-- -- -- -- --
>"Fire!"
>Like in the 19th century, your platoon fires a rifle salvo. Supplies have been so scarce that full auto was considered a waste of ammo.
>At least it's enough to scare the zebras away a little bit.
>Really, what were you thinking when you signed up for this expedition? Your pension was pretty decent and everything in the estate was going great...
>...was it need for adrenaline, maybe? A decent excuse to rush to New Rhodesia, the Equestria's colony in Zebrica, under the NCA's banner and get surrounded by tribals.
>"Center, this is Bravo, I say again, this is Bravo. Do you have any ideas for us, huh? I've been in encirclement for three days now, we're low on water and ammo. Five wounded - for now."
>"What? Air Force? Oh really, you'll send pegasi? How sweet..."
>"...taking into account that THEY CAN'T EVEN HIT ANYTHING HERE!"
>Ah yeah, the pegasi.
>Air Force has developed some magically-aimed (literally, it has a crystal or something in its nose cone to aim) air-to-ground missile for them, but it can only be aimed at large objects, such as buildings.
>No point in using it against nomadic zebras.
>"Ten minutes? What the he- It's a guaranteed victory? Well, if it's not, we'll all die here!"
>With a shitload of curses, First Lieutenant finally ends the call.
>"You know what, people? Echo platoon is advancing from Plaza del Victoria. What does that mean? Ri-i-i-ight."
>He inhales.
>"THOSE BASTARDS ARE SUPPORTED BY FOUR GUNBOATS!"
>The last sentence causes the whole platoon to get really bucking angry.
>"Alert! Zebras!"
>"FI-RE!"
>Another salvo, a dozen dead, striped buckers retreating.
>Luckily they don't have bows or something - thank God for this awkward physique of theirs.
>While attacks are ceased, you have a couple of minutes to rest.
>Checking your carrier vest, you see that there is only one spare magazine for your assault rifle, one HE grenade and roughly four moonclips for Colt Anaconda.
>Well, your rifle - a ripoff of the FN FAL, but for 6.8 Remington, manufactured in Coltingham - has served you well, despite going through a lot of sand and dirt.
>Anaconda is more effective in popping striped jackasses' heads than more common M1911 or Beretta 92, though recoil is...severe.
>You're grabbed out of this quiet tranquility by a loud voice that is almost ripping apart Lieutenant's HT.
>And this voice belongs to a mare.
>"Ahoy, Bravo! This is Hammer Leader. How copy? Owah!"
>And now commander has to explain that their missiles won't work against zebras. Wasting precious time.
>If you happen to survive here, than you'll definitely retire soon after.
>"Hammer Leader, this is Bravo. Report status...or something. Over."
>"Bravo, we're approaching you from 320 degrees, about thirty clicks away. We'll be at your position within a minute. Ow-ah."
>"Hammer Leader, this is Bravo. What about armament? Flash missiles? Over."
>Gosh darn it, Lieutenant, can you pleaae omit all these formalities? It's not like zebras will - or can intercept our comms, after all.
>"Flash missiles? No-no, we have other cool stuff. You'll see it in a couple of minutes. Hammer Leader out!"
>"Bird-brained horses!" was the most polite sentence from the Lt. Well, he knows that he'll certainly die here with us without help - his emotions can be understood, after all.
>"His troopers, they were loyal; his troopers, they were young. They'd follow Allan Wilson to the setting of the sun!"
>"Corporal, the last thing we need here is another song about a heroic last stand, m'kay?"
>"Okay, okay."
>Wait a goddamn second. Is this sound of jets or you're finally hearing...things?
>And a lot of jets, as well. Six at least.
>Suddenly, you - alongside with the whole platoon - spot several dark figures high in the sky. Approaching you.
>Pegasi don't fly at such heights, so who the hell is "Hammer"?
>"This is Hammer Leader! Be advised, sticking your head out of the trench may lead to a lot of bad things! Owah!"
>"FWOOSH" and several dozens of bright objects separate from the dark spots, leaving thick dust trails.
