Trouble on Paradise (Expeditionary Force, #3.5)

by Craig Alanson

He was wearing five pairs of thick socks; two on each foot and another on, someplace else that was very important to Jesse.

You know what we call giving in to a bully, so he won’t hurt you as much? Appeasement. The United States military doesn’t do appeasement, it never works.

“The shorts I’m wearing right now have so many holes, the only reason they haven’t dissolved is the cotton molecules are holding hands.”

Irene cocked her head at her copilot, for him having stated the obvious. “Yeah, like I said, he’s an asshole.” She keyed the console to respond. “Understood, Kiwi, will comply.” She pulled back on the yoke to initiate a climb. “The lead pilot’s callsign is Kliwa, not Kiwi,” Nert chided her gently from the jumpseat behind her. “The callsign they gave us is Toonal, that is the baby chick of a bird known for flying awkwardly on your home planet, right?” Irene asked without turning to look at their ‘liaison officer’. “Yes, that is unfortun- Oh, ha, ha, the translator explained to me that a Kiwi is an Earth bird that is incapable of flying,” Nert giggled. “That is funny.”

Nert’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’. Without using his zPhone translator, he spoke. “It goes boom?” “Oh, yeah,” Dave put his hands together, then flung them apart. “Big badda boom! Like, this whole island, kid. We need to make like a shepherd, and get the flock outa here.”

Emily’s boots touched the sandy bottom, and as she splashed her way up to the beach in her soaked uniform, she could not help indulging herself. Holding a hand to her lips as if smoking a pipe and striking a dramatic pose, she pointed to the shattered projector island. “I shall not return.” That remark broke everyone into laughter, except for Nert, who of course had never heard of Douglas MacArthur.