Chapter 1: The Easy Day [Reedit]
“How is the procedure on the crystal?” a feminine voice asks, echoing through the dark caverns of an endless cave. The cave, its only light source green crystals naturally grown on the cave walls, stretches for miles underground deep within tall mountains. Among the maze-like tunnels is an open space, where a black mare with insect wings, holes in her legs, and a deformed unicorn horn stares at a large screen produced by an orb being held on a stand. Another creature, with similar features as the mare, except smaller in size, bows down its head and responds in a high, scratchy voice.
“It is going very well, my queen. They are almost done with the main structure.” The mare smiles at the screen, which is showing a live feed of a large crystal structure being built by several other of the smaller creatures, called Changelings.
“Good. Once it’s complete, launch it immediately. I don’t want those princess fools to find out.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Where would you like for it to go?” The queen’s horn glows in an eerie green color, levitating a large book in front of her, and opens it. She scans page by page, until she finds what she is looking for.
“Ah, here we are. Just what I need.” Her horn glows brighter, changing the magical screen to a map that does not resemble Equestria and the foreign countries. Rather, it is a map that belongs to a different world. The Changeling Queen moves around the map with her horn, choosing which place for the structure to be placed. She smiles again at the excitement.
“Oh, the choices,” she sighs softly. “Let’s do something a little challenging. How about finding some subjects with a bit of experience?”
LCpl. Kevin Brooke
2nd Battalion 1st Marines
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii August 22nd Day 1 08:43:06 AM
“Good morning sailors, on yet another glorious day here at Pearl Harbor. I’m your host, First Class Officer James Pete, giving you our daily news for this week. Temperatures are at a high one-o’-two, with twenty-mile-per-hour winds coming in from the east; perfect day for our boys in the Nineteenth Fighter Squadron to show off their moves. Surfers, you got a lot of big waves coming in starting at eleven hundred hours. And as for our final event, today’s the day we all say salute to our boys in uniform. Marines of the Eleventh M-E-U, along with Carrier Strike Group Eleven, will be hosting a ceremony at o’ nine hundred hours, and will depart Pearl Harbor at ten-thirty hours…”
The day has finally come. I can feel my heart beating so fast from the excitement that I can barely pack in all my stuff in my seabag. Today is the day we are finally being put into combat. It only feels like last week as I can remember; a recruit from boot camp to becoming a Marine in Camp Pendleton, and now just finished participating in the world’s largest maritime exercise, Exercise Rim of the Pacific (RIMPAC). I’m excited, and ready.
The small radio continues on about Exercise RIMPAC 2016 that happened not even a few weeks ago. It did not excite me nearly as much since the host mostly talked about the world’s navies.
“Yo, Brooke!” a voice calls from behind. When I turn around, I see my best friend, Private First Class Eric Michaels, standing in the doorway of my bunkroom. He is already strapped up, his own seabag strapped on to his back and his assault backpack held in his arms. “Dude! You still haven’t strapped up yet?”
Eric Michaels has been my closest friend since college. A 19-year-old kid, a year older than I am, and is a full-blown showoff filled with confidence. Despite his rank being lower than mine, he is one of the best scout snipers in our squad.
I chuckle a little while I do a final checkup on my belongings. “Heh, almost. Trying to get this thing on.” I finally zip up my ILBE assault backpack, before putting on the incredibly heavy seabag over my back. After connecting a couple clips across my chest, I notice Michaels still standing in the doorway, this time, leaning.
“You know, you could’ve just went. I’ll catch up,” I say.
Michaels just shrugs and smiles. “I know. Just don’t wanna leave my brother all alone this place that makes college dorms look nice.” We both broke into a good laugh as I grab my ILBE backpack with my two hands, now ready for our departure.
I take this quick moment for a deep breath. “Okay. Ready.”
“You sure?” Michaels starts to tease. I can tell.
“Yes. We’re ‘The Professionals’.”
“No better friend, no worse enemy.”
“Oorah.” We give each other a fist pound and walk through the hallway while other Marines continue to get themselves ready.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is.” Michaels and I turn around to see Sergeant Henry Mendez catching up, also ready.
