Tell it to the Marines

Zombie or Post Apocalyptic themed fiction/stories.

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Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sat Mar 27, 2010 5:14 pm

She was anything but the pride of the fleet. Ships of her class never were. She wasn’t an Enterprise Class fleet carrier or a David Hackworth Class battle cruiser or anything so glamorous. No, the USS Mescalero was a Jamestown Class amphibious landing craft, older than her own captain, and the kind of ship that new skippers commanded for a year to get their feet wet before taking command of a capital ship. Those with a sharp eye might still see the old battle scars she had received in the last war, and she bore them proudly. The Mescalero was a workhorse, a dependable beast that always got its people back home and never complained too bitterly no matter what the enemy had thrown at her. Her crew loved her, and it was hard not to. Perhaps she wasn’t the pride of the fleet, but she was certainly close to the hearts of those who had kept her going all these years. Even though the new Wake Island Class amphibious landing craft were all the rage, the old Jamestown Class refused to die. They still had much to offer and were usually all over American-controlled space proving that to retire the ageing warhorses was to give up on a class of ships that had truly earned their right to stand tall with the rest of the fleet. No one who had ever served on the Mescalero would have given her up to the scrap heap lightly.

Down one of the many hallways leading towards the hangar deck walked Captain David Chewlie, United States Marine Corps, on his way to brief his team on a mission that had landed on his lap only two hours before. He was an Annapolis grad who wound up in the top twenty of his class and had spent most of the time since as a well-regarded staff officer, meaning that during the Separatist War, he earned his campaign medals in an office while, in his mind, real marines were earning theirs on the many space colonies and orbital stations that comprised the battlefields of that war. Despite his many attempts to get his hands on a combat assignment, his proficiency in administration was such that his superiors were not willing to let him go, and as the war ended and its heroes honored in America back on earth and her many colonies with medals and adulations, he seethed at the fact that his war was fought with a pen and not with a rifle. It seemed to Captain Chewlie that the universe had passed him by, relegating him to the position of a glorified secretary while chances for promotion below the zone had gone to those with the Combat Action Ribbons to show that they had been there, done that.

After two years wearing the double bars of a captain, David Chewlie applied for, and was accepted to Marine Fleet Recon training, the true elites of a service that was more or less already elite in the eyes of four hundred years worth of American history. He graduated (being the highest ranking man in his class) and had spent seven months serving as operations officer in the headquarters section of Fleet Marine Recon Command before taking command of his own team. Now he was commanding officer of the 9th Fleet Recon Team, a billet he had now officially had for three months, and still he had never fired a shot in anger. He knew that would change. Even though the Separatists were soundly defeated and scattered to the winds in a war that lasted for four years, they still popped up here and there in the more remote reaches of space, engaging in all manner of terrorist activities just to remind their old enemies that they were still out there. Captain Chewlie knew that he would get his chance soon enough to show that he was as tough as any marine. His was a team that had dealt with the Religious Separatists more than a few times. Chewlie was certain, upon receiving his orders from Command, that this was his time. He was finally going into the Suck.

“Attention on deck!” The voice that bellowed out that command could have put a New England lighthouse to shame. It belonged to Master Sergeant Neville Rush, the ranking NCO of the 9th. He was the type of marine who bled green and knew the Marine Code of Conduct better than he knew his own reflection in the mirror. He had spent seventeen of his twenty-one years in the Coprs in Fleet Recon and had seen plenty of Suck, fighting with distinction in some of the worst hell holes of the Separatist War, and had a virtual bucket of Purple Hearts to prove it, as well as a Navy Cross, two Silver Stars, enough Bronze Stars to build his own planetarium. The rest of the 9th respected him to the point of worship, and those first being assigned under him feared him to the point of almost naming a new phobia after him. The fact that Captain David Chewlie was higher on the food chain and was entitled to be addressed as “Sir” and saluted had all the value to Master Sergeant Rush as an Orbital Drop Ship with screen doors. Chewlie may have been in command, but no one, not even Chewlie, was under any doubts about who was the most important marine on the team. He had to prove himself just like any other cheese dick, and this mission would be his chance, or so he hoped.

Nine marines and one squid immediately dropped what they were doing and snapped to attention until Captain Chewlie told them to go to at ease. In front of him were the seven marines of his team and the one navy corpsman who had patched up wounds on all of them at one time or another, including himself. One of the remaining marines was another captain, this one being Captain Zoey Bonaventura, the dropship pilot who had seen her share of action in the Separatist War, and her actions had merited a Distinguished Flying Cross and a bag full of Air Medals. The sole remaining jarhead was her copilot, First Lieutenant Victor Miliani, who was wet behind the ears and like Captain Chewlie, eager to prove himself.

Gunnery Sergeant Hector Morales was a lifer and a battle-scarred veteran like Rush, who was his best friend in the world, and was bound to be after the shit they’d been through. Their friendship had begun before the war and had gotten stronger during it, and now, they both believed that as long as the other was watching their backs, no force of gods or men could do what a shitload of nutty-religious separatists had failed to do. As an operations NCO, he had few equals, and to him, the 9th was the best home and feeder that a man could ask for.

Staff Sergeant Lawrence Henley had joined Fleet Marine Recon just before the war as a corporal and had done the team proud. He was on the fast track to more stripes under the guidance of Rush and Morales, and everyone who knew him was absolutely certain that when his time to retire came, he would a be a sergeant major that the generals would fight over.

