The Mission

Captain James Swann, looks around the room at the others. It's been a while since section M put anyone older than him on a team. Not that it matters, he was young once. Standing he pulls the maps of Rome out of his pack. He'd been on standby waiting for the Yanks to move out of Anzio and take Rome. The boffins at Section M are worried about what might be going on in those catacombs. Alas, Churchill's plans, Allied armies and the Nazis rarely agree on how things should progress. Dropping the maps of Rome on the table, he and his tea wonder over to the notice boards.

Zaltan, hrm, scanning his eyes across the map, ah, it looks like the locals call it Zlatna. That is, if it's big enough to even be on a map, there's probably hundreds of little villages tucked away in those mountains that haven't been mapped. Still, it's a couple hundred klicks from Belgrade just to the border, we'll be on our own if it turns into a shambles.

Private Dan Gregg strokes his pencil-thin mustache with an index finger while he contemplates his tea and the photos being passed around. The second picture has him sitting up straight in his seat, his attention thoroughly grabbed. He'd love nothing more than to get his hands on a zeppelin or even pieces of it. He was a master at cobbling things together and making them work and the potential uses of such a thing were endless.

Jaded from a long furlough he had been lost, puttering around with nothing to plan and nothing to do. Figuring this mission was going to be the same old boring thing he was pleasantly surprised to hear the details. This was something he could really get into and shine, not that he cared what anyone else thought, he just wanted to have fun. And the value of such information would make the team and and himself quite valuable indeed.

With his tea now cold, Dan didn't bother with it. He liked his tea fresh and hot with a spoon of sugar and a drop of milk. Pushing the cup away he enthusiastically stood up and declared, "Stealing a zeppelin, wouldn't that be a lark?"

With no time to waste he looks at the rest of the team as if to say, Well come on chaps, we need to get moving. While he waits, his mind churns with all the ways he can use the intel they would uncover. He had so many contacts that would be highly interested in the advantages such knowledge would allow. He had no doubt that they would be successful in their mission. He hadn't failed yet.

Domhnall slurps down a noisy first mouthful of tea. Hunter didn’t seem like the strongest lad, and that came through in his tea, too. Still… it was hot, and that was something. He sets it down then, and goes through the motions of introducing himself to everyone he hadn’t met yet.

"Domhnall." he says, giving each a firm handshake in turn. His pronunciation is strong, and unforgiving. "‘Irish’ will do fine, don’t worry." he relents, with a wink.

They had tried calling him ‘Paddy’ for a time, but he’d soon punched that one out of their mouths.

"And yourself?" he asks, committing each name to memory.

"Romania, is it?" said with a twang that makes it seem like a new word for the man. "That’s a new one on me! They’re everywhere, aren’t they, the bastards?"

He lets out a wistful sigh then, and reaches a finger for the tea again. About to slurp, he turns to Archibald, their handler:

"Nare a chocolate biccie to go with the tea, no?"

Sabine Beauséjour, the smallest and certainly the least physically impressive operative that Section M has summoned tonight, quietly and delicately sips at a black coffee as she listens to the briefing. She has smiled at the greeted the others politely, and those with a sense of such things will note a haunted look in the woman's otherwise attractive eyes.

She has Seen Things, and her reputation precedes her: young, French, pretty, polite. Formerly a nun, currently something of an expert in the occult. In some of the very things the Nachtwölfe interest themselves in.

Sabine is dressed conservatively. A head scarf tames the rich brown curls that would otherwise frame her fair but lightly freckled face. It is not a coif, the head-covering of a nun, but perhaps it is reminiscent of one and comfortable for the woman. She wears traveling clothes beneath a heavy wool overcoat; well-made boots, sturdy but feminine trousers, a collared shirt and sweater over top.

In conversation, the French woman has an easy manner, surely a leftover from her time at St. Lucien's, an old stone church in northern France where she treated her injured countrymen and 'Tommies' before the evacuation at Dunkirk. She has arrived with a medical bag and a satchel secured with a leather strap -- one certainly containing books and papers of various kinds.

Swann she greets warmly, Domhnall the same. She initially likens them to one another -- strong, military types from the isles across the channel. She will soon learn the differences between the Irishman and the Royal.