Henry Mendez has also been our close friend since boot camp. According to almost all the Marines, including Michaels and I, he is probably an odd Marine compared to the rest of us, due to his childish and over-the-top positive attitude. However, outstanding performance and accuracy is the reason why he is a higher rank than us. Probably it’s all thanks to his dad’s genes, in which he served in Vietnam not even at the legal age to join. Mendez even has his dad’s looks: scruffy eyebrows and a muscular face with a mustache. Except for his eyes, which more look youthful than mature. Besides from that, Mendez has been our so-called mentor, at least according to him.
“Let’s move! Unless you don’t wanna join our launch ceremony!” Mendez slaps our bags, pushing us not even two feet down the hallway. “Maybe we’ll be on the Hawaiian news.”
I chuckle a little while trying to keep my center weight balanced. “Woah! Easy there, Sarge.”
“Yeah, man. Ya’ know how Kev’ can get when it comes to things like this,” Michaels teases again.
“Oh, come on. You’re the one who’s full of stage fright,” I pounce right back. Michaels turns to me with his usual ‘don’t you dare say anything else’ stare along with a smug grin.
“Come on. Let’s take it easy, love birds,” Mendez nudges himself between us, wrapping his arms around our shoulders.
“Mendez!” Michaels and I shout at the same time, and the sergeant chortles.
“I’m just messin’ with you two. Now, come on. We got a ceremony to get to.” He squeezes himself between us, and begins racing down the hallway.
“God, how the hell does he have this much energy?” Michaels shakes his head, still smiling.
I shrug. “Dunno. But he’s right, you know.”
A split second later, Mendez suddenly grinds to a halt and turns around. “Oh! Forgot something! We got a new squad leader comin’ in!”
Michaels and I look at Mendez quizzically. “Wait, you mean First Sergeant Keane is being replaced?” I ask.
“No. We’re just getting a new squad leader.” Both of us walk up to Mendez while he still continues. “I’ll give you a hint. His last name is the same as a video game character.” He chuckles lightly.
“Um… we really don’t know,” Michaels says, scratching the side of his already sweating face.
“Aw, come on. You’re not even trying, guys.”
“Dude, just say it,” I say. “We really don’t know.”
“Oh, alright. His name’s Staff Sergeant Alcatraz.”
“Heh, now I know what game you’re referring to,” Michaels responds with a little chuckle that sounds more like a snort.
“Yeah, yeah. Ya’ know, you kinda’ ruined it now.”
“Anything else we should know about?” I ask.
“Yeah, we gotta’ hustle,” Mendez answers quickly, now moving at a much faster walking pace. “Or else we’ll be L-eight.”
“Goddammit, Mendez!” Michaels shouts. He and I roll our eyes and groan in annoyance the minute we heard one of Mendez’s ‘texting abbreviations’. It’s common for Mendez to use the short-term words people use when texting, though maybe a bit too common for him. He knows it annoys the hell out of us, especially for a Sergeant in the Marine Battalion nicknamed ‘The Professionals’.
“Geez, Mendez! When are you going to stop that?” I complain. “We’re not in high school anymore, man! Plus, you’re ruining our battalion name here!” Michaels and I follow after Mendez, who instead laughs back before stopping at the main exit door.
“Haha! L-O-L! I’m just messing with you guys!” He slaps our shoulders. “It’ll be even more fun when we head out to sea. I’ll see you when the ceremony is over. T-T-Y-L!” Mendez races out of the door, a burst of the Hawaiian weather overpowering the air conditioning, and leaving Michaels and I standing and a little stumped and annoyed.
The bright sun beams down on my neck as I march outside on to the tarmac searching for my squad, where many other Marine squadrons await before heading out to the piers. Up ahead is a large convoy of MTVRs sitting in the heating sun as all Marines climb aboard.
“Charlie Company! File up!”
“Echo Company! Move!”
“Bravo Company! File in!” I hear my squad’s name and follow to where it came from. When I arrive, I see Michaels saving me a spot. I quickly race over and slide in before any of our squad leaders spotted me.
“You’re in time, buddy,” Michaels whispers from behind. I smile a little before our platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Joseph Martins, steps in front to examine us. He is young, at least a few years older than Michaels and I. But he acts like a war veteran, like First Sergeant Keane. Behind him is another Marine; possibly our new squad leader Mendez mentioned earlier, Staff Sergeant Alcatraz.