Sergeant Quinton Ambrose was another veteran and the senior E-5 on the team. He joined Recon in the middle of the war after a tour as a scout sniper in the 5th Marine Regiment, where his marksmanship was the stuff of legends. Most legendary of all of his exploits was neutralizing a Separatist general in his own command bunker as he paced back and forth behind a window no more than two square feet, while Ambrose waited for three hours in enemy territory before making that shot at a range of nine hundred yards. It wouldn’t have surprised anyone that upon his graduation from Recon training that he was made team sniper.

Sergeant Matthew Eliopolis had served in the 2nd Marine Regiment in the war and joined Recon afterwards, when he realized that the service would be his life and the only way to live that life was to be the best. He had done his share of ops ever since, and his abilities as the team’s demolitions man had buried not a few separatists and other troublesome miscreants.

Sergeant Roland Lithgow was another who had served in the war and joined Recon afterwards, but his war had been spent turning wrenches as a mechanic in the 1st Marine Air Wing. He was determined to get into the suck when the war ended but the leftovers of the Separatist movement were still making their diminishing presence felt. He was certainly in the suck now, and he couldn’t have been happier.

One of the newest on the team was Corporal Greg Krane, who had the distinction of finishing infantry school around the same time that the Separatist High Command declared themselves a defeated enemy. He had signed on specifically for wartime service and felt cheated as he was sent to perform some rather unglamorous occupation duty on the Independence Colony. He signed on for action and was getting it one way or the other. He joined Recon the moment he was allowed, and although he only had two ops under his belt, he was clearly on his way to being a valued team member. He wasn’t quite there yet.

And the youngest and newest was Corporal Marc Chen, who joined as the war was passing into history and quickly grew bored with his time as a radar operator. He had beaten Captain Chewlie to the 9th by only a month, and had yet to line a living enemy in his sights. Like his C.O., he was eager to prove that he was worthy of the globe and anchor on his collar, but his enthusiasm, and especially his ability and willingness to shut his sewer when the vets were talking had made him something of the team’s kid brother, and if he had potential, the older folks were going to help him realize it.

Lastly, there was the one squid that no marine would dare to call a squid. Hospital Corpsman Second Class Kasim Adler, United States Navy, saw some shit at the tail end of the war and had seen his share since. The team was full of scars that never became anything more because the “Doc” was Johnny-on-the-Spot whenever “corpsman!” was uttered. He had also stuck to the age-old saying, “Physician, heal thyself” by patching up his own wounds when he wasn’t already busy looking after his team. But when the bullets were flying and no one was bleeding yet, Doc Adler raised his weapon and gave the enemy hell along with the leathernecks. He yelled “Semper Fi” with as much gusto as the jarheads did, and everyone believed that he had earned that right and then some.

This collection of life-takers and heartbreakers now leaned against this or sat on that, arms folded or held behind backs as they prepared for the first real operational briefing from their unproven commanding officer.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Snapshot7.62 » Sat Mar 27, 2010 5:28 pm

WooHoo! New story!
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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sat Mar 27, 2010 6:15 pm

“Marines, there has been an incident at the British colony on the planet Stygian. Eighty minutes ago, their colonial military command in this sector received a distress call, and although the message is garbled, incomplete, and only lasts a few seconds, it clearly indicates that this incident is a result of Separatist activity. Master Sergeant, play the message.”

Master Sergeant Rush removed his PDA from a pouch on his tactical vest and uplinked it to the PA system on the hangar deck. The voice in the recording was hurried and obviously desperate, possibly panicked, but static obscured too many of his words. Still, what was clear was that the Separatists were at it again. Not that this was anything new.

“…chief administrator of………….we are under att………….they…………repeat. they……….Separatists! Our………….is gone!………..all nearby ships……………..have much time!”

That was all.

Captain Chewlie continued with his briefing. “As you can all hear, this would indicate an act of terrorism perpetrated by what remains of the Separatist Faction in this region of space. The British Colonial Military Command on Agamemnon has requested American assistance, and COMNAVDEESPACE (Command Naval Deep Space) is sending us. Of course, someone is quite fortunate that this ship happens to contain a Fleet Recon team, so we’re going. Our orders are to sneek-and-peek, assess the situation, and either neutralize the threat or report the nature of the incident and request reinforcements as necessary. Master Sergeant Rush will download our schematic of the facility to your PDAs, so I suggest you study them before we hit dirt.”

“Sir?” Sergeant Ambrose raised his hand. “If it’s a Limey colony, what the hell does that have to do with us? Why aren’t they sending the Royal Navy? Don’t they have any presence in that area?”

Captain Chewlie answered, “The Mescalero has been patrolling the border between American and British space for the last four weeks. We are closer to Stygian than any British ship. They’ve requested our help and that is all we need to know. Just because the war is over doesn’t mean our treaty is invalid, Sergeant.”

“What kind of colony is this? I mean, it’s not another mining colony, is it?” That was Staff Sergeant Henley, who remembered with great clarity their operation in the Separatist mining colony on the planet Resurrection, and how he had never seen a tougher one, before or since. None of them had.

“You’re in luck, Staff Sergeant. Stygian has nothing of value, but its location is such that the Brits maintain a facility that serves as a way station for ships passing through that sector of space. They keep a civilian staff of…what was that again, Master Sergeant?” Rush whispered in Chewlie’s ear. “Seventeen hundred, as well as a small military presence. At the moment, a company of the Royal Scots Regiment in on rotation there. But we can’t contact anyone at the colony. Our signal is bouncing off their dish, so they can receive, but no one is responding. That might be a simple matter of their staff having to abandon their communications facility for their own safety, but we don’t know. We’ll find that out when we get there.”

“Rules of engagement, Sir?” Gunny Morales inquired.

