billowing, sandy wake stirred by the sturdy tracks of the battle tank.

“The Captain is in love with you?” He nearly laughed. “That’s really what this was all about?”

“It’s stupid… Apparently she figured out about Duuga and I when she saw the pistol, started apologizing for shit she had no business to. Her pity… Only made me like her less. I burned the note and scattered the ashes...”

“Is it really?” Baran sputtered as he coughed. “It wasn’t long ago you were in love with that very same man. All the times from Cuba you mentioned were probably something similar to how Miyka feels. Just because you’re still in love with him doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone. You have to move on eventually.”

Meduza, taken aback by his answer, turned to him. She hated that he had shone the situation in that light. This shoe was never meant to fit the other foot. Inconsiderate was among the many qualities that fell under Meduza’s “bitchy” umbrella. She hated that there was yet another thing to regret, to think about and digest. She just wanted to go back to how things were. Back to being a soldier without a heart, no drama or affections to worry about - only battle plans to draw and bullets to sling.

“You’re wrong, she knew my wounds were still fresh! She’s a fucking optimist trying to take advantage of me.”

Baran didn’t need to refute her, they both understood the truth of it. He brought his hand away as Meduza shifted, reaching to grab a canteen from her pack. She unscrewed the metal top and carefully brought it to his lips, draining precious water down his throat to hopefully bring some relief in the unforgiving desert heat.

“Where are we, anyways?”

“Heading down along the coast. The Israelis drove a wedge between us and the Second Army, the right flank is collapsing and they’ve already bombed the southernmost bridge crossings. The Egyptians decided to split our forces and cover every angle of this bubble we’ve been trapped in, in case of counter-attack. Our thirty percent is going south to cover the right flank.”

Israeli-Occupied Sinai, northern coast of the Suez Gulf.

1400 Hours, October 16th, Third Era.

Krovo glanced up from her shared rations to see the convoy peeling further towards the coast. Her eyes followed the lead tank some hundred meters ahead to find a cluster of white buildings. She could hardly make out any detail, leading her to second guess her own vision. She had heard stories of desert heat evoking hallucinations, or “mirages” as they were called. Krovo was about to rub her eyes when she noticed Byk staring in the same direction. She dusted the crumbs from her fingers, reaching for her binoculars.

Their radios crackled to life, issuing forth the voice of Colonel Khaski. Byk brought her radio between them, holding it aside for them to listen to. “Bheka Actual to all callsigns, we have what appears to be an unmarked compound, the Egyptians believe it to be some sort of vacation resort - recently built as it doesn’t appear on any of our maps of the region. An undetermined number of civilians appear to be within. The architecture is most certainly American so I’ve managed to convince the Egyptian command staff to let us have a look before we continue. I need three volunteers from each squad to investigate, round up all civilians and gather them outside the compound.”

Krovo’s excitement rose without pause, forcing her up onto her feet just as the convoy came to a gradual halt. She gathered her Kalashnikov and leapt into the grassy sands below. Her eyes scanned the rather lush coastal desert. A few palm trees swayed with the salted winds and the rising dunes were topped with green foliage. The formation of buildings were all alone near the coast with only a small wooden pier leading out in the ocean. The closest road was a few kilometers inland. Oddly remote for a vacation resort, but given a coastal resort had to be on the coast, was that really so odd?

“Come on, babe.” Krovo said over her shoulder.

“What did you just call me?” Byk grumbled, hauling her RPD into her lap.

“Byk.” She lied.

The couple was joined by Drel, leaving the other two to tend to Baran. Drel had her own sympathies for Enzov, but wouldn’t let them be known with Meduza still in the way. This little task would prove an invaluable distraction from the last couple days of tension and drama between them. Soon after the convoy began to offload Egyptian soldiers who went about stretching their legs. The tanks crews were especially active, released from their metal coffins to massage their aching joints.

The closer they came to this resort the more they realized this was no ordinary vacation retreat. It almost appeared decades newer than what one would expect. The white brick buildings took on a boxy and ultra-modern aesthetic with glass banisters surrounding balconies and white wooden slats to break up the monotony of the pearly stone. The texture transitioned between smooth white stone poured to shape and uneven bricking. Green grasses, plant rows and bushes artificially grew in a perimeter around the walled resort. Each building was something like an apartment complex, three stories high with a central flight of stairs bisecting two halves of several suites with balconies and sliding glass balcony doors. In total there were about four or five of these buildings with smaller and more compact variants stuck between them to fill space.