>"Not the Flash missiles," says the Lieutenant, "one pegasus carries one missile and that's all. What the hell are the-"
>KA-BOOM!
>Someone, please, play the Ride of the Valkyries.
>Dozens and dozens of rockets, exploding and sending fragments all over the steppe, bring literal hell on earth.
>When the explosions are over, you stick your head out of the trench to examine the situation.
>It's a mess.
>Hundreds of zebra warriors now are reduced to bones and minced meat, mixed with gunpowder, RDX and dirt.
>But there is still a large gathering of them two kilometres away.
>Well, you guess that Hammer squad has an answer to this, as they rapidly descend lower, to some 30 feet above ground.
>They're moving way too fast for the regular pegasi; are they some sort of Wonderbolt Spec Ops troops?
>Who knows.
>Lieutenant grabs binoculars and just admires the scene, commenting the defeat of the second group.
>"Holy cow, they're wielding some sort of machine guns - under their bucking wings! Have you seen a pegasus with a gun under his wing? I haven't either."
>"Wo-ho-ho, I guess they've downed a thousand or so. A-a-and - they're returning!"
>A minute later, 12-pegasus squadron has successfully landed behind your trenches.
>Close inspection reveals that they're, well, not regular pegasi. Their wings are fixed by some sort of airplane-like wing frame, their body mostly covered in white flightsuits and visors are covering their eyes. 
>The most interesting part is small jet engines attached to their spines.
>It looks like...
"Who even are you?"
>"Say thanks to the National Biomechanics Research Institute and to the 17th Air Rgt., sir!"
>"Bio-Mechanical Unit, Mark 6 - Light, Attacking - Serial Number 11, also known as Hammer Eight, reporting in!"
"Bio-Mechanical? Really?"
>"Really-really!"
>"We've taught a lesson or two to those zebras, right, sir?"
"I guess you did."
>"Don't underestimate yourself, sir. We would've been regular pegasi with none of this cool stuff without those kind people at the NBMRI."
"What is this...weapon you were wielding? Looks interesting."
>She raises her right wing a bit, so you can see a small plexiglass dome attached with a barrel sticking out of it.
>"This is L.A.W., standing for Light Aerial Weapon, dear sir! Belt-fed, 1000 9x19 Parabellum rounds of AP-HP-APT-APTI per each, rate of fire is about 500 rounds per minute! That's what they've told me at the briefing!"
"Very cool."
>"Now can I ask for something, sir?"
"Yeah, Hammer...Eight, ask away."
>"C-can you please pet me? I was t-too embarrassed to ask any of the officers back at the air force base..."
>Ponies. Ponies never change.
-- -- -- -- --
>Meeting Hall, Avionics Research Institute, Canterlot
>It's already almost midnight, but no one is going home just yet.
>"The brightest human minds in Equestrian avionics" are drinking.
>Mares - wives and daughters alike - aren't allowed to participate; after all, a lot of military secrets is being told, and no one wants to be arrested for leakages.
>And come on, have you ever seen a female researcher in weaponry? 
>"And ho-how *hiccup* are we supposed to fulfill this new program of the Guv'mint?"
"The 36-1-250?"
>You haven't drank as much as the others - partially because of your organism's low alcohol resistance, partially because you'd probably fall asleep and there won't be anyone to carry you home.
>Though there never was a lack of cute human-loving mares, you were too engulfed in your job to do anything on the "personal front".
>Mainly the development of pony-carried weaponry.
>"Yeah, the thirty-one-something..."
>Cpt. Arbenz rises his glass, again refilled with moonshine - really, ponies' cider is just too weak. 2° or so.
>"What's it all about?"
"Ah, the ol' Moose is stressing out again about the Feds doing something and ending up here."
"The plan actually means that we should successfully (hiccup) repel an attack by 36 B-52Hs, each carrying a 250-kiloton warhead."
>This causes him to choke.
>"B-52s? Is Cor-nel out of his mind or somethin'?"
