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RP [Mission 0] "Operation Graduation"

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Saul

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----> What We Hope to Achieve Here <----
----> Inteerest Check Thread <----

--------​

["Mission 0"] Operation Graduation
Fort Bulwark, Longwatch
0630 hours, local


With its surface catching the light of the eternal sunlight of winter in Longwatch's northern hemisphere, the DeepSix installation and the occasional shuttle or gunship flying around it served as the only sign of life for miles in any direction on the tundra. "Fort Bulwark", as the white paint down the side identified it, stood as the furthest point north on the surface of Longwatch that the Nepleslian military had established themselves. It was so far away from the rest of civilization that most of the landmarks surrounding it hadn't even been given proper and official names beyond simple geographical signifiers.

A curving river, sky-blue and glistening from the sun reflecting off its surface, came with only a quarter of a mile from the tower. Of course winter temperatures made it a less than ideal place for recreation and so most Marines opted to use the swimming pool in the fitness center on the 100th floor. A mountain made a tall and jagged line on the horizon to the northwest, looking almost purple against an unusually clear morning sky.

Other than that it was surrounding by rolling hills with occasional stretches of almost flat and barren land for a mile or more. A keen eye that got close enough would be able to find the sealed doorways for the tunnels for aircraft coming and going from the tower.

The temperature just rising above zero degrees, clear skies, and forecasts predicting nothing but calm weather should have meant that everything was going to be fine for the patrol that was coming up for the men and women of the Crusader Flotilment. Something nice and easy, with a Cuttlefish drogue-drop to get some of the newest members used to it, and some time driving out in the tundra while K4s from went searching through all the passes and behind every hill for an enemy that wasn't anymore likely to be there than they had been the last patrol. Or the one before that. Or the one even before that.

So William shouldn't have been worried, as he burned down the second cigar he'd lite since he woke up that morning, and just - stared at his tank. A Mk.I Maximus, already old according to the bean-counters in admin even though it seemed like last week he'd been in the seat of a K4 about to drop onto the surface of Rok'veru. As the Senior Chief, the flotilment's commanding officer, it was his job to worry. The gunners and the drivers and the loaders of the other tanks, they could affrod to just focus on the more simplistic parts of a mission like security sectors, interlocking fields of fire, and the beaten zone of their guns.

Once you sat down in the commander's seat for the first time, you had more responsibility placed on your shoulders, and it only grew heavier with rank and command. You developed a sense with that, of when you should go through with something or wave off an operation at the last minute. If you didn't develop that sense and refused to listen to it, you could die. Or worse, the men and women under your command could die.

"Thunder Chief" sat in the motor pool, freshly cleaned paint shining under the artificial light of the motor pool while the other three members of his crew worked alongside the mechanics who'd been assigned to help them. Along with the standard loads of HEAP, HE, a smaller number of APFSDS rounds, and even a few HESH rounds they had been given something new. The Armor Penetrating, Plasma Explosive round: APPE. Each tank had been issued only ten of them, at the cost of HEAP and HE stocks.

Being trusted and tasked with testing out the new rounds at the range was an apology from the bean-counters in admin for not being able to get their tanks refitted into MkIIs by the end of the week like he'd been promised would happen - over a month ago. Go out on patrol, come back, set up some static targets at distance, and get the crews' opinions on the new rounds.

It was all supposed to be easy enough. But that didn't shake the feeling in his gut that something was going to go very wrong, verey soon.

The members of Crusader Flotilment's 1st and 2nd Platoons had known they would have patrol duty this day a week in advance, to give no excuses for Marines to be showing up too hung over to work from the weekend. They'd been pulled from their weekend fun a couple of hours early to brief them on some of the broad points of the situation. Though that briefing had mostly been William "The Smokehouse" Parry playing Senior Chief Buzzkill by reminding them all that if they showed up this morning with a different marital status or a change in the number of dependents listed on their files that he would personally defenestrate kill the guilty Marines for their crimes.

With the addition of some new faces to the unit, including but not limited to a too-cocky rockband calling itself a tank crew from the 4th and two former mercanaries who'd found themselves on the wrong side of Nepleslian intelligence services, Chief Parry had felt obligated to make sure the unit roster for the patrol was mailed to every single tank commander to avoid any confusion of call-signs over the radio. After all, even if this was supposed to be a milk-run, he didn't want dumb mistakes getting made in his unit.

Code:
<<SECURE MESSAGE>>
<<FROM:>> Senior Chief Parry, William - 1st EXMF, 1st Reg., Crusader Flotilment
<<TO:>> All vehicle commanders - Crusader 1, Crusader 2
<<SECURITY:>> For Official Use Only (FOUO)

To the new blood and fresh transfers: this is a list of TC's and their call-signs.