With Gregg, the American, she is a touch more leery. She hasn't met many yanks in her life, and only knows that they have a reputation for being brave, impolite, and willing to help. She is glad the soldier is coming, and shakes his hand as well with a soft word of hello.

She says nothing of the mission or their destination just yet, merely taking it all in, studying the photos and other materials Hunter has made available to them.

"Not disembarking?" Irish mutter to Gregg and Swann. "And what if we’d be needin’ a piss like? And didn’t they used to give us a half a bar of chocolate when we went out on things like this?"

Irish keeps these gripes between himself and the lads, like a group of old women cribbing outside a grocer’s about the price of milk.

Not wanting Sabine to think it a men’s club, he nods to her and calls over:

"Romania, eh? First time, is it?"

"Oui, yes," Sabine says to Irish, correcting herself. "First time. And you? Have you been before?"

If he was back in the barracks, he might have joked about being in a Sofia or two in his time, but in the moment he couldn’t remember if that was Romania, or the other one.

Plus, Sabine was a sister, or well… an ex-sister. She might not appreciate coarseness. Not to mention a big brain boffin type, she would surely wouldn’t appreciate stupidity either.

Irish just shakes his head.

"Don’t think I’ve ever been close, to tell you the truth. Not much cause to be down that way, me."

"Unfortunate bit about the job," Swann adds to Sabine and Irish's conversation. "We rarely get sent to quiet or pretty places, and if we do, well, they're usually neither once we're there."

Swann gives them his best half smile, the kind weighted down by a lifetime of doing this sort of thing.

Dan nods at the pilot, looks around the plane, and decides it's serviceable and that they will probably survive the journey. He joins the others, shakes Sabine's hand enthusiastically, and listens to the polite conversation between Irish and herself. He gives a mental nod toward her courage, a woman among men and perhaps later the evil Nazi's, and adds that he has never been to Romania before either.

He frowns at Irish's coarseness. "Let's not forget there are women on board huh?"

Getting back to the business of polite banter he says,"I am not so much a fighting man as I am a mechanical one with a bit of fancy sneaking around thrown into the mix. I love a good challenge and I imagine my skills will be put to good use once we land. But in the meantime, what do we do to amuse ourselves for ten hours? I can't sleep that long. Anyone bring a deck of cards?"

"Where are my manners?" Irish says, putting on his best chastised child impression. "Most begging your pardon, Mademoiselle." He gives the woman a cheeky wink to play along when Gregg isn’t looking.

He hefts his pack up on to his shoulder, intending to load it on to the plane.

"Be a gent, Gregg, and grab the lady’s pack. Can’t have her roaming around the Romanian countryside like some bloody donkey, now can we?"

Beauséjour smiles and thanks anyone who helps her with her field pack and medical bag, but it's not hard to notice that she keeps close tabs on the satchel of books and papers that she also carries. "Merci," she says as she climbs aboard the plane, taking a seat after making sure her gear is stowed appropriately.

She makes eye contact with Swann once he's aboard as well. "Monsieur Swann. I must thank you and your countrymen for coming to France's aide in the early days of the war, after the blitzkrieg. I met many of your countrymen in France, fighting for my homeland. We are truly grateful."

To being called a donkey, the woman offers no response.

Swann watches as the others board the plane, picking up the remaining gear, he notices there's a set of ID's unclaimed. Hopefully it belongs to that lass running across the tarmac.

Boarding the plane, he stows the gear and looks over the assembled team. Each seems to have their kit in order. Again, with the half smile as he nods to Sabine's graciousness. "Civilized people must look out for one another, I'm glad some of the lads were there to help you out."

Captain Swann opens the passenger door and motions for Sister Sabine to enter the truck.

"Alright lads, you heard him, in the back."

Irish stretches his back, and jerks his arms from left to right and back again to loosen up all the cricks. The long flight, and small seats had been murder on the large man’s body.

Looking back at the poorly lit airfield, and the dark nighttime streets he remarks:

"Yeah, she’s beautiful alright!"

He climbs in the back, happy for a bit of transport where he can lie down. Stretching himself out amongst his gear, he calls up:

"Whats good in Belgrade, anyway?" he asks, feeling his stomach churning with the beginnings of hunger.