Nursing a cup of bad coffee, Colonel Makepeace sat on the ground and watched the sun rise over the endless, flat grasslands. The haze of dust in the air made the colors brilliant and spectacular. Makepeace liked sunrises, and considered them one of the joys of taking the last watch of the night. While he found this sunrise pleasing enough, he couldn't say the same about the rest of this tedious planet.
P3X-254 was one of those unattractive worlds that SG-3 tended to draw for recon duty with depressing regularity. Its scrubby yellow grasses seemed to extend forever, without even a bush or tree to break the monotony. The animal life Makepeace had seen so far included alien versions of lizards and snakes, flying bird-things, prairie dog wannabes, and a multitude of insect analogues. Nothing to write home about, certainly, although the biologists back on Earth would probably give their eyeteeth to visit the place.
At least things were quiet here. Too often SG-3 found itself embroiled in firefights: with Goa'uld forces; on search and rescue missions for other SG teams; sometimes just with overly aggressive wildlife. Makepeace admitted that a calm mission was a nice change of pace, even if this planet was a bit too bland to suit him.
A gentle breeze stirred, making the dry grass rustle. The sunrise came to an end, its kaleidoscope of gold, orange, and red fading, replaced by pale blue sky. Makepeace tossed aside his cold coffee and got to his feet. Time to roust his men out of the sack and get moving. He walked over to the two silent tents. Obviously, his team wanted to sleep in this morning.
"Rise and shine, Marines!" he called, a little too cheerfully. "Everyone, up! Come on, we're burning daylight."
The tents emitted soft groans and subdued grumbling. Makepeace grinned, made some fresh coffee, and started breakfast. The smell of cooking food—even freeze-dried and reconstituted—would get his growing Marines moving faster than any orders or threats.
Sure enough, Lieutenant Razor appeared just a few minutes later. "Here, sir, let me do that," he said, crouching down by the portable stove.
Makepeace moved off and allowed his new second-in-command to take over the cooking duties. First Lieutenant Razor's youthfully naive appearance was deceptive; he'd been a Force Recon Marine for two years before he'd been promoted and transferred into the SGC, and had been on a number of covert missions.
Two more Marines emerged from the second tent: Gunnery Sergeants Danko and Pomerantz. Also former Force Recon, and their combined experience amounted to over thirty years in the Corps. Like Razor, they made a beeline for the food.
Makepeace considered his latest team. They were good men, their records spoke volumes about their competency and dedication. The only real issue he had with them was that they were so damn new to the Stargate program. Over the last few months they had gradually rotated onto SG-3 as needed to fill empty slots. Not all those openings were the result of transfers or promotions. Makepeace tried not to think about why the SGC needed replacement personnel so often, or about the latest group to go missing. Such losses were a hard fact of life in this business.
This was only the third time Makepeace had been out with this team, but partway into their first mission together he had known he could trust them implicitly. They were United States Marines. They all understood what that meant and what was required of them.
Razor walked over to him with a filled metal plate. "Colonel, I took the liberty of obtaining your mess kit from your ruck. Here's your breakfast, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Makepeace said. He took a bite of reconstituted scrambled eggs. More than acceptable. Razor was a pretty good cook.
Razor stood by, almost but not quite at parade rest. Makepeace took pity on him and said, "Excellent, Lieutenant. Carry on."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Razor returned to the stove and got his own breakfast.
Makepeace shook his head, still a little disconcerted by the caution and excessive courtesy with which his new men treated him. Quite a change from his last bunch. He understood the reason for their care: They were still figuring out what to make of him. In the real world (where sane people didn't believe in bug-eyed monsters and little gray men), full colonels did not routinely lead small, four-man ground teams. That was a job for noncoms and junior officers. He didn't worry much about it, though. If they were anything like his previous teams, they'd adapt soon enough. He'd just enjoy it while it lasted.