- Command
  - CO (Me) = Crusader 6, "Thunder Chief"
  - XO = Crusader 7

- 1st Platoon
  - Corporal Dolphin Pak-Wun Wang = Crusader 1-1, "Pasco's Prom Ride"
  - Corporal Ross Mitchell = Crusader 1-2, "Vehicular Manslaughter"
  - Private 1st Class Aleksandra Zinoviya Simonova = Crusader 1-3, "Misha"
  - Corporal "Wespe" Tittenlieb = Crusader 1-4, "The BONE"

- 2nd Platoon
  - Corporal John Battleaxe = Crusader 2-1, "Crush 'N Grind!"
  - Corporal Adam Foss = Crusader 2-2, "El Corcel"
  - Private 2nd Class Adamask Tyrosian = Crusader 2-3, "Hazardous Material"
  - Corporal Mikhail Kostetski = Crusader 2-4

The briefing is on the 50th floor at 0640, and I want us loading into the shuttles for
drop by 0650 after briefing. Be there on time and ready to go, in uniform. I don't
want to bust heads or make Marines miserable. This is supposed to be a milk-run
but you train how you fight.

So show up drunk, married, or drunkenly married and I will smoke you until the
spirit of Lewis Pasco himself has to come back from the dead to order you out of the
front-leaning rest and the whole motor pool has sweat dripping from the walls.

Chief Parry, out.

<<END MESSAGE>>

Glancing at the message on his own datapad once again, the Senior Chief made sure that his crew was good, and had headed for the nearest elevator. It was a long ride up to the 50th floor, but he easily beat the Marines of his unit to the Crusader Flotilment's assigned briefing room. The room itself was spartan, rather poorly decorated, with plain green and white walls, chairs for the troops, and a screen for anything the commander needed to display.

He had lit up another cigar and made himself comfortable at the front of the room by the time the first of the Marines began to trickle in.
 
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Johnny Battleaxe and the Warhammers were tinkering more on Crush 'N Grind, blasting music from its speakers. If they had stayed with the Tank Guards, they'd have Mk. II upgrades! They'd be in Nepleslia, blowing up 2nd Marines in the war games! But no, they were stuck on Longwatch, overseeing some fancy new unit. Only Battleaxe noticed his datajockey's message light was flashing. He signaled Jay Jay to cut the music. "Hey Danny, wanna get smashed and then get married?" he asked his driver.

"Fuck yes but you're not rich enough! So as much as I want to, get more money!" P2C Dana Chao teased. For all the stereotypes of women being bad drivers, Danny had been the best bloody driver of anything that Johnny had ever seen.

"Boss, stop flirtin' with Danny. Why'd you have Jay Jay cut the tunes?" P3C Samantha Cartwright asked. She was his gunner. Sammie was far better at gunlaying than anyone else. Every tanker was supposed to be able to do every job, at least that's what the Imperial Tank Guards had demanded. Sammie was not only faster, she was just more precise. But give her a hand gun of any sort, nine times out of ten she would miss the mark. Women and their inconsistencies was what Johnny put it down to.

Jay Jay, Sanjay Jayaratnam, his long suffering loader, wingman and buddy, poked his head out of CNG after loading the last APPE rounds and bottles of whiskey. The man was both sane and insane simultaneously. Best bloody loader, hardworking but his keyboard solos were balls-to-the-walls insane.

"Chiefy wants us ready for briefing at 0640 here and for drogue drop afterwards. Says we should arrive drunk, married or drunkenly married. Since we're saving the drinks for later, all I need is someone to marry. You sure, Danny?" Johnny asked his driver again.

She looked at him with a coquettish smile, "Get more cash. Mommy and Daddy Chao want a rich husband."

Johnny sighed with a lot of exaggeration. "Get your kit loaded, boys and girls. This sorry sods may not be the Guards but you lot fucking are. No nonsense, especially you, Jay Jay. These fuckers may be greenie tankers who think they're the shit but we're the fucking Imperial Tank Guards. It's our job to look down and frown until they get it right. Only ones who can say they might be better than us are the bloody Thunder Chiefs and those wankers aren't here!"

Jay Jay pulled out three shot glasses and the Ready Bottle of whiskey, filling them up. Each of the crewmembers outside the tank took the proffered glass while Jay Jay held the bottle. "Crush 'N Grind!" they toasted, downing the glass while Jay Jay swigged from the bottle. It was their tank's name and their division's battlecry. It was good enough for a toast for their first drogue drop. As much as Johnny Battleaxe hated to admit it, no one in the 4th Marines had done this sort of op before.
 
