Later that day, nearing dusk, the men of the desolate airstrips saw fusion-engine trails some ways to the east. They were decelerating. Large ships don’t usually come down when ground parties are required, so shuttles and gunships were the norm of sending ‘shore parties’ down to the surface. The spotters could see one Pegasus Heavy Transorbital Transport paired with a couple of escort fighters. The markings were that of the Ghalzar IV Sectoral Orbital Fleet, and the Marines of 4 Troop, looking clean, smart, and well-groomed in their faded khaki uniforms and green berets, quickly assembled at the end of the airstrip, loaded SA45A2 rifles slung about their backs. The fighters commenced a fly-by, and the heavy Pegasus landed with no problems. The sharp whistle of the engines was loud as it landed, and the weight of both the craft and the cargo was evident from the cumbersome manner of its touch-down.
The craft stopped at the end of the airstrip. The rear ramped opened. The first thing the Marines saw were kneeling AF-24B Daggers, one in front of the others. The one at front was in the OD colors of the Royal Marines, while the other was in the Navy’s blue and gray color scheme. They were otherwise unarmed, and in the case of the one in olive drab, ‘disarmed’. The broken arm was covered by a large sheet of tarpaulin.
The infantry Marines looked in awe of the two battle-scarred machines.
“Platooon! Atteeeeeen-SHUN!”
Captain McAllister and the other officers quickly set out to meet the shore party. At its head was a man with commander’s stripes, dressed in a short-sleeved white service uniform and coal-black polished shoes.
Sergeant Orisan, who stood on the furthest right of the formation, yelled orders to salute. “Platoooon… To the front… Salute!”
The men gave the salute in absolute parade-ground perfection. The commander returned the salute. Orisan barked at the men to stand at ease. McAllister and co. went out to greet the arriving commander. They dismissed themselves informally.
Then the rest of the crew followed suit. Men in similarly white uniforms and women in tight spanned-skirts – naval medics, radar operators, signalmen, among others – passed the front of the Marine formation. Upon seeing the first women in their whole time on Ghalzar IV, the at-eased Marines cheered and called-out the girls, whistling and yelling complements. The female spacers blushed.
“Looking fine, darling!” Smitty, who stood at the front rank, said, as he saw a passing female spacer.
“Ain’t your property, Smitty.” Corporal Kyrgiakos said.
“But, corporal-.” Smitty said, silenced, but still having his eyes on the rear-end of the tight skirts.
“That piece of arse is mine, yeah?” Kyrgiakos grinned.
“Fockin hell.”
“Ay, Smitty, take a look!” one of the Marines yelled.
A brunette in a pilot’s flight suit and in black shades came about from the corridors of the Pegasus’ cargo hold. The flight suit was very well-fitted, and her features were well-hugged.
“Look at that piece of arse.” Said Brayford, who stood next to Smitty.
“Know your place, Bray. That’s an officer over there. Romantic relationship between the officers and the ranks is strictly forbidden in His Majesty’s Corps of Royal Marines!” Smitty said sarcastically.
“Screw that, I’d die for a pair of-“ Bray said, but before anything could be said further, behind the good-looking pilot emerged a bearded man in a Marine’s khaki utilities, sleeves rolled up and pistol holstered at the end of his Sam Browne belt. He had black shoulder insignia. There were no diamonds – which signified one as a junior officer – but the experienced eyes of the Marines could tell that it was a warrant officer, having nearly-blank shoulder insignia. The warrant officer put his arms around her hips, and while she wasn’t looking to the formation, turned around and flipped the Marines two fingers and a grin.
The Marines roared like they were watching a football match, paired with some laughs and profanities.
“Bloody hell, a Marine warrant officer pilot, a hot chick, and the best beard I’ve ever seen – that man must be living the dream!” said Smitty.
“That man, son,” Kyrgiakos said. “Is Ryck Norican. One of the Royal Marines’ fighter aces. Show some respect when you’re around him, ya hear?”
“Corporal.”
“And that, Marine Brayford, means that that piece of arse is off-limits to scum like you.”
“Corporal!” Brayford said in compliance. The section laughed in return.
***
ns 15.158.61.20da2
