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3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025

Leftenant Henry Barksdale scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars as he stood in the open hatch of his Packrat recon vehicle.  He swayed slightly and he lowered the glasses to wipe away the sweat from his salt-crusted forehead. 

“You see it, LT?” asked Sergeant Bobby Gordon who manned the sensors in the steaming interior—the powerful climate control system of the recon vehicle was having difficulties of its own in coping with the oppressive heat.  “Those are trees over in that ravine—and where there are trees, there’s water.”

“Maybe,” Henry answered.  “Maybe not.  The water could be deep underground, Sergeant; some trees have roots that run for quite a ways.”

“But there might be, LT—right?”

Henry licked his parched lips and he slowly nodded.  “Right,” he whispered.  “Any word from HQ on when we can expect resupply?”

“Yes, sir,” answered one of the recon infantry housed in the rear compartment.  “We’ve outpaced the support brigade—they say that it’ll be tomorrow afternoon before the dromedaries catch up.”

“Damn,” Henry muttered under his breath.  The Taurians were proving quite a bit more elusive than he had imagined they would be—his lip twitched as he remembered the old stories his grand-father told of fanatical defenders . . . stories handed down from his grand-father, who learned them from his.  So far, he had only caught brief glimpses of the enemy—scouts like him, not the heavy combat troops.  And the little fire exchanged had mostly come from snipers who shot once and then hauled ass.

Bastards.  The snipers hadn’t shot at him or the other vehicle commanders; no, they had targeted the canisters of fresh water his vehicle carried on the external bustle racks.  ALL of them now had a pair of holes in them . . . and the water he had expected to last three days was gone.  Only the dregs left in their personal canteens and camelbaks remained.

Henry placed one hand (rather gingerly) on the Federated-Barrett M42B Auto-Rifle one of his troopers had mounted up here on a pintle; it wasn’t a proper machine-gun by any means, but it would serve in a pinch against light vehicles or infantry—not such much against tanks or ‘Mechs.  The weapon was hot enough to scald bare flesh, and the young Leftenant just four months past graduation from the small Numenor Academy of Military Sciences made sure that he didn’t grab it; he just swiveled it out of the way and looked at the green foliage in the distance once again.  One of the less prestigious schools in the Federated Suns, it had been the only one which had accepted Henry as a MechWarrior candidate—after all, his family wasn’t rich, nor had they been MechWarriors.

Despite that, he had graduated seventeenth in his class and won his spurs . . . and was then promptly assigned to the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers where he had been told that  they didn’t need another MechWarrior and didn’t have a ‘Mech for him if they did.  No, those slots (and ‘Mechs) went to graduates from the Warrior’s Hall on New Syrtis—and Henry Barksdale found himself reassigned to the RCT Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion.  To the Packrat scout vehicles of the CSR Battalion, Henry sighed to himself over the injustice of it all.

Sure, he was still an officer—still a platoon leader—but instead of a ‘Mech lance, he had four Packrats, the eleven NCOs and enlisted men who manned the vehicles, and a short platoon of twenty-four recon infantry . . . a six-man squad in each vehicle, divided into three two-man recon/scout/sniper teams.

“Fuck it,” Henry said in an exhausted voice.  “Corporal Alexander,” he called out to the driver.  “You think you can navigate us a way down into that ravine?  Or should we dismount the infantry?”

“Hell, yes, LT,” came the answer.  “There’s a slope about half a klick back that we can descend no problem.”

“Okay,” Henry answered and he keyed his helmet microphone.  “Easy Three One to Easy Three Two,” he broadcast.

“Go ahead, Three One,” the veteran gunnery sergeant who served as his executive officer answered.

“Converge on my vehicle—we are going to laager for the night down in the ravine.  There might be water down there and we’ve got shelter from the wind.”

“Permission to speak freely, Three One?”

“Go ahead,” Henry replied after checking to make certain he was on the private frequency between him and the gunny.

“Not a good idea, Sir.  That ravine is tight—if the Taurians manage to ambush us in there . . . ,” his voice trailed off.

“Understood—but we need water and we are fifteen kilometers ahead of the combat formations.  And it is going to get cold out here as soon as that sun dips below the horizon—very cold.”  He sighed.  “And half my boys seem to left their cold weather clothing back on the DropShips.”

Henry heard an answering sigh from the far end.  “Understood—and I’ve ripped Alvarez a new asshole for doing the same.  Moron is going to freeze his balls off tonight if we don’t break out the survival blankets for him.”

“Tell you what, Gunny, Alvarez can walk perimeter on two watches to keep warm, along with my band of idiots.”

A chuckle came over the radio at that.  “Like the way you think, LT.  Be there in five.”

“Roger that; Three One out,” Henry answered and he switched the radio back to the vehicle net.  “Get us rolling, Alexander—Larson,” he ordered the senior of the recon infantry, “I want the entire ravine swept for surprises once we get down there.”