Aleksandra Zinoviya Simonova, Private First Class and tank commander, crossed her arms as she surveyed the shining example of armored perfection that was her Maximus Mk.1 Main Battle Tank. A sly sideways grin touched her red lips. "Da, very good, comrades!" She said to her crew. Mariya Gerasimov, driver, Sofia Filitov, gunner and Natalya Ivanova, loader. The all female crew had spent a better part of the night detailing their tank with loving care after a full days training the day before.

The four of them, all from the same village in the bitter cold northern tundra, were all pleased with their handiwork. They were one of the younger tank crews, none of them older than 23 and knew they had a lot to prove to the older more experiences tank crews in the unit. So they worked hard, very hard, training, practicing and improving their skills and learning everything that they could. Their level of dedication meant that the four of them spent much of their allotted free time with their tank or hunched behind computer terminals studying. This also meant that none of them had gone out to party during the night, so none had a chance to get drunk, married or both before reporting for duty.

This dedication and level of extra hard work had paid of well. They had surpassed every challenge set before them by their instructors and commanders and took extreme pride in their accomplishments.

Mariya nodded, "I think Misha is ready to shine, Sasha!" the driver smiled, glancing at the tank commander.

Aleksandra, 'Sasha' nodded and grinned a bit broader. They had named the tank 'Misha' after Sofia's grandfather, who had been a brave and cunning tanker in his youth and inspiration to all of them. The redheaded woman stepped over to the tank, pulling herself up onto it's thickly armored surface and then dropping down into the commander's hatch on the top of the turret. She made a last survey of the tanks interior, like she was expecting a spot inspection. Not one thing was out of place, everything was clean. She nodded with approval again, then climbed out and checked her watch. "Thirty minutes till the briefing" she said. "Lets clean up and get their early"

With that the crew of 'Misha' departed, making for their quarters where they got fresh uniforms, showered, dressed and made themselves immaculately presentable. They arrived in the briefing room, noting the rather empty state of the space, save for their commanding officer. The four women walked up, saluting to Senior Chief Parry.

"Tank crew of Crusader 1-3 reporting for mission briefing" Sasha announced, before the four women settled into their seats and awaited the start of the briefing.
 
What a bloody group of misfits. Seems like Mikhail actually came drunk to the briefing. His shitfaced expression squeezed itself into the briefing room, biting down on a large, smoking cigar with more force than was really needed. Two mostly annoyed and tired eyes surveyed the present marines, summing them all up with an indignant snort as the rest of the Corporal dragged itself inside. His back bent, hands in pockets, a pair of skitch sunglasses throwing a shadow over his eyes, only to add to the image. They weren't late, for once, it seemed. The corporal raised a hand in an awkward greeting, but stopped it half way.

He looked left. He looked right. Where was his crew. "Fuckin'..." - he muttered to himself, straightening out slighlty and clearing his throat. "DO YOU THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY ONES WITH A HANGOVER YOU BAG OF PUTRID CUNTS?!" - he'd roar out into the hall outside the briefing room.

Suddenly a chorus of zombie-like moans and groans approached the briefing room, getting louder and louder until the crew in question managed to drag their asses inside. They somehow managed a more-or-less straight line behind Mikhail, who occupied himself with massaging his nosebridge tiredly. After a decisive sigh, he said with unenthusiastic tones. "So, uhhh... Yeah. Crusader 2-4 reporting." - he looked sharply behind himself and cocked his head at the shitfaced crew. "Come on, you weaklings. Let's go. My grandma looked better than you three when she was dying."

Somehow, they each managed to grab a seat with every individual crew member choosing his own position to reflect their attitudes.

Tomas Heiner managed to sit somewhat straight, almost as if he was a student in class. Albeit, he had trouble keeping his eyes open, which only looked comic with an alcohol-inflated face trying to retain a serious expression in the background. His hands were carefuly folded over the table, as was proper.

Roger Williams didn't seem to put in as much effort as Tomas did. He folded his feet one over the other under the table and let his volumous head hang back from the chair, his hands looking more limp fishes than tools used for ending lives. A trail of drool ran down the side of his face and he occasionally made dehydrated moans.

Frank Jameson sat upright, as a marine should! His muscular hands lay folded over his chest, the commando coloured tank top on his torso only adding to the air of resolve that hung about him. He too was under the effects of a hangover, but it seems he was able to surpress showing it.

As for their Cap'n. Well, he just grabbed himself a seat, dropping his arse onto it firmly. His legs were held wide, almost as if challenging someone to tell him that wasn't polite, while his hands remained in his pockets. He turned his face towards the all-female group for a moment, specifically their commander, and managed a shitfaced flirty smirk. Probably facing with refusal, he turned to his crew regardless. "Tsk." - he began angrily. "Who's fuckin' bright idea was it to get drunk the night before the briefing?!"

