"What were those big-headed ghosts thinking? They want me to go to the Golden Crescent with a mercenary? Have they lost their minds?! I'm not a nanny..."
Mist grumbled as he carried his large backpack, heading toward the C-17 transport plane.
The lieutenant colonel, Rogers, commander of the Seal Team in Iraq, also couldn't understand why such a dangerous mission to Afghan required a mercenary to play the lead role while his own top soldiers, reportedly, were just responsible for the mercenary's security...
But he was a soldier and naturally had to follow orders.
General Peter had tasked him with selecting his most elite subordinate to send on a protection mission to Afghan.
The protection target was a mercenary.
As for what the mission was about? That wasn't disclosed.
And who exactly they were escorting? That wasn't disclosed either.
Among Rogers' subordinates, Mist was currently the best fighter.
A seasoned veteran, he had served in the Marine Corps' Reconnaissance units before being selected to join the Seal Team two years ago.
Mist was an excellent professional soldier.
Dedicated and upright, he considered the military his home, a true model worker of the new era.
If he had any flaw, it was his playboy nature, often unable to control his lower half.
Back when he went through the rigorous and challenging selection for the Seal Team, where he barely had enough time to sleep, he managed to sleep with every woman from the waitress to the owner at a bar called "Heat" next to the base.
The revelation led to a brawl among the women over jealousy. Several local men present at the bar, despising Mist for his promiscuity and jealous of his 'feasts' in their 'famine', started a huge fight, causing a big ruckus.
The incident almost thwarted Mist's chances of joining the Seal Team.
Considering his romantic escapades, everyone gave him a rather poetic nickname—"The Great Stud."
And yet, such a Casanova never accidentally shot his gun off, he had no wife, no kids, and hardly any relatives to contact.
He could really be considered as bare as one can be, the type who could be buried in a public cemetery upon death without anyone asking questions.
Besides, he was also somewhat of an oddity across military branches. His desire to serve in the military was pure—just for kicks.
From day one of his enlistment, he had set his sights on the Special Forces, vowing to experience every possible unit.
Of course, his goal was somewhat unrealistic.
But that didn't stop him from trying.
This was what annoyed Rogers the most.
"What are you yelling about?! Who asked you to apply for Delta Force? Who asked you to show off? You think you're so great? Then I'm assigning you to the most dangerous mission, isn't that a test for you?"
Rogers nearly spat out these words in disdain toward Mist.
The reason was that this guy had barely been under his command for two years and had already submitted an application to go to Delta.
Although Delta belonged to the T1 tier within the US Special Forces operations, the Seals were not inferior, so why couldn't he just be content serving under his command?
Mist was certainly aware of why Rogers was so upset, and said with a grin, "Lieutenant, you know me. I have nothing personal against you; I just like to try out different units. Don't be mad, alright? When I come back, I'll take you to a bar in the Green Zone for some drinks and a striptease, my treat."
Rogers sneered, "Great Stud, cut the crap. If you were willing to serve well in one unit, you wouldn't still be a lieutenant at over thirty. Aren't you thinking about promotions or anything? What's the point of risking your life everywhere?"
Mist, walking toward the apron, replied, "Some birds are not meant to be caged, their feathers are just too bright. Lieutenant, you household men will never understand me."
Here, he quoted a classic line from "The Shawshank Redemption" to explain his actions.
"Get lost! Don't show off in front of me!"
As they talked, they reached the apron, and the rear cargo door of the C-17 was already open.
Rogers stopped, turned to Mist solemnly, and said, "Great Stud, make sure you come back alive."
"YES SIR!" Mist stood at attention and slowly saluted, "Lieutenant, don't worry, I won't go to hell owing you a strip show. Hahaha!"
Mist was such a character, always able to turn a solemn moment into something greasy and ludicrous.
"Go away!"
Rogers roared, lifting his leg to kick Mist.
Mist, already anticipating, darted a few meters away and boarded the transport with his backpack on his back.
The cabin was bustling.
This plane wasn't just for transporting the two of them; it was transporting supplies from a port in Kuwait to Afghan.
With the plane ready to take off, ground staff and the crew were constantly loading and securing the cargo bases into the cabin.
Mist maneuvered past several busy figures toward the deeper part of the cabin.
Suddenly, he spotted a familiar figure sitting on a seat on the right side of the cabin.
"FUCK!"
He cursed.
"Yo, yo, yo! Who do I see here?"
He grinned, his eyes gradually lighting up.
"Song!"