"So what did she say?" Rick asked me whilst he zipped up his flightsuit. I replied with nothing more than a look as I stepped into my own. The two of us were in a long-abandoned control station that stood on an equally dishevelled runway outside of Vekta City. We had been instructed to arrive in civilian clothes and change on site. This was an attempt to keep events as low-key and confidential as possible. I had arrived early with Richard Davis, a fellow warrant officer but far more experienced pilot. He had his black hair slicked back and I had never seen him anything less than clean shaven. Suave was the best word to describe him, the man dripped pure confidence. He rolled his sleeves up to the elbow as he continued to hand out his wisdom to me, "Shelly's a stand up dame. I mean I like her and everything but Jacob, the girl is fucking nuts." He shoved clothes into his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of sunglasses which he carefully hung out of one breast pocket.
I zipped myself up and looked over at him, "You're a handsome devil. I'll dump her and we can run away to Helghan together." He didn't reply and left a silence long enough that I worried he was seriously considering the offer. "I'm kidding of course."
"Shame," he sighed and picked up his bag. This was a habit of his, turning a joke against the person telling it and as a result I could rarely pick apart what was a serious statement with him, "I'll be outside if you change your mind."
Over the following hour the empty, weed-ridden airstrip became increasingly active with military personnel - so much for a confidential operation. Rick and I stood against the wall of the defunct radar station and chain smoked whilst we watched the circus. The mix of engineers and pilots gradually switched from their gaudy personal outfits into their crisp uniforms and naturally the 'proper' officers were the last to arrive (in uniform, which made me wonder why the rest of us had even bothered). By the allotted hour there were more than one hundred and fifty by my own count. "Hey Rick, Jake, what I miss?" a hand was on my shoulder and the sound of gum being chewed open-mouthed was in my ear.
I spoke without turning and watched the mess of men running around with nothing to do, "Not much apart from Rick getting undressed. Know how much you love that." The hand shoved my shoulder and I nearly feel straight over onto my face. "Christ. When did you get so strong Tim?" I turned to look him to find more of a mess than usual, his hair has been styled by his pillow the night before and there was still sleep in his eyes.
"I have a lot of time for the gym these days," he said with a forced smile, "And the couch is getting pretty damn comfortable." Rick offered him a cigarette but he declined, the incessant chewing of gum instantly made sense.
The cigarette offer rebuffed, Rick gave his two cents instead, "It's your house Tim. That bitch has you well and truly by the balls."
I jumped in before Tim had chance for a retort, "Tim's wife is a fearsome woman. We should be sending her to Helghan, higs would surrender within the hour." Rick and I broke into laughter before Tim eventually shrugged and flashed a grin in agreement.
Rick then decided to steal my thunder and share the news, "Jake finally broke the invasion to Shelly." All this talk of strained relationships had pushed Tim to spit out his gum and outstretch a hand to beg for a cigarette.
He spoke whilst Rick checked the pockets on his flightsuit - we looked like a trio of boyscout mechanics, all overalls and badges, "You sleeping on a couch now too?" Before I could answer out battalion commander, Colonel Kyte, yelled over the general hum of male voices.
"Shuttle Club! Line up!" We let out a collective groan at the use of the derogatory nickname, especially in front of the engineers (and even though we regularly used it ourselves) but hurried across the tarmac and formed neat ranks in line with the runway. We were all in varying states of personal grooming and hygiene. Rick was the top standard to which we the rest of us made no attempt to attain, all well pressed, pruned and several men looked like homeless bums in comparison to him. Tim was representative of the other end of the scale; flight suit not fully zipped, stained vest underneath, boot laces lazily tied and dirty fingernails. The whole nine yards of how not to appear in front of the colonel, who rather worryingly was not saying a single word about the state of us. I was somewhere in between these two ends of the scale, passable I presumed. I was wrong. The unit of engineers lined up to our right, perpendicular to the runway. They were perfect, not a hair out of place and standing loosely at ease. Some smiled at us as they though they knew our fate, what do they know that we didn't? I remember thinking. I would soon get my answer.
Col. Kyte suddenly screamed at us, "Jeeeeesus boys! Look at you ragtag fucks!" We readied ourselves for a chewing out that never came and he simply shook his head at us instead. Something was definitely up and even he was dressed to the nines. Whatever the secret was he knew it too. 'The Shuttle Club' muttered quietly amongst themselves and some even smoked some cigarettes when they saw the colonel wasn't going to anything about it. Complacent bastards. We forever whined that we weren't taken seriously enough and there we were, our first chance to prove ourselves and looking like a bunch of assholes playing pilots for fancy dress. We deserved everything we were about to get. Rick noticed it first, a speck off in the distance toward the capital that revealed itself to be a cargo vessel of some kind and brought with it a quiet hum of thrusters.
"A-326, flat bed carry cruiser," the bastard showed off, "Slightly lower pitch than the basic A-32."