Tomas hurried to answer. "Errrh, that would be you, sir."

The corporals annoyed face slacked entirely, his mouth opening in revelation. He slapped his face in a voluntary facepalm. "Fuck."
 
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Senior Chief Parry had stayed absolutely silent and did his best to not rudely exhale a cloud of tobacco smoke at the rather - motivated way, in which Simonova had reported in. After the time that she'd been under his command, her's was a crew that could show up for punishment detail with vigor and energy about the whole thing. He just returned the salute and had waited for her to step away before his shoulders slumped with a relaxing exhale. He tapped the ashes off into the tray on the podium to his side, unused save for the controls for the screen on the wall behind him that he had yet to use save for turning it on standby mode.

"Good to see you made it, Private." He grinned, "I see Sash's energy will never die, no matter how early I roust her crew from the - "

"DO YOU THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY ONES WITH A HANGOVER YOU BAG OF PUTRID CUNTS?!"

William looked to the door. He squared his shoulders and bit harshly down on the cigar as his brows furrowed. Sharp green eyes settled on the offender. Corporal Mikhail Kostetski had proven that he was a good Marine, but he was the kind of Marine that reminded Parry a little of himself when he'd been younger. The Senior Chief watched each member of 2-4 filter in one by one in like a line of geese. Very hung over, dizzy geese who looked like they might throw up in the coming drop. Hitting the tundra at shuttle speeds with nothing but some chutes on the back of your vehicle to slow you down was not where you wanted to be when something as simple as bright lights could make you lose your breakfast in a fit of nausea.

"Corporal Kostetski. Good to see you could make it on time. If not well." He plucked the cigar from between his lips, "Have a fun night, I hope, boys? Because you'll need happy memories once you're pulled out of the shuttle today."
 
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"I've had enough of this planet, let's go home." P1C Potapov whined again, sitting on top of the turret and with the tank's cannon between his legs as he looked at the rest of the hangar, making P2C Greengold, the driver of that specific Maximus HMBT roll her eyes. The lean woman stood on the front of the tank, looking at the same place that the platinum-haired P1C looked, "Your parents had enough of you", the woman said, not even bothering to look at the gunner from where she stood at the hull of the tank.

And so began another round of trash-talking between gunner and driver.

Crouching on top of the back part of the tank, Corporal Ross Mitchell and his loader struggled with their own problems. The tank commander didn't bother with the bickering between his two crewmen, in fact, it had became like a pleasant background noise after a couple of weeks when he learned that it wasn't actual bitching from his tank's gunner. That and the fact that Otto could nail a target neatly while the tank was on the move during training also helped it, the man had a fascination with shooting and blowing things up.

"Brick, pass me the spring." The corporal said to the massive ID-SOL loader, who crouched next to him with the box of spare parts cradled on his mechanical arm. How the ID-SOL managed to fit on the loader's seat and put shell after shell was both a feat of magnificent design from the tank and a miracle altogether, that hunk of steel was something magical. The dark-skinned ID-SOL silently took the spring and extended it with his one organic arm towards Mitchell

After being quietly given the spare part, Mitchel had no trouble replacing the Return Spring from the tank's Starter Engine. Apparently the Maximus diesel engine wasn't in good terms with the cold weather of Longwatch, making regular wood become harder like metal and metal become brittle like glass under the brutal temperatures; The crew of the "Vehicular Manslaughter" had discovered this after cutting off the tank's engine during a regular patrol. Another reason to get rid of the diesel engine and receive the much deserved MkII Fusion driven tank. Bob "Brick" Johnson then closed the engine cover while Michell wiped his grease-stained hands on his pants.

"Alright, children, quit your bitching and let's go. We got a briefing to be in." Mitchell said to the two bickering crewmen, stashing his datajockey away as he climbed on top of the turret, then jumped on the front hull, and then on the floor before heading to the elevator, and was soon followed by his crew. The corporal caught himself wondering, for a second, who he had pissed to have been stationed in Longwatch, of all places, as the crew slowly filed into the elevator. He would rather be in a more 'active' place, whereas in Longwatch he had no chance to distinguish or excel, therefore curbing the short streak of successes in his career that had landed on the command seat of his very tank.

"A prison is more fun than this." Otto whined again, half smiling at the driver as they left the elevator. "Otto, shut up, no one gives a shit." Mitchell said at last as they neared the room where the briefing would take place, and that managed to shut the gunner up. The corporal was the first into the room. "Corporal Mitchell and the crew of Crusader 1-2 reporting in!" He said , saluting the CO with a grease stained hand along with the rest of his crew before taking seat in the back of the room.
 