“Recon the facility, escort any and all civilian staff to a secure area for extraction to the Mescalero, link up with military forces in the colony and report the situation to higher authority. Engage only on orders. The Mescalero will have all dropships on station to extract civilians when requested. When all civilian staff are secured, we hunker down and wait until the Brits arrive to clean up their mess. And by the way, we’re going to be accompanied by a liaison officer, someone who has operational knowledge of Separatist activity in this particular area of space.”

Captain Chewlie was not shocked to see everyone’s faces morph into a mask of disappointment. Liaison officers usually meant the same thing. Some Army, Navy, or Air Force puke would walk in, stoned on the smell of his own brilliance, and promise not to get in the way while at the same time butting heads with the C.O. and unconsciously telling the leathernecks how to do their jobs. They were a regal pain in the ass and more trouble than the were worth.

As if on cue, another man walked into the hangar at that moment, from the same hallway that Captain Chewlie and Master Sergeant Rush had entered. Like everyone else, he was rigged in full battle gear, seemingly ready for a fight. He didn’t have the look of a man who lived on information alone, but could get down in dirty in the mud and the blood. That meant he would probably try to do just that, and that meant that the 9th would have to look after him even more if the bullets started flying. Once again, the marines would have to play babysitter to a lackey for the brass.

Chewlie began, “Everyone, this is Chief Warrant Officer William Bowyer, United States Navy, from the Officer of Naval Intelligence. He has been assigned as an observer.”

Warrant Officer Bowyer simply nodded at the assembly of green in front of him. He made no efforts to be polite or conciliatory. With a team of genuine badasses in front of him, he knew that neither politeness nor conciliation would mean a thing. He was a swabbie, an intelligence puke, and nothing he could say or do would endear him to a room full of jarheads. Even Petty Officer Adler, the one they called “Doc,” looked unamused at the presence of another squid. The fact that Bowyer was a warrant officer, drawn from the ranks of the best the veteran navy enlisted had to offer, appeared to mean nothing to this collection of NCOs. Every warrant officer was an elite in his own field, and every one, obviously, had done their time wearing stripes. They were some of the best and brightest in the service, with knowledge and technical expertise that younger commissioned officers would beg for. Still, he was a squid, an outsider, not part of the gang. No one wanted him here and no one thought they needed him. Bowyer, of course was fully aware of this and just stood silently.

“Warrant Officer? Do you have anything to add?” Captain Chewlie had a fair job of putting him on the spot.

“Actually, Sir, just this. There has been a minor spike in Separatist activity in this region of space in the last eighteen months. Most of these have been nothing more than a nuisance, easily handled by the appropriate military response, but this incident would indicate an increased level of aggressiveness in Separatist tactics. This might be due to a greater degree of coordination between various Separatist groups, better access to equipment or funding, or possibly a greater level of desperation. We simply don’t know. I am being sent in to observe the situation and report all findings to ONI. That is all. I will not assert rank unless the situation demands it. I will not get in anyone’s way, and I know the battle record of the 9th Fleet Marine Fleet Recon. You all appear to know what you’re doing, so you don’t need me telling you your jobs.”

There were some visible looks of frustration in the room. All nice words, but depressingly familiar. There was always some dumbass reason for a liaison officer to assert his rank. They always got in the way. And they always wound up telling the 9th how to work their magic. At least this one could be handled, this Chief Warrant Officer William Bowyer. He was just a warrant, not a commissioned brass like Captain Chewlie was. Chewlie could tell Bowyer to shut his swabbie mouth if it came to it, and it probably would. Some of the vets on the 9th remembered an Air Force Major sent along near the end of the war, who of course, outranked the 9th’s own C.O., and thought it meant that he might as well appoint himself in command of the mission. His stupidity had the 9th returning from that operation three Purple Hearts heavier, and the fact that none had been killed was nothing short of a miracle. He was the worst liaison officer any of them had ever seen, but not the only worthless one. Fleet Marine Recon always appreciated the chance to kick ass their own way, and their results were always best when no one was looking over their shoulder, but here, approaching the planet Stygian, this was clearly not going to be one of those operations.

Captain Chewlie sensed the discomfort in the room, and got everyone back on track. “All right everyone. Wheels up in thirty. Get geared up and ready to dance. There’s ass to kick and we’re kicking it. Hoo-rah?”

A loud chorus of “Hoo-Rah!” was the response, said by everyone but Warrant Officer Bowyer. It wouldn’t have gone ever well if he had taken part.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Pearl » Sun Mar 28, 2010 6:18 pm

Mmmmm, Mmmmm, Good.

Taking it off planet is a nice change of pace............

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sun Mar 28, 2010 11:04 pm

Within half an hour, the Mescalero was in a stationary orbit above the planet Stygian and Captain Bonaventura was heading straight through the upper atmosphere on their way to the colony. Most of those on board were busy studying their PDAs, trying to get a sense of the layout of the facility where, for all they knew, a few hundred Separatists were holding a couple of thousand Brits hostage or some such thing. Whatever was happening, all of them, even the untried Captain Chewlie and Corporal Chen, weren’t particularly worried. They had been trained to handle such things, and were going in with a load of battle-hardened NCOs who had handled exactly this sort of thing once or twice. The only thing nagging on anyone’s mind was whether or not Chief Warrant Officer Bowyer would fuck it all up. The fact that he was navy didn’t even earn him a single point with Petty Officer Adler, who by now, was as much a jarhead as he was a swabbie.

