2011 02 23: Women and Their Guns

Searching database...
Mission report found.

Mission Name: Women and Their Guns
Date of Mission: February 23, 2011
Locale: Siwa Oasis, Egypt

On the way to their mission objective, Crewe and Hobbes make one final pit stop and have a chat.


Crewe Hobbes

23 February 2011. 2207 local time. 2011 Libyan Civial War. Libya is a predominately desert country. Thankfully, this mission officially begins outside of that particular country and instead within the borders of Egypt: specifically the Siwa Oasis and its mud-brick buildings just under fifty kilometers east of the Libyan border.

"Cairo was nice." This is said by Hobbes in the middle of glancing up to the flickering light bulb overhead, swinging lazily back and forth and casting awkward shadows around the square, squat room thanks to the swaying rotation of the ceiling fan its attached to. His arms are currently folded over his chest, wearing local and traditional wear rather than his usual of business suits, and he's soon looking to the table he stands in front of.

It's a knobbed and wooden little creature, the table. An area map has been laid out over it and folding chairs have been placed around. Hobbes ignores the latter items. Leaning against the table next to him is his carbine rifle. His eyes trace over the details of the map. "We should be hitting the border by two a.m. So then there's infiltrating the village here," he points into Libya on the map, "And our target will be in the middle of a meeting with the local leaders. This is going to be fun."

"Uh-huh," Crewe replies lazily. After all the travel and snooping around to find the information on clandestine meetings like this, she's just a big jet-lagged, a lot hot from this fucking weather - she's not-so-gently informed Hobbes of this multiple times throughout the day - and right now seems more concerned with keeping all the damn sand out of the delicate insides of her beautiful baby.

"I wasn't impressed with Cairo. They about torn the damn place down to kick their dictator out. Too damn hot for me," she adds once more, just for good luck. "So tell me, am I hear just for fire support? Or are you wanting me to do the deed now?" she asks with a casual glance to him out of the corner of her eye. She's sitting at the table, hunched over, cleaning the weapon that's half-in, half-out of the protective case. A backpack with all her other gear sits uselessly on the floor beside her.

Hobbes looks to Crewe and then down at the map at her mentioning it being hot again. So he then unfolds his arms and picks up a permanent marker in order to put down a hash mark counting how many times she's said it. He's up to about a dozen or so. He lost track after five. "Nicer than here, at least, bumfuck sand castle of nowhere," he pauses though from any further elaboration and instead circles their village destination before calculating the time it will take against the current time on a wristwatch. He glances back up to her. "You want something more than taking off someone's head for the good of America at over a thousand yards?"

"Well, don't get me wrong, but aren't all you guys about the Rambo style? Run in, guns-blazing, to catch yourself an evil terrorist? I can sit back and cover your ass from however many football fields away, let you do the dirty work. Otherwise, why wouldn't they have sent me alone?" The way her grin pulls up towards one side of her mouth indicates supreme cockiness. "If you're going to play travel agent and spotter, that's fine. If you're going to try and get this guy alive, that's fine. If you want a clear path so you can gut his ass with a your ka-bar, that's fine. I'm down with it all."

Hobbes lowers an eyebrow questioningly at the woman before taking the quick opportunity in looking lower, away from her eyes but not to her chest or body but the weapon she's in the middle of cleaning. The marker is capped and placed on the table, on the map itself, with him reaching under layers of clothes to find a pack of cigarettes and shelve off one to between his lips. It's tucked back in so that he can produce a box of matches and finger over one and then another in selecting the perfect one. "I'm here to make sure cleaning an entire country doesn't happen. That's beyond Division's capabilities, no offense," because one of them is definitely crazy out of the two of them, but he distracts himself in scratching the head of a match along the flank of the box and listening to the soft fwoosh of flame: "I'm not one of those guys."

