0550 Hours

Mediterranean Sea, Egyptian Coast

HMS Eagle

Alexander Reid stood on the deck of the HMS Eagle - the strap of his rifle slung across his right shoulder. His combat uniform was immaculate, as was the rest of his appearance: his hair cut short to military standards, the beard that he had worn prior to his redeployment now all but gone, replaced instead by smooth skin - which, he was sure, would soon be covered by stubble a few days after being dropped into the thick of it. A green beret sat atop his head, to which was secured a well-polished 40 Commandos pin. A pin for the 36th Ulster Division from the First World War was also secured to his breast pocket, polished just as much - if not even more so - as the pin on his beret. 

_I’m getting way too old for this shit_, he thought, looking round the improvised staging area that was full of rushing Commandos, Marines and other, regular members of the Royal Navy. Logistics personnel were scurrying around everywhere, many of whom had the fresh faces of those conscripted through the National Service Act. None of those fresh faces would be Northern Irish faces, of course - conscription had never been brought in to effect in Ulster; any Irishman serving in the British Armed Forces was there because he _wanted_ to be, and that made Alex proud. 

He’d been overseeing the offloading of a number of crates from a helicopter at the request of one of the Logistics Officers, while he had rushed off to search for some missing paperwork. Glancing down at his watch, and seeing the time - 5:55 - Alex was relieved to see the officer rushing back toward him to reassume his command, full of praise and thanks for the Sergeant. Waving it off, the Commando gave him a smart salute and a small smile as he departed to find his section, right hand holding the barrel of the rifle that was swung around his neck. 

Sergeant Reid arrived on the tail end of his CO’s rant, a small grin on his lips as he watched him deal with the National Service Private from the safety of a few feet away. However, at the arrival of Private Mills, Alexander’s temper was quick to rise to boiling point. “Private!” He barked, approaching the young man with business-like steps, the stripes on his shoulders as well as his general demeanour clearly marking him as a Sergeant. “What in the -fuck- are you wearing?! That’s fucking dis-grace-FUL!” He bellowed the last syllable, -right- in Jeremy’s face. “If we weren’ shippin’ out right now, Private, I’d have you cleanin’ my dickcheese wit’ a fuckin’ toothbrush for the next three months. You’d better get your shit together, son - don’ fuck up - you’re a Commando: Britain is countin’ on you.” 

As soon as he was done chewing out the young man, Alexander turned his attention to Captain Mackenzie, offering him a smart, practiced salute. “Sergeant Reid, Captain - eager to assist in any way I can.” He spoke in a thick County Down accent, and there was a small grin on his lips as he eyed the Scotsman before him.