//------------------------------//
// On Holiday 
// Story: Blackacre 
// by Princess Woona 
//------------------------------//

17 June, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“I don’t like it,” sniped Gun.
Donner rolled his eyes. “You never like it.”
“I do when we’re on a mission.”
“Technically —”
“A real mission,” she said, kicking a pebble. “One where we get to throw high explosives at ponies. Kill the assholes trying to kill us.”
“Don’t see how we’re going to do on a mission in Blackacre and not have somepony trying to kill us. Two to one you’ll get your shot.”
Before she could respond, Donner flagged down a unicorn trotting towards them in the trench.
“’Scuse me, we’re looking for…”
“That way,” said the pony, extending a muddied hoof back the way he had come. “Can’t miss her.”
“Thanks,” said Gun with a nod. “Anyway, look, it’s not going to be the same.”
“You figure?”
“Sure I do,” she shrugged. “Usually, we get sent out to kill ponies in general. Sometime we get sent out to kill specific ponies who are trying to kill our ponies. Either way, same idea. This time, though, we’re going out to do something specific.”
“I don’t think anyone would mind if we offed a few hostiles while we were at it.”
“Sure, but that’ll be secondary. Whatever we’re out there to do, there’s another point to it.”
“Dunno,” he shrugged, stepping over a little rivulet of mud. These trenches were just so messy. It would be much easier to fly above them… or at least it would be, if Ponyville airspace weren’t a danger zone. No sense risking flight this close to the front when they were on their way to a briefing.
“We could get lucky.”
Gun snorted. “And Princess Celestia could drop from the sky and give us all gumdrops and lollipops.”
Donner laughed. “Hey, it could happen.”
They stepped out of the trench into what looked like a staging area. It was roofed, using the loosest possible definition of the term, with concealment netting. Not that the netting was too necessary these days, with most of the Blackacre flyers either clipped or dead. Still, it provided some measure of protection from the elements.
It was only natural, then, for Gun to step right into a large pile of mud. It was netting, after all — not so much for stopping rain as slowing it down a bit. That was something.
“Dammit,” she said, shaking the muck off. “Don’t even see why we’re here anyway. Since when does Air Patrol hike into an Army forward operating base to take their orders?”
“Since you were assigned to my command,” said a light brown pony from off to a side.
“And why did that happen?” asked Gun, shortly before receiving an elbow in the ribs. “…sir?”
“I like you,” the pony smirked. “I’ll take those questions in reverse order.”
Gun raised an eyebrow. Questions, plural?
The pony put aside a sheaf of papers and ambled towards them. “First off, what are your orders?”
“On assignment,” said Donner before Gun could say something. “Report to Ponyville forward command for further instructions from a Colonel Marston.”
The brown pony smiled. “Which makes me a…?”
“Colonel?” offered Gun.
“I was going for ‘superior officer,’ but I’ll take it,” she said. “Therefore, the answer to ‘sir’ is yes, because that’s the word you use.”
“Oh.” Gun thought for a moment. “Sir.”
“But, I don’t really care for now,” she continued. “Lucky for you. I’ll be your brass for maybe twenty minutes, and if we’re both lucky, the next time I see you I’ll be giving you a medal.”
They blinked at that.
“I hear it’s customary to pass out flight plans in Air Patrol,” said Marson, handing them a pair of envelopes. “Here you go.”
Donner slid his open and extracted the first sheet inside. Lackadaisical attitude or not, this particular colonel knew what she was doing. The flight plans were standard forms, filled out to a tee; neat and crisp, they were better than most of the ones that Donner had seen come out of Air Patrol brass.
Neatly filled out or not, though, the flight plan had a slight problem. It routed them up to Saddle, had them take off with a discretionary load… and then simply ended.
“Ma’am…” he started.
“Here’s the deal,” said Marston bluntly. “Saddle was supposed to receive reinforcements, straight out of boot from Foal. Never got there.”
“Wait a minute,” said Donner. “Travel from Foal to Saddle…”
“That’s Canterburg,” said Gun. “That’s right under Canterlot. Safe as it gets.”
“Not anymore,” said Marston, shaking her head. “Saddle did some overflights, but they don’t want to risk any of their flyers on a full search.”
“We’re not your flyers either,” said Gun.
“You’re not,” she agreed, “but your CO owes me a favor. Therefore, I get two of his best for three days.” She paused. “You are the best he has, right?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Donner.
“Damn straight,” said Gun.
“I’ll take it,” said Marston again.
“Wait just another minute,” said Gun. “Saddle won’t risk theirs, so you’re sending us in?” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t much like that.”
“Your assignment,” said the brown pony with a hint of emphasis, “is to obey my orders for three days. Now. Saddle needs eyes in the sky for day to day operations; they can’t afford to send out search parties, even if there was no danger.”
“But there still is some.”
“Is she always like this?” Marston asked Donner.
He licked his lips. “Not… usually?”
“Fine. I don’t need you to like me, but I do need you to understand.” She paused. “Canterlot’s given this command a shot at recovering the company. That’s two hundred fifty ponies out there, and you two are the only ones who can find them.” She shrugged. “Plus whoever finds the reinforcements keeps them, and my lines could use the relief.”
“Fair enough,” said Donner, cutting in before Gun got lippy. “What are our orders?”
“Your flight plan has you out to Saddle.”
“And it gets awfully hazy after that,” said Gun, waving a hoof at the packet. “Orders list as Restricted Access. Classified?”
“If you want,” she shrugged. “I don’t like it when brass muddles in my affairs, and I don’t imagine you like it either. Your orders are to get to Saddle and spend three days finding that company. How you do that is entirely up to you.
“While you’re in my territory,” she said, waving a hoof around, “take anything you need; drop my name and you’ll be fine. Outside of it, you’ll find a half-dozen requisitions in those packets.”
Instinctively they slid the orders aside to reveal a small sheaf of letterhead, formalities emblazoned down the sides but otherwise conspicuously blank in the middle.
“The only restriction, and this comes from your CO, is that you can’t take any extra pegasi, either from here, Ponyville, or Saddle. You’re welcome to Earth ponies, but I don’t think you’ll have much use for any.” She raised an eyebrow. “Those are blank requisitions. I trust you’ll use them wisely.”
“Of course,” said Donner quickly. Blank requisitions were not unlike blank checks… and these were drawn in a colonel’s name, with all the attendant gravitas and authority that carried.
“Set your own flight plans, search pattern, whatever you need. That packet has copies of local maps and the old road; I suggest you start with a low-level overflight on it, but it’s entirely up to you.”
Marston paused.
“Unless you have any questions?”
“No sir,” said Gun with a nod.
“Good,” she said. “In that case, I’ll see you in three days. You bring the company, I’ll bring the medals.”
“Deal.”
As they went back into the trenches, Donner couldn’t help but notice the look on his wingmate’s face.
“You, ah,” he started. “You okay there?”
“Just thinking through the requisitions we’ll have to make,” she said cheerily, fluttering over a rivulet of mud. “Oh we’re going to have fun.”
“Fun?” he asked incredulously. “I haven’t read through ‘em all yet, but I don’t think the orders say go take three days paid vacation in Capracabana.”
“Sure they do,” she said with a grin. “It’s a busmare’s holiday — but I love my job.”