USCMRPG

Date: June 22, 2189
Location: Surface of Capua, Nembus System, Andromeda Cluster
21:30

A few marines and Fernandez gathered around the pinned, injured crewman. Fernandez started to cut away the bloody cloth around the wounds. (Awareness roll success) Morse peered over his shoulder but was unable to get a good look due to the darkness in the compartment. (Medic roll neutral) Soon, Quinn was there to assist with the injuries, and the delirious man was allowed a sip from one of their dwindling canteens. It was clear to Quinn that nothing could be done until they cleared away the chunk of bulkhead pinning the man to the ground. With portable welders, they set to work on removing it. (Medic roll success)

PFC. Robert Paulson kept his eyes peeled but attempted to find something useful among the surrounding debris. He found a leaky can on tear gas which sputtered and coated his hands. Tossing it aside, he spotted three more cans. Fortunately these three were intact and he pocketed them for future use. (Search roll failure)

Nikolai Pushkin poked around the terminal trying to figure it out. Fortunately Mark Giosso was right behind him and began linking into the terminal. As soon as he plugged in his intelligence unit, it began to blink green, an incoming radio signal. Putting his headset on, he heard the voice of a man in his thirties. “-and additional personnel, repeat, this is 2nd Lieutenant Tucker Nelson, acting commander of USS Shiloh and crew. Any surviving crew or personnel, contact me immediately on emergency channel 66.16. If you are unable to contact me directly, proceed to the rally point, coordinates following.”

Giosso wasted no time in reporting this finding to Sergeant Major Sykes. The two of them looked at the coordinates together. “Those coordinates are barely two hours march at our current pace. We can reach them before nightfall if we’re lucky. Patch me through to that emergency channel.” Sykes said in a businesslike manner. He placed the headset on and stepped outside, scanning the treeline. After a minute he heard it crackle to life.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“Sergeant Major Sykes, Daniel C., United States Colonial Marine Corps, Devil Dawgs Platoon NCO, serial number Delta two six, slash Tango Quebec six, dot three, dot four eight four one two Echo niner.”
“Second Lieutenant Nelson, Tucker G., USS Shiloh commanding. Boy am I glad to hear from you!”

Less then three hours later the marines staggered into a small clearing on the edge of a large body of water that was nevertheless overgrown with alien plant life. A few tents were up and they could see a number of navy crewmen unloading crates. A sentry barked out “Freeze! Identify yourselves!” They saw an assault rifle leveled in their direction.
<Tag Anyone>

paulson was on his turn at point as the challenge came, he had not seen the sentry and had no idea whether that was good skill craft or he was just too damn tired to pay proper attention.
he resisted the urge to snap up his own weapon despite being aimed at.
"devil Dawgs plus crew, party of 18 prefer a window seat if you have one " he replied wearily.
He then reported back the contact to Sargent Perez

"Javier Fernandez, Petty Officer 3rd Class serving on the USS Shiloh, Sir"

Javier blurted out of reflexive action, raising a straightened hand to the end of his eyebrow.

eyeball wrote: ↑Thu Oct 03, 2019 11:18 pm paulson was on his turn at point as the challenge came, he had not seen the sentry and had no idea whether that was good skill craft or he was just too damn tired to pay proper attention.
he resisted the urge to snap up his own weapon despite being aimed at.
"devil Dawgs plus crew, party of 18 prefer a window seat if you have one " he replied wearily.
He then reported back the contact to Sargent Perez

“We called ahead.” Mark quickly added from about half way down the group. “Reservation under Sergeant Major Sykes.”

The sentry lowered his rifle slightly and peered at them. “USS Shiloh? Come join the fun,” he said sarcastically. The marines limped into the meager camp and were greeted with various degrees of enthusiasm. For the most part they found seats or simply slumped on the surprisingly solid ground, ready to sleep. The bright sun was almost behind the trees and the shadows were lengthening.

“Yo, Fernandez! That you?” called a familiar voice. He looked over and saw Petty Officer Singh, another non-com that he knew well. <Tag Fernandez>

A naval officer stepped out of a large tent and approached the group. He was good looking and about thirty years old. He wore a dirty, sweaty uniform with the epaulet of a Lieutenant on his shoulder. “Sergeant Major Sykes?” he asked. Sykes stepped forward and nodded, having too much experience in the field to salute the higher rank, despite the improbability of hostile snipers. “Lieutenant Tucker Nelson, commanding. I’m glad you’re here. If you have a moment, I’d like to speak to you and your leadership.”
“Yes Sir. Morse, Perez, come with me. Marines, take some rest, you’ve earned it. Take care of the injured first,” he turned to Lieutenant Nelson, “Lead on.” The three marines followed him into the large tent. <Tag everybody>

Perez nodded approvingly and followed Nelson, Sykes and Morse

<Tag everybody>

Pushkin comes slowly into view from the avid swamp onto some finally dry land. Taking a moment to take off his boots to remove the swamp water, he finds a crate to lean against. Taking out a small box the USCM gave each marine to fight foreign infection, he swallows one followed by a chaser of what's left of his survival canteen.

"Ugh... wonder what this crap is made of," he murmurs as his feet, socks, and boots dry.

Knowing that others had survived was mostly a good thing. Even if they were handling with limited resources, it was easier to gather more with more personnel then what they had. Marines were built for killing, but they were not the best at laboring towards anything other then digging a defensive fortification... or tearing them down. With the hope that there were those that might be better equipped for the environment, or at the very least extra hands Morse made no dispute towards their staggered march through the terrestrial world to find their surviving compatriots.

It had not taken them long to discover the camp... the new home. Likewise it did not take any real effort to spot their sentry. He had a weapon in hand, but was not terrifically concealed. All the same, they were all military or at least well structured, and wise enough to at least post a sentry. Morse would be curious as to what the rest of the camp was working towards, but he'd find that out soon enough.

Giosso's comment on their reservation made Morse chuckle.

Morse did follow suit as they were introduced forward. This was not exactly an ideal situation for a gold gleaming butter bar to be considered in command, but he would no doubt defer to the NCOs when it came to the plan of action.

Morse followed forward, but without any real threat of repercussion due to the very informal nature of their make up, he began asking questions right off.

"Sir, What's your personnel count n' what ya'll got draggin' in them boxes?" Morse asked regarding their numbers and what they were working on.

<Tag Anyone