The pilot anticipated the sensation of falling and let it wash over him like a wave on a beach. It wasn’t the sudden shock of gravity pulling you down, one foot searching desperately for purchase, whilst the other loses traction on a ledge, rather, the continuous battle of one gravity over its poorer, artificial cousin.
He flicked his gaze to the monitor on his dash, showing the five marines in the armoured personnel carrier cocooned within the dropship. They were silent as they battled with the moons incessant pull, downward momentum giving way to an increased weight in each of them, confusing their innate sense of balance, sending their internal gyroscopes, quite literally, into free fall. The dark interior of the APC cabin reflected differently on each, picking out sharp edges of their weapons systems, hastily scribbled dedications to fallen comrades, loved ones or beaten enemies. Their helmets jammed onto their heads haphazardly, listing at angles, making them look as if they were deep in conversation, whereas in reality, he could sense, they were steadfastly ignoring each other.
The pilot was the only crew member in the drop ship not part of Yankee Squad and he thought this silence was, at best, a little unnatural. But he wasn’t here to judge, his only duty on this jump was to see the squad delivered safely to the landing pad at the mining complex on the barren moon below and then bug out.
He had flown hundreds of teams on missions like this one, but this squad was damn peculiar. He knew that they had been formed as a tactical team, out of normal rotation. Not quite a standard fire team, but not part of the special ops regiment stationed on the ship. They were all specialists in different fields. A CBRN specialist, quiet, recently promoted, although no-one on the ship knew why, a sniper, his spotter, a field medic; grumpy bastard he was, and a ComTech, the squad leader.
There had been rumours in the pilots room about Yankee Squad. They had made quite a noise with their last few missions. A few casualties, some upset in the chain of command. Their L-T had been incensed about something after a recent mission briefing and fired off an incendiary note to the General. That piece of gossip came from one of the geeks in the comms room. Shortly after, the Lieutenant had received orders and left the ship, who knew when she was coming back. There were rumours again that she might not. The pilot grimaced in the darkness of the cockpit. Shit happened like that, he thought to himself. Her Staff Sergeant had taken effective control, and the ship was now overrun with the generals elite commandos. Who called the shots? Not the Staff Sergeant, that was for damn sure. He jumped like a scalded cat anytime someone in a black uniform walked passed him in the corridor.
Checking the pre-atmo sensors the pilot shook himself from his reverie. What did he think he was doing, daydreaming like that. He needed to focus on the drop. They were 10 minutes plus change from touching down, and then, well, then the squad would deploy and his orders were to book it back to the frigate and prepare for a full scale combat drop, somewhere else out in the big black.
His eyes moved involuntarily back to the monitor. Who the hell were these guys? Why had they been brought together like this? Why were they not a standard fire team? He flicked a small joystick on the console and zoomed in on the Medic and ComTech sat side by side. Those two looked really beaten up, ugly purple welts across their faces. The ComTech was rubbing his arm absently. Had they been in a bar brawl? Together? Against each other? He didn’t know, but if they had been fighting on the same side he didn’t want to see the other guy.
The CBRN guy was fiddling with a piece of sensor equipment from what he could see and the Sniper was leaning backwards in his crash seat, eyes closed, without a care in the world. What was he, 19? 20? The pilot smirked to himself, to be that young again.
He checked his heads up display and keyed the intercom. “Moonfall in 7 minutes.” He said simply. “We’re in the pipe, no atmo, so should be smooth running.” He checked the readouts in front of him. “Time to gear up Marines.”
He was expecting banter, some good natured roughhousing, a couple of digs and ill informed jokes about wives and mothers. But he heard nothing. The Sniper and the Medic avoided making eye contact entirely. But, straight from the training ground, they checked each others war gear and chunky compression suits. Suddenly the ComTech reached out to the Spotters webbing and pulled it causing a small pin to catch the light spilling out of an overhead spot. He looked at it for a second and then let go without saying a word.
“Ah, comms check.” The pilot called out over the internal radio. “Sound off by numbers?” He suggested.
In turn each soldier hit their suit comms and barked out a number. Then the interior of the APC was quiet again. The ComTech walked forward through the narrow hatch to the front of the vehicle and climbed into the drivers seat and prepared to charge out of the drop ship the second the ramp opened. The others took their positions inside the cabin, ready to deploy.
With a well practiced ease, the pilot flared the drop ship’s nose up and landed the heavy craft expertly on the landing pad of the complex. He dialed down the main drive and hit the release for the ramp. The APC roared out of the ramp, straight toward a crowd of some 20 or 30 miners that had gathered in their suits around the perimeter fence.
“You’re welcome.” He muttered, watching the armoured vehicle come to a stop by the main gate. Looking at the outboard monitors and checking that he was clear, he increased power to the main thrusters and the drop ship clumsily rose to free itself from the clutches of the moons gravity. “Best of luck fellas.” He thought, looking out of the port window. “I think you might need it.”