The crew of the Crush 'N Grind strode up to the gathering crews. It wasn't right to say that they marched, for no Nepleslian Marines marched unless it was for close order drill or for a military parade. But there was a uniformity, a definite cohesion to them, forming a finger-four on Corporal Battleaxe.

"Johnny Battleaxe and the Warhammers, ready to rock 'n roll!" he declared proudly.
 
"Hazardous Material, all present and reporting for duty." Adamask stated as he walked to the gathering group of tankers. The crewmen walked in briskly with not so much as a nod to their fellow comrades. The lower ranked commander walked to a respectable distance from the Chief and stood at parade rest, which his crew quickly assumed as well. He looked at the gathering of the unit and caught a few less than hospitable looks.

You don't have to like me or my crew, just do your job and well be fine. Ever the pacifist, he wasn't too keen on stirring up trouble, but his crew sure would. He had ensured they came in clean uniforms and pumped with enough coffee and energy drinks to start their own convenience store. He gradually turned his attention to the Chief and waited instructions.
 
Sasha frowned quietky as some of the othersstarted to file in. One crew was drunk,
disreputable and as far as she was concerned an embarasment to the unit. She crossed her arms and turned her attention awsy from them. She did not understand why a crew like that would be allowed to remain in such a condition.

She hoped the others would hurry up so they could ge to the mission.

Sasha sighed and watched the next group come in, they thought they were a band or something. Then the next, quiet and professional they seemed, though obviously not comfortable being there.
 
Wespe yawned. She did not get that much sleep that night. Just few hours she managed to sneak out from Foss' room. Then it was shower, short nap and then back to the pit to see how things were going with the tank. She looked at The Bone, her pet Maximus tank. Well not only hers, but she was its commander. That was another thing, she still had trouble getting used to. She was now a tank commander, in a proper bloody military as well. Not some half-assed group of mercs, but real soldier. Not that she got here by her own choice, but now that she did she wanted to make most of it.

She did not like being tank commander though. They made her do it, seeing her previous experience with tanks and the fact that her head was not as hollow as your regulars marines. Too bad about her being alien, still it could be worse. She could be Yamataian. As this, soldier around her were more unsure about her than anything else. The worst about being commander was, that she could not be in same tank as Foss. They were great team, well more then a team really. She never told him that though, as far as she knew, he still though they were just having sex out of convenience. She could not just come to him and tell him she loves him though. Being in marines now made the situation even worse.

Wespe sighed and finished fastening extra bits of tracks on the side of the turret. Her team was working on stealing and putting whatever that would be needed on their tank. There were two reasons for the tracks. First tank tracks snap, and having extra is good, seconds it acts as an extra lair of armour. Every milimeter counts. So they put a bit of tracks along the side and back of the turret. They also made sure to steal few extra canisters of gas, though stole was not really a true. It was none of her team who stole it, but quartermasters helped, who then exchanged it for sexual favours from her loader. A six feet tall woman with big breasts and long wavy chestnut coloured hair. Wesped did not really even knew her real name.

The loader was a lorath and they had a custom. A name only for outsiders and people they did not trust enough with their personal name. Loader's name was Wojtek. As far as Wespe knew, officers had knows Wojtek's name, but she did not bother asking or finding out on her own. Wespe herself was hiding her first name, which she despised. When IPG got and asked for ID, she actually put in her name as Wespe. She was used to it anyway.

Getting the gas was easy really, the guy who stole it expected a sexy lorath woman, but it was actually Wespe's gunner who went to collect it. The Bone's gunner was almost seven feet tall Kohanian Wolfman. His name was translated Fastclaw Wolflord and he was insane, aggressive and impulsive. Wespe taught him to behave when it mattered, but she had no feelings of sadness about the man who stole the diesel for the tank. Or rather hid it well in his paperwork, doing a bit of good old military smuggle, expecting at least a blowjob for it, and getting a grin of a giant wolf-beast who thanked him for his good will and carried the gas off.

Wespe grinned at the thought as she Wojtek and Wolflord tying the gas tanks on the back of the tank. They will be they only during travels, and left over in camps. It was not like there was a lot of it anyway. Tanks were hungry beasts and this one was for some reason equipped with an engine that burned fossil fuels. Wespe could not believe it, when she heard so. In the land where fusion technology was as simple as taking a walk, putting a fossil fuel engine into a war machine was just silly. What was next? Steam engines?

"What's on your mind?" Cut in a cutish voice. It was a male's voice, but very grunty, yet somewhat cartoony as if the mouth that said it was very small.
Wesped looked down and saw last member of her crew. He was a Phod cook/driver combo. He liked driving big things and there was nothing bigger and stronger then tanks. End of story. All he needed from life was meat and driving a tank apparently. A tad bit too simple for Wespe, but he seemed genuinely happy.

