Nico sits casually on a dune at the place where he's decided to stop for the night. He smokes another cigarette, this time with a lot more accuracy. Only three more to go and 11 days to the extraction point, f***. But he's never been the one for saving, what's the point if you might die the next day? Instead he leans back and enjoys it thoroughly.
Hey, Master Sergeant. I got us closer to the extraction point didn't I?
He inhales deeply, then blows out a large cloud of smoke.
Sure I got help, but that's what the platoon is all about, ain't it? Your fancy command structure is good when needed, like that attack back there, but now we're on our own here. Action means survival, and I didn't see anyone else acting. And like Izipo says, we're special ops, don't need no one to tell us how to walk.
The small and wiry weapon specialist takes a last draw and flicks the butt away, then leaps agilely to his feet and brushes the sand off from the desert camo trousers.
So stuff the stupid talk now, will ya? Or I might feel like tying you up, how would you like that, mr Icy Kommando? Just get off my back, and I might even try to save yours.
He walks over to where Big Tom Renata is trying to kill cactuses with his mouth.
Hey there Lennie, see any rabbits out there? Eh, nevermind. Here, lemme fix that up for you now, wouldn't want Big Tom wounded if the insurgents decide to come in the night, eh?