0600 hours, 22 February 768, Nearing Landing Zone Victor, Sergeant Derek Gardan
My hands were shaking in anger. The young private next to me and the rest of the squad enraged at his lack knowledge of the Argon Marine Corps, my Marine Corps, the squad's Marine Corps. Currently the private was trying to make himself very small but failed miserably when he slouched too much and slid from his seat. He slid down the length of the troop bay, all the way to the exit ramp. That action earned the young puke the eyes and laughter of the entire troop bay. He deserved it, thinking he could just transfer into my squad from his last post in the army reserves.
Derek's fellow fireteam leader, Sergeant Rictiff, nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.
“We really musta pissed off some of the higher-ups if they're sending us that POS weekend warrior eh?”
“I blame it on Perez, he snuck into the officers' head on Fajita night last week” I replied.
“I was wondering what made that paint in there peel” said a voice from above me. I looked up to see the square jaw and beady eyes of my CO, Lieutenant Jackson Hughes.
“Hitting the dirt in T-minus twenty seconds” rang the voice of the pilot through the intercom. A cacophony of clicks was heard immediately afterwards as everybody got locked and loaded. When I looked up from readying my own weapon, all the faces I had seen in the troop bay were replaced, by the dark blue tinted visors of combat helmets. I dawned my own helmet and counted down mentally like the rest of the squad.
A jolt and metallic clang later the pilot came over the intercom again. “Touchdown, now get out, you don't have to go home but you can't stay here.”
“Cocky bastard” muttered Lieutenant Hughes. As we all poured out and began establishing a perimeter I heard a high pitched whistle. It didn't take me or anybody else long, to figure out what it was before Rictiff gave a resounding yell of “Incoming!” and we all voluntarily ate sh*t.
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