"Briefing in ten." Wespe said, checking her wrist watch. She corrected the par of gogles on her forehead and lit a cigarette. The phod nodded and whistled at the other too. His name was Rum Taman and he was a bit bulky, with some extra bodily fat. His arms though were clearly muscly and strong even for such a small creature. His feathers wore combination of purple and white colour.

"Oink, all righty." He said and smiled.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT WENCH!" Wolflord grumbled as he jumped off the tank. Growling at Wespe.

"We had this talk," Wespe replied, made one step forward and punched him in the gut. The kohanian, that was a good head taller then her toppled.
"I am the alpha here," Wespe added and puffed on her cigarette. It was good being abwehran on word with a such small gravity.

"Heh nice punch," Wojtek said as she loaded some extra ammo-boxes on top of the tank. More stolen.... found stuff.

___
___

Few minutes later the team walked into the briefing room. "Wespe Tittenlieb and team of freaks reporting," Wespe said as she walked in, doing a lazy salute, before moving to the side. Foss still was no around and she was not really interested in talking with everyone else. Rum munched on a burger, letting go of one hand for a proper bloody salute. Fastclaw grumbled, did something that was not a salute, but was certainly a good effort for someone with clawed paw-hand. Wojtek just saluted normally. The trio then followed Wespe aside like a good puppies. That was good, after all.... she was the alpha.
 
Foss and his cliche shuffled in, their leader giving a lazy salute and looking tired as hell as his stride had a slight limp to it. Even with all that padding, Wespe's iron bones were as weighty as a steel baseball bat. When he saw the woman in question he smiled and hobbled over to the seats nearby.

The crew behind him were anonymous as they walked behind their leader in their ponchos and sombreros hiding their faces and features. They sat down all together with their heads down, almost seeming to sleep as one. If one didn't know better, they could swear they heard a rattling sound from some kind of instrument coming from one of the seated crewed as they sat.
 
Corporal Dolphin Wang's heels clicked sharply as she strode down the hallway towards the briefing room. Her uniform was neat, every fold was perfect, and her dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun stuck through with what looked like an envelope opener shaped like a sword. She looked like her cheekbones had been carved with it. Her eyes were like gimlets, the kind that you stabbed into things and then hooked it for easy handling.

Behind her was her rag-tag team of... children.

There was the former surfer Private Gorman Chang, a tanned and muscular individual with the trailing edges of tattoos curling out from under the sleeves of his uniform. Despite the name was very casually caucasian in appearance, and even though his every second word was 'dude', he was a competent loader, albeit more chatty than skilled.

With him was Private Calico Addolorata Cutter, also 'Cutter', a tall black woman shaped like a cheetah and sleek as a hound. Her limbs were long and fluid, and she didn't so much walk as prowl. Her hair, tight, black and curly, also happened to be trimmed like a lawn ornament into the shape of two cones spiralling out of her head, like horns. She was the gunner whose eyesight was eagle-sharp, even if her aim wasn't.

And last but not least was Private Lyva Tong, all chewing gum and floppy bootlaces and sky-blue hair that was greening slightly at the ends. She was apparently born without fear and was made of elastic, because she had a peculiar history of bouncing back from events and circumstances that would have otherwise made good on the lack of fear thing. She wasn't so much a good driver as a survivable one.

But for all their flaws, they were an unusually well-knit team with a lot more experience under their belts. What talent they lacked was made up for by hard work.

Upon entering the cheaply-dressed briefing room, Wang greeted the Smokehouse with a brisk nod.

"Chief," she said, her voice softer than her looks portrayed. "Prom Ride reporting for duty."
 
"And just where the hell do you think you've been, little lady?" Chief Parry puffed away at the cigar while regarding the most recent of the flotilment's arrivals with a hard stare, "Just floundering in like its any old day, hm?"

He shook his head and instead of waiting for a response he looked over the assembled tank crews once again now that they were all in front of him in - various states of readiness. To be honest, he could have likely chewed them all out for one problem or another. Improper uniforms, showing up after obviously violating regulations by getting drunk inside the dead-line of five hours before duty, and a number of other things. The instinct in his gut warning him about this morning made him think better of it.

Instead he moved to lean against the podium to give everybody present a clearer view of the screen on the wall behind him. Right now it showed nothing of importance. Tapping the cigar out in the ashtray on the podium, he left it there while reaching inside his jumpsuit pocket for the small personal tin he kept to get another one. During this whole time he didn't say anything and allowed each of the crews to talk among themselves, all while keeping his ears open listening. Some of these folks were new to this unit while others had served in other Shaiks or elsewhere in the cavalry. He was thankful the brass hadn't just given him nothing but new recruits for his small part in the fight to establish Nepleslia's more solidified armored corps.

