�Sir, how many M-13s do we have at our disposal?�
�Yeah,� said William, �how many of us get to fly?�
�No more than ten. That�s all we can use. The rest are either being repaired or being used by another division.�
�So how do we decide who�s grounded?�
�Quiet, William. I will decide, you need not worry about it.� William instantly realized his error, and his face went straight.
�Of course, sir. Forgive the intrusion.�
David sighed, and buried his head in his hands. He quickly withdrew from the gesture. They were all tired and sick of this goddam war, and didn�t want to go on the run. If it were up to him, David thought, he�d march every able man onto Terrana 6 with a gun and blow all of those bastards to hell. However, he thought again, it wasn�t up to him, and just like all of the other soldiers around him, he had to obey authority.
He stood up, and placed his hands on his hips.
�There�s not much we can do right now� command has all the rock-ranks taking care of packing up the place� so you have thirty minutes to make any preparations you deem necessary. I�ve got magazines to load and a flight suit to check. Oh, by the way, I�ve decided that just N�tn�see and I will be flying.� William shot him a look that maintained respect, yet almost scared David. �Sorry Will, but I need you here in case the Admiral needs the 113th division to lead any kind of assault � ship boarding or otherwise.�
With that a small grin appeared on William�s face. Ship boarding was his favorite type of combat, where basically he and a small squad get shoved into a small transport, armed to the teeth, and shot at flanking speed into an enemy vessel. It was the most dangerous kind of operation to be sent on, another reason William loved it so much.
David began to walk away from the group, his head lowered slightly. He tried not to think; he couldn�t think, he had no information from which to base his thoughts. He couldn�t plan any tactics, couldn�t form any briefings to give his men� nothing. He�d just have to relay orders as he got them.
He raised himself up swiftly onto his bunk, and hoisted up his ammo boxes.
He pulled out ten magazines, each capable of holding fifty rounds, and laid them out in front of him. He reached for a strip-clip of ammo, and firmly slid it into the first magazine. This continued one magazine after another, until 500 rounds sat in front of him in their fancy black cases. He pulled out another, stranger looking magazine: The 200 round drum. It came preloaded, as it was a tremendous hassle to reload both on and off the battlefield. This one, he thought, he�d save for later.
He pulled up his flight suit, and laid it out flat in front of him. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he nearly blushed from stupidity. He didn�t need a flight suit with his new armor, yet he had clearly stated he was going to use it in front of his men. Hopefully, he thought, his friends would�ve understood the mistake.
He opened up the special hip compartment on his left leg, which dispensed magazines, and placed all but the drum-clip into the dispenser. The Drum, as well as three fragmentation grenades, he secured extra firmly to his waist. He had to make sure they didn�t detach from his suit if he had to pull a hard turn in his plane. He grabbed his helmet, and placed it at the end of the bed. He laid down, and began messing with his implants again.
Main Menu, BioTrack, Alter, Coma. He set the two timers for five seconds and twenty-five minutes, and initialized the program. Five seconds later, David was out cold.
