[HANGAR 3C] Gearing Up

[Durant, M.]

1800 HOURS, MAY 1, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \
ARMORY 3C, OUTSIDE HANGAR 3-C, ABOARD MARATHON-CLASS
CRUISER VENGEANCE, LOCATION UNKNOWN

Lieutenant Durant marched into the armory, Gunnery Sergeant Cruz by his side, and the rest of the platoon not too far behind. Set out before them were several rows of weapons. In the center were assault rifles and battle rifles with markings above the sections delineating the model and type of weapon. Off to the side along the port bulkhead were a row of more specialized weapons - grenade launchers, rocket launchers, and the like - and on the starboard side were smaller weapons such as sidearms and sub-machine guns. Durant approached the center row and grabbed an MA5B, plus six magazines of ammunition for the weapon.

He looked to the his subordinates as they filed into the room. As he spoke, he adjusted his chest rig somewhat uncomfortably. The vacuum-sealed EVA equipment on top of his standard armor added at least an extra twelve pounds to his weight, not including the weight of his armor alone and the gear he was about to pick up in the armory, and was rather uncomfortable to wear. However, he preferred discomfort over death by asphyxiation any day. "Marines," he called, gaining their undivided attention. "Grab your weapons and ammo and check them out with the armorer, then head on your way into the hangar. I want everyone on the ready line in five."

With that said, he slung his assault rifle onto the magnetic back-plate of his armor and stowed the magazines into the dual mag pouches on his chest rig. Michael then marched his way over to the starboard wall and picked up an M6G, holstered it to his thigh, and stuffed the clips into the pouches on his utility belt. He turned on his heel and walked over to the opposite side of the room, at the far end, where the armorer's desk was located. Sitting behind the desk was a gruff looking Master Sergeant, with a look of boredom plastered across his face. When he spotted the Lieutenant, he slowly stood up and placed a datapad on the desk before him.

"Fill out the form to successfully check your weapons out, sir," the Master Sergeant said, the name tape on his chest reading "ABDI."

Michael issued a curt nod. "Roger that, Top."

The Lieutenant picked up the datapad and punched in the required information. It beeped pleasantly in acceptance and he set it down upon the desk, to which Master Sergeant Abdi double-checked just to make sure that the information had, indeed, been inputted correctly. "Alright, Lieutenant, you're clear to go," he said, and then added as an afterthought just before Michael could walk away, "Oh, and remember that if those weapons are lost or damaged, it'll be coming out of your paycheck. Sir."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied, and then turned on his heel and marched away from the desk towards the exit. Once the doors parted into the wall and he passed through their threshold, he found himself in the hangar. Aviation crewmen, ordnance technicians, and pilots moved to and fro as they went through the standard pre-flight checklists for the three Pelicans that currently occupied the hangar. The aviation crews worked like well-oiled machines, calmly and quickly loading ammunition into the chin-mounted chain gun, checking fuel levels and ensuring the thrusters were working properly. Inside the crew chiefs checked the bird's innards, ensuring that the onboard electronics were functioning properly and that any gear that was stowed in the overhead cargo netting was firmly secured.

The Lieutenant approached the right-most Pelican, labeled as "E-353," and halted before it. The other two Pelicans, E-343 and E-359, were standing by for Second and Third Squads, respectively, to board. As his Marines began to enter the hangar, Durant motioned for them to start boarding the birds. "First Squad, board Echo Thre-Five-Three. Second, board Three-Four-Three and Third climb aboard Three-Five-Nine." As the men approached their birds, a thought crossed his mind and he waved towards the squad's leaders. "Squad Leaders on me for a Squad Leader meeting!" As he waited for the Squad Leaders to form up in front of him, Gunnery Sergeant Cruz made his way over and assumed his position beside him.

[Stone, T.]

Sergeant Stone ushered First Squad into the armory, following the last man in his unit into the room. The first place he set out for was the rifle rack. He perused the selection until he found his weapon. The MA5C. He retrieved the weapon from off the rack and inspected it for a moment. It was nearly identical to its sister rifle, the MA5B, except that it possessed a longer barrel for greater range and accuracy, a smaller magazine capacity (though 5B mags could be used instead of the standard thirty-two round magazines with less risk of jamming in the midst of a firefight), and was a hair more compact. He preferred it, and it'd been his weapon of choice some quite a few years now.

