0600 Hours

Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, Off the coast of Egypt

HMS Eagle

The HMS Eagle was a fine Aircraft carrier, an Audacious-Class Aircraft Carrier operated by the Royal Navy. On the deck, sat a number of helicopters and planes, ranging from Douglas Skyraiders, Hawker Sea Hawks and Westland Whirlwind helicopters, which would bring most of the Royal Marines on this carrier to the fight. While perhaps the Royal Navy was more used to deploying amphibious task forces by the waves, today would be different. Since Korea, the idea of the Royal Marines entering battle from the sea would change- they'd come from the air, or at least this part of 40 Commando would. The early morning sun had wiped out any sea fog, and it was all stations go, as far as the Fleet Air Arm had considered.

And this was the mere surface- inside, was most of "Forty", or 40 Commando itself, the detatchment of Royal Marines from the 3rd Commando Brigade. In particular, apart from the storage of Westland Wyvern CAS aircraft, the area had become a large staging area for the airmobile forces of 40 Commando. A various set of netting, and armories were set up in the large aircraft bay, surprisingly less filled than usual. The Med was still as a pond today, and the sun was basking out, though this being the late autumn, it wasn't as hot as it could get. There was a hubub of supplies, squads arming up and general movement, as a few squads at a time, they moved out from their armories and briefings to the deck, to board up into helicopters or standby for tasking. The place was a hive, to say the least- the Invasion was already underway, since the 16th Airborne Brigade had touched down at El Cap Airfield, and despite losses, essentially captured the middle of the Suez Canal. They now had to liberate Port Said, and that meant effectively storming the place. They were up against militants and the Egyptian Army according to Colonel Harris, the head of 40 Commando- and in the whole scheme of things, that meant that the enemy was nowhere near their standard. Total air dominance had been established, the Egyptian Navy practically didn't exist and therefore was not a threat to the Royal Navy, and the Egyptians were so poorly armed with British Colonial weaponry and any other foraged kit, that it would be like fighting Zulus all over again, Andrew thought to himself.

Andrew sat on a ammunition crate inside that cargo bay, looking at his watch. They were meant to be here, the section he now had inherited and had brought over from Cyprus, they were a minute late now; and that was enough. They were leaving in twenty, so whatever introductions were going to be made, were going to have to come fast. He sat under a netting that was placed up inside, the cold steel at his boots and a Sterling on his lap, magazine unloaded for obvious safety reasons. This wasn't a weapon you kept loaded when you didn't want to shoot, it was that simple, even on the Mk4. The Section was meant to be here, and then, one man of a few came. They'd rallied up probably in the mess, but even so, this wasn't on. The young man, Daniel, wore his uniform with uncertainty almost, as he approached Andrew.
"Captain Mackenzie? I heard I'm with you." Daniel said, in a weakened voice, as Andrew laughed.
"They gave me a bloody boy, seriously. You fucking refer to me as Captain, they drill that into your head at Basic or I will fucking drill it into you with a fucking knife, right fucking here. What's your name, lad?" Andrew barked back, the Anglicized Scots accent as sharp as the Trench Knife at his hip, the older Marine's uniform looking tattered and worn, but still just as neat in some way or form. Swearing from the Scotsman sounded like he'd already plunged a dagger into his heart.
"Private Parsons, Captain. I didn't mean..." He simply said, as Andrew nodded, looking him over, as he stood, currently unarmed, Daniel cut off entirely by Andrew's loud and overbearing voice.
"Cunting hell, I am actually going to trip over your umbilical cord, you look like you've barely fucking gone through puberty. National Service? Or just trying to impress some slag?" Andrew asked, knowing full well where he was going.
"Yes, Sir; I'm a National Serviceman." Daniel replied, gulping, as Andrew shook his head.
"Well, I've got my work cut out. You aren't a shitting serviceman, you ain't even fucking the West Country's best tribute at a National Serviceman. Right, you grab the L7A1 I've been penciled with in the squad, you're lugging that thing. If I saw, you wanted an MG. You now have the most advanced weapon that we have in our arsenal. Well done." Andrew simply said to Daniel, as he nodded, walking past, scared somewhat of Andrew already. This wasn't good, no matter what way he said it. Just as Daniel's hands were grabbing the GPMG, Andrew turned his head and looked over, Daniel aware that you didn't ignore his stare without inducing something.
"Don't fuck this up, Parsons. I'll have your fucking head on a pike by the hour if you don't fire that thing as God intended. I know your type. Keep it in mind." He said, harshly at the end, as Daniel adjusted his beret, aware that Andrew wasn't taking any prisoners, as he looked down to the notes he'd made, on the Section composition.

"And it turns out we have a lass as a fucking nurse, some bloody Currymaker, a pair of Northern Irish twats, another pair of fucking children and a couple of old farts who look like they could be in a retirement home. Brilliant. Just, fucking, brilliant. The cream of the fucking Royal Marines, the most elite that Great Britain offers and we've got that. Jesus." Andrew said to himself, as he took a few magazines from the crate behind him, lumbering up in his chest rig, the long range radio housed in a Bergen by his feet, for later communications. Fact was, Andrew wanted to go and take some names, and he didn't want to miss his helicopter, or else there would be hell and paperwork to pay. Hell was fine, the paperwork the RN would want filled out could find it's way down someone's esophagus if Andrew knew it came to it. 

(NOTE TO ALL- the racism and sexism is going to be pretty bad from Andrew, as I may have forwarned. It is IC, and will not transfer over. Andrew's pissed-offness can stem from little things- the very slight delay being enough.)