Tales From the UPP Front - Deployment (1)

[Desolane900]

Spoiler alert: This is a story written in third person limited view revolving around Saul Freytia. Before you think this is an egotistical shitpost, I must remind you that involvement in the conflicts between the United Americas and the Union of Progressive Peoples is part of his history so I figured fuck it I'll write a story about it. Now onto the good part.

He awoke to loud klaxons and stomping boots outside. He coughed and sat up, wincing at the harsh light and reaching for his cigarettes on the unimpressive steel night table next to the bed, looking around in the closet sized room aboard the troop transport USMCS Halberd. Privacy was nice but he still couldn't get used to waking up from normal sleep, having been rudely awoken from cryosleep four days earlier to head planetside with the 812th Battalion.

He stuck a Lucky Strikes cigarette in his mouth and stretched as he stood, checking himself in the mirror. Fixing his pompadour, making sure his eyebrows and soul patch were neatly flattened, then lighting his smoke and getting dressed in his uniform. He had just slipped his mirror black aviators on before the door slid open and a big blonde haired man with the chevrons of a Staff Sergeant stepped in.

"Sir." Saul grunted aggressively, his face doing nothing to hide the disgust he felt for anyone with a rank higher than himself.
"Private. Get to the armory and suit up. We're going to war." The Sergeant barked at him before leaving to the next room over.

Saul huffed angrily and exited to the crowded hall, following the rest of the marines rushing for the armory. It isn't anything new he'd have to find coffee and food when he hit the dirt. They'd drilled that shit into him in Basic. Wake up, suit up, deploy, then worry about necessities if you're still alive to care. He was no stranger to getting shot at but this would be his first deployment while in the Colonial Marines. He didn't know what to expect but he'd been briefed at Gateway.

He could still remember the grizzled Lieutenant screaming at them. Some backwater temperate world right in the demilitarized zone between UA and UPP territories. Apparently nobody on Shithole WhoGivesAFuck had heard about the cold part of the war and hostilities were commonplace here. It was a growing habit forming amongst the border worlds and people in the top brass were not happy needing to expend resources on a war nobody should have been fighting in.

He didn't care. He was here to make money.

The parts he paid attention to were that the wildlife was all but nonexistent, the air was breathable, and the enemy numbers ranged from several thousand to upwards in half a million. So this was either an easily won fight or the Marines were outnumbered five to one. He was betting on the latter.

Saul stepped into the armory and found an untouched locker, putting on the chunks of heavy armor that made up the M3 Pattern Personal Armor. Shin pads and a vest that slipped over the BDU, the pads alone weighing atleast eight pounds a piece with the vest somewhere around forty pounds. The shoulder pads and groin protection were not included, making the armor lighter while only sacrificing a small amount of protection. Saul is small for humanity's standards, a measly five feet two inches, so the M3 armor looked too big for him even when strapped on as tight as it can go. That says nothing for the M10 Pattern helmet that looked massive on anyone, which he decided not to wear until later for the fact that the helmets always mash his perfect hair.

He then clipped on a tactical belt with more than enough room for whatever a marine needs and rushed over to the weapons, which a Requisitions Officer was handing out to passing marines. The M41A Pulse Rifle. It was heavy, it was loud, and it had enough firepower to allow a single soldier to decimate an entire platoon of enemy combatants, if said marine could manage it.

Saul got his rifle, which conveniently strapped onto his back with the sling, and three magazines of standard explosive tipped caseless ammunition. All three clips slipped into his belt pouches like they wanted to be in there, the other smaller bags looking more akin to holding the U1 30x71mm grenades that are fed into the underbarrel launcher. Unfortunately, his rifle had no such launcher.

He followed the line of marines jogging to the massive hanger, checking each of his magazines and making sure his rifle was primed to fire. Each magazine held ninety five rounds as opposed to the full ninety nine, to keep the weapon from jamming, and the red numbers on the ammo counter of his rifle read '95'.

The hanger was huge and filled to the brim with bustling activity, the massive birdlike dropships being prepped for troop transport, bombing runs, or area denial. Marines were loading up and being screamed at, squads of them rushing into a few prepped Cheyennes or getting in APCs to be loaded up. The entire scene reminded him of an ant hive. It looked chaotic and unorganized but some big shot somewhere knew what was going on.

The line Saul was in headed onto a loaded UD-4L and buckled into the rows of seats against the walls, he followed suite after a bit of fumbling and dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, stomping it out as the bulky blast door closed.