Velkya
10-02-2008, 05:22
[Hill 321, Grand Keystone Isle, 2482 kilometers from the Commonwealth of the Veranda Isles]
"Nice weather out, eh? I'd hate to have to drop girders in a gale, I'll tell you that."
The first figure lay spread eagle on the rocky hillside, his laser range finder and barometric instruments collapsed at his side. A second voice answered the first, replying in a thick accent that more than suggested that the speaker's native tongue was not English.
"Ah, Sergeant, your alliteration is both appalling and amusing, I will admit."
The first smiled.
"As is yours, Sergent-chef, as is yours."
Before these two men lay a breathtaking scene. For as far as the naked eye could see, paradise. An endless oasis of pristine white sand and palm trees constantly assaulted by an equally infinite azure ocean, both lit by the luminance of a brilliant yellow sun. It was difficult for the pair to concentrate on their duties with such a beautiful backdrop, and only the mechanical and cold static of their radio was able to tear their gaze from this awe inspiring scene.
"...Echo Team, this is Hotel Zero-Three, confirm landing zone, over..."
The accented fellow scrambled for the radio to report his response, cursing as he plucked the receiver from the sand. As if for the first time in his life, he realized just what he and his compatriot were doing here.
"...erm, roger, Hotel, landing zone is marked, transponder is active, over."
Fumbling through his rug sack for the small control device, the soldier gripped something cold and metallic, and inwardly smiled at his luck, only to retrieve from the bag a simple tactical flashlight.
His frustrated curses could not be heard by the crew of CH-23 'Hotel Zero-Three' as they passed low over the serene whitecaps of the Eastern Havenic Sea. Their twin blades churned the sea with great invisible columns of rotor wash, spraying salty mist into the mouths of the combat engineers riding on the rear loading ramp. Behind her, five other heavy lift helicopters followed in a loose line astern formation, a snake-like train of bluish gray giants slithering just above the newly disturbed seas.
In the cockpit of CH-23, however, the disturbances were far from recent. Flight Lieutenant Jacob J. Yonkers scanned the horizon through his cheap pair of aviator sunglasses, his eyes darting across the liquid crystal displays in front of him. Reviewing the status of his aircraft was second nature to him and his fellow pilots, the seemingly simple act a nonnegotiable requirement for survival. Situational awareness was key, all instructors would say, and avoiding the practice was inviting death to fly copilot with you.
Of course, Yonkers' copilot appeared to be far from deadly. The jovial looking Lieutenant Gardener was transfixed on his navigation and RADAR display, waiting patiently for the aforementioned transponder to go active. He turned to his partner in crime, Yonkers' face fixed into an oddly mixed expression of boredom and dutifulness. His voice was distorted by the static of the intercom system as he spoke.
"These Goddamned army pukes couldn't cut it shoveling fries, I tell ya!"
Yonkers' lips curved into a smirk.
"Well, Jester, gotta give them credit, dumping potato shavings into motor oil's a lot more challenging than turning on a RADAR beacon."
"Haha, guess you're right, man. Alright, here we go, they got it. Now, about my side order..."
Amidst the now audible pinging of the transponder on the RADAR display, both aviators chuckled heartily, much to the dismay of the mounted squad of engineers who were most assuredly "army pukes". Fortunately, the two personifications of vomit on the shore of the island ahead were blissfully unaware of the insults being dealt to them by their Navy brethren.
Soon, they were visible on the horizon, and the two surveyors nonchalantly rose from their resting positions, their ears cocked as the deep rumble of helicopter rotors grew louder and louder until it resounded in their very cores. The five chalks slowed their forward velocities, ascending a small measure in order to achieve an optimum landing position. Inside the craft, the infantry and their equipment prepared to dismount, the loading ramps embedding themselves in the previously virgin sand. The accented soldier, identifying himself as Sergeant Michael Robespierre with his Chalinberg accent and uniform, collected his belongings in preparation for the return flight back to the Just Cause, a Freeport class helicopter carrier stationed near the central island.
His partner, an Aurelian noncommissioned officer, took one last glance inland at the island. Her majestic hills replete with verdant forests, artful rock outcroppings, flocks of pearly white albatross and dusty smoke trails- wait a minute, smoke trails?
Within a fraction of a second, he and his partner has dropped flat to the rocky ground, but it was far too late for 'Hotel Zero-Three'. To their rear, they felt the heat of the explosion and the concussive roar of secondary detonations as fuel and ammunition ignited into a fiery and thunderous conflagration. Robespierre's hand shot into his backpack, drawing out again a cold metallic tool, the shape and texture all too familiar in his hands. Who had been but minutes an easy going slacker quickly made the transformation to a calculating and determined soldier.