The nine volunteers linked and moved around the western side to notice an array of umbrellas and awnings with beach chairs sat some twenty meters away from the water. The most oblivious vacationers still sat in the shade, conversing or sleeping. White Bheka broke off to round them up while the rest assembled at the closed gates to the resort. Above the gates, in bold and backlit black lettering read, “Roanoak.”

The three looked between each other before pushing the door open. As if instinct took over the remaining six operators moved guns up, sweeping the interior of the compound. On the inside it was revealed that the lodgings were built in an ovular ring around a sitting and swimming area. The pool, shallow and full of clear water, was broken up by sunken island sitting arrangements that rose just above its surface. More umbrellas covered walkways that criss-crossed the pools of water. On the northernmost side was another sunken island pit with a bar and massive overhead to break the sunlight, two bridges on opposite flanks spanned the watery gaps. The outsides of the smaller complexes came complete with their own miniaturized front yard. Everything was so white, clean and angular, it felt utterly foreign - not just in its architecture but in its entire existence.

The first of the aforementioned civilians noticed them, stirring panic amongst the others who weren’t yet aware of their presence. Most of them wore garb befitting wealthy businessmen and trophy wives away on vacation. Drel recognized American designer brand clothing in their gaudy ensembles. Bejeweled earrings, watches and rings were common, too. Krovo stopped when she heard their English and was quick to respond in their tongue.

“Everyone down on the ground! If you run you will be shot!”

“Bheka two-three to Actual, interrogative: We’re currently securing the compound, what is your are-oh-ee for civilians who don’t comply with orders?” Byk inquired over the radio.

“Conversation seems to be that we’re now intending to use this as a strongpoint against enemy counter-attack, unruly civilians are not to be shot on the premises, move them outside the compound before execution if need be.” Khaski replied.

“Understood, Actual,” Byk exhaled, “You hear that, Krovo? No staining the pretty white walls.”

“Pretty white walls are meant to be stained.” Krovo groaned.

“Two to a building, I’ll move with Koda. Flush them out and send them to white squad.” Drel fell in behind the Red Bheka squad member, gun haphazardly raised.

Krovo and Byk turned to the largest of the constructs. Some sort of reception and office building meant to process guests no doubt. It was elevated above the rest on a mound accessed by a short flight of stairs. The front facing facade was almost sixty percent glass, including the doors, which Byk pulled open, allowing Krovo through first. The interior was equally as impressive as what was outside. Marble white floors and hanging stem lights lit the near futuristic interior. Cushioned white leather sofas for waiting guests occupied the center of the room, shelves displaying ornamentations and objects of note hung on one wall and a table with strangely shaped chairs occupied another. The glass continued around the sides, letting afternoon light flood through until it reached the far side where a rounded reception desk sat.

The building's interior continued to the right and left. To the left of them was a dining hall and the right was a lounge with another bar. The lounge, open for viewing from this central foyer featured warmer tan and gray colors with wooden floors and thatch decorations while the dining room continued the unconceived contemporary style with more of the same white smooth walls, marble floors, cushioned sofas, curling chairs and tables made from horizontal slices of timber.

Krovo hardly had time to admire their surroundings, handling the capture and escort of civilians while Byk approached the reception desk to question the young Yordle behind it. She knelt low, using the desk as cover. Byk casually leaned against it, hefty machine gun slung across her torso. She noticed the call bell to one side of her, ringing it.

The receptionist rose easy with hands above her head, looking up at the monstrous Russian with an overwhelming fear in both pretty blue eyes. Byk’s English wasn’t so good but she was fluent enough to be understood. “What is this place?”

“R-Roanoak…” The receptionist stammered.

“And what is Roanoak?”

“A coastal resort…” When Byk brought a hand to her hanging weapon the Yordle was quick to divulge more. “F-For the rich and affluent! Politicians, business people, celebrities from across the first-world come here to vacation!”

“When was this constructed?” Byk relaxed, causing the little receptionist to exhale.

“Five years ago. It’s the first of its kind using the most modern technology only afforded by the wealthy.” She explained.

“And why here? The Sinai has been in a state of on-and-off war for decades.”

“I uh- I’m told it's because it’s remote, easily accessible by boat and interesting for millionaires who have nothing better to do with their free time. T-The construction was funded by the American government in conjunction with oil industry representatives who work in the Sinai, my manager says there's a plan to expand American influence across the Middle-East!” The receptionist blurted, giving much more information than was required of her.

“Seems you’ve been doing homework.” Byk got a hand on her weapon, flicking it towards the door to urge the Yordle out of her seat and towards the exit.

“M-May I ask who you people are? I heard lots of explosions a ways away from here and--” She was cut short when Krovo shot a stray round in the adjacent room, causing the receptionist to jump.

