I arrived in Morskoj on Monday, flying in to the heavily-damaged airport at Ostrov shortly after noon, local time. Perfect timing according to the locals, who say the Tarakian shelling stops at daybreak and won’t resume until some time after midnight.

Tarakian Hounds might have sizable racks of rockets to go with top-of-the-line night vision modules, but they’re neither swift nor suited for lengthy engagements. Playing to their strengths, they arrive in the dark, fire their rockets and move to a new firing location (shots are taken in roughly 20-minute intervals so their Scout Hounds have time to survey damage and report new target assignments) only leaving to refuel and resupply when the sun threatens to rise.

These Tarakian artillery Hounds often shell the capital unopposed, with the bulk of Morskovian Hounds currently fighting on the front lines and the few defenders left behind woefully unprepared for tracking in the dark. A quick check of the active duty roster revealed none with working night-vision modules.

As for the city itself, the people here are the typical Slavic nationals: quiet, hard-working, and willing to talk about whatever you want for only a few Isra - the local currency. It’s no wonder they make such good mercenaries - and it’s the mercenaries that I’m here to find.

It’s a testament to the independent and secretive nature of the Morskovian people that it takes me three days, and several thousand Isra, to track down solid leads on one squad of Morskovian mercenaries.

Six days later I arrived at the base camp of DeltaZulu, deep into the Sal Kari desert and remarkably close to Qara, the capital city of the kingdom. My timing is perfect once again, with the squad arriving back to camp just as I finished unpacking my camera gear.

With several Hounds requiring heavy repairs, I took the time to get to know Sgt. Skippy LeBeef and uncovered the first of many secrets this “Morskovian” mercenary group holds - few of them are actually from Morskoj.

LeBeef is one of the squad’s few Morskovians, at one point working as an apprentice COMBAS repairman for MLR (Morskovian Land Report), one of Morskoj’s top tech companies. LeBeef said that career just wasn’t to be, however.

“Yeah, I lasted two, maybe three days,” LeBeef said with a chuckle. “I wound up fired for not answering my superiors ‘in a timely manner’ when they addressed me. It’s just as well, though. Fixing COMBAS units would never have led to the cockpit of a Hound.”

After leaving MLR, LeBeef transitioned into a military life - but not into a Hound quite yet.

“I started in the kitchens for the Morskoj army,” he remarked. “We didn’t have much to work with - some fish heads and scabs mostly - but I found that I made it work. It was like the ingredients just talked to me, like I knew what to add to make something good…no matter what it was.”

LeBeef said one of the keys is proper storage.

“This food we’re making, some of it is for the guys here but there’s a lot shipped out to the field,” he said.
“You can’t just throw that shit into a baggy and ship it out, it has to be properly packed and frozen. We get a lot of idiots in here who just don’t get that. One guy tried to ship my fan-favorite Fish Head Chili in a bunch of cups wrapped in saran wrap. We transferred that idiot to the infantry and shipped him to the front lines. By now he’s either dead or an Admiral or whatever they call it.”

LeBeef’s obvious distaste for, and lack of knowledge of, the military life makes his current occupation as a mercenary seem a puzzling choice. I make a note to try and explore that topic in the future, as he’s eager to get working on some modifications to his Hound’s chassis. His eyes gleam as he talks about a big idea he has involving spacers in some way, but calms down when asked about today’s offensive.

“After days of death and destruction in the Sal Kari desert, we’ve made it to the capital city,” he said with a sigh. “Many civilians will die needlessly. Their government should have evacuated them but failed to do so.”

A mechanic pulls LeBeef away, and talk of spacers erupts as the two head back to his Hound. So many questions left unanswered, but at least I’ve found them - and found some level of acceptance by the squad.

“Get yourself a Hound,” LeBeef yells back at me. “You can come see what it’s like, out there in the shit.”

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While zombies would seem the perfect housepet (they don't eat much, they're generally quiet, and they won't poop everywhere) they really aren't.
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