As the AC-20 Oriole entered the lower atmosphere, the craft shook and caused no small amount of nausea in the passengers, who had of course, expected it and shook it off after a time. By then, the rest of the squadron had lifted off and was getting on station just above the upper atmosphere. They would be ready to extract the locals to the Mescalero and of course, provide close air support if needed. Each Oriole carried a pair of 20mm cannons and rocket pods (guided or unguided, depending on the needs at the moment) and could deliver a whole lot of hell to anything on the ground. If the facility had completely been taken over by a Separatist cell, they might have to do exactly that.

“Three minutes!” Captain Bonaventura yelled through her mike.

“You heard her! Three minutes, Marines! Look sharp!” Everyone checked their gear and checked it again. They all felt their hearts pounding in their chests as the ground got closer and the true reason for the continued existence of the United States Marines waited below. This is what they were for. This is where they were most at home.

Captain Chewlie yelled back, “Hoplite One-Four! Get me an LZ!”

“Roger Wilco!” was the reply. Within seconds, Lieutenant Miliani uploaded to Captain Chewlie’s PDA the information from the Oriole’s terrain scanner and the schematic that had already been downloaded to the craft’s mainframe. “Got it! Landing platform One! Right in front of the facility operations center!”

“LZ status?” Chewlie said back. “Hot?”

“Negative! Nothing showing up on motion trackers, heartbeat sensors, or infrared! No contacts at all! Looks like the LZ is cold! Nice and easy!”

Captain Chewlie did not find that reassuring, and neither did anyone else who had ever been on an operation before. An old saying in the military was, “If it’s going well, you’re walking into an ambush.”

A few seconds later, Lieutenant Miliani reported, “We’re getting a radar signature from the surface! Radar is operational but not active! No incoming pings at all! Nothing down there is seeing us drop!” Now that did comfort Chewlie. Even a handheld surface-to-air radar tracking system would show up on the Oriole’s scanners. Either the Separatists were asleep at the wheel, busy dealing with the Royal Scots still in the fight, or were just total amateurs.

Captain Chewlie (after quietly asking Master Sergeant Rush what he thought, indicating that Chewlie was holding true to the first rule of being an officer: ask the NCOs, then act like it was your idea) then yelled at the rest of his team. “Okay, Fireteam Bravo on point when we hit the ground! Give me a six meter spread! Fireteam Alpha will watch the rear twenty meters behind! Advance on the facility operations center quick, fast an in a hurry! We’ll secure operations and try to run a scan of the whole facility from there, and get a com uplink to the Mescalero! Hoplite One-Four! Remain on station and be ready for close air support on my command!”

“Roger that, Six!”

If anything was setting this operation apart, at least as far as anyone on the 9th could tell, it was Chief Warrant Officer Bowyer, who so far, hadn’t said anything since taking his seat in the Oriole. He wasn’t raring to go like the most naïve liaison officers they usually had, nor was he shaking in his boots like some others. Rather, he was stoic, studying his own PDA, no trace of emotion on his face. He looked like a man with a job to do, without any personal feelings on the subject. That was rare for a tag-along. Even though he was from the Office of Naval Intelligence, he had the look of a man who wasn’t really experiencing anything new.

“One minute! Give ‘em hell, Marines!” Captain Bonaventura bellowed out through her com. Of course, the response, in unison, from the rear was, “Hoo-rah!” Again, Bowyer said nothing. He didn’t even act like he heard a thing.

The gang could hear the telltale sound, one which resembled steam escaping, as the airtight seal retracted, the cabin pressurized, and the artificial gravity mechanism shut down in favor of the real thing. That meant that the ground was about to greet them.

The Oriole hit the landing platform hard and the cargo ramp dropped with equal force. Eleven sets of boots were on the ground, moving quickly into formation as the Oriole immediately lifted off to an altitude of only about a hundred meters, ready to extract or pound the living shit out of whatever the 9th happened to want pounded.

“Hoplite One-Four, on station!”

The weather was clam and clear and the time was somewhere in the middle of the night, whatever that meant on a planet that probably didn’t rotate as quickly as some others and on a colony that was probably near one of the poles as far as anyone knew. But there was an eerie calm, a noiseless night that all too often preceded a firefight. When all was quiet, it was usually because someone was going out of their way to be silent. If anyone was out there, then they sure as hell weren’t bothering to ambush the 9th at their most vulnerable. Either that, or the sight of an AC-20 Oriole with enough firepower to waste a fully packed football stadium stayed their hands.

Captain Chewlie began getting his people to where they needed to be. “Bravo, move up! Get that door to operations open! We’re inside in twenty seconds!”

Bravo moved up, but opening the door was about as simple as Sergeant Lithgow pushing a button on the digital console by the door. “Would you prefer five seconds, Sir?”

“Indeed I would! Everyone inside! Eliopolis, cover our six!”

A few seconds later, everyone was inside the operations center, spreading out and kicking open the doors to lockers and closets. Nothing and no one was anywhere in operations. Some papers and other loose items were on the floor here and there, but there sure as hell hadn’t been a fight in here.