Thomas retrieved four thirty-two round magazines and three sixty-round mags for the weapon and stowed them in his deuce gear. He glanced over at the stack of sidearms along the side-wall on the starboard side of the armory, eying them intently. He also took a minute to look over the row of M7 Sub-Machine Guns. In the end, he decided in favor of the trusty M6G pistol and picked one up off the rack and stowed four clips of ammo in their respective pouches. He contemplated grabbing some grenades, but thought better of it. With the low integrity of the hull and likely the decks within, it'd likely be suicide to use fragmentation grenades aboard the Templar. Satisfied with the equipment in his possession, he marched over to the armorer and checked out the equipment after a few of Third Squad's Marines.

Strapping his sidearm to his side and loosely carrying the MA5C in his arms, he marched his way out of the armory and into the hangar bay. A grin splayed across his features as he watched the flight crews work fervently to prepare their drop-ships for take off. He looked over at Gunnery Sergeant Cruz, who a few years ago had been among the Marines in the aviation community, and a man who'd saved O-Company's ass on many an occasion with precision close air strikes on Covenant targets. Thomas tore himself away from the scene as the voice of the Lieutenant rang through the hangar bay.

"First Squad, board Echo Three-Five-Three. Second, board Three-Four-Three and Third climb aboard Three-Five-Nine," he ordered.

Stone nodded, and replied, "Roger that, sir. Ya heard 'im First Squad, git'cher asses 'board that bird! On the double!"

He watched as his men started to board Echo-353. As he was about to follow in their wake, the Lieutenant called the squad leaders over for a meeting. Stone looked to where his assistant squad leader was - the fire team leader of First Fire Team - and gestured for him to come over to him. Then, the both of them marched over to Durant's position and took a knee before him and the Gunnery Sergeant. "What's up, sir?" Stone said, and then looked as Sergeant Mason and his ASL fastly approached. "Sarn't Mason, how's it goin'?"

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace Wilkas entered the armoury and selected an MA5B, it felt good to be holding the familiar weapon once more yet soon that feeling vanished, turned sore by the fact that if she ended up shooting this weapon, the targets would be moving and unkind enough to return said fire. Grace selected only five, 60 round magazines for her weapon she would after all be lugging the heavier radio pack with her as well as oxygen tanks. The last thing she needed was to be over loaded and reduce her mobility further. She examined her weapon, sliding the bolt back to have a look at the inner workings. It was a habit that descended all the way from basic, Grace would meticulously examine and if necessary clean her weapon to prevent a jam. 

 Of course she doubted that this weapon, fresh from the armoury would actually need cleaning. The more ready she became for combat the more her unease grew. Grace toggled the safety on and set the rifle down against a wall, making sure no magazines where in it and the bolt was pulled back. Again a habit from basic, muzzle discipline. She choose the M6G as her side arm, strapping it to her right thigh awkwardly. The combination of EVA equipment, her standard armour and the radio pack made movement very laborious. It was very uncomfortable and she rolled her shoulders forward in an attempt to alleviate the uncomfortable weight pressing down on her shoulders and back. All of this however would help to prevent her from dying, so discomfort was no doubt a fair price to pay for being kept alive.

She selected three clips of ammo for the M6G and placed them into the pouches for them. Hidden inside her armour Grace felt isolated from the rest of her platoon who... She was rather ashamed to admit, Grace did not know half of their names. She was one of their newest members, fresh out of basic, the replacement for someone who in her eyes had probably been a much better soldier than she could. The draftee felt her mind drift to thoughts of home, it was weird how she hated that place for most of her life what with how her parents were but now... She found herself missing it. Dad is probably complaining to Mom right now about the politics and she is probably preaching to him about religion and how he should attend a service. Grace picked up her MA5B and inserted a clip into it, so in a way she had six, five that she carried with her and one in the weapon. What was it her drill instructor had said? If you wanna live deploy ready to fight. It was something like that anyway.

Grace pulled the bolt back with a familiar clack, chambering a round yet she kept the safety on. She was rather at a loss for what to do now that she had prepared herself for the mission. She stood uncertain as to which of the Pelicans was the one for her. Grace was a part of the platoon HQ, without her it got a lot harder to talk with those some distance from the operation. As far as she could tell none of the Pelicans had been given a designation for her to go on. Three choices and which ever one I pick is bound to be the wrong one. Her mind raced rapidly as she thought about which craft she should board. Grace looked beyond obviously lost, it was not hard to notice a marine standing still especially when the others were either boarding Pelicans or heading over to talk to the LT. She glanced at her rifle and checked to make sure that it was okay, it was perfectly functional however she hoped that it would prevent her platoon from noticing her rather lack of movement towards whichever craft was to be her transport. To those who had just noticed her, it would seem like there was a problem with her rifle. There wasn't, the problem was more to do with the fact that she did not know where to go. This is a great start brilliant way to inspire faith in you Grace, her bitter thoughts taunted her.

