Scott found his way to his 'office', such as it was. In reality, it was a store room that had been cleared out and a folding desk and chair put in, along with a satellite coms link. Additional chairs had appeared, and he suspected the Maltese personnel had been accommodating the mercenaries from Shattered Steel as best as they could by acquiring things, as and where they could. The fact the room had managed to accommodate the squadron and a few extras the night before was probably evidence of that. 
He closed the door behind him and settled into the chair, powering up his secure laptop. 
He stared at the screen as the machine started up, and let out a long sigh. 
While this was his first [i]official[/i] command, where he had the rank and the responsibilities that entailed, as well as - supposedly - the responsibility, it wasn't the first time he'd been in command. 
The gruelling, agonising slog of the surviving Marines and Sailors across had been the first time he'd been responsible for people's lives, had to make decisions that affected the lives of people, and give orders to people. It hadn't always been perfect or gone well, and there'd been times he'd had clashes of personality. There always were, and those had been the most tiring and frustrating - just like they were now, and how it was niggling him again. 
That annoyance, combined with the frustration and annoyance of the previous 24 hours was starting to weigh on him, and he felt like he was struggling to push through it all at the moment. The fair-haired pilot pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, eyes closing as he exhaled, leaning on the desk. 
[i]I need to sleep,[/i] he thought to himself. [i]And I need to rest. Or else I'm going to lose my temper, and lash out. And that'll just make things worse.[/i]
He leant back, looking up at the ceiling tiles but seeing nothing, letting his mind roam freely for a moment and trying to let go of the frustration and tension he felt. 
It had barely been 48 hours, he had to keep reminding himself. Two days wasn't enough time to get to know the people under his command, or start to build any friendships or bonds. Especially with all that had been thrown at them so far. They'd been put into action off the gate, and he hadn't even had time to actually speak to any of them, outside of a professional capacity. 
And it wasn't like any of them - that he'd seen so far, anyway - weren't competent. So far, they'd all shown themselves to be exceptionally so, and more-than able to follow orders, as well as showing initiative, and doing the right thing when it was needed. 
That was something he was pleased to see. Anything else... well, that was yet to be seen. Perhaps yet there'd be time for moods and attitudes to thaw and walls to come down or edges to soften, and they'd start to get along better... He sure as hell fucking [b]hoped[/b] so, or else [i]he'd[/i] be the one requesting a transfer to a new unit.
But first, he had to file the mission plans, and update command on their situation. With a grumble, he set to typing. 

[center][b]* - * - *[/b][/center]

Kat squinted in the bright, mid-morning Mediterranean sunshine as the breeze ruffled and streamed through her messy black hair. She was relieved to be out of the hospital, and even more so that no lasting damage had been done to her spine. The doctors had given her a shot of anti-inflammatorys for the bruising, and by the morning it had cleared up, other than a slight residual ache, which they'd prescribed some strong, over-the-counter painkillers for. 
Now, she sat in the back of a convertible that Traveller and Showgirl had come to collect her from the hospital in. She'd been surprised when the helicopter crew had turned up in the cherry-red car. 
"I still want to know where you got this thing from", she called out loudly to the pair in the front. They exchanged glances, and a grin passed between Brigitte and Miles, before the woman driving laughed out; her laughter as musical as the rest of her voice.
"Although," Kat continued with a wry smile creeping onto her own face. "With that as an answer, maybe I don't". 
"I'm glad your injuries were not more severe," Miles said, turning in the passenger seat to look back at Kat, his words flowing out with the smooth, mellifluous French accent behind them. "I think we are about to become very busy, and all of you combat pilots will be needed".
Brigitte laughed and called back to her as she weaved the car expertly around a truck ahead of them, no doubt hauling some of the off-loaded supplies from the convoy. "And our handsome Colonel needs his right-hand woman around. He is lost without you, you know. I can see the pining look in his eyes without you around to occupy them~"
"Oh shut up, Showgirl", Kat huffed and folded her arms across her chest, pouting as she kicked the back of Brigitte's chair. "Sco- [i]Colonel Valentine[/i] and I aren't like... that. And you know it".
"But of course she does, [i]mon doux petit chaton.[/i] But teasing you about it is so much fun though!" 
 Kat didn't reply, instead she gazed out of the side of the car as the airport came into view. She was relieved to see the place looked intact and active. She'd heard about the activity overnight that she'd missed out on and had had mental images of burned-out wreckage and bullet-riddled buildings among cratered tarmac, but it seemed like her imagination had run wildly away with her. 
The convertible pulled up to the gate, and all three showed their ID's and were let onto the base after a quick examination of the vehicle. As they pulled away, Miles turned back to her and asked where to drop her. Her stomach provided the answer, and she asked to get out at the mess hall; reporting to Scott could wait until her belly was full, and she'd review the new orders her electronic flight book had been badgering her about while she ate. 

As she stepped into the mess hall, Kat's senses were greeted by the low-level buzz of voices and activity. The late-morning time had gathered a small crowd of late diners and others seeking a metabolism boost from sugar, caffeine or carbs, and the kitchen was pumping out the smells of lunch preparations. The remnants of breakfast's offerings stocked the cafeteria-like counters and the tall, amazonian pilot took a tray and started to help herself to stocking a plate, not really paying too much attention to her surroundings as she lost herself in a haze of idle thoughts.