Prime Noir - Interlude
Canissia
The driving rain made it easy to conceal a small group of men, even if they stood out from the crowd due to their stance and physique. People didn't bother ogling strangers when they attempted to grab a cab before being soaked.
It still paid to be discreet, of course. Hence why Hammer wasn't with them, instead travelling as a diplomatic courier and being spirited to the air base via helicopter from the USCR embassy - there was just no way to hide that man in public. The remaining four, however, remained togethe rand calmly boarded a train to the town to Port Jutes, a tiny town near Canissia's coast.
And, completely coincidentally of course, the base of Shinra Patrol Squadron 3.
It would only take them a scant fifteen minutes to cover the 150 kilometers between stops, riding one of Canissia's most advanced bullet trains.
Hence why no passengers would notice none of these men drank any alcohol at all during the trip.
Port Jutes Airbase, dusk
The briefing was almost finished. The commander in charge of Patrol Squadron 3 went over most of the assignments for the night, most of the air crews received their flight plans and sealed orders already, "...and CA-172 will shadow a CATO battlegroup conducting flight excercises off the Palestinian coast. Intel wants to take a good look at their latest S-500 sets, so try to troll them a little."
The pilots snickered at the expression. Trolling radars was one of their major tasks here in the Med, where MESS patrols often ran into CATO naval ships. And, of course, this place was the only one where they could get a good look at the emission of CATO air defence radars without inciting an international incident.
"Right...", the commander said, smiling, "Drink your coffee and watch yourselves. I don't want any incidents.", he said, referring to the infamous interception of a Shinra Orion by a Shroomanian F-15, where the fighter jocks managed to almost make the Orion's crew ram their fighter. Then again, listening to shitpop blaring through the short-range radio for two hours could drive anyone into homicidal rage.
Like with those Koalas in a Farbanti zoo. That was gruesome.
CA-172 was parked on the far end of the ramp. It wasn't unusual: what was, however, were the people waiting for the aircrew near the airplane.
"Hi, guys. How are you tonight?", one of the unforeseen guests asked
The aircrew stood there for a second in dumbfounded silence. The three men standing out in the open were soon joined by two more, also dressed in nondescript tactical gear and wearing balaclavas. One of them was especially huge, and spoke with a thick Russian accent.
"What's the matter, comra...citizens? Have you not been informed of our mission?"
"Who the hell are you?", CA-172's command pilot, Lt. Cmdr. Johnson, finally managed to ask.
"We're your special passengers for tonight", the same guy who greeted them answered, "You are not to ask any questions, just get us to where we need to go."
"What?"
"It's all in your flight plan."
"Boss...is that guy Crimson? He sure sounds like one...", the crew chief observed, quite loudly.
"No questions", the mysterious stranger reminded him, "You can call me John."
"Wait a minute, now...", the command pilot tried to protest.
"Just open your damn envelopes, okay?"
The aircrew did, and a couple minutes later proceeded to power up their machine.
"I still don't think we should let a Crimson aboard our plane", the crew chief couldn't help but grumble, looking at their passengers, stowing their gear in the back.
He stopped doing that when one of them looked back, though.
"
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