[Mason, I.]

As Isaiah approached the armory, he noted that most of his squad had already gotten over the initial haziness of awakening from cryo-sleep; all but his assistant squad leader, Corporal Rio, were silently chattering amongst themselves. As for himself, he managed to avoid spewing his mucous-filled vomit all over the inside of his pod. He mustered to hold off the urge until he found a spare minute or so to find a stall in the head, where he then emptied his stomach and managed to down some water. As for Corporal Rio, it seemed that he had a rougher time than most, violent lurches pulsing through his body as the inside of his pod was doused in vomit. While Rio was no longer coughing up a storm, he still seemed a little groggy.

“You need to splash some water in your face, Corporal?” Mason asked. “No, Sergeant , I figure a bit of adrenaline will perk me up, right quick,” Rio replied with a slight smirk. Isaiah chuckled and nodded, “I imagine so.”

Sergeant Mason could tell that the Corporal was always eager for a good fight. It reminded him of himself, when he was younger; hoping for fight worth remembering. Of Course, Mason found quite a few memorable fights. Fights which were hard to forget. However, he knew it was the ones whom were eager for battle that often excelled at it. Isaiah felt that, with any luck, Corporal Rio would go far in his career.

As they entered into the armory, Omen 2-2 and the rest of his squad automatically lined up by fire squad and rank, lowest to highest, with Corporal Rio and Sergeant Mason at the rear. To Isaiah, it was the simple matter of a keeping an eye on all of his troops and making sure they all were ready by the time he was done. As Isaiah entered, he walked over and picked up his rifle off the rack, a BR55. Automatically, he pointed the barrel to the ground and, without so much as looking at the weapon, began inspecting it by feel. It was a trick he had learned and practiced relentlessly, ages ago. He knew that feeling the bolt and chamber, and basically every inch of the weapon, would tell him more about its condition than simply looking at it.

The original BR55 was Mason’s bread and butter. While he was well acquainted with the other primary options, he found that the battle rifle allowed him the most accuracy and highest mobility. The stopping power each bullet proved there to be no need for the fully auto BR55 SR and MA5 series, at least for himself. “Why spray and pray when a simple double tap will do the trick?” he would say to others when they questioned his choice. He generally felt that it was always the better choice - though he had seen others, like Sergeant Stone, use the MA5s quite effectively.

Where the BR55 was his bread and butter, the M6C Magnum was his cup of tea. Though, at times, he did like to choose the M90 series shotgun. It all depended on the situation. In this one, it could potentially be tight quarter combat, where high mobility was crucial. He reached out and picked up his pistol off the rack and began a quick functions check. As he was finishing his ammo count, he heard the unmistakable clanging of a rifle hitting the ground. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted Private Jones attempting to scoop up his MA5C in a rush. Mason’s face turned a couple of shades redder as he turned towards jones.

“Second squad, fire team two! Drop with it! Corporal Kateb, I want fifty of them now!” “Ooh Rah, Sergeant!” the Corporal responded as he joined his fire team with their pushups.

Isaiah approached the armorer, whom - with a smirk - was shaking his head, “looks like your boys haven't woken up all the way, huh?” Shaking his head in turn, Mason responded, “it appears not, Master Sergeant.” The E-8 handed Mason the pad to sign, “grabbing some real estate always gets the blood flowing,” he chuckled. Mason gave a humorous nod, “take ‘er easy, Master Sergeant,” he replied as he walked out the door.

“Last one in, first one out. As usual,” he muttered to Corporal Rio as they waited outside the armory for the rest of the squad. “The pushups may have slowed 2-2 bravo down a bit, Sergeant,” Rio replied with a smile. Second squad quickly joined them and they departed to the hangar.

Shortly after entering, their LT called out their pelican assignments. Before they even made a move to head to their bird, the LT called for a leaders meeting. “Moving sir!” Isaiah responded. As he was heading to the Lieutenant Durant, he called over his shoulder, “Corporal Kateb, conduct the final PCC’s and PCI’s before anyone gets on that pelican!”