"You get a boner for that shit, huh?" I glanced over at him and he winked at me. The ship closer and proved Rick correct, the A-326 was essentially a flying truck with a thirty foot trailer dragging behind it. On the back of this one was a large object about the size of a small tank obscured by a bright blue plastic sheet, a corner of which flapped violently in the cross wind. Under this I assumed was the prototype of the ship we would be taking to Helghan. All that pomp and ceremony to lift up a dusty sheet? There must be something else, I thought. And it wasn't until the craft landed in a sea of upturned dust and two men clambered out of its cab that it all made sense.
One of the men was General Malcolm Marr, the three-star in charge of the whle Air Cavalry division. He was a staunch, pot-bellied figure for whom the stars weighed heavily on his shoulders and was indicative of the whole unit. The man was not combat leader material, few men in the Air Cav at that time were anywhere close to being such. His relaxed attitude to leadership was well known, especially to himself and he made sure that those under him (those actually in charge of personnel) were far harder. People like Colonel Kyte kept us in line. Or so we had thought. The other man who climbed down the ladder - he jumped down the last three rungs - and swaggered over to us we knew by reputation only. General Donald McGuire was the meanest sonofabitch I would ever lay eyes on. And before going into the gory details of my first encounter with him I should first outline what I knew, as it all flashed through my head as he strode out of that dust cloud.
McGuire had spent his entire military career in the ISA Marine Corps. which had, since the move into space and like all military outfits since, lived in the shadow of the Navy. But the Corps wasn't about to let centuries of blood-letting go to waste and were able to keep themselves as a separate operational unit, although they were technically a part of the new, all-encompassing Navy war machine. They had their own recruitment process, they own training programmes, their own reconnaissance teams and their own support and supply structure. The Navy allowed all this because the Marines got results; they would be dropped onto a hostile world or colony that decided to annex itself and go about their business of making the enemy change their mind about the situation. What the Navy brass did make sure of is that they were the ones to drop the Marines and pick them up again - not to mention take the credit for their efforts.
General McGuire joined the Corps as a second lieutenant fresh out of the ISA Officer Academy and instantly set about proving himself as pure leadership material in quelling a short-lived uprising in a neighbouring star system. He rose quickly through the ranks and was a full-blown Colonel after only six years, in command of an infantry battalion. After this he made the strange decision of serving in the Marine Special Forces when he could easily have disappeared into a high-ranking desk job for life. But he had his eyes further up the command and knew the knowledge the special forces could give him would put him ahead of those trying to move up the same ladder. He reached general faster than anybody that century and spent the rest of the decade (leading up the invasion of Vekta) improving the Marine name and taking them from the Navy's teet wherever possible. He sometimes had trouble separating himself from the grunt on the ground which worked as a double-edged sword, loved by the men and viewed with suspicion by fellow brass.
Nonetheless he was second in command of the ISA Marine Corps. when the Helghast invaded and set aside quite a chunk of his time for brief visits to the front line. I remember a rumour that during one visit the platoon he shook hands with was ambushed. The general supposedly responded by snatching an M82 from one of his security entourage and returned fire on the enemy before being dragged away for his own safety. Something told me he would have been just fine. After the war and a shock resignation of his superior few could argue that McGuire hadn't earned a shot at the top spot. His first major act was to offer the full services of the Marines in any future counter attack against the Helghast. His offer was so readily accepted by the ISA High Counsel that a Navy general - in an attempt to save face - said he would offer and entire fleet to get the marines on the ground.
But this wasn't just some grass-roots colonist uprising that needed to be stopped in its tracks by a massive show of force and McGuire recognised this. He requested an alternate method of insertion, something fast and able to respond quickly to an ever changing theatre of combat. The Helghast hadn't been waiting one hundred and fifty years just to let ISA cruisers land on top of their capital he had been quoted as saying - a heavily censored version I was sure. McGuire knew that he could climb no higher on the command ladder and would never take a place on the High Council, the head honchos of the Navy would never allow it. And so his progress was then tied directly into that of the Marine Corps itself, both needed to prove that they could work outside of the normal confines placed on them by the Navy. Which is where the Air Cavalry came in. The general just had one major hurdle before the sprint to Helghan; 'The Shuttle Club'.
The first thing that struck me as he walked over to our formation was his overall stature, he was a good few inches over six feet and built like a shit brickhouse. His face was expressionless, any emotions he carried with him were left to boil under the surface. A scar ran from close to his right eye and down over the cheek - the man was a notorious drinker and he got it from the wrong end of a broken bottle during a brawl. McGuire walked ahead of the sheepish Marr and the Marine general attracted all of our attention. He carried his side-arm that day, maybe he had it to scare us, maybe in case the Helghast decided to launch another surprise invasion. Hell, maybe he carried it so he didn't have to shake hands with people. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his upper arms and the tanned skin of his forearms was adorned with marine tattoos. Those who chatted shut up instantly upon realising who was walking over and those who had been smoking before furiously stamped the butts into the tarmac.