"Well then, since we're all here I suppose I can get us started. In advance, you'll all have noticed that the lads in higher command still haven't gotten our tracks fitted to MkII specifications. I've been asking after it and so far its always the same story." He pressed a single button on the podium and the screen came to life showing a satellite view centered on Fort Bulwark - a large green dot in the center of the screen, "This is going to be a simple shakedown. Cutter Flotilment has a scouting element dropping to the north."

A small green dot appeared on the map to signify this, roughly to the northeast of Fort Bulwark, "K4s running scouting. Command has ordered us to run as their heavy element. Honestly? They expect nothing, but I volunteered us for this because its as good a reason as any to get you all in your tracks for a few hours. And besides, its probably more fun than sitting around this blasted tower all day, hm? So we're just going to shadow them and if the Light Cav get spooked by their own shadow then we can come up and show them its not so terrible, right?"

He lit his cigar, "After that we have orders to report back her and set out stationary targets to try out the new APPE that they've developed. An armor penetrating plasma round. Loaders, you're going to find that the mechanics in the motor pool were kind enough to trade out some of your HEAP and HE shells for a small load of these new toys. So they say this all will be easy."

He pressed another button and the screen clicked off again.

"But in all seriousness, approach this carefully. All of it, boys and girls. We train how we fight." His tone had suddenly become far less relaxed, standing up straight and regarding them all with square looks in the eye when they'd meet him, "We're going to be going in with drogues out the back of speeding shuttles. For a lot of you, I can only imagine that's a new experience. You've been in the simulators but its nothing like the real thing. Remember, throttle to max once you're in the open, and don't brake unless its life-or-death."

He lit his new cigar, "So any questions? We have some time for any questions anybody may have before the shuttle crews will call us up and kindly ask me to hurry you all along."
 
At the Chief's casual rebuke, Wang merely returned with a smile and lightly replied, "This IS my excited face, sir." She looked no different from usual of course, if she was even capable of emotion.

The Corp and the rest of her team shuffled into seats close to the shadow ponchos. Then they whipped out their DJs and began taking notes as soon as Parry began to speak. Occasionally they glanced at each other, saying nothing. Finally, as Perry wrapped up, Wang and her team exchanged notes via datajockeys and came to some sort of silent agreement.

Then PFC1 Lyva Tong shot a hand up into the air.

"Sir!" she barked out, sounding like a grownass man who'd just inhaled a balloon's worth of helium, "have you any advice on what drogue drops are like on this particular kind of terrain?"
 
Mitchell kept quiet, folding his arms across his chest. He just wanted to get on with the drop and get done with it, then he could go back to the base and enjoy the boredom again; Just another day on Longwatch, and the name of the planet pretty much summed up what it was about: a long and boring watch with the promise of another on the next day.

While Mitchell did his best to pay attention to the briefing, the gunner stretched his legs and crossed them, resting his hands behind his head as he started to trash-talk with the driver in whisper's, while his loader was just contended in opening and closing his bionic hand, it was obvious that the ID-SOL was still unfamiliar with the fresh cybernetic that had been installed.

Shifting his weight to the other side of the body, Mitchell waited for the CO to answer another Tank Commander's inquiry.
 
"How long til the drop? I wasn't listening."

The tank commander turned his head and glared at his driver. "Just follow my lead, I'll brief you on the shuttle up." He was ready to go, his crew needed to grab some personal items, but his tank had been stocked the night before. He pulled his datapad out and began typing out the information he needed to know. He lifted his arm up, "Chief, what's the SOP regarding shadows? Can we get some live fire while on mission?"
 
"Man, if you don't have a full load of live rounds, you're doing something wrong," Battleaxe said. "The question isn't do we have live rounds but can we get live rounds that make a bigger boom? HEAP and HESH are wonderful but I want more APPE! Hell, I want a tactical nuke stuffed into one of our rounds with antimatter sprinkled on for seasoning!"

He and his crew were raring to go. None of them wanted to waste more time when they could have been tearing up dirt with CNG or blowing up targets with the Big Gun. They could ask the stupid questions on the flight!
 
With a thick cloud of cigar smoke curling and forming in front of his face, the Chief regarded the P1C who had spoken first, "Its going to be mildly interesting, Private. Probably a touch rougher than you're used to, as far as turbulence is concerned. You can probably expect a slide of at least a hundred meters if your drogues catch good wind. The landing zone is flat enough for the pilots to be happy and large enough to give room to maneuver. It'll be at least fifty meters left and right between you and the tank next to you. But outside of that? We're trying to drop in a V but no promise that's how you'll be when you can finally stop."