“What’s commo doing?,” Corporal Rio asked, pointing to Private Wilkas as they were walking past. Mason glanced over to see that the fresh-out-of-basic Private seemed to be inspecting her weapon, though her eyes were actually scanning the three pelicans. “Echo three - five - three, marine,” he called out to her, “can’t afford to lose communications before the mission even begins,” he added.

As they neared the LT, Mason pulled out a pad to record any pertinent information. “Pretty good, Sergeant Stone,” taking a knee beside the squad leader. He reached out to shake the Sergeant’s hand firmly. Sergeant Mason had plenty of respect for Stone. He knew instinctively, from the moment he met the man, that the sergeant was a fellow warrior; both experienced and effective. “Had a pretty good nap,” Mason added, sarcastically referring to cryo. “How about yourself?”

[Cruz, J.]

Stating his methods were unorthodox and even down right disrespectful would be an understatement. What he had pulled with the spook normally got somebody NJP’d at the very least; however they couldn’t do that on the verge of this mission. It seemed to be too damned important to ONI. The grizzled Gunnery Sergeant was contemplating what had been said at the briefing. Beatrice’s words kept ringing through his mind; It appears that the breaches in her hull are external in nature. A wave of déjà vu washed over Cruz every time he repeated the words. He could have sworn a similar situation happened back when he had first joined the Air branch of the Marines.

Stepping into the armory, Cruz did a half-assed wave to the Quartermaster who promptly returned the gesture. Being a Staff Non-Commissioned officer basically meant you knew every other SNCO on the ship in addition to bullshitting with them whenever you had downtime. Heading to the shotgun rack, Cruz immediately found the only M90 CAWS Mk I WST DTM/LE model, the shotgun that he used every time he was out on a mission. He preferred the solid stock over the multi-position stock with the pistol grip. Stuffing his pouches with eight gauge shells, Cruz signed the proper forms and headed out to the hanger walking next to Durant again.

”I dunno LT, I have a bad feeling ‘bout this one,” Cruz mumbled as he and the Lieutenant were walking to the hanger.

The hanger was in a state of chaos and disarray with the last minute mission that seemed to affect the entirety of the ship. The pilots and crew of the pelicans seemed to be the only Marines that had their shit together. Cruz would downright lie if he said that he didn’t miss flying. In the end though he chose to be on the ground fighting where he felt he could be better at saving lives. A slight smirk played across the man’s scarred face as he thought of all that he had done while being a flyboy. The man followed Durant to the area he had indicated for the squad leader meeting. He was interested in what would be changed from the initial plan and what would remain the same.
[/font]

[Furby, J.]

Private First Class Jayson Furby entered the armory, the anticipation for the mission ahead of the platoon welling up inside him. In the last few months that he'd been with the unit - shortly after having graduated SOI - he'd seen his fair share of combat. With those experiences at the forefront of his mind, he decided that he would be sure to come into this mission prepared. He walked over to the center weapons racks and picked up a BR55. Being a Designated Marksman, it was his weapon of choice, and he preferred its semi-automatic setting over the three round burst whenever the situation didn't call for it. He examined the weapon closely, admiring its features and its optics.

Jayson recited the Rifleman's Creed in his head - mostly out of habit - as he gathered the ammunition he'd be bringing along with him. Something he'd definitely picked up over the last few months was that one could never be too prepared for a mission. While the prospect of combat action wasn't a guarantee, per se, he had the itching sensation that it was a high possibility. So, after inserting a magazine into the weapon and ensuring the safety catch was on, he grabbed seven additional magazines and dispersed them across his chest rig's mag pouches. Then, he went around the central rack and eyed the selection of secondary weaponry along the starboard wall. He took special interest in the submachine guns lining the wall off to the right, realizing that a fully automatic close quarters weapon in the close confines of a ship's passageways might be a handy thing to have. After a moment's deliberation, he opted to snag himself an SMG and four magazines for the weapon.

The PFC holstered his weapon on his left thigh and nodded approvingly at his choice in weaponry. From there he joined the rest of his squad over at the Master Sergeant's desk and filled out the necessary forms before moving on into the hangar. Jayson ignored everything that occurred around him as he made his way over to where the squad was forming up at. As soon as the platoon commander instructed them in which bird to board, he started making his way over to Echo Three-Five-Three. He stopped in mid-stride as he couldn't help but notice Private Wilkas standing in the middle of the hangar fiddling with her weapons, looking completely lost. Jayson chuckled and was about to shout something her way when Sergeant Mason, Second Squad's Leader, did just that.