“Didn’t you hear? There’s a war going on in your backyard.” Byk chuckled.

“No? Our satellite phones haven’t been working for a couple days now.” The receptionist said as she struggled along on her high heels.

Byk brought her radio close, reaching out to Khaski in Russian once more. “Two-three to Actual, word from the receptionist is this resort was built five years ago for the rich and affluent. Our civilians are “politicians, business people and celebrities from across the first-world”. She says the construction was funded by the American government and their oil industry bigwigs who work around here. Apparently there’s some plan for expansion into the middle-east hinging on oil and or tourism?”

“Roger, two-three. Sounds like a little slice of home for these Capitalists to lay their heads. Seems American interests in Israel and the surrounding territories has more to do with profit than democracy. Lucky find for us, at least something good came of this disaster.”

“I’m also told there are satphones in this facility but they haven’t been working for a couple days. Probably interference from the fleets up north.” Byk followed behind the receptionist, silently ordering her forward with the barrel of her gun jammed into the Yordle’s spine.

“No way for us to get in contact with them now, long range reception is shoddy at best,” Inga added, “We’re too far south.”

“The rest of the armies know our plight, I’m sure they’ll re-open the corridor along the Suez within a twenty-four hour period and get us reinforcements.” Khaski figured.

Byk tucked the radio back onto her vest, not nearly as hopeful in Khaski’s speculation. And it was speculation. Before today the Egyptians expected minimal resistance up until they cleared the mountain passes, now they were bogged down and pushed back to the coastline. It was a foolproof battle plan but without the competence and skill to execute it the Egyptians might as well have been throwing away resources. Really the fault lied with their handlers for even committing them to this war, but that was an idea Byk would never entertain.

She watched now as the receptionist stumbled down the flight of stairs towards the pool yard where more Americans awaited judgement, kept in check by Krovo. Her eyes fell across the open space to the far habitation building to spy Drel with her own set of civilians at gunpoint. Both parties met in the middle and walked the surrendered elites out of the complex and towards the waiting convoy.

“Did you see inside the houses?” Drel asked. “They’ve got queen-sized beds, private bathrooms and air-conditioning.” Bheka and luxury were two worlds apart. Their barracks were the opposite of extravagant back at the Rebirth Center. They slept in bunks with mattresses that felt more like styrofoam than cotton and spring.

“I call dibs on the best suite!” Krovo exclaimed, punching her ticket early.

Drel flashed the bird at Krovo. “Fuck you, I get the best suite, I out-rank you!”

“Actually, ‘Duza gets the best suite, because she outranks you.” Krovo smirked. The mere mention of her name made Drel scowl with contempt.

“She still wants to shoot you, y’know. She just feels bad for Baran. Maybe after he dies she’ll give you two to the head.” Krovo peeled at the scab, reopening the day's old wound just for her own amusement.

Drel clutched tight on her rifle, scanning the crowd of unknowing innocents as they bickered back and forth in their native tongue. The embarrassment of her farce had yet to settle beneath the skin, she wore her emotions visibly on her sleeve - lip notched in obvious anger. “You’re not the Major, piss me off and I’ll happily kill you.”

“Maybe you forgot, but you have no allies here, bitch. Your outburst put Baran on his deathbed, as far as we’re concerned, you’re already dead to us.” Krovo’s smirk became a grin, sharpened canines giving her all the murderous charm of a deep sea Shark.

Drel’s eyes carried to Byk at the rear of their procession, exchanging silent eye contact with her. The monstrous Yordle conveyed her agreement with Krovo’s statement through her dead stare. And Drel was sure Myslitel felt similarly. What gossip had been going on behind her back to have everyone turn so one-sidedly against her? She felt cornered, a void growing in the pit of her stomach as all her friends shunned her so suddenly. Drel averted her eyes, falling into defeated quiet.

“You’d better hope Baran pulls through, otherwise you’re fucked.” Krovo chuckled, flipping her radio out of her vest. “Two-six to Bheka Actual, complex is clear of civilians, I suggest we secure a building for ourselves if we’re to use this as a strongpoint.”

“Solid copy, two-six. Three-one, you’re in charge of interrogations. I want names, professions, backgrounds and any intel on American involvement in this region. Any politicians and or oil industry executives are to be kept alive, anyone else is to be executed once they’re no longer useful,” Khaski relayed, “Two-one, get your wounded man inside and reserve a building for Bheka - I’ll inform the Egyptians that they’re clear to enter.”

“And what if these businessmen and politicians aren’t cooperative?” Inga asked.

