Editing Mercenaries and Planes: Writefaggotry (section)

====Bushwhack by Skyhawk====
Paul De Groot swore silently at the growing collection of razor grass cuts on his hands as he followed his local guide through the tall grasses and viciously tangled trees that surrounded the airfield outside of Kisanagi. The Dutch photographer gritted his teeth and attempted to push aside yet another large clump of grass that had somehow survived his native guide’s machete while simultaneously husbanding his cameras exposed telephoto lens from any dirt or whipping branches that might suddenly swing its way. ‘Next time you decide to go bush whacking,’ he mentally berated himself, ‘at least bring some gloves.’ He looked down at his camera and brushed at a bit of grass it had collected halfheartedly. ‘And the camera bag. Don’t forget the camera bag.’

It would be worth the pain and annoyance he kept telling himself. If the rumors were true and he could get some clear shots he’d have news agencies begging to buy them from him. ‘Either that or French agents trying to steal them,’ he thought in disgust. He’d already lost one camera to a sneering french man this trip. The bastard had flashed a holstered pistol, muttered something about nosy reporters, and snatched the little Nikon from Paul’s hands. Paul hadn’t bothered to argue or seek help...it was a waste of time in places like this where anyone toting a gun, and there were a lot of them about, could make his own laws.

The sound of a jet engine ramping up somewhere up ahead pushed Paul out of his funk and added a bit more spring to his step as he navigated the narrow trail. Coming around a twisted tree trunk he nearly ran into his guide. The local boy pointed with his machete at a gap in the razor grass several meters away through which Paul could distinctly see open ground and, beyond that, the pitted runway of Kisanagi’s airfield. Paul grinned and dug out another small wad of cash. “Rester ici,” he said in french, handing it over. ‘I certainly hope he stays,’ Paul thought as he turned and began his careful approach to the edge of the wild grass, ‘otherwise I’m gonna have trouble getting back.’ He’d had enough guides run out on him in his three years covering rebellions and civil wars in Africa that he knew unless he told them up front that he’d pay them half again as much if they got him home again they weren’t likely to stick around for very long.

The view from the edge of the razor grass wasn’t the best he could have gotten but the guide had at least gotten him to the proper side of the field. A small collection of tents and shipping container barricades at one end of the field drew his trained eye. It looked deceptively shoddy. Third rate tents, beat up shipping containers, and just enough local looking people milling around that anyone not looking for something suspicious might miss them. But he knew what to look for. New weaponry, alert guards, just enough well placed clutter and barricades to make getting a good view difficult...all the signs of a well funded and well armed mercenary outfit.

There were a lot of foreign mercs in Africa these days but only a few who could pull off what these guys were rumored to have done and still remain relatively discrete. He’d heard about the massacre at Bania. He’d heard about the rebels, the government forces, the Foreign Legion, and the fight that had left the town nothing but a scorched ruin full of the dead and dying.

Stories like that were a dime a dozen in Africa these days. But what had peeked his interest had been the mystery air force that had supported the FFL. The kind of aircraft survivors had reported weren’t common in this neck of the woods...and neither were the munitions they carried or the careless way in which they were used. Bridges, hospitals, markets...it didn’t seem to matter to them what they hit. Even boats full of fleeing refugees.

Paul grinned coldly as his telephoto lens zoomed in on partially concealed aircraft revetment and the warplane it contained. ‘Click, click, click’ went his camera. Aircraft types, weapons, maintenance equipment...faces. His camera captured them all in stunning detail.

He went through two memory cards before he felt he’d gotten enough. He slithered back into the denser brush and escaped to where he’d left his guide. He shouldn’t have been surprised when he found the tree and its surroundings devoid of people...especially young native guides with machetes...but he couldn’t help it.

“Godverdomme!”