Linna 349, Newshine Insurgency, 2179
First impressions are lasting ones. Thus, I find that those first days are still indelibly imprinted on my mind. I was a lieutenant in command of an infantry platoon when Linna 349 called upon the aid of the United Americas. Overnight my Colonial Marines were mobilized from Georgia 525 into a counter-insurgency deployment. I played my part in the invisible hand that was logistics, but my recollection of the Newshine Insurgency began with the first drop.
Shaky were my hands - new to the experience that was the combat drop - and, in an effort to alleviate my worries, I looked upon the faces of my Marines. To my benefit, they didn't seem to notice my nervousness, instead taking the ride down to the planet's surface to joke among themselves. Threat of impending hardship and death didn't seem to dampen their spirits. Perhaps they're happy to be finally seeing some action, I hoped. Our commanding officer was one to espouse trust in the Marine image of a warmonger, but I knew my unit was fond of their liberty and civilian luxuries, so it cast doubt in my mind. Still, they laughed and conversed, and merriment was a shared theme to each Colonial Marine.
All except for one.
He sat motionless in his seat despite the heavy rocking from our dropship entering Linna 349's atmosphere. Most striking about him was his physique, and because he wore
no uniform or gear save for his skivvie shorts and a pair of ragged sandals, his appearance was apparent to all.
His body was flesh seemingly chiseled from marble - hewn from stone cut by a master artisan in his dying years for a lasting magnum opus. From head to feet, his musculature could only be described as Olympian: perfect to any beholder. Steely eyes that spoke volumes of witnessed travesties lie underneath the most perfect regulation haircut I had ever seen, even having been through OCS. His grip looked stronger than the gravity upon the iron core of a star.
And a grip he held indeed, for his only possesion was a M37A2 Pump Shotgun in his hands. Other Marines had their weapons' picatinny rails adorned with an assortment of shiny, expensive attachments. Laser sights, angled and vertical grips, underbarrel flamers and masterkeys, and all types of bore modifications composed these killers' kits.
But for this naked Marine - this Cadillac among men - only a rusty bayonet was affixed upon his shotgun, crudely duct-taped in place.
I looked to a Marine seated next to me. "Lance corporal, excuse me," I began, getting his attention.
"Aye, sir? What do ye need?" He was smiling.
I looked to the name tape on his uniform. "Lance corporal Dee, why is that man not wearing armor? Or any clothes for that matter?" I asked, pointing.
"Eh? Who...?" like a switch his smile vanished. A grim frown replaced any mirth when the Marine had seen whom I was pointing at. "That's Wilkerson. Bill Wilkerson."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It does, lad. It does."
Before I could divulge more from the cryptic response, an intercomm blared out our pilot's voice. It rang loudly in my right ear, for the speaker was just off to my side.
"We're approaching the LZ! We're getting reports saying it might be hot, so get ready, fuckers!" Chatter was cut off by the sounds of weapons being cocked, straps being tightened, and an ever-increasing rattle of our dropship's jet turbines making maneuvers. I took the time to look over my own gear, for I had seen my Colonial Marines doing the same. All except for that naked, mystery man. The pilot's reveal of new reports about a hot landing zone had me greatly concerned. I hadn't exactly been keeping keen attention on my radio, but I was certain I heard nothing on the command channel regarding a dangerous staging area. How little I knew. Much of what transpired on Linna 349 could have been avoided with better leadership and better communication. So much more.
A heavy
thump and a quick, lurching force pushing us into our seats was all we needed to know we were landed, and that the operation had truly begun. I remember right before those doors opened, I glanced at Wilkerson. I remember thinking how much he looked like a coiled spring ready to explode from his chair.
Right before all Hell broke loose, I realized Bill Wilkerson was seated closest to the dropship's
exits, and that - from his strained, traumatic stare -
That he had done so for a very precise reason. A precise reason we were all about to discover.