Thread: Support Staff (Gunner x Kiandra_Black)

Eric Wright wasn't tall or thickly muscled, standing at 5'8 weighing in at 165 lbs, he was average height with a lean, muscled physique that at a glance made him look average. Eric had brown hair, kept short in a not quite buzz cut, which kept it out of his eyes didn't have anything for someone to grab. He hadhazel eyes which looked more green than brown because of the camouflage he was wearing, as well as the few bits of face paint he'd missed when he washed his face during the two minute cold shower he'd gotten before catching his plane the several days of stubble had complicated the cleaning. In appearance he was exactly what his agency wanted someone who looked average normal enough that no one gave him a second glance. Not until he had a knife to their throat or a gun to their head, anyway. He was dressed for a tactical op hiking boots and multicam fatigues, topped with a beanie to fight the cold of the high altitude flight instead of his usual baseball cap. His other accouterments were at his feet next to him body armor, rucksack, bump helmet, weaponry all the things he had needed for his op in Eastern Europe. The only piece of his equipment not there was his Integrated Communications System ICS or 'icks'. An advanced system which allowed the reception of audio, visual, and data from a central system, operated by an individual called the support officer. The system allowed him to be send data, images, documents, video and anything else to be displayed on either a wrist screen or a helmet-mounted display, as well as being coupled with a more conventional radio system, usually operating off of an earbud, bone-conducting microphone, and a small helmet-mounted HD cameramicrophone. Eric still had his on, mostly because his S.O. seemed to get... hinky if she lost communications with him before he was boots on the ground on U.S. soil. He sighed as he looked around the inside of the C-130 the only passenger and the only other person in the bay besides the crew chief. It was a so-called 'Catfish Air' flight, the CIA's personal secret airline, flying with no markings and an alpha-numeric callsign. He'd exfiled across two borders to the Czech Republic to get home, where he'd had a debrief turned over items he'd collected Russian army radios and commo encryption devices gear which would allow the CIA to bypass their encryptions listen in on their chatter, as well as reverse engineer their equipment algorithms. He had just enough time to shower change into a fresh uniform before being whisked home. It had been a long mission he'd been living in the field or working with other agents or 'disgruntled locals' for almost three weeks and was glad to be almost home. His mission hasn't been as 'sexy' as stealing back a nuclear weapon or kidnapping an enemy scientist, but not all of them were, and this was just as vital to national security as any of that. The crew chief flashed him three fingers, telling him they were three minutes out, just as his S.O. Told him the same in his ear. He smirked a bit. She never seemed to miss a beat. Despite her appearance demeanor, she was, as far as he was concerned, the best at her job, and after all the hairy times she'd gotten him through, he trusted her. He also knew a bit of her habits. It was how he knew that once he landed she would be right there at the foot of the ramp as it lowered waiting for him. With paperwork an ice-cold root beer. All in all, not the worst trade he'd ever made.