Furby shrugged and resumed boarding the bird. He marched up the ramp and made his way towards the cockpit door, taking a seat on the port side of the Pelican. He gently rested his rifle, barrel up, between his legs and calmly laid back in the seat. Soon the platoon would be on its way to the Templar, and until then he intended to relax as much as he could before stepping off into the unknown.

And relax he did.

[Wilkas, G.]

 Hearing a voice inform her of which Pelican was her's, she nodded hastily but remained was silent not because she was being rude it was because of her nerves. Grace Wilkas' was nothing short of bordering the edge of terrified. She clambered gracefully into the Pelican, despite her heavy equipment which did impact on the range of motion. Almost immediately she found herself a seat and began to buckle in. A force of habit perhaps, yet Grace seemed to be running almost on autopilot checking her equipment several times. The thought of her first potential battle filled her with a nameless dread, she was a draftee and far from a born soldier. Grace had never considered military service and the draft notice was in a way a bit of a shock though it had allowed her a job as a few days before university had kicked her out. She tried to calm herself down, trying to relax her mind however the tactic did not work.
 
 It was then, Grace recalled a song that her father would sometimes sing. It was very old, from a conflict that happened hundreds of years ago yet the music doggedly managed to endure the passage of time. Surviving to this day. Without fully realising it, she was humming the tune to herself quietly. The sound was comforting and served to calm her nerves, Grace felt out of place within the squad. She was untested in combat, this made her a potential weak link in the platoon even though she intended to try her best to not be. She was the radio operator so from what she could make educating guesses from her training, Grace would not spend as much time fighting most of her time however, would be spent ensuring a secure link to command. Grace had to stay alive to operate the machine or failing that, die in such a way that did not let her radio get damaged. It's value was far above her life. 

 She continued her soft humming, the sound comforting and clearly something Grace would do if the chance arose when she was nervous, troubled or scared. She shivered within her armour and seemed to disappear almost within her armour. Her slender frame that appeared delicate seemed unsuited for all of the equipment that she had the rather unenviable task of carrying into battle. Mentally, Grace made a note to stick to the platoon leader and follow him where ever he went just like in basic training. She would be needed by his side in order to allow him to keep in touch with command. Her rifle rested across her knees, she sighed quietly interrupting her tune slightly, the soft sound restarting virtually immediately afterwards. 

 So this was it. Grace thought. The moment of relative silence before the storm, the calm before the roar of battle and scream of guns. Her first battle, one she prayed desperately that would not be her last. Grace needed to keep herself focus for her comrades in arms, her fellow marines. It came to her as some shock that their lives may rest on her ability to transmit information. This left her all the more willing to protect her precious radio pack, the equipment pack suddenly seemed less bothersome now. It was of critical importance. She kept humming, the tune beautiful, calm and rather unexpected, especially from someone such as Grace who's fame existed in how quiet she generally was.

[Durant, M.]

((OOC: I want to apologize for the obscenely long wait for a continuance. A mixture of bad weather and personal issues have prevented me from getting to a place with internet. I thank you all for your patience and understanding. You guys are great!))

The Lieutenant waited for his NCOs to fall silent before clearing his throat to speak. He took a moment to organize his thoughts, and then kneeled down so that he was at eye level with his subordinates. "Listen up," he ordered, ensuring he had their full and undivided attention. "We're about to board a ship with almost no intel, and our mission has the potential to go FUBAR from the moment we leave this ship. So, with that said, I want everyone to keep their heads on a swivel and be alert."

He paused for a split-second as he scrutinized the men before him. "First and Second Squad will be boarding the Templar. Sergeant Willowby, your squad will remain aboard your bird on standby until we get the hangar doors open. I want radio silence as much as possible. Make sure your fire teams stick close to you so that they can see your hand signals."

The sudden sound of the Pelican's engines revving up caught his attention. The Navy fly boys were likely growing impatient. He would have to speed up their meeting or he'd have a pissed off pilot on his ass. He sighed, and then continued with his brief. "Because of our little intel on the tactical situation, ROE is weapons tight. Do not engage any contacts unless you or your Marines are threatened. I don't want dead Marines, but I don't want friendly fire either."

He glanced back to First Squad's bird and saw its Crew Chief approaching. Michael sighed and shook his head. Swabbies were an impatient bunch. He glanced back at his squad leaders. "Remember to keep your EVA gear at all times and swap out oxygen tanks as needed. Limit the use of explosives as much as possible. Finally, the Battalion XO has elected to tag along with us. Sergeant Mason, he'll be traveling with you - his safety is your responsibility." The Lieutenant saw the look on Mason's face. Frustration at this news was wholly understandable, and he personally did not agree with the XO accompanying them. "Not my choice, Sergeant. It's not up to me."

