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Priboj, the Adriatic Union. The moon looks down on the isolated airfield, two aircraft sitting outfront of the solitary hangar. Next to one of the planes, a foldable table sits accompanied by two equally cheap chairs, an electric lamp providing light in addition to the moon’s. Cards lay across the faux wood tabletop, alongside a bottle of raika. It’s quiet now, not even the forest ruffling. Inside of the hangar itself, the same can’t be said as another round of obnoxious singing breaks out. Kreće se lađa francuska is the song of choice, ironic considering what these men plan to do tonight. The Italian market was doing well but, it was only so large and it’d be more a matter of inevitably when profit plateaued so, a new market was needed, and France was the perfect place.

By the time the former bombers have taxied to the start of the runway, night’s darkness has only grown, the only light coming from two markers at the end of the runway, and the cigarettes of the men inside each aircraft. In the lead aircraft, the pilot squints at the instruments, the tritium lining providing the needed light to view the altimeter and speedometer. Pushing the four throttle lever forwards simultaneously, the radial engines begin to groan as they pull the plane forward, slowly getting louder until they scream as they pull the aircraft up and off the runway. Once airborne, it only take thirty or so minutes to reach altitude and from there it’s smooth sailing for the next 600 miles.

_{Another short post intentionally designed to allow interference: Also, little fun fact about the folks who run the drugs is that they’re all gifted emerald necklaces (imagine a dogtag shaped emerald and you’ve got the idea)}