Post by Marsten "Mars" Jones on Apr 15, 2015 21:04:29 GMT -8
14 Hours - 0400 Hours AST
Approximate time to arrive from Seattle, Washington to an undisclosed location in Iraq is 14 hours. Though that being if it had been a commercial flight. Luckily for Marsten,he had friends in high places. Alex Vipond. Big shot, well known mega-star, singer, musician had lent him his plane. Mars had become very much a familiar face around Alex, even those who followed the star knew the friendship between the tall blond and the musician. Though with strings pulled, phone calls made, Mars had loaded up his gear and soon leaving the beautiful U.S.of America. There were people to be found. Business to be handled. To say there was things unfinished was an understatement.
It had been over five years since he would return to this fucking sand box. He had swore he would return and now here he was. Back in the grind. Fourteen hours, which would have been the time he would have arrived if he had stayed on course and on the commercial flight. With Alex's help he was able to arrive earlier than expected, twelve hours. Two O'clock in the morning. It did not take too much time for him to acclimate himself to the atmosphere. Mars knew he could have stayed in Seattle and try to forget that night where it all went wrong. He also knew, he would forever be left in limbo of what if? The guilt would forever haunt him. That war was to blame. It was a stupid war, one they did not need to fight. Yet he was in the middle of it, along with his band of brothers. The very thought of it had made him angry. Countless times, he had wondered if his presence within his team had been the trigger. Had he not been there, had they not known, or sensed his wolf, maybe they would have lived to continue fighting the war for the states. A shift in his walk, Mars was leaving the good ol boy persona that he had held for civility purposes. That once reckless gait had somehow melted away to precise easy movement. Crisp in his and sure in his stride, there was no drag of the bottom of his boot to give way the sound of a scuff, lazy shuffle that most country folk did. It was methodical, precise, dangerous. Akin to a dancer. Dangerous. The black duffle bag was shifted, tugged tight to rest on his broad shoulder as he continued down the dirt road of an unmarked village. It was in that fourteenth hour when he was to meet his contact. It was in that hour when he realized it was a trap.
Approximate time to arrive from Seattle, Washington to an undisclosed location in Iraq is 14 hours. Though that being if it had been a commercial flight. Luckily for Marsten,he had friends in high places. Alex Vipond. Big shot, well known mega-star, singer, musician had lent him his plane. Mars had become very much a familiar face around Alex, even those who followed the star knew the friendship between the tall blond and the musician. Though with strings pulled, phone calls made, Mars had loaded up his gear and soon leaving the beautiful U.S.of America. There were people to be found. Business to be handled. To say there was things unfinished was an understatement.
It had been over five years since he would return to this fucking sand box. He had swore he would return and now here he was. Back in the grind. Fourteen hours, which would have been the time he would have arrived if he had stayed on course and on the commercial flight. With Alex's help he was able to arrive earlier than expected, twelve hours. Two O'clock in the morning. It did not take too much time for him to acclimate himself to the atmosphere. Mars knew he could have stayed in Seattle and try to forget that night where it all went wrong. He also knew, he would forever be left in limbo of what if? The guilt would forever haunt him. That war was to blame. It was a stupid war, one they did not need to fight. Yet he was in the middle of it, along with his band of brothers. The very thought of it had made him angry. Countless times, he had wondered if his presence within his team had been the trigger. Had he not been there, had they not known, or sensed his wolf, maybe they would have lived to continue fighting the war for the states. A shift in his walk, Mars was leaving the good ol boy persona that he had held for civility purposes. That once reckless gait had somehow melted away to precise easy movement. Crisp in his and sure in his stride, there was no drag of the bottom of his boot to give way the sound of a scuff, lazy shuffle that most country folk did. It was methodical, precise, dangerous. Akin to a dancer. Dangerous. The black duffle bag was shifted, tugged tight to rest on his broad shoulder as he continued down the dirt road of an unmarked village. It was in that fourteenth hour when he was to meet his contact. It was in that hour when he realized it was a trap.