With that, he dismissed the Squad Leaders and turned to board his drop-ship. Michael gave the Crew Chief and thumbs up, who in turn radioed the pilots to let them know they were ready to launch. Just before he stepped aboard, a thought occurred to him and he turned to face Gunnery Sergeant Cruz. "I want you on Second Squad's bird. If the Templar's point defense guns are online, I don't want the entire platoon's command structure to be knocked out in one volley." The Gunny nodded and made a beeline for the other drop-ship. Durant stepped aboard the Pelican and found himself a seat beside Private Wilkas. A moment later the rear hatch ascended and shut, sealing the atmosphere in the troop compartment. The drop-ship rumbled as it descended into the launch tube.

Michael opened up a channel to the platoon and spoke into his helmet microphone. "Marines, we are lean and very, very mean. Stay frosty. Two Actual out."

The Pelican started to quake as the thrusters revved up and the Lieutenant strapped into his seat. The engines activated and the bird sped out of the launch tube at breakneck speed. A split-second passed and the gravity dissipated as it met the cold grip of interstellar space, its trajectory: the UNSC Templar.

((OOC: You guys can post some more. I wanna see a little character interaction. I'll have the next thread up later tomorrow, and Operation: LOST TEMPLAR will officially be a go.))

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace Wilkas' soft, quiet humming stopped momentarily as she listened to Michael she doubled checked her equipment and tried to suppress the nervous butterflies that churned in her stomach. Her humming started up again while she checked her assault rifle again, Grace probably wasn't even aware that she kept checking her equipment. At the present with her assault rifle she seemed to be acting like a mother when her first born started at school for the first time, checking and rechecking that the child had everything they needed for the day. She clamped the rifle between her knees and placed her hands tightly on the knee pads if only to stop them from shaking. How can the others be so calm? She wondered quietly in her mind, feeling trapped and isolated from her inexperience. 

She remained quiet apart from her rather beautiful and song like humming, for Grace her humming was a surprise yet her being quiet was nothing new. Her silence was never unusual, of course she spoke more when the battle, if a battle would commence. Of that Grace had no real choice after all she had the rather dubious honour of being the radio woman. She almost it seemed possessed two different versions of herself, from basic when involved in exercises Grace by far was more talkative interacting with her comrades. However when she was away from the battlefield or in her case exercises, Grace retreated back to her generally quiet self. I feel so out of place here but I'll do my best. Grace vowed silently in her mind, wondering how big the shoes that she had to fill where. Grace would have given anything to possessed some combat experience so that she would not feel so helpless. Her gut churned and her tension increases when they left the hanger. 

You'll be fine, you will be fine it will be just like you practised. Grace Wilkas lied to herself but the ever irritating part of the human mind, the little voice that always dragged up the worst thoughts or the darkest of memories whispered. Only this time the targets will be shooting back and if you get hit forget seeing Moscow again. Grace bit her left cheek, her humming ceased as the iron tang of scarlet blood seeped onto her tongue. If the Pelican hadn't left the hanger and if Grace did not possess the dogmatic sense of loyalty and comradeship to her fellows then she probably would have bolted. Grace tried to suppress the riot of concerns and thoughts that ferreted through her mind, she kept up a semblance of calm, order and seemingly appeared to be okay. Grace forced herself to put on a brave face, she decided that she would do her best for her fellow marines. She loathed being a rookie, her lack of experience could be costly. She had seen enough movies to see that often the rookies got themselves or other people killed. Grace did not want to die nor cause any of her platoon to die. 

 She wished she could find a voice to talk but the words caught in her throat, her own body killing the words before they could get anywhere near her lips. Grace would have to find comfort from her own solitude, she could feel her fear pressing against her, running cold claw like fingers down her spine. No one apart from me seems to be scared. Grace thought as her eyes scanned those within the Pelican. However as much as the private tried to hide her fear behind the icy wall of not afraid, don't worry about me it slipped through easily... Like a hot knife through already molten butter. Grace did not know that her fear was on display and seemed to be content to try and appear calm yet her movements, her actions... The shake of her right hand when she lifted off her right knee slightly sang her fear, it yelled her nervous terror. Grace never displayed her emotions openly in public but subtle differences in her actions, her movements and in the way she spoke gave it away.