The generals stopped some ten feet in front of us and we were left to sweat in silence for what felt like an hour before McGuire eye-balled each of those in the front row in turn. When his steely gaze reached me I froze and stared straight ahead knowing that the one thing I couldn't do was make eye contact. I passed the impromptu test and he moved onto Rick to my right. After he was done with his silent build up, he placed his hands on his hips and let out a slow whistle through his teeth (my father used to do something similar when trying to figure out a suitable punishment for me as a child). As though the gesture was a cue, General Marr started to address us in his usual friendly stammer, "G-good morning men, I mean troops, I mean..."
McGuire rolled his stern eyes and lifted a hand to quieten Marr. "You know what Malcolm," his voice was quiet and controlled, "I think I've got this." General Marr shrank back, bemused and hurt. I sensed that McGuire had planned to talk to us the whole time and embarrassing the leader of our entire division brought home home who would be the boss from that point on. "I'll skip the usual pleasantries, I have places to be. You're here to see what the cogheads over there," he motioned toward the engineers, "Are calling the Intruder. But more importantly I am here to get a look at you men and frankly, I am not impressed." I had heard that Gen. McGuire was as foul-mouthed as any marine under his command and to hear such a fair introduction lulled me into a false sense of security. One of us had apparently been lulled further than the others and an anonymous joke slipped out from somewhere behind me.
"I'm not too impressed either."
The general's face broke into its first expression, the slightest of smiles. The kind of knowing smirk I might have had slipping on a set of knuckle dusters. His voiced remained quiet but I could hear the reservoir of rage hidden behind it, "Who said that? Nobody said it. You own up now and things stay easy." Silence. He walked along the front rank and stopped in front of me. I didn't know it at the time but a hand had gone up in my column and the general stared intently through me and three others to the man responsible. So I was scared shitless as he moved straight at me with a look like he was about to tear my head off, "Fucking move!" And I did, faster than I had ever moved before in my life. His shoulder smashed into mine and I instinctively apologised - "Sir, sorry sir." - before I moved back into formation and stared straight ahead. I heard two more hurried apologies to the general and then the sound of him screaming through gritted teeth, "Get your slimy, maggot ass off my fucking airfield." The vocal upstart then made another mistake.
"W-what sir?"
"You might well stutter you fucking rimjob, but I sure as shit don't! Now move!" There followed a fleshy thud and the sharp exhale of breath, which I was later told was McGuire punching the smartass in the gut. Grounds for an investigation by a military court under normal circumstances but this was a classified meeting. The warrant officer was never officially there to be punched nor was the general ever there to dish it out. You got the impression that all of his first meetings with personnel were classified. Neither General Marr nor Colonel Kyte said a word as this punishment was swiftly handed out and McGuire walked back out of our midst (flexing the fingers on his right hand) and stood looking at us for a moment. Behind me was the slapping of boots as the recently assaulted officer got as far away from the general as possible. I never saw or head from him again.
"Right!" the general had his hands on his hips again, "Change of fucking plan since you shitheads don't seem to be able to dress yourself without ass-istance." The emphasis on the final word was a joke that only he found funny but then, who else needed to? "Oh and of course, here's your ship ladies!" On that order two engineers double-timed over to the A-326 and dragged the plastic sheet from over its obscured load to reveal the 'Intruder'. I glanced over (we all did) and remember thinking it looked more of an agricultural vehicle than for military use; a functional mess of metal with a small cargo deck on its back. But at that point none of us were given the time to dwell on the ramifications of it.
"I did not say look at it! Jesus Fucking Christ!" My eyes zipped back to the front again, to a tree line on the far side of the airstrip. I tried my best to look at the Intruder in my peripheral vision, nothing but a grey blur. "You have ten minutes starting... now to go back inside and come back out looking like actual fucking military personnel." Some made the mistake of moving as he paused, I was not one. "No! On my fucking order! You! You! You! And you! Wait another one minute! The rest of you... fucking move!"
McGuire finished barking and I moved like a man possessed toward the control station. Rick jogged up alongside me, "I dunno about you, but I kinda like the guy." Never could tell when he was joking. Tim ran over to us, his face was white as death.
"Tell me you have a fucking razor with you!" We tore around inside like a mob, checking each other for anything that looked remotely outside of uniform regulation. Those two hours had been an introduction. To General McGuire, to the Marine Corps. itself and a small taster of the following six weeks of training that he both the pilots and the engineers through. What it wasn't was an introduction to the Intruder and not one of said a single thing about in those eight minutes. We didn't see another one until we passed the marine training, by which point we didn't even care. But then that was the idea.
Perhaps I should take a moment to comment on the structure of the story overall. Each chapter is essentially a flashback further on in time. So if it seems a little disjointed or if a lot of questions are left hanging, I am not being lazy, it's on purpose. The idea is the character is looking back on the events leading up to his death. It's not just an excuse for shoddy closure of chapters I promise. I make no apology for continuing to write about marines, they are just too interesting not to. That men can be so violent and distasteful yet you can empathise with them not ten seconds later is fascinating to me. Plus I am always looking for an excuse to play 'Killzone 2' again - since single-player is the only real option afforded to us right now. I'd ask for a review, but nobody (well, apart from one) does anyway.