In Somalia-Mogadishu Warrior

Hell had come to Mogadishu. When the large tire fires were lit, the men came. With Kalashnikovs, with rockets, with grenades, with lust for blood. Hundreds of men, assembling at their captain's houses. They then met at the colonels house, and then to battle. Since the African Union had cut off shipments of many war materials, radios were scarce and had to be doled out to colonels to communicate and organize the defense.
Hell had come to Mogadishu, and it was Arabic,Christian, or Foreign depending on the man you talked to. Some said Islamic warriors were forcing themselves down Somalia's throat. Others called it the "African Crusade" as Ethiopian supporters appeared in numbers. Foreigners from the African Union were now in force. The war had been in the distant provinces, and now it reached into the northern rim of Mogadishu, where the AU and Somali Islamic Liberation Front (SILF) duked it out with MG's on trucks, APCs, and 1970's tanks. War was brutal and that was Mogadishu.
Michael Tomlkil watched from his helicopter, the ant hill of Mogadishu. Already several houses were aflame, and the roadblocks were now visible. Mogadishu seemed to be in a state of constant turmoil, with Christians fighting Muslims, AU fighting SILF, and clan vendettas. A 'stew of death' was what CNN had termed the constant fighting, safe in their Atlanta studios. It was much worse. Michael Tomlkil knew that, and that was why he made money. Private Military Contractors was the politically correct name, but everyone knew a mercenary when they saw one.
Kestrel Corp., the staunch hawk silhouette on their shoulder badges and helmets. Circling above the city, Michael Tomlkil and his hundred man corporation awaited the signal, the radio call from the AU. The AU had no problem hiring American, British, French, Czech, Russian, or whatever PMCs that were required for the job. The Kestrel Corp. was known for their surgical insertions, their commando style raids. It was what Kestrel Corp. did.
Now the Black Hawk helicopters, six of them, they spiraled above the ant hill of Mogadishu. It was the Olympic Hotel, where the SILF held their leaders.
"Kestrel this is Rhino. We have intel. Your good to go. Payment at base. Good luck." The call filled the earbuds of all the PMC soldiers.
Michael nodded to the pilots, who turned in and swept in low. It was going to be like all the other raids. A hawk on the roof, four circle the area, and another provide for crash site evac.
Michael was going to land on the roof. Grasping his AK-47, it was the weapon of choice for the commandos, the regular mercenaries using the American M-16s.
The building was rectangular, broad white roofed. Landing hard, Michael unstrapped and jumped off, along with the other seven men. The SILF leaders were five or six total, but they were supposed to be unarmed. Finding a vent, Michael pulled out the hooks and grappling equipment. Latching it on, he and his group prepared to descend down to the rooms level.
Dropping slowly, they found the eighth floor.
"Flash, then in. On three. One. Two." Michael counted as he pulled out the flash band. Smashing into the window, he pulled the pin and tossed. seven bangs later, Michael Tomlkin leapt into the room, his AK-47 covering the room. They were all stunned, sitting or reclining, most shaking with the bang and flash.
"Quick, wrap them up!" Michael yelled, and then the SILF leaders seemed to awaken. By then, the Kestrel soldiers were wrapping them up. Then, the bodyguards burst in, finally leaping into action. Swinging his AK to his hip, Michael squeezed off three rounds into the first man, the second falling under the fire of another Kestrel. Two more appeared, but were gunned down before they could even make sense of the situation.
"Clear Michael. Lets go!" The leaders were bound up, and Michael was ready to go. Working upstairs, there was no-one inside. Not that odd. On the roof, Michael bound the leaders inside and his Kestrels pulled in as well. Flying away, the Black Hawks watched as SILF soldiers fired away at the Ethiopian supporters, and cought in the middle were the khaki uniformed and blue helmeted African Union soldiers who fought in between.

Thinking about editing for more In Darfur esque.

The thick canopy above shook with rain droplets. The jungle surmounted the steep volcanic mountains, carpeting the surrounding land in mother natures humid grasp. In the remote lands between Flores and Guatemala City, there thrived one buisness. Illegal buisness.

It was that day, as the rain trickled down the mountainside, that a column fifty donkeys long tranversed the mountain track. Loaded on the column of donkeys were three staples of Guatemalan mountains. Heroin, cocaine, and opium. Led by the local worker, it weaver through the mountains to Flores, then to Mexico, and the land of U.S. Profits were few, and far in between. When they did get the profits, they were massive in size. Gabriel Lopez knew that the job was dangerous. It was also worth it. Water trickled across the track, making every step dangerous. Gabriel knew the mountains, their paths, the tracks through the land.
Wearing little but his poncho and jeans, his broad stiff fiber hat sheltered him from the elements. Carrying an AK-47, he knew the mountains were filled with bandits, rival drug gangs, and hundreds of other dangers.

By nightfall, the column was still nearly a hundred miles from Flores. Gabriel found a flat spot, and sat down. The surrounding land was just as mountainous and jungled as before, with vines creaking in the soft breezes that wafted across the mountain ranges. The land had cooled in the early darkness, and Gabriel pulled out his sleeping bag and tarp, found a smooth patch and fell asleep.

In the morning, Gabriel was dead.

Merc stories. Sounds interesting. :2thumbsup: Maybe a few quick edits in the first one?