“On it, boss,” the recon grunt answered, just as the eight-wheeled Packrat began to accelerate towards the ravine’s distant entrance.



NOTE:  I realize that in the AFFS of 3025 there is no rank of Gunnery Sergeant.  BUT, the enlisted ranks just go Private, Corporal, Sergeant, and Sergeant Major.  I mean, WTF?  No, sorry, but this is one case where canon can bite me.  ANY military needs more than four enlisted/non-commissioned officer ranks . . . COMBINED.  Far more.  Just my thought on the subject.

MA

3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025

“I’ll be damned,” muttered Gunnery Sergeant Joshua Franks after he dismounted his vehicle and spotted the pool of clear, clean water that surrounded the roots of about a dozen trees and a thick curtain of vines covering the shaded side of the ravine.

“We still have the problem of holes in all of our water cans,” Henry said.

“Metal cans, LT,” the Gunny laughed.  “And we’ve got welders in the tool kits—thirty minutes, and we’ll patch every damn canister we have.”

“The Taurians will just new holes in them,” chimed in Sergeant Bobby Gordon, and Henry sighed.

“We’re going to have to store the cans inside the Packrats—not on the external racks.”

The Sergeant winced, even as the Gunny nodded.  “LT,” Bobby protested, “that’s twenty-seven cans per vehicle!  There won’t be room for any of us!”

“We’ll make room,” growled the Gunny.  “The food can go outside—it doesn’t matter if the bastards put a hole in that, we can still eat it.  The hand tools—crowbars, shovels, picks.  Our rucks with the platoon’s personal gear.”

“Gunny,” Bobby began, but the older man cut him off.

“You can live with a hole in your clothes, Sergeant Gordon—you can’t if you don’t have water to drink.”

“Agreed,” said Henry.  “It’ll still be tight, but I want as much water under armor as we can cram inside.  Second problem—that pool might not give us the four hundred plus gallons we need.”

The Gunnery Sergeant shrugged.  “If it doesn’t it doesn’t, LT.  We’re still better off having half our allotment than none if we drain it before we finish filling the cans.”

“Yeah,” Henry said softly.  “Suns already starting to set, Gunny—let’s get cracking on patching those cans and getting them filled and loaded.”

“Tonight?” asked Bobby.  “The boys are worn thin, LT.”

“We’re on an enemy world in hostile territory sitting around a water hole that you think the Taurians don’t know about, Sergeant!  I don’t care if the boys and girls are tired—get the cans patched and get them loaded—before any of us get any shut-eye.”

Joshua smiled . . . and Bobby sighed.  “I’ll get on it, LT.  Is the water safe for drinking or are we going to have to filter it?”

Henry grinned.  “The test strips say it’s A-OK, Sergeant—got an odd taste, but then every planet tastes a bit different, doesn’t it?”

“True enough, LT,” Bobby said as he walked off and began to bark orders at the infantry and vehicle crewmen—to be answered by groans and curses and then more barked orders.

Henry waited until the Sergeant had cussed the men into their work and then he turned back to Joshua.  “Gunny,” he whispered, “admittedly, I haven’t been on too many worlds.  But we have water here—in the middle of the desert.  Why isn’t this ravine swarming with insects and birds, lizards and small mammals?”

“Yeah,” Joshua answered as he looked over the cliffs again.  “It’s too quiet—we might have scared off the bigger stuff, but there should be bugs here still.  Never seen a world that we colonized that didn’t have bugs.”

“Full security perimeter, Gunny—even if that slows down fixing and filling the cans,” Henry ordered.  “Keep the lads and lasses alert and on their toes—I don’t like this.”

“Thinking about leaving just as soon as we fill up?”

“I am—is that the wrong decision?”

“You’re the officer, Sir—you make that call.  But for the record . . . I agree.  We patch the cans and fill them and get the hell out of this hole in the ground.”

That was when the first screams began.

The water is poisoned or just naturally undrinkable. The tree are immune but nothing else.

About the FedSun ranks:
They are based on the British rank system. So there is no place for a Gunnery Sergeant (because this is a Marine Corps rank and was never an Army rank):

British Army Rank	AFFS Rank
Warrant Officer Class One	Sergeant Major
Warrant Officer CLass Two	Sergeant Major
Staff/Colour Sergeant	Sergeant
Segeant	Sergeant
Corporal	Corporal
Lance Corporal	Corporal
Private	Private

So your Gunny should either be a Sergeant Major or (if you want a 'more realistic' rank structure) a Colour Sergeant (and would be called Colour instead of Gunny).
This also gives you a good overview of a AFFS ranks and their resonsibilities.

I am back. How are the Taurians doing?

3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025

“I want to just lay down and let that water run all over me,” muttered Joachim Alvarez as he stared at the still pool of water in the shade of the cliff faces and trees.

“Alvarez,” snapped Sergeant Gordon, “you foul my drinking water with your grungy body and I’ll ride you from now ‘til the last light goes out in this universe.  Dietrich, you and Kowalski join Alvarez in walking the perimeter—keep your eyes peeled for Taurians and local predators alike.”