"As for getting your trigger fingers exercised? Well Private, I assume you'll play it safe with those 'shadows'. We're the heavy element for a scouting unit. We're supposed to be on a milk-run but remember," he pointed above them. "that Ukk isn't too far away. And besides that, we're already going to get target-shooting in anyways with the APPE, but I wouldn't protest spending a few others before the day is done." The Chief shrugged, "We all know command has enough of them stocked up for the Third Squid Invasion."

Corporal Battleaxe's words brought a small smile around the cigar as he looked down to the message light blinking on his datajockey: hidden from view by the podium it rested on, "Well it seems our chauffeurs are a bit pushy today. Okay then ladies and gentlemen, lets get to it. Down to the motor pool, we need to be wheels-up as soon as possible."

Getting down to the motor pool, the crews would find that the mechanics had taken the time to secure large olive-drab colored packs to the back of each tank, firmly lashed down and secured to their vehicles. The drogue chutes that they were going to be using to slow their speed as much as possible once they had left the shuttles. Other than that their tanks would be almost exactly how they had left them from previous patrols, sans the more stubborn stains from dirt and mud that couldn't be washed off in the quick spray-down that each had been given that morning by the mechanics. Once they were in their tanks, they'd be ushered along by ground-guides to the hangers in which they would find those shuttles. Those shuttles were just small enough to sit four to a single hanger, and each large enough to hold a single tank.

Inside those cargo bays, wiggle room would be at a minimum on the sides, while they would find it easy to go forward or back. If they were to pop the hatch they would find the cargo bays almost entirely empty save for a single crew chief in each making sure their vehicles were properly secured for the flights. Inter-unit talk was unrestricted over comms due to the situation, plus any could talk to the crew chief in their shuttle by simply popping the hatch, or talk among themselves.

Soon the ramps were up, and one by one each shuttle taxied and began to take off.

Using the shorter tunnels of the facility, it wasn't long before the rumble and shift of runways gave way to the turbulence of tundra winds and the feeling in the pit of their stomachs to the sudden rise in altitude for each of them.

"Okay then. This shouldn't be too hard. ETA isn't that long out and I'm going to assure you all from experience that this drop isn't as bad as you may have heard other crews talking it up to be. Any of you who had times in K4s will find its not too far from that in some ways."

It was a bit of a lie, really, but nervous drivers who choked could lead to painful landings.
 
Mikhail's crew sat through the briefing with the inner battle between sleep, headache and the embarassment they'd get if someone puked on the floor. Somehow they all managed to pull through, although their cap'n needed a bit of an elbow shove every now and then. As the briefing ended, the crew of hung over zombies moaned their way to the tank.

Much like any other crew, all the necessities were taken care of, the tank was clean and propery maintenanced. On the front side, however, a very elborate graphiti would be drawn: "I-Knocked-Your-Mother-Last-Night" - while on the back side, one of equal skill read: "Nobody-Wants-A-Happy-Ending". This, was their tank.

Each got to their own individual positions and prepared for the drop.

Mikhail intoned, in a sudden burst of vigour as soon as they all took their position. In fact, a wide grin spread over his face. "Alright! Listen up you bastards! I want a fucking perfect landing, you got that? Let's show those "Battleaxe" shits and their 4th fleet up! Hey, are you listening? Hey Rookie?!"

The poor university student replied in his usually shaky voice: "Y-yes sir..."

But that just couldn't fly. "I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU!"

"Y-YES SIR!" - squealed Tomas Heiner, to wich Mikhail only laughed and got more comfortable in his seat.

"Alright, get your helmets on, sissies. We're dropping in a few."

Roger Williams didn't allow a silence to insue: "Hey Cap'n, do I get to shoot someone today?"

Frank Jameson would intercept the reply: "Shut up, bitch. Your murder-boner is getting annoying."

"OI, YOU WANNA HAVE AT ME, ******?!" - "BRING IT ON CARROT-TOP!"

But the murderous glare of their captain made both of them cringe and let forth an involuntary grunt. They each focused on their own job suddenly.

"Do I get to shoot someone, though?"

Mikhail, Corporal E4, sighed hopelessly.
 
"FUCK THE --- CAT WHORES! FUCK THE --- CAT WHORES! BLOW 'EM TO BITS AN' SMASH THEIR BONES! AND DRINK THE NIIIIIGHT AWAY!" the entire crew of Crush 'N Grind sang the chorus to a song they were working on. The internal speakers were blasting the music loudly.

They continued like that the entire time, singing oblivious to any of the other crews.
 
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