“Listen up, Marines!” Martins orders over the loud running engines of the trucks and chattering. “As you already may know, Staff Sergeant Alcatraz will be joining as part of our new squad leader.” He starts walking down the line, looking at us like an inspector. “Look alive! Because today, we will be setting out again! This time, we’re not turning our heads back! We sail to defend our home! Our country! Our people! We’ve shown how we did it during RIMPAC, let’s show those who threaten us how we do it! No better friend!”
“No worse enemy!!” we all chant at once.
Pacific Ocean August 22nd Day 1 10:58:13 AM
I lean against the railing on the portside of the ship I have ridden before, and am riding on now, the USS Anchorage. As far as I know, she is a San Antonio-class amphibious transport dock ship, one of the brand new classes of warships designed for Marine operations. I do admit, their designs make them look like the ships of the twenty-first century.
I take a deep breath of the cool ocean wind, a shiver running all over my body mixed with the summer sun’s heat. I love this feeling, and I enjoy every bit of it. A feeling of freedom, something I will enjoy until we reach the Middle East. The calm before the storm I would say. To set the mood, I pick one of my favorite rock songs on my iPod, and relax on the railing.
Looking out, I continue to watch a guided missile destroyer sailing next to us, the Arleigh Burke-class USS Howard. Turning to my left facing the stern of the LPD, I spot the USS Essex, a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, trailing a few hundred meters behind. A ship that looks like an aircraft carrier but has features for amphibious operations, just like the Anchorage. Behind the LHD is the rest of the fleet of Carrier Strike Group Eleven: three destroyers and one cruiser. Joining our fleet are three more destroyers: the USS Chafee, the USS Halsey and the USS Michael Murphy. Turning around towards the bow, my eyes spot the flagship of the fleet, the Nimitz-class USS Nimitz aircraft carrier, tearing up the waves at approximately the same distance between the Anchorage and the Essex.
I suddenly feel a tap on my shoulders, putting me out of my own daydream and pausing my song. When I turn around, I see Michaels holding his cellphone at eye level in one hand, while waving with the other.
“Hey, Brooke,” he says in a musical tune. “Say ‘hi’ for the camera.” I can’t help but form a small smile on my face.
I instead give in and hold up a peace sign with my hand. “Headin’ to Afghanistan.”
“Amen, brother.” Michaels’ smile grows bigger, and continues to film the fleet while talking to himself for the next few seconds.
High up in the bridge of the USS Anchorage, Commander Gaines, ship’s commanding officer, gazes at the open blue sea with his binoculars. A young 28-year-old man, he has over eight years of sailing the seas in the Navy under his belt.
“Commander,” one of his petty officers comes up to him. “Radar scans are clear. Got a green light from the rest of the fleet.”
The commander smiles before replying, “Alright, then.” He spins his head around to the helmsman. “Helmsman, prepare to set engines to full speed.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The commander takes a deep breath, and returns to his seat. He is ready once again to sail the seas.
Rear Admiral Shane, commanding officer of Carrier Strike Group Eleven and captain of the USS Nimitz, watches from the bridge at the parked F/A-18 Super Hornets, all ready to embark once they hit close to their destination. He is a 44-year-old man, though looking as young as 32-years, with above twenty years of sailing in both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, starting from a regular petty officer like the rest of the crew in the bridge.
“Admiral,” a petty officer calls from one of the monitors. “We have a green light from the fleet.”
“Very well, then. Signal back to the fleet for full head.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The carrier’s propellers, powered by two A4W nuclear reactors, revere up to their maximum potential, pushing the USS Nimitz to above thirty knots, with the rest of her fleet following suit. Each ship riding over the Pacific waves like a surfer, with the island of Hawaii slowly disappearing behind them.
22:19:35 PM
I stare off into the blank white ceiling in my bunk bed, having no clue what to do, except regretting my thoughts about joining the Marines, and doing what my parents once told me to do; go to college and get a job. This irritating thought keeps bugging every day since I hit boot camp. I don’t know how many times this has come across my mind. I lost count since we departed San Francisco bound to Hawaii, even more so since I have been recruited. Yet, I feel an uneasiness settling around me, like an eerie presence in my surroundings and fighting back and forth. One side fighting about how I was left to fend for my own without the help of my parents, the other side arguing I should have never joined the Marines. But what choice do I have? I have nowhere else to go.