This certainly wasn’t typical.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by TheGunslinger » Sun Mar 28, 2010 11:14 pm

Despite myself, I'm liking this. No offence, as I thought it would be hackneyed, but yuo've got a nice fluid writing style and I'm quite enjoying it.
Bureaucracy destroys initiative. There is little that bureaucrats hate more than innovation, especially innovation that produces better results than the old routines. Improvements always make those at the top of the heap look inept. Who enjoys appearing inept? ~A Guide to Trial and Error in Government, Bene Gesserit Archive

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ronin71XS » Sun Mar 28, 2010 11:16 pm

:::::::Happy Dance::::::: More Ponyboy story goodness!!!
Do, Do Not, there is no try. ~Yoda

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Come To The DarkSide....We have cookies.~~V

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ronin71XS » Mon Mar 29, 2010 9:06 am

rereading this it kinda reminds me of "ALIENS"
Do, Do Not, there is no try. ~Yoda

He who does not punish evil commands it to be done.~ Leonardo Da Vinci

Come To The DarkSide....We have cookies.~~V

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Yeti » Mon Mar 29, 2010 10:04 am

I like it. Only one thing on it bothers me any, but I can work past it for a good story.
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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Bun-G » Mon Mar 29, 2010 10:18 am

Moooooar

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Snapshot7.62 » Mon Mar 29, 2010 5:59 pm

Ronin71XS wrote:rereading this it kinda reminds me of "ALIENS"
Well said, with a hint of "DOOM" also
Suizen wrote:CZ is made of sex. Angry, ass slapping, hair pulling, filthy, dirty sex.

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Cascade Failure » Mon Mar 29, 2010 6:12 pm

Yeti wrote:I like it. Only one thing on it bothers me any, but I can work past it for a good story.
What bugs ya?

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ponyboy314 » Mon Mar 29, 2010 7:34 pm

The operations center was not particularly big. In fact, it was no larger than the average three-bedroom, one-story house. Of course, it didn’t need to be considering the facility was only home to about nineteen hundred people all told. There were consoles here and there, with offices and storage rooms, with desks and a coffee room. This was the nerve center of the facility, where all the magic happened. The general running and governing of the entire Stygian colony happened in his room. And there was no one home.

Gunny Morales looked around, seeing the scene for what it was, and off-handedly saying, “Looks like whoever was in here before just got up and walked out. No bodies, blood, shell casings, impact marks on the walls, nothing. Whatever happened in this place didn’t happen in here.”

“Then let’s find out where it did happen. Sergeant Ambrose, get on a terminal and try to access any security feed you find. Lithgow, there should be a scanning module in here. Find it and start scanning for everything. Heartbeats, heat signatures, motion, anything. Also, someone look on their PDA and try to get us the shortest route to the Royal Scots command post. I have a feeling we’re heading there before long.” Captain Chewlie was playing by the basic rulebook that he had learned in Fleet Recon training, and at the moment, it was doing him credit. He would learn to improvise and add his own personal touch to his operations, but that would come later. The ones who didn’t last long were those who tried to get cute and personalize their command style right out of the gate when they didn’t have the time in the field for such things. Chewlie was doing what he was supposed to do. Remembering his training and listening to his NCOs. So far, he was impressing his men, which was damned hard to do.

“Warrant Officer, what are you doing?” Captain Chewlie asked. He saw Warrant Officer Bowyer at a terminal, typing away, buried in concentration.

“Trying to access the communications log, Sir. All we know is what we’ve heard in that transmission they sent to area command. I want to see if this colony made any transmissions before and after that. If they did, it might give us a clue as to what happened here. If not…”

“If not what?”

“Then something is really, really wrong here Sir. Under attack and only one transmission sent?”

Captain Chewlie pondered that, wondering what this could mean. He was the only one who was. His team was busy seeing to their jobs. “And if they didn’t send any other transmissions, what does that mean? Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“No Sir. I’m in intelligence, not a line officer. But still, I was ordered by my superiors to check the communications log and assume the worst if we don’t find anything else pertaining to this incident.”

Chewlie had but one more question. “What was your rate, Warrant Officer? Were you in intelligence as an enlisted?”

“No sir. Well, not exactly. I was a communications specialist. I just happened to serve with ONI.”

“Uh-huh.” At least that made sense. The Navy sent along someone who was actually good at something, something that might actually make this whole thing go smoother. And so far, Bowyer hadn’t gotten in anyone’s way. That was a plus.

It took several minutes for Sergeant Ambrose to hack into the security feed. It was code-protected, but that didn’t do anything to stop him and not much to slow him down, but it was elaborate and the code sequence was, of course, British, and he wasn’t privy to it. But on a large screen on the wall in front of him, a couple of seconds of static was followed by a fairly sharp image of the hallway outside, and as he continued clicking, the image changed from one area of the facility to another. No one was visible anywhere.

“Where the fuck is everyone?” Corporal Krane wondered aloud. No living people was one thing, but no bodies? That was something else.

No sooner had Krane finished his thought when Sergeant Lithgow sounded off. “Sir? This is strange. You might want to take a look at this.” He punched the image on his monitor to the larger screen on the wall. Lithgow cycled through one type of scan after another, and none of them matched.

“What am I looking at here, Sergeant?”

“Well Sir, I was able to run a motion-tracking scan of the facility, and I got a fuck load of hits, most of them in the primary and secondary storage areas, and some more in the maintenance bay in the main docking hangar. Movement Sir, lots of it.”

“What’s so unusual about that?”

“Sir, when I ran the infrared, it came up negative in both areas. I have a few hits in the civilian dormitory, but in storage and maintenance, nothing.”

Master Sergeant Rush, veteran that he was, had seen stranger things than this. “Well Lithgow, you did run the heartbeat monitors, right?”

“I sure as hell did, Top. Nothing. A whole lot of movement, but in those areas, not one beating heart, not one organic heat signature. That doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to me.”

Warrant Officer Bowyer froze at his console. For a few seconds, he didn’t even blink. He slowly looked up at the cluster of marines gathered around Sergeant Lithgow’s terminal. His eyes locked on them with a gaze of impending doom.

