Ghalzar IV
Sergeant Michael Orisan, HRMC, looked into the window behind him, at the barren desert wastes where there was nothing to look at, as he sat among twenty-five other men. The engines of the Pericles Vanguard Utility Air/Space Transport hummed in the background.
Having been mobilized at short notice, the men of Chatham Company, 126 Royal Marines Commando wore what they did before being called up. Marine Trevor ‘Smitty’ Smith, who was responsible for the Frazier GPMG, was still bare chested, wearing only his chest armor and helmet. Due to the confidential nature of the assignment, the boys of Orisan’s troop had no clear idea where they were going and what they were going to do.
The ride was a short one. It took less than fifteen minutes before they reached their destination, a seemingly desolate air strip in the middle of the desert. There were several Army HF-07 Destroyer Heavy AFUs parked, alongside a dozen Pericles Vanguards and venerable Aronsen Gladius attack gunships. Some were taking off. Those in the sky were headed towards the direction of the trenches.
The armada of Vanguards lowered their speed as they neared the airstrip. They landed together at the same time, and side by side. Moments before the transports landed, the rear ramps opened, and along with the crew chief who stood at the foremost rear of the craft, Orisan went to his feet. “On your feet, boys!”
They complied. In a snap moment, the Marines picked up their large Bergen packs and put them on their backs. On one hand, they carried their issued weapons, mostly SA45A2 assault rifles, but several carried GPMGs, and on the other a smaller backpack which was carried for short patrols. They called the smaller ones ‘3D rucks’, an abbreviation for three-day rucksacks, which could fit what food, supplies, and extra-ammunition a man needed for a three-day ‘camping’ trip.
Not moments later, the Vanguards set down. Once the craft was stable, the crew chief looked at Orisan and gave a nod. Orisan shouted out to his men. “Alright, lads! Get a fockin’ move on!”
At a low jog, Orisan was first boots on the tarmac. The swift insertion lasted only a couple of seconds. The men returned to the sneering heat of the desert, the sun shining on their heads, and the dust slamming against their faces.
“Don’t they have fucking clouds here?” Asked one Marine.
“If you wanted nice, cool, places to go you should’ve joined the bloody navy, Marine! Now fall into formation you ass-cunt!” A corporal, tough-voiced but shorter than the usual Marine, yelled back.
They fell into formation and lined up. They were then assigned to their tents, which were set next to a building. The men complained why they weren’t put into the building themselves. They fell into the tents and were told to wait for further orders. Another fucking wait, Orisan thought.
***
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