As I continue off staring up at the ceiling of my sit-up berth, looking at the pieces of paint chipped off from before, I try to figure what type of image it would make to placate my growing boredom. It’s not even a day since we left, and the announcer told the entire crew there’s a storm brewing up, so our training exercises have been cancelled. So, all of us Marines are doing nothing but sit in our berths, hang out at the cafeteria, in the vehicle levels helping out the engineers fix some of the new equipment, or just hang out in the corridors, wandering around until we get lost again.
Private Michaels slams the metal edge of my bunker as loud as he could. In fact, it can be heard just a few corridors down. I jump up in my bed taken completely by surprise, smacking my hand against the side wall. As I settle down, Michaels chuckles out loud clapping his hands like he’s in a comedy show.
“Oh man, haha! Got ya’!”
“God’s sakes, Eric!” I take deep breaths to slow down my heart pumping harder than ever. Michaels tries to calm himself down, but still would not stop laughing. His face turns bright red as he gasps for air. After what seems like a whole minute, if not longer, Michaels slows himself down and catches his breath before he could speak.
“Woo... sorry ‘bout that, man. Just wanna know how’re ya’ checkin’.”
“I was doing fine until you slammed my bed,” I respond in an annoyed tone. I hint Michaels by putting some emphasis on some of the words, hoping he would get my point as I rub my sore hand.
“Aw, come on, buddy. Ever since we left San Francisco, you’ve been down.” I make a grunt and return to my original position before Michaels barged in.
“You’re not fooling me, Kevin. I can tell by that face,” Michaels calls out, leaning a bit closer to my bed. I’m already annoyed, so I turn my back towards him. Michaels lets out a sigh. “Okay, man. You leave me with no choice.” I know what he’s talking about. The moment he said that, I brace my ears for the worse.
“ ’Oh, baby! Oh, babah'! Babah’! Ooh!’ ” Michaels’ interpretation of Justin Bieber’s popular song sounds similar to two rusty metal pieces being rubbed together; perhaps too similar. Not even five seconds in, I already turn around just about bursting from what Michaels plans on doing next in the song.
“Alright! Alright! I get it! Just shut up!” My face is red of annoyance and anger now as I lazily roll out of my berth.
I take a sip of my coffee, after finishing telling my situation to Michaels. The coffee, of course, just tastes like hot water with grains, but it didn’t matter to me. We are the only guys in the mess hall as Michaels tries to think of something to say.
“Sorry, about that, man. I dunno what else to do.” I stare down into my paper cup, looking at my reflection being mutated by the shakiness of the ship.
“It’s not your fault,” I softly say now a bit more calmed down. “The way they push me to go isn’t what I want. Since I had nowhere else to go, I figured—” I take a deep breath through my nostrils to hold back in my frustration, and it’s starting to put a toll in my head. “Why not go here? Maybe I’ll find out who I am. Of course… well, yeah.” Michaels gives me a light pat on the back. I look up at him giving me a big smile through that lightly acne-covered face.
“Come on, Kev’. We’ve been in this same talk since we met in college.”
“And you always give me the same answer,” I mumble quietly as I take another small sip of the coffee.
“Your parents are jerks anyway,” Michaels continues. “Sometimes… well, you just have to face it.”
“I already did.” I put the cup down harder than I expected, almost spilling out the liquid. “You know what they did the last time I met them.”
Michaels lowers his head, being silent for the first time in a few months. “I know. You told me.” He quickly stands up and leans forward until he is a few inches from my face. “But you know what? You’re better than them. They can have all the damn money in the world if they want. And guess who they care about?” I give off a small smirk. I know where Michaels is going since he told me this joke a thousand times.
“Money? Getting me to be a doctor? Lawyer? Something to do with numbers and banks?” Michaels raises a finger as he finishes his coffee in one go. Once he finishes, he slams the paper cup on the table.
“Their own selfish ass!” Michaels and I stare at each other for a minute, waiting for something to happen. Before we know, we both crack up and start laughing. Michaels is almost a cure to people who are feeling depressed, and he knows how to make those people feel happy again. Mendez is also good at that, but better. I finally manage to settle down, catching my own breath before taking another sip of my coffee.
“But listen, buddy,” Michaels says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You have a habit of doing that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“We’re Marines. We’ll be going to combat soon. And, when you get home, you can show off to your parents that medal.”
“Depends, if I live.”