Captain Chewlie tried to reason his way through this confusion. “Sergeant, is it possible that the heat and heartbeat sensors are malfunctioning in those areas?”

“It’s possible Sir, but the motion trackers are working fine. They all operate on the same breakers, Sir, that is, if the Limeys design their facilities the way we design ours.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Lithgow, how long would it take you to run a diagnostic of all sensory equipment in the storage areas and maintenance?”

“Probably…three minutes or so, Sir.”

“Then get on it. And upload the location of your hits in the dormitory to our PDAs. We’re heading that way in five. We’re going to find whoever’s in there and find out what the fuck is going on in this place.”

Throughout it all, Bowyer just sat and stared. His lips did not quiver, his eyes did not blink, and his palms did not even sweat. No one else in the room noticed him. If they had, they might have said that it seemed like a dark cloud was forming around Bowyer, one that couldn’t be seen but could certainly be felt.

But while Bowyer was busy not being noticed, Sergeant Ambrose sounded off. “Sir, I just tried to access the security feed in the same areas where Lithgow’s running his diagnostic. All I’m getting is static. It doesn’t matter what I do. I can’t get those cameras back online.”

“Can you access the cameras in the dormitory area?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Then punch it up. Match up the camera to the location on your PDA. I want to see who’s out there.” Captain Chewlie looked at the wall monitor intently. The screen switched over to a long hallway, dotted with doors. Nothing was in the hall, that was for sure.

“You see that room, Sir? Room, 1127?”

“I do.”

“The heat and heartbeat signatures Lithgow found are in that room.”

“Can you access a camera in that room?”

“Sorry Sir. There is no security feed going in or out of those rooms. Those are private residences. I guess no one wants to play voyeur with the locals. I tell you, these Limeys…they’re repressed, Sir.”

“Sir?” Sergeant Lithgow interrupted.

“What?”

“Just ran a full diagnostic, Sir. All sensory equipment in storage and maintenance is functioning normally.”

“Then why can’t you get a hit on heartbeat or infrared?”

“I don’t know, Sir. You know what I know at the moment. They don’t pay me to make guesses that don’t mean shit.”

Captain Chewlie was now utterly confused. Maybe the British just built a piece of shit facility. That was rare for them. Not so much for the French colonies, but…

Chewlie was getting tired of this shit and decided to knock it all off and get out there and actually do some real recon. “Warrant Officer, are you all right?”

Bowyer snapped back into reality. “Yes Sir, I was just pondering what all this meant, the equipment not functionally normally when a diagnostic says it is. Maybe the equipment was made on one of the Korean Industrial colonies.”

“Maybe. But did you find anything?”

“No Sir. Not one transmission. Other than the one we already know about, no on radioed anything to anyone about this.”

Chewlie had lost patience. “Okay Marines, lock and load. We’re going to get our asses out there and find out what kind of clusterfuck show the Limeys are running. Hoo-rah?”

“Hoo-rah!”
Last edited by Ponyboy314 on Mon Mar 29, 2010 8:47 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Cascade Failure » Mon Mar 29, 2010 8:32 pm

Ponyboy314 wrote:“Roo, 1127?”
Why name your kangaroos?


MOAR!

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by nateted4 » Tue Mar 30, 2010 9:58 pm

SPACE ZOMBIES !?! :shock:
Raptor wrote:Carrying weapons openly and dressing in cammies (even if legal in the area) will get you killed.
Kommander wrote:So now ... we [are] worried that we may be faced with multiple heavily armed and armoured assailants in our day to day life ... I must have accidentally stumbled into the Somalia chapter subform or something.

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by wyecoyte » Tue Mar 30, 2010 10:43 pm

Alright Ponyboy good to see some moar story.
nateted4 wrote:SPACE ZOMBIES !?! :shock:
Maybe they are space zombie aliens? Or zombie Predators? Zombie vs space marines vs aliens vs predators.

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by walterde » Wed Mar 31, 2010 10:50 pm

HOLY SHIT!!! I'm liking this one, post the next one quick preferably tomorrow night, cause I'm off work Friday and Saturday and dont waste time on my puter on my own time.
I gotta go to class.

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ronin71XS » Thu Apr 01, 2010 2:53 pm

wyecoyte wrote:Alright Ponyboy good to see some moar story.
nateted4 wrote:SPACE ZOMBIES !?! :shock:
Maybe they are space zombie aliens? Or zombie Predators? Zombie vs space marines vs aliens vs predators.

That's it, I'm taking my m40A1 pulse rifle and going home before I get a faceful of undead Alien Wing-Wong!
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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by ZMace » Thu Apr 01, 2010 4:09 pm

Nice, will be watching this one.
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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Pearl » Mon Apr 05, 2010 11:29 pm

Waiting, Hoping, Pacing, pacing, pacing, ................... Moar MOAR MOAR ?!!?!?!!!!!!?!?!!!

You know I have really gotten tired of real life throwing monkey wrenches into my reading...........

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Troubadour » Tue Apr 06, 2010 6:44 am

Reading this... Keep it coming.

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Wrecking Ball » Tue Apr 06, 2010 9:35 pm

Waiting for MOAR on this, too.
Finch wrote:i sometimes hope zombies come so i dont have to go to work
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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by Ponyboy314 » Sat Apr 10, 2010 6:49 am

Captain Chewlie studied his PDA, trying to determine the fastest route to the civilian dormitory area, and fortunately, the two were not particularly far apart. The medical facility and the colonial secondary school were all that really stood between them except for a couple of hundred yards of hallway. They could be there in a few minutes if they hustled, which of course, they intended to do.

