Chapter 7

The two dropships fell from the belly of the Fidanza in unison. The combination of the G-force and violent shaking that felt like the vessel was trying to shake itself apart was an intense feeling that rattled all but the most senior and steely nerved veterans.

"Whoooo!" Fletcher whooped loudly as the dropship rattled so hard that many of the Marines were worried they were going to shake a filling loose.

"Every drop. Every fuckin' drop, Fletcher." Sergeant Billie Reagan, second platoon's first squad leader, called out from her seat near the front of the dropship.

"Don't hate me cause I'm beautiful." Fletcher replied with a grin. Reagan rolled her eyes and flipped him off.

"Seriously, dude." Private Hank Rosen said. This was Rosen's third drop, and he was holding onto his safety bar for dear life. "How the hell can you enjoy these?" Rosen, like many of the other junior Marines, was literally turning green.

"Because he's crazy." Hopkins said from his seat. "Fletcher joined the Corps when we needed people for the meat grinder. They knew he wouldn't have passed the psych evals, so they stuck him behind a machine gun and sent him off to war. Only problem was that they didn't realize he's too stupid to get himself killed." They hit a particularly bumpy patch, and several Marines started to gag and retch.

"Oh fuck me." Early said. He was sitting across from Private First Class Alan Robertson, who was actively trying to keep the cornbread and fake eggs from this morning in his stomach. "Someone get me an air sick bag, Robertson's about to blow chunks."

"I'm fi-" Robertson's last word turned into a loud, wet burp that threatened to carry something with it.

"Hah, looks like I'm going to win!" Private Richard Carson said from his seat. Carson and Robertson had come to the platoon at the same time. The two riflemen had made a bet as to which one would puke first on this drop. While Carson was white as a sheet and had a sheen of sweat on his forehead, he was faring better than his friend.

"Here." Early said as he leaned forward, holding one of the sick bags towards Robertson. Robertson opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was another wet-sounding retch. "Here! Take the fuckin' thing!" Early said, slightly panicked. He hadn't packed any extra cammies, and he didn't want to spend however long they'd be down on the planet in a puke-covered uniform.

Robertson took the bag and opened it, leaning forward. He'd gotten his mouth over the bag just in time for it to catch the contents of his stomach. His vomiting had a two-part reaction. The first was that of the veteran Marines laughing at the cherry for spewing his guts. The second was that it set off a chain reaction, causing the rest of those feeling sick to expel their own contents. Not all of them made it to the sick bags.

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The situation in first platoon's dropship wasn't much better.

"Chaffin, if you puke on me I'm going to beat you till we land and then stick your head in it." Wilkins said from his seat directly across from Chaffin. The young private was holding onto his safety bar with a white-knuckle grip and looked like death warmed over.

"Fulmer." Mercer said from his seat beside Wilkins.

"On it." Fulmer said, digging into her aid bag. She pulled out a sick bag and a blister pack containing a single Dramamine pill. "I told you to take this beforehand if you weren't sure about getting air sick." She said as she handed both to Chaffin.

"S…sorry, Corporal." Chaffin said through gritted teeth. "I thought I'd be g…good. Thank you." He said as he took both. He quickly broke the blister pack and threw the pill into his mouth, chasing it down with water from his Camelbak.

While the jury was still out on Chaffin, the other Marines who were feeling sick weren't faring much better. PFC Tom VanAllen from second squad was clearly on the struggle bus, and Private Kristoph Johnson from third squad had blown chunks as well. Johnson had missed his sick bag, which had been unfortunate for third squad's medic, Private First Class Maria York. York had let loose a slew of curses and other creative names that would have made Apone blush, all set to the background of Corporal Will Liscomb laughing so hard that he was either going to piss himself or pass out.

Mercer turned from Chaffin and looked towards the front of the dropship. Sitting in the jump-seat with his back towards the cockpit and looking just as green as the junior Marines was Gunnery Sergeant John Jones. Jones had his eyes screwed shut and both hands on his safety bar, clearly trying to do breathing exercises to keep himself from puking. Mercer shook his head in disgust. How a guy like that could have survived this long and snaked his way up the ranks was something that the younger Sergeant couldn't wrap his head around. Especially since the company rep sitting in the other jump seat looked as if he was riding in the back of a taxi.

Admittedly, it was a rough drop. Mercer had been through more than his fair share of them, and had blown chunks on more than a few during his early years as a Marine. But as an NCO, he had an example to set. That was why he'd taken Dramamine and had eaten a light breakfast. He'd actually fallen asleep on this one. The sounds of York swearing and Liscomb cackling had woken him up, and he was tempted to fall back asleep for the remainder of their descent.

Just as he'd closed his eyes to do so, he heard both VanAllen and Jones puking.