The cigarette is lit and he shakes the flame out before glancing to it. With it being out for certain, he tucks it out of view rather than drop or toss it and inhales. "You're more than welcome to gut him yourself, and I'll cover that ass of yours. But otherwise, I'll be your travel agent and spotter if you don't mind. I don't. The message sent by us with this is supposed to be more efficient than bombing the fuck into oblivion. One shot, one kill: your specialty, Miss Alastair."

"That's what the keep telling me, at least. Up until now though, it's been pretty low pressure. This is the big-time though, huh? Taking out leaders of state-worthy and all that shit." And back to the rifle she goes, wiping and cleaning, keeping the thing pristine for when the time actually comes. "Think I overdid it on the rifle? Wanted to be sure I could nail this sucker even if he decides he wants to cower behind some concrete walls…assuming this damn place even knows what concrete is."

"It's a good thing if you haven't noticed a difference, like the opposite to the boiling frog story." He takes in another drag before moving the cigarette solely into his right hand while he drags back the chair in front of him. With sliding into the seat and moving the cigarette so that it hangs lowly from the side of his mouth the man looks to the rifle again before shrugging helplessly. "Mud brick," he looks around their borrowed room before replying at length, "I think it'll do just fine, myself- just don't miss. I love a woman who knows her way around an anti-material rifle so you've got that going for you." He begins to check the time again though.

"If you were the one using this, I'd say you were compensating for something. But for me…well, I think it makes me look cute, don't you?" To prove her point, Crewe leans down and puts her face right up tho the open chamber of the rifle, strokes the barrel, and grins to Hobbes with a wink. "How much time until we move out? We're going to need to get our spot scouted and hunker down. Enough time, and we could almost make ourselves a nice little OP, all hunkered down and hidden under scrub and sand."

There's a rough and dry, but amused, laugh from Hobbes as he purses his lips to keep the cigarette from falling. There's a suggestive lift of his brows to her antics but given his previous checking of his watch and her asking about it he sobers up. "Ten minutes. Guess we ought to begin packing up." He sniffs and huffs in casually clearing his nose of a rogue itch thanks to the sand and dirt and dust, and looks over the map. "We'll hide the truck a ways out of the village, I'm thinking southwest. Give us a mile hike or so but room to do this hunkering down. Let's go find our sand castle."

"Aww, but I didn't bring any other toys!" Crew faux-pouts. The rifle case gets snapped shut tightly, and the cleaning cloth added into the sand-colored backpack she has for the rest of her gear. "Got everything I need in here," she says while humping the MOLLE gear up onto her back. "Only problem with this damn thing is that it's heavy as a mother-fucker!" she spits out, having the haul the case with both hands when she slides it off the table.

Hobbes doesn't get to finish his cigarette, nothing beyond whittling it down to almost halfway. It's put out into the surface of the table and he tucks it behind an ear for the time being in folding up the map. It'll soon be pocketed along with everything else. The rest of his gear is with the truck this time around. "You should see about upgrading to the 107AI then, cuts off some pounds last I checked. Still a big fucker." He picks up his rifle in order to sling it over his right shoulder and across his chest. Two fingers are pointed to the wooden door in the background and the dry air beyond. "Now," he adds, "If you're asking for me to carry it for you, well."

"If you insist," she replies, thrusting the rifle case toward him. "Besides, it's four pounds. It's not for that reason I'd lay out the greenbacks to pick that beauty up. Try the suppressor. Can't fit that on this particular beast." So out into the sand and dry desert breeze she strides, even if it is getting on toward total dark.

"The fuck, I was not insisting." But Hobbes does the gentlemanly thing anyway of taking hold of the case, able to saddle the thirty or so pounds of excess gear easily enough. He reaches aside for the light switch to turn their area of the world into darkness. The moon high above does well in lighting up the area just enough to keep from running into things and even better Hobbes didn't park far anyway. He follows after her just a pace or two behind. "Women and their guns."

This is going to be great.


Previous Log
« 2011 07 26: Lagniappe