“Doc, you and Bowyer here linger in the rear. Alpha will be on point and Bravo will cover the six. Lithgow, Ambrose, I want you two in here on your terminals. Keep scanning and get on your coms the moment you see anything, and I don’t care what it is. And make sure we have our uplink to the Mescalero and the other Orioles. I don’t want to have to wait when we need support.

Ambrose and Lithgow replied, “Yes Sir” in unison.

As the rest of the team moved out into the hallway, the situation was not unlike what they saw in the operations center. No signs of a fight, none whatsoever. Nothing was even in disarray. Although this raised a few neck hairs, they all put it out of their minds as they moved down one of the main hallways and towards the dormitories.

“Master Sergeant, how close are we getting?”

“Another hundred and thirty meters, Sir.”

The team passed by the medical facility, which resembled (through the long window that ran almost the whole length of the facility) any small town clinic in America back on earth. From what they could see, there was a waiting room and a receptionist’s desk, and hallways that led to the examination and surgical rooms further back. Of course, with an “incident” being the reason that they were there in the first place, it was of note to the team that there were bodies, no blood, nothing that indicated that anything was wrong. If there had been wounded, this is certainly where they would have been brought. The secondary school, however, was behind a large, pressure-sealed set of double doors and there was no way to tell what the interior looked like, but then, no heat or heartbeat signatures, and no hits on the motion trackers, so no one particularly cared.

“Ambrose, Lithgow, any hits? Anything at all?”

Both answered in the negative. The situation hadn’t changed at all.

The group reached the dormitory and turned down the hall, seeing nothing as they went. The hall was completely empty, not just of people, but of debris or equipment of any kind. The team stayed in formation while Warrant Officer Bowyer stayed in the rear, hands grasping his tactical shotgun, ready to dance at a moment’s notice. He was acting less like an office jockey from intelligence and more like…like the marines moving silently in front of him. Had any bothered to look at him, every one of them would have thought that to be rather strange. After the turn down the dormitory hall, it was another seventy meters to room 1127.

Corporal Marc Chen, the newbie, was earning his stripes on point, using all of his training to move with swift silence and keep himself calm, even though the eerie silence and inexplicable condition of a colonial facility that had supposedly been attacked had him a little rattled, and to his credit, no one noticed. He immediately put his hand up, signaling the rest of the team to halt where they were.

Using hand signals, Corporal Chen silently informed the rest of the team that room 1127 was ten meters ahead of them, on the left.

The eyes turned to Captain Chewlie. He signaled his team to stack up on the door, prepare to breach, and to flash and clear the room. Corporal Chen and Gunny Morales took the left side and Staff Sergeant Henley and Corporal Krane took the right. Henley readied a flash grenade while Sergeant Eliopolis placed an electromagnetic breaching charge (a newfangled type that electronically neutralized the doors security features without blowing it apart or harming anyone on the other side). Captain Chewlie, Master Sergeant Rush, Petty Officer Adler, and Warrant Officer Bowyer readied themselves for whatever might come charging out at them.

As quietly as possible, Chewlie contacted his men in the operations center on his coms.

“Lithgow, how are your readings on the other side of that door?”

“Five heartbeats, five heat signatures. All strong readings.”

“Understood. Ambrose, can you see us?”

Sergeant Ambrose could, in fact, see them clearly on the security cameras. “Affirmative, Sir. Your image is crystal.”

“Roger that.”

Moving back to the door, Chewlie counted down from five on his fingers. When his fist clenched, meaning ‘zero, go,’ Eliopolis moved back and clicked the handheld trigger.

A loud crack, a shower of sparks, and the door’s security features went offline. As the charge was designed to do, the door itself was still functioning. Gunny Morales slammed his hand on the ‘open’ pad and the door began to slide open. No sooner had it opened one foot when they all heard screams, from both genders, emanating from the other side. Staff Sergeant Henley did not hesitate. He tossed in his flash grenade and it went off with a loud pop.

“Go, go, go!” Chewlie yelled.

The first four marines moved quickly yet methodically into the room, seeing that it was not particularly large. It must have been the quarters of a single adult, as it was no larger than a one-bedroom apartment. The living room and entryway were especially small, barely large enough to fit the whole team as they filed in and scanned the room. Everything appeared to be nice and neat, pictures angled correctly on the walls, with books and holo-movies in apparent alphabetical order on the shelves. The only thing out of place, would have been the four people, lying on the ground groaning, covering their ears. A middle-aged woman, a teenage boy, a girl about his age, and a girl no older than seven or eight were all crumpled on the floor, their accents making themselves quite pronounced in their groans.

“Room clear!” Henley yelled, before moving on with Corporal Krane to begin checking the rest of the small domicile.

Captain Chewlie said, “Doc, get them on their feet and onto the couch and the chairs. Let’s see what the hell this is all about.”

Doc Adler did as he was ordered, but a flash grenade’s affects did not wear off that quickly, and even after helping them into their seats, all the four could do was groan even more and blink rapidly with watery eyes.

Staff Sergeant Henley slowly moved down the short hallway, turning quickly into the bedroom when he saw the barrel of a rifle aimed at his face. It was a terrified soldier, the patch of the Royal Scots Regiment neatly displayed on his shoulder, lips, quivering, muttering to himself in the manner of a child having just woken up from a nightmare that would not quickly fade, even in the waking hours.

It lasted about one second, which is as long as Staff Sergeant Henley ever took for such things.

He used the barrel of his own weapon to bat the other’s out of the way before sweeping his leg out from under the terrified young man and using his free hand to slam him into the ground. His grip then landed squarely on the man’s neck, holding his fast, as Corporal Krane took the man’s weapon from his weak grip.

