The loadmaster tells us to stand, and we do to the sounds of rattling kit. Ceramic armor clacks together as me and Heathen bump shoulders. She flashes me a grin and punches my shoulder. We all shift and bump and jostle eachother until we're formed into a neat little line nuts to butts. It gets tight when you've packed an aircraft with a platoon of transhuman killing machines.
The doc comes through and gets to work. I don't know what it is that they inject into me like I'm a piece of beef, but I know it's the good stuff. Best I can tell, I'm getting a massive cocktail of elven breastmilk and dinosaur blood (with a hint of kush) shot directly into my bloodstream so I can feel energized, alert, and sufficiently aggressive.
I start checking over Heathen's gear as the drugs kick in, making sure she's got everything secured in place nice and tight, while BK's behind me doing similar to my own kit. I jangle this, shake that, and then slap her on the shoulder to confirm everything checks out. BK finishes working over my gear and gives my ass a nice slap, signalling that I'm good to go as well in his own weird little way. He says something, but it's hard to hear over the bird, so I toss a middle-finger over my shoulder as my rebuttal.
While we're acting like overly-muscled children, the light in the bay comes alive and we're bathed in red.
Our stop's coming up and I feel giddy excitement building in my belly.
The red light dies and is replaced with a green one, signalling that we have reached our destination and the aircrew will no longer tolerate our presence. We sidle towards the hatch as the bird slows and then begins to descend. V/STOLs are fun like that, flying like a plane then turning into a helicopter when it's time to land.
They're also fun in the sense that they like to spontaneously combust when struck by hostile fire, leaving their occupants to slowly burn alive until they finally hit the ground with a merciful splat.
Thankfully, we're not under fire, so we manage to touch ground without issue and the loadmaster drops the ramp for us. We stream out like a tide of dusty olive, nearly run headlong into the opposing current of medics, and divert so as to not be crushed. Squirming, screaming, sobbing chunks of people are carried past and loaded onto our vacated bird until it's stuffed to the brim. Our ride rises, kicking up a tide of dust and grit in it's wake. It's barely off the ground thirty seconds before the next bird is touching down to drop off it's own payload of fresh grunts and taking on the battle-ragged bastards who came before.
The Baroness nods to herself, then opens a platoon-wide channel to pass along word from the Company Commander. She lays out our schedule for the day in her usual clipped manner.
We are to relieve our predecessors, link up with their armored support, and conduct search-and-destroy operations until we ourselves are relieved.
Or we all die.
Whichever comes first.