His rifle charged and ready, Robespierre began to wreak his vengeance.
So much for paradise.
"Nice weather out, eh? I'd hate to have to drop girders in a gale, I'll tell you that."
The first figure lay spread eagle on the rocky hillside, his laser range finder and barometric instruments collapsed at his side. A second voice answered the first, replying in a thick accent that more than suggested that the speaker's native tongue was not English.
"Ah, Sergeant, your alliteration is both appalling and amusing, I will admit."
The first smiled.
"As is yours, Sergent-chef, as is yours."
Before these two men lay a breathtaking scene. For as far as the naked eye could see, paradise. An endless oasis of pristine white sand and palm trees constantly assaulted by an equally infinite azure ocean, both lit by the luminance of a brilliant yellow sun. It was difficult for the pair to concentrate on their duties with such a beautiful backdrop, and only the mechanical and cold static of their radio was able to tear their gaze from this awe inspiring scene.
"...Echo Team, this is Hotel Zero-Three, confirm landing zone, over..."
The accented fellow scrambled for the radio to report his response, cursing as he plucked the receiver from the sand. As if for the first time in his life, he realized just what he and his compatriot were doing here.
"...erm, roger, Hotel, landing zone is marked, transponder is active, over."
Fumbling through his rug sack for the small control device, the soldier gripped something cold and metallic, and inwardly smiled at his luck, only to retrieve from the bag a simple tactical flashlight.
His frustrated curses could not be heard by the crew of CH-23 'Hotel Zero-Three' as they passed low over the serene whitecaps of the Eastern Havenic Sea. Their twin blades churned the sea with great invisible columns of rotor wash, spraying salty mist into the mouths of the combat engineers riding on the rear loading ramp. Behind her, five other heavy lift helicopters followed in a loose line astern formation, a snake-like train of bluish gray giants slithering just above the newly disturbed seas.
In the cockpit of CH-23, however, the disturbances were far from recent. Flight Lieutenant Jacob J. Yonkers scanned the horizon through his cheap pair of aviator sunglasses, his eyes darting across the liquid crystal displays in front of him. Reviewing the status of his aircraft was second nature to him and his fellow pilots, the seemingly simple act a nonnegotiable requirement for survival. Situational awareness was key, all instructors would say, and avoiding the practice was inviting death to fly copilot with you.
Of course, Yonkers' copilot appeared to be far from deadly. The jovial looking Lieutenant Gardener was transfixed on his navigation and RADAR display, waiting patiently for the aforementioned transponder to go active. He turned to his partner in crime, Yonkers' face fixed into an oddly mixed expression of boredom and dutifulness. His voice was distorted by the static of the intercom system as he spoke.
"These Goddamned army pukes couldn't cut it shoveling fries, I tell ya!"
Yonkers' lips curved into a smirk.
"Well, Jester, gotta give them credit, dumping potato shavings into motor oil's a lot more challenging than turning on a RADAR beacon."
"Haha, guess you're right, man. Alright, here we go, they got it. Now, about my side order..."
Amidst the now audible pinging of the transponder on the RADAR display, both aviators chuckled heartily, much to the dismay of the mounted squad of engineers who were most assuredly "army pukes". Fortunately, the two personifications of vomit on the shore of the island ahead were blissfully unaware of the insults being dealt to them by their Navy brethren.
Soon, they were visible on the horizon, and the two surveyors nonchalantly rose from their resting positions, their ears cocked as the deep rumble of helicopter rotors grew louder and louder until it resounded in their very cores. The five chalks slowed their forward velocities, ascending a small measure in order to achieve an optimum landing position. Inside the craft, the infantry and their equipment prepared to dismount, the loading ramps embedding themselves in the previously virgin sand. The accented soldier, identifying himself as Sergeant Michael Robespierre with his Chalinberg accent and uniform, collected his belongings in preparation for the return flight back to the Just Cause, a Freeport class helicopter carrier stationed near the central island.
His partner, an Aurelian noncommissioned officer, took one last glance inland at the island. Her majestic hills replete with verdant forests, artful rock outcroppings, flocks of pearly white albatross and dusty smoke trails- wait a minute, smoke trails?
Within a fraction of a second, he and his partner has dropped flat to the rocky ground, but it was far too late for 'Hotel Zero-Three'. To their rear, they felt the heat of the explosion and the concussive roar of secondary detonations as fuel and ammunition ignited into a fiery and thunderous conflagration. Robespierre's hand shot into his backpack, drawing out again a cold metallic tool, the shape and texture all too familiar in his hands. Who had been but minutes an easy going slacker quickly made the transformation to a calculating and determined soldier.
His rifle charged and ready, Robespierre began to wreak his vengeance.
So much for paradise.