“Just don’t worry ‘bout it.”
Before the two of us could talk anymore, the door behind us bursts open, and four Marines enter. I recognize those faces, as they too are part of our squad.
“Hey, look what we have here,” the first Marine, a Chinese man, calls out as the group makes their way to us.
“Carter! How’s it going, man?” Michaels gets up from his seat, giving the corporal a firm handshake.
Corporal Carter is also a young 27-year-old Chinese man, but a couple inches shorter than Michaels and with a face of a 19-year-old. He is one of our best radio operators, not to mention has great experience in handling any electronic equipment. I can even imagine him building a radio with almost anything people can throw at him.
“Nah, nothing much, man,” the corporal says, him and the group sitting back down. “Folks and I were just hanging about since practice has been cancelled.”
“Hey, Brooke. How are you?” a blonde woman, Hospital Corpsman Third Class Smith, says sitting across from me. She is our field corpsman, and most of the time we like to call her ‘Lohay’ for fun, due to her looking like a certain celebrity before she hit the bong.
“Nothing much,” I answer back. “You?”
“I guess you could say the same thing.”
“‘Ey, Brook’,” another Marine, this time a tall Jamaican man, slaps me on the back, nearly knocking me forward before sitting next to me. His name is Corporal West, one of the support gunners in our squad. He is the tallest in our squad and has a tattoo of the Marine Corps logo on his right forearm. Even some of the toughest Marines in our company have a look of fear by just looking at him.
“H-hey to yourself,” I say, struggling to endure the pain from the slap West gave me.
“Hey, Kanye, give the kid a rest before you snap his spine,” Carter teases.
“’Ey, man. Remember what I tol’ you ‘bout that, now! I’m not some bullshi’ celebrity, a’right?” West snaps at the corporal. The rest of us reply with a small laugh as the two begin to settle down a bit.
“Oh, hey Hends. You got an extra lighter? I lost mine,” Michaels asks to Corporal Hends, a short-haired brunette sitting next to Corpsman Smith. She is one of the quiet ones in our squad. Yet, she is another tough Marine one would struggle against.
“Yeah,” Hends nods, her voice its usual bored tone. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow morning, if you want.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what were you guys doing before?” I ask the group.
“We were talking about the new squad leader,” Carter answers, before getting up from his seat. “Gonna get a coffee. Anyone else want one?”
“I’ll take one,” West raises his hand.
“Same,” Smith replies. The corporal gives a thumb’s up before racing to a coffee machine in the center of the mess hall.
As we wait for his return, I look around seeing nothing but us being the only ones in the mess hall. The buffet stalls are closed, the flat screen televisions are still on playing today’s news about a storm hitting the southeast of Japan, and everything else looks spiff and clean.
“Hey, what’s this?” Michaels asks, crouching under the table for a few seconds. He comes back up with a doll horse in his hand.
“Can I see that?” I ask and extend my arm out. Michaels hands me the doll, and I closely inspect it. Its body is pure white, with a few colored smudges on it. Its rainbow-colored hair and tail are tangled and messed up. It has wings, a unicorn horn and a sticker of a sun printed on its rear end.
“Hey!” Carter yells a few meters away, suddenly racing towards the table with three cups of the cheap coffee in his hands. Hastily placing the cups down, nearly spilling one over, he runs over and quickly snatches the doll out of my hand.
“The hell are you doing with that?!” he yells.
“Well, what are you doing with that?” Michaels asks back.
“Come on, man. This is important to me. It’s my daughter’s.” There is a quick moment of silence between all of us.
“Your daughter gave that to you?” Smith asks.
“She’s five. Before I left, she gave me this for good luck. She said she’s like this… guardian, or something about the sun.”
“What now?” I ask confused.
“I don’t know. It’s from a show she really likes.”
“I know how you feel,” Smith says, resting her chin on her two hands. “I have a photo and a few drawings from my two kids.” Before she could explain more, we are all interrupted when the speaker crackles all around the ship.
“Attention all hands. We have a storm brewing up in an hour or so. Secure all cargo and personal belongings.”
“Well, shit,” Michaels mutters. “I hate storms.”
Commander Gaines peers through his night vision binoculars, carefully looking at a cluster of cumulonimbus clouds strangely rising forming an unfamiliar shape in the dark of night where the USS Nimitz is almost blocking the view. He puts down the binoculars and turns to one of his navigational officers.