"Well, the Civil Defense pals were conducting a lot of nuclear drills and building shelters and all that stuff."
"Our task - I su-suppose - is the creation of the effective air force, capable of intercepting literally (hiccup) everything."
>"But what can we d-do, everyone?"
>Lieutenant Swanson, researcher in charge of weaponry, takes a big sip from his glass.
>"W-why can't we increase payload on pegasi?"
"Well, I guess they can't carry any more weight than one Flash missile. And it's not powerful enough to knock down a bomber."
>"Oh, I've got an (hiccup) idea. Can't we just repla-a-ace ponies wiz sombody else?"
>A pint of 55° moonshine definitely HAD its effect on Swanson.
"Somebody else? Like, griffons? Or dragons?"
>"SCREW GRIFFONS!" is heard from Arbenz. 
>"I've tried to interrogate one moron, how wa his name - from "G" or somethin. He almost ripped my hand apart!"
>"Of course I had to expend him."
>"And dragons are insubordinate bastards too, I suppose." Swanson adds. "I'll write a report to Cor-nel for him to send a company or several to dispose of their damn island."
>"They've been seen as far as Appleloosa!"
>Appleloosa? That's not good.
"And what happened?"
>"Of course, our SPAAGs showed them a good time with HEs."
"That's nice to hear."
>"And to the topic of ponies..."
>He takes another sip, and his eyes lighten up.
>"ROBOTS!"
>"Robots? I don't hear Imperial Suite or Vader's breathing around here."
"Yeah, Swanson, we're not advanced enough, even with pony magic."
>But, what if...
"What if we mix the two?"
>"Eh?"
"We do have some CPUs and small radars left, yea?"
>"I suppose we do..."
"And small jet engines, 7 to 10 h/p. Arbenz?"
>"I thought they'd be useful."
"Well then!"
"Gentlemen and other gentlemen, I present to you..."
"...a concept of a plane pony!"
>"It'll be a "plony" then, 'Non." says Swanson, giggling uncontrollably.
"Well, I think they'll be more reminiscent of drones, not planes, but nonetheless. I'll pre-present you a drawing tomorrow."
>And the drinking night goes on.
>To be continued...




-------------
The Demobilisation

>The ringing of a phone interrupts your peaceful rest with a beer bottle and a good newspaper.
>Picking it up, you're greeted with familiar voice of your former commanding officer, first lieutenant Robert Howler - well, you two were good friends since you retired from service.
>"Morning, Anon! How's the stuff?"
"Nothing new, Rob. What about you? Why are you calling?"
>"Ah, I've got a once-in-a-lifetime offer for you, bud!"
"Don't you tell me that you now are doubling as a travelling merchant."
>"None of that. You know, I still have connections in the Air Force, especially in the 17th Reg..."
"Yeah?"
>"...listen, you're still a bachelor, right?"
"Oh, come on."
>"Don't take that as an insult, just asking. But I think there's a lot of nice-looking mares out there and they would LOVE to marry a human. Especially a former officer."
"Haven't got time for this kind of stuff. So what was your offer, anyway?"
>"Well, I suppose I can't tell you that on the phone...but anyway."
>"The 214th Attack Squadron is being demobilised, and they have one spare bio-mech left."
"A...what?"
>"It's too long to explain, but basically it's a pegasi cyborg."
"The fuck..."
>"...wait a sec. Most of them find their loved ones among the human officers and live happily ever after, but this one...she didn't stood a chance, all of the officers assigned to her squadron were already "taken"."
>"They're subservient, obedient and all like that. I would like to have one, but...nah, I've got enough. If you don't choose now, some fast pal from the Navy might snatch her."
>"Yes or no?"
>You ponder with this one for a bit. Cyborg pegasi? You can, like, take them home?
>Without thinking much, you blurt out the answer.
"Y-yeah."
>"Great then! I'll have her transported to your home! There is an unofficial "guide" for treating them, I'll get you a copy. Bye."
"Yes...thank you. Bye."