“Ah, Sarge,” Ann Dietrich began to protest, but the Fusilier non-com cut her off short.

“Save your whining, solider, and get your ass moving.  The rest of you—break out the jerry cans and the patches . . . we have work to do before we get a drink.”

As the rest of the platoon began to spot weld patches in place on the cans, the three—Alvarez, Dietrich, and Kowalski—began to circle the shallow pool towards the far end of the ravine.

“Too quiet,” mumbled Corporal Morgan Kowalski, his auto-rifle held at the ready.  “Shouldn’t there be some of those local lizards here drinking the water?”

“Maybe they only come out at night,” Dietrich suggested.  “The full heat of day has to be something that reptiles can’t handle all that well.”

“Not that hot down here in the shade,” Kowalski answered.  Then he frowned.  “What is that stuff having from the branches—moss?”

“Looks like it,” the lady scout said after a moment.  “It’s on the vines and the cliff too.”

“Hello,” Alvarez said softly.  “I call dibs,” he said in a more excited voice.  The other two stopped and they looked where the private was pointing—and protruding from the mass of moss was the blue alloy barrel of a Taurian service revolver.

“Leave it alone, dipshit,” growled Kowalski.  “We’re not here to collect souvenirs.”

“Sod off, man.  Damn if I’m going to invade a Taurian world and not come home with a genuine Taurian magnum revolver—their officers carry those, you know.”

“So you can ooh and aah the girls back on New Syrtis, Joachim?” Ann asked.  “You going to tell them you picked up an abandoned piece—or you going to weave a story about prying it from the hands of a Taurian officer that you personally killed in hand-to-hand combat?”

“Whatever works, Dee,” Alvarez replied as he made his way towards the cluster of trees and began to crawl over their gnarled roots to get to the weapon.  “This shit is sticky,” he said in a puzzled voice, and then he brushed his face.  “There are more strands of it hanging from the trees.”

“Leave it, Alvarez,” Kowalski warned.  “Get your ass back here.”

“I’ve almost got it,” the private grunted as he stretched out, his fingers scrapping over the muzzle.  “Come here, you piece of shit,” he grunted as he reached for the weapon—then he managed to get it in his hand.  And snarled.  “Damn thing is stuck,” he said as he pulled and the vines parted to reveal a large mass of the moss—four feet across—with the pistol tangled up inside of it.

“This isn’t a good idea, Private,” Kowalski snapped.  “Leave the damn pistol alone!”

“I’ve got it, dude; quit your bitching already!” Alvarez barked back and he gave the revolver another yank—and it came free, along with the skeletal hand of the long-dead Taurian soldier still gripping it.  Kowalski and Dietrich both inhaled sharply as the mass parted—because in that instant they realized it wasn’t moss.  It was webbing that encased an egg sack.

“What the hell?” Alvarez blurted as he backed up, thousands of tiny diaphanous eggs spilling out—and bursting open as the immature insects inside suddenly awoke.

Furious at being disturbed before their normal hatching—and starving with hunger—the tiny creatures swarmed over the private, biting and stinging . . . and Alvarez howled in pain as they covered him from head to toe, the insects crawling up his nose and down his throat—across his eyes and into his ear canals.

“SHIT!” yelled Kowalski, but the Corporal didn’t move . . . his rifle was no use against such tiny targets and every instinct in his body screamed for him to run.

“CORP!” Dietrich yelled as faint strands of fresh webbing descended from the trees . . . and dozens of much larger insects slid down to begin cocooning the shrieking writhing private.  They were almost spiders, a corner of Kowalski’s brain noted—six-legs, a body clad in dark chitin, two more limbs ending in claws like those of a mantis, clicking mandibles, and a sharp stinger protruding from the just above the snipperets.  But these spider-things were the size of a terrier.

Dietrich fired—her rifle spitting a stream of bullets that tore into the crawling insects . . . and past them into the caves camouflaged by the vines.  The vines quivered . . . and then hundreds of the adult spider-things emerged.

“Fuck me,” Kowalski whispered as he raised his rifle and began to service targets . . . while backing away as fast as he could on the uneven ground.  “Dietrich!  We are LEAVING!” he shouted.

But before the woman could begin to back away, several of the creatures crouched down and then jumped—they soared across the fifteen meters separating them from the soldier and she screamed as they began to tear into her flesh with their mandibles—and plunged those stingers dripping with venom into her body.

Kowalski blanched as tens of thousands of the hungry juveniles emerged, their legs a blur as they poured out of the caverns and moved towards him in a living carpet with no other purpose than to suck away his blood and bodily fluids—he turned and began to run . . . but the adults were atop of him before he took three steps and the veteran soldier screamed in agony as four-centimeter long stingers punched through his combat utilities and into his back.

Okay Starship troopers action going on here.

 

And Master Arminas, I think I missed too many of your updates and I will wait until you get everything into a single file.