“Raikes, how far is the storm?” Petty Officer Raikes checks the radar screen in front of her. Her eyebrows quickly arch at what she sees on the display monitor.
“Approximately…” she first says, trying to simplify her sentence the more she looks at the monitor. “Thirty-one nautical miles, sir. But…” She ponders at the shape of the storm displayed on the monitor. Even though it’s her first time out in the sea with the Navy, she knows something’s not right. The commander walks over to her, wondering what is all the fuss on the monitor. He too, has the same reaction as Raikes the minute he takes a look at the screen.
The screen shows a satellite image of the Pacific Ocean. Close to the top left is the island of Japan, the rest of the left side is the rest of the Asian countries, and nearing the right side is Hawaii. Covering up most of the screen is a large mix of storm clouds in an unfamiliar shape, in varied colors ranging in different temperatures. The clouds start at a certain point right next to Japan, then quickly spreads south of southeast almost on top of the fleet.
Commander Gaines leans closer to the strange array of clouds forming into what appears to be a geometric shape. He has sailed the Pacific Ocean dozens of times during his time in the Navy, and he knows clouds do not move naturally like what he is seeing, nor form in a geometric shape by itself. Something is very odd.
“Radio to the fleet,” he says. “Tell them to stay on alert if anything happens during the storm. And send a message to Pearl Harbor regarding about this.”
“Aye aye, sir,” a petty officer responds.
I can hear the thunder thrashing and the waves crashing as the USS Anchorage rocks all around in the heavy waves and violent winds. I look at my watch; it’s nearly two in the morning and I still can’t get any sleep. I’m pretty sure everyone else onboard is having the same situation as I am. Most of us are unable to get a decent sleep through all the howling winds and rocking waves.
I continue to read the book I got while I was in Hawaii, With the Old Breed written by a World War Two veteran explaining his experiences during the war in the Pacific. The only light source I have is a tiny battery-operated lamp hanging on the ceiling via magnet, which I got from a dollar store before we set sailed. Already, I’m at the part where the main character arrives at Peleliu, experiencing the heavy fortified turrets shooting at his friends.
The ship takes a steep rise and fall, nearly knocking me out of my berth. When the ship returns to stable, I look out to see if anyone else is awake from the short rollercoaster ride. No one felt the jump. I look down and see Michaels snoring away. He can sleep through almost anything. You can play a death metal song at full volume and he won’t mind. I shake my head, chuckling softly as I return to my reading. Hopefully, tomorrow will not be as bad as of right now.
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So the changelings will pull a pearl harbor on the US and or send another fleet to equestria. Anyway nice chapter, well done. Keep going
I just began reading this story and I am confused.
I seriously doubt a military radio announcer would be telling the time ships are leaving port. That's terrible security.
The narrator has known his best friend since college. He is 18 and in the Marines. This does not jive.
No way is a Commander, an O-5, only 28 years old. The Admiral, at 44, however, is probably not far off.
Not sure why they departed from San Francisco. Possible, I guess, but a little strange for Marines.
If you're on a ship, it's not a chow hall, it's a galley.
On a ship, especially a modern one like a new San Antonio, there is usually a light mounted above the bed.
I noticed lots of things that didn't seem right, but you're certainly good at writing. Lots of detail and no grammar/spelling/punctuation mistakes that I saw. I'll keep reading.
"First Class Officer"? What? I've got family in all branches, and I served in the US Army, and I've never heard of that rank. Is it like the "Funnery Sergeant" 'Marine' who was actually just a stolen valor asshole (and the guy did it poorly, I mean he was in a Marine dress uniform and had a SEAL trident on below his fruit salad, which also happened to be massively out of order)?
I'm guessing OPSEC is not a real thing in this verse, because that info is just asking for an attack. This is the re-edited version?
That would be because SS Marines are not assigned to regular squads as squad members. They are attached to platoons as supporting units.
Oh man, I can feel the bootness just oozing out of these two. No one talks like that, save fuckin' boots! There is a reason everyone hates boots...
