!!0ZviLFh59My 02/29/12(Wed)01:25 No.18145533|
File: 1330496718.jpg-(12 KB, 264x233, 1320027266076.jpg)
Sean is quiet for a few minutes.
"Lots of Home Guard traffic," he says at last. "Boys wouldn't know OPSEC if it bit 'em in the ass, but hey. Lots of talk about waiting on the armor and... they keep on saying 'you can always take one with you'."
You all go quiet at that.
"Don't tell me they're still using those goddamn thermos'o'thermite things?"
"No, they issued them Gammon bombs months ago," Ian tells you.
"Woo hoo, cloth bag full of TNT, big fucking deal."
"It's bad down there," Ian says softly.
"Choke on it," Sean says brusquely. "Oh no, there's Martians within twenty miles of the coastline of the worlds largest battleship fleet! Once they get here, it's all over but the bitter Martian bitch tears."
"So where are they?" you ask.
"... shut up," Sean replies, and you take that as good advice. You all shut the hell up.
You put down at Sutton Field, on the outskirts of London, not thirty minutes later. Even after months of flying over it, you're still constantly surprised by just how small England is, compared to the 'States. Forty miles ain't much, not at 300+ MPH. The pattern is confused as hell, with inbound and outbound strikes flying every-which-way, and you count yourself lucky that no level bombers are paying a visit at the moment. Without Bader's authority, you would've been in a holding pattern longer then you were in transit.