“Listen, kid…United States Marines, we’re here to rescue you.”

They helped the young soldier to his feet, who blinked starry-eyed at them, amazed at what manifested itself in his line of sight.

“Bloody hell, fucking Yanks? What the bloody fuck are you doing here?”

“Hey, you called us, remember? We’re here to unfuck whatever’s happening out here in the ass end of space.” Henley led him back to the living room, where the others were finally coming around.

“Sir, we have a survivor, one of the Royal Scots guys.” Staff Sergeant Henley stepped away from the young man, knowing that it was now Captain Chewlie’s turn.

“Solider, we are United States Marines, here to assist you. I’m Captain Chewlie, Fleet Recon. Who are you?”

Upon realizing that he was being spoken to by a captain, the Scot immediately snapped a palms-out salute. “Royal Highland Fusiliers, B Company. Private Fraser.” His lips were quivering still.

“Private Fraser, you and I are going to have a nice, long chat about what the fuck is happening in this shithole. Master Sergeant, get everyone moving. We’re heading back to the medical center. Doc, I want all these people checked out. We’ll start the questioning as soon as we get there.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

The civilians were not easy to move. The middle-aged woman almost collapsed as the marines tried to help her to her feet. She began quivering and crying to the point of screaming at the top of her lungs, though her words were beyond understanding, thick British accent or not.

“What the fuck, get her on her feet! Corporal Krane, help her up and carry her if you have to. You kid,” Captain Chewlie looked at the teenage boy. “Is that your girlfriend?”

The kid could only nod.

“Good, then you’re already supposed to be helping her. Get her moving. We’re out of here ten seconds ago.”

Master Sergeant Rush carried the little girl on his shoulders, and while she was still silent, she almost seemed to be enjoying the ride. They moved with all possible haste back to the medical facility, where Doc Adler began examining them as best he could.

Captain Chewlie radioed Bonaventura. “Hoplite One-Four, come in.”

“Hoplite One-Four, on station and awaiting instructions.”

“We have survivors here, no sign of hostile forces. One military and four civilian. Be ready to extract on my command.”

“Roger that. Ready.”

Captain Chewlie then got right up to Private Fraser’s face. “Now then, Private, you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on. We can’t raise any heat signatures other than yours. Where is everyone? We can’t find any traces of Separatist activity.”

“Separatists? Is that what the bloody morons told you, Sir? That Separatists did this? Bleedin’ Area Command…heads up their asses as always…”

“Not them, huh? Then care to explain what the fuck happened here? Where is your company? Where is everyone else? Start talking Scotty, before I lose patience.”

Fraser began to shake, so much so that Doc Adler had to turn his immediate attention to the teenage girl, who was in utter shock and could shake if she wanted to.

“I don’t know who they were, Sir, or even what. They just seemed to pop up out of nowhere. No weapons, they couldn’t talk, or at least they didn’t…diseased, Sir. Bunch of fucking blighters looked nasty, like they were rotting while still alive. Stumbled around like they were piss-drunk. I don’t know what the fuck they are. They…” Private Fraser went wide-eyed, forcing himself to continue. “They reeked like shite, Sir. They…the Captain mustered us up in the storage area, but we couldn’t stop them. Bio-weapon of some kind...never seen anything like it, but what the hell are we doing standing around here? We need to get off this bleedin’ rock! Nothing we can do is going to stop them!.”

Warrant Officer Bowyer had been listening intently, but now was no longer content to sit around and let Captain Chewlie just ask the questions from the playbook. He walked briskly up to Private Fraser, not caring that he was, in effect, pushing Chewlie out of the way. He grabbed Fraser by his coat and almost shook him.

“Private, I’m going to ask some questions and you’re going to answer them. How long ago did this things first appear?”

Captain Chewlie was livid. “Warrant Officer, what the fuck…”

“Shut up, jarhead. Anyway, how long ago were they first sighted? Start speaking!”

“About four hours ago! At least that’s when I heard the first reports! We thought it was some kind of plague, some virus indigenous to the planet or something, but we all had our jabs and…”

“Never mind that shit. What was the response? What did your company do about it?”

“The captain, he just told us to contain the infection or whatever it was, and when these things began stumbling around the bloody facility, he ordered all civilians to the storage area, but we couldn’t hold them! I put a fucking magazine into one and it didn’t do a damned thing! We…”

Warrant Officer Bowyer kept pressing. “Do you know anything about any ships docking here in the last twenty-four hours? Any chance it could have come from that?”

“I heard about a bulk freighter from the South African Federation docking here yesterday, but…”

“Is it still here?”

“I don’t bleedin’ know, Sir!”

Bowyer got on his coms. “Sergeant Ambrose, get yourself on the colonial logs and see if you can find a South African ship, whichever was the most recent one to dock here. See if it’s still here.”

The response from Ambrose was, “Aye aye, Sir.”

“Sir, we need to get the fuck out of here!” Private Fraser was on the verge of a mental meltdown.

“We will, but first we need to have a look for ourselves, and that means you’re coming with us, Private. You know this place, and you’re guiding us. If you are harboring some ideas of not doing so, you had best let those go right fucking now.”

“But Sir…”

“That’s a fucking order, Scotty.”
"If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake, and there's a straw, there it is, that's a straw...and my straw reaches...acrosssssssss the room, and begins to drink your milkshake. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! SLURRRP! I DRINK IT UP!

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Re: Tell it to the Marines

Post by FrANkNstEin » Sun Apr 11, 2010 7:43 am

Space Zombies FTW! :)

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