“Anything you need to do to get them talking, just keep them alive.”

“Awesome.” Inga’s radio clicked as she cut the traffic.

The resort, now dirtied from the mess of soldiers lodging in its walls, was alive with music. Roanoak came with running water and electricity, undoubtedly feeding off the same grid that the Egyptians and Israelis used for their facilities along the Suez. It was the first time in more than a week under the head of a shower, the first time they could feel the moisture in their skin again. Clean and unmarred by the throngs of war, everyone fell into a state of uneasy relaxation. The fighting wasn’t over, far from it. Soon they would have to hold against the might of tank divisions and mechanized infantry, using this resort as a bastion to push against the Israeli counterattacks. Updates from other elements in the Third Army came sporadically, telling of probing spearheads that came with the intent to feel the Egyptian resistance out. Everyone kept their guns close, on notice for the eventual action.

Darkness left the resort a beacon in the otherwise lifeless desert. It was hard to hide a clump of all white buildings so the Egyptians thought not to hide at all. Horny soldiers swiftly made headway on their libido, using the luxurious beds and private rooms as rutting pens before the peace was shattered. The officers of their detachments didn’t care to stop them, either. They were knee deep in their subordinates just the same. The detachment was lacking in discipline, but even so Bheka couldn’t help but be somewhat swayed by their merry attitudes.

Byk looked down on them with a degree of contempt, so lost in their temporary fun, drinking the leftover alcohol at the public bar. The less combat effective they were, the more likely Bheka was to suffer. Her deliberation was cut short when a hand slinked around her waist, provoking a reluctant smile on her otherwise unamused features. The arm dragged her away from the balcony and into the luxurious depths of their suite. White walls, white sheets and white furniture surrounded her. A length of countertop extended across one wall, holding refreshments, snacks, pamphlets and scented candles. Nearby a closet with white bath robes and space enough for a full wardrobe awaited use. The bathroom, still warm from their previous shower, sat parallel to a pair of queen sized beds. It wasn’t the full suite Meduza and Baran occupied upstairs, but it was good enough for a pair of ragged soldiers.

Byk finally turned to look upon Krovo, who had gotten out of her fatigues and into something completely unlike her. The previous occupants left behind their suitcases and Krovo didn’t hesitate to experiment. She looked every bit the American housewife she attempted to portray, hair down and combed over her shoulder. She wore a pair of high-waisted bell bottom jeans with a white blouse tucked into the waistband and a golden-leather band watch on her right wrist.

Krovo summoned her best American accent. “How do I look, darling?”

Byk couldn’t maintain her dour mood any longer, faltering into a fit of chuckling. She inhaled through the nose and straightened her posture, trying her best to get into character.

“Like a million bucks, Dima.” Byk returned in an equally forced American accent.

“Dima? Who’s that?” Krovo feigned confusion. “My name is Lois, Lois Jay Jefferson!” Krovo whipped her hair to one side as if she were in a shitty stage drama.

“Then…” Byk broke character for a moment, dashing over to the open suitcase to rummage for an appropriate outfit. She shed her fatigues and donned an ensemble similar to her partner. With a pair of Lady Wrangler jeans that hardly fit her thicker muscled physique and a black skin tight turtleneck she too became the sterotypical American housewife.

“I’m…” She struggled to think of a fitting name. Drawing blank, she just shortened her own in hopes it would seem less slavic and more American. “Vechy Johnson, your next door neighbor!”

“Vechy? Really?” Krovo said in Russian, sighing with amused disappointment.

“Just- Go with it!” Byk shoved her.

“Fine,” Krovo fell back into the scene, “Good morning, Misses Johnson! I just came to borrow some sugar!” Krovo gave an innocent and sweet smile, something she would struggle to replicate in any other circumstance.

The two of them were woefully out of touch with American culture, all they had to go on was intel given to them by the Committee and snippets of the newly burgeoning television shows all the Americans seemed to be into. Newspaper ads and radio drivel filled out the rest of their limited knowledge. It was a running joke within Black Bheka that all Americans were unfaithful, as shown in their sitcoms of family drama. It was also a popular theory that American women were a lot more openly lesbian with each other. All the ads of skimpily clad beach girls tossing volleyballs about and falling over each other produced that idea.

“Of course! Give me one moment…” Vechy made like she was going grab the imaginary sugar as they conversed in English. “So, how are things with your husband? I just saw he left for work.”

“Oh, you know how it is, Jerry hasn’t been paying attention to me at all lately. Too wrapped up in his Football to give a care when he’s home from the office!”