No, no, no, no, no. NO! That is not how promotions work. You don't get promoted just for being able to shoot better than others of equal rank, and there is no form of "outstanding performance", outside of earning a CMOH (and even that is pretty fucking rare), that gets you promoted more than a single rank. That is just some basic common sense. Plus, there is absolutely zero reason why a Sergeant in the USMC would have been in the same bootcamp class as two privates, who have been in less than four years. You could maybe pull off a Lance Corporal being there, but damn is that a boot-as-fuck Lance Corporal. Another fact is that there is no way in hell anyone would pass boot and get promoted to Sergeant within a year, especially in the Marines. Infantry grunts have a hard enough time making it to Corporal, much less Sergeant (ignoring the fact that Sergeants in combat units are rare as a Catholic nun popping out more babies than Octomom). Was any research even done for this? Was any Marine actually talked to, or is this all the author diving in headfirst into a river before even checking the depth?
That's your company, not your squad
And I ask again, this is the re-edited version?
Who needs consistency within a single paragraph? And before anyone criticizes the point, it is all referring to the exact same unit, not different levels within the unit...
Can someone explain to me why the butterbar is addressing the company instead of either the First Sergeant, the Captain, or having the Captain order him to address the company? He is way over exceeding his authority. No Second Lieutenant is going to be in charge of a company, save for him being the ranking officer due to casualties. This is another "no excuse" moment for either the author or the editors
First, no way in hell did this guy become an officer prior to being 21 years of age. That's a straight up, immovable requirement to be an officer in the US military. Second, eight years? There is no way anyone could get command of a ship in eight years. Maybe be in charge of a department of a ship, but not in charge of the whole thing. Third, Commander in eight years? That's some serious fast-tracking BS going on there. I'd say this Commander would be a Lieutenant Commander, freshly promoted, with his years of experience. Ten years minimum to make Commander. Thrice I ask, this is the re-edited version?
Yeah, I can't go on. Normally, I give a story five chapters before bailing, but when I see "re-edited" and that the whole things is undergoing a rewrite, I have higher standards. I would label it as a pass if it were a regular draft of a story, but not a rewrite. This needs a major tune up, as the "rewrite" has crashed, burned, and exploded. The human characters are unbelievable, the ranks they achieve in the time it takes to achieve them are unacceptably unbelievable, the basic military decorum expected isn't there, and my suspension of disbelief has been so thoroughly shattered that I've lost all interest. And that's all from the "re-edited" version! How does this have triple-digit likes? There has obviously been no research done, no military members consulted, and I don't think even common sense was consulted. This feels more like a child's view of the military rather than an adult's view. I might come back if the rewrite gets a rewrite, but I'm not holding my breath if this is the quality of a "rewrite".
To sum up my major issue with the story, the story's internal logic is inconsistent with the real world's logic. Normally, that's fine, but when you are using real modern organizations/objects/people/etc, it is a requirement for at least those organizations/objects/people/etc to match up with the real world's logic for the story to not fail. Chrysalis doing whatever she's going to do to the naval force is fine, because that isn't something that the real world has a logic for. As long as it makes sense in the story's setting and is consistent with the story's internal logic, that's fine. Having a Marine with less than two years served become a Sergeant in the USMC, and uses a verbal version of the texting language? A Marine Second Lieutenant being in charge of a Marine infantry company? Those don't jive with real world logic, and thus shatter the suspension of disbelief.
You have an 18-year-old who both went to college and was in the military long enough to make LCpl, and a sergeant who uses more lolspeak than middle schoolers?
That's...wow. I'm not even military and I'm noticing this stuff. I'm afraid to click on a chapter that hasn't been rewritten yet.
This is... so inaccurate that... well... fuck, I just can't read this...
I cannot stress hard enough that you should get another editor (preferably one with military experience), a proof reader, and take this story off the net while rebuilding the characters (and most of the story for that matter) from the ground up.
7013292
Well, It is just a story. A fanfiction to be specific. And while it may not be the most accurate, it's definitely not the worst story ever.
While I am going to try reading a few more chapters, I have to say that it was kinda hard for me to get past all the errors in your military knowledge. I highly suggest finding a Marine (or former Marine), or any other current or past service member for some military advice. Somebody other than me, I'm too busy to provide editing services to another fanfic author.
The only reason I'm going to continue reading is because you are fairly good at description.
Wait, do they take the Pacific to get to afganistan, Syria and Iraq? Seems a little long if you ask me
ITS THE FINAL COUNTDOWN (Come on guys turn on the music!!!)