“I’m sorry to hear about that, Lois. Maybe we could have a girls night some time, take your mind off things.” Byk replied, placing her hand on Krovo’s shoulder in support of her artificial plight.

Krovo placed a hand to her chest as if taken aback, gasping. “You stopped wearing your wedding ring, is something going on with you and David?”

“David has been away on a business trip for weeks, I thought this would be the perfect time to really get to know myself... Things in the bedroom have been so unsatisfying lately.” Byk faked serious dissatisfaction, huffing audibly with a hand on her hip.

Krovo took an easy step forward, running her hand along Vechyia’s side. “Well then, how about I come inside and enjoy some of that wine I gave you for your anniversary a few weeks ago?”

“Are you suggesting something, misses Jefferson?” Byk looked down on her, pushing the limits of her character when she cupped Krovo’s behind. She was supposed to play the less aggressive of the two, but the intimacy of their roleplay got the better of her.

Krovo rolled with the inconsistency, spinning the scenario another way. “I always knew you were the curious type, misses Johnson.”

“I-...” Byk stammered. “It’s true, I’ve had my eye on you for some time, Lois. I didn’t know how to tell you but… I want you.” She proceeded to back Krovo into the bed, lying her down on the plush and pristine white comforter.

This wasn’t the first time the two shared the same breath, but something about this exchange made it feel different in a strange but exciting way. Maybe it was the decor, the setting, the scenario, the clothes or a combination of all those factors but their hearts beat with scandalous enthusiasm at cheating on their imagined husbands. Byk pinned Krovo to the sheets, lording over her with eager posture.

“Are we really going to do it in your bed? Shouldn’t I take off my ring?” Krovo’s eyes were low with anticipation as urges and desires began to take over, she even glanced to her left hand and ring finger where the imagined ring would be.

Byk lowered herself down to Krovo’s ear, bracing her lips against the tender interior. The action made Krovo shudder, quaking twice as hard when Vechyia spoke.

“Take off your clothes.”

Khaski approached the ocean water, glancing at Inga and her subordinates who had a trio of American civilians knelt in the damp sand along the coast. The moon was halfway out, shining across the calm Suez Gulf and its rippling surface. His stoic expression remained as he produced a zippo and a cigarette, taking a moment to admire the soviet hammer and sickle on the side before sparking the cigarette. The flame lit his relaxed visage, making him appear far more menacing in the darkened night than he otherwise would’ve. He pulled on the end of his cigarette, exhaling an unhealthy amount of smoke.

“Who are these three?” He asked.

Inga, who wore a sleeve of blood past the forearm, acknowledged her superior’s presence with a nod, grabbing a rag from her belt to wipe away the excess crimson. “A pair of politicians and an oil exec! These two are just some no-name assholes with money...” Inga pointed to one politician and the oil executive. Both of which looked to be older with graying fur and aging constitutions. The stereotypical old, wealthy and powerful type.

“But this one? This one we could make some moves with.” Inga swung her arm in the direction of the third Yordle. He was a middle aged man, ears short and dark brown hair slicked with gel to appear more officious than he might've been. His thin tan fur was lashed with his own blood and his beaten visage made it hard to discern what his face would look like otherwise. He was dressed in vacation casuals with a floral button up to complete the look.

“Name’s George Gordon Liddy, he’s a financial counsel for the re-election committee, that’s Nickelson’s campaign.” Nickelson was the standing president of the United States, known for his policy of pushing peace with the Soviet Union. Mak Molotok was fond of this newest president as he seemed to be malleable, a fitting puppet if the Union could sink their claws into his back. Nickelson was seen as a coward by most soviet soldiers, too, always deescalating the silent war every chance he got. Mak Molotok kept up a friendly facade, having signed deals to reduce support for the Vietnamese to appease those peace loving capitalists while Mak and the union bided their time.

“Nickelson’s campaign…” Khaski thought aloud. “This could be the entry we’ve been searching for.”

“My thoughts exactly, Colonel!” Inga smiled.

“We need to extract this one, have Myslitel take a look at the satphones, until then I want twenty-four-seven security on him - keep him safe and keep digging.” Khaski ordered.

“What about these two?”

“Write down their properties, residences, relatives and bank account information. Then execute them.” Khaski pulled on his cigarette again before flicking to one side of him. He was already drawing out his notebook to begin drafting a report with his ideas of how the KGB should proceed with this Gordon Liddy. His grand ideas to topple a nation blossomed like flowers in early spring, leaving his mind preoccupied as he started back towards Roanoak.

“Absolutely!” Inga unsheathed her bayonet, causing the bound Yordles to whimper in horrific anticipation. “Now… Who wants to go first?”