Dig In: The Jericho VII Conflict by Papa John
DIG IN
The Jericho VII Conflict
Chapter I: "First the Food, Now This?"
Surface of Jericho VII
Lambda Serpentis System
02/11/2535 0550 Hours - Standard Military Time
United Nations Space Command Outpost Delta Three-Four
Private First Class Tom Waters sat playing with the mysterious mixture of food lying on his mess tray. Not only was this the worst post in the entire galaxy, he thought, it was also the worst food in the entire galaxy. Nonetheless, he would need all he could get. Even if the odd mixture of bread, cold butter, bacon and some mountainous wafer covered in dripping brown sauce didn't look to be of his taste, he scoffed it down between large gulps of hot coffee.
Coffee, he could always use more coffee. He got up, rubbed his eyes, counted the grand total of ten other heads in the lifeless grey mess hall and made his way slowly to the front counter. There he could talk to the cook, an old friend, and try to swindle a few extra rations.
Tom was an average man. He was no taller, nor shorter than any of his comrades. He was well built and sported a long cut on this right bicep. His black hair was short and scruffy and he looked as if he hadn't shaved for a few days. Even though the bags on his eyes drooped down, his eyes still twinkled as they always did. His dark eyes glinted in the dull light of the mess hall and gave him a hint of malevolence, which he lived up to with his sharp comments and wise cracks—all of which his squad mates had come to expect and enjoy.
"Tom you ole dog, come on over here! You look bright and cheery on this fine day. Don't you love the smell of rain and fresh mud? Probably not, we've had that smell for the last two weeks," roared a voice from the long brown table off to Tom's left.
Tom turned and faced the voice, distracted from the front counter and the cook. The familiar accent of his fellow squad mate, Corporal Jennings made the hairs on his neck rise as they usually did when the aging Corporal spoke. The man had a way with words, always managing to drag Tom into long conversations in his thick English accent. Tom knew something was up though; Jennings only spoke with him when he needed something. So he put down his tray on the front counter and walked up to the Corporal.
Before he could reply, his superior, Jennings whispered over to him, "Keep quiet, I'm going to let you in on some… classified information. I suggest you make good use of it. In about half an hour, the Sergeant Major is going to announce that this early start was not just for the fun of it. The Covenant has been detected in the system. We're going to engage if they land. Get your stuff together early. I want our squad ready for the Sergeant Major's announcement. Pass on the word and get yourself sorted," he said, finishing it off by crunching down into a stale piece of bread, trying to keep a straight face.
Tom looked across the mess and of course, to his luck found none of his squad-mates. He quickly bartered with the cook, a former shipmate on the way into Jericho two years ago. He ended up gaining three extra cans of coffee and a tin pot for a small price of a few odd dollars.
He left the dull mess hall and made his way across the camp to his barracks. Before he entered, he scanned the sky, expecting to see the Covenant fleet up through the dark storm clouds. He didn't. Tom sighed, knocked the mud off his boots against the door frame and entered his squad's barracks.
He found them all there. Some were playing poker with a deck of cards, others lighting up their cigarettes while humming an old Marine Corps tune. Regulations weren't enforced very much on camp. The camp was in the middle of a large forest not far from the deepest and widest valley in that hemisphere. They were between nowhere and somewhere, so the rules often got overlooked.
"I've got some bad news boys and girls. This early wake up wasn't for drill day or inspection. Grab your gear and suit up, the Covenant are coming," Tom stated, watching the enjoyment on their faces quickly disappear. The cigarettes in their hands fell to the floor.
He moved to his bunk, took off his boots, and began to dress himself appropriately. He doubled his socks and threw an extra pair in his bag. He put on his pants, then a thin layer of standard issue plating. It was a semi-bulletproof and slightly metallic material that would serve to protect his thighs and shins. He finished by zipping on his flak jacket and fastening his appropriate chest plate. He slipped on his boots again, tightening them as he went.
Grabbing his sack, he threw in the three extra cans of coffee, a few extra snack bars which he had hid under his mattress for quite some time now and a few other odd assortments of food which had previously been stored in his bunk area for safe keeping. He threw in his appropriate supplies: some bandages, the pot, a small flat pan, a sharp hunting knife and a pack of cigarettes before zipping it up. He shouldered his sack, grabbed the olive shade helmet from his bunk, then said goodbye to his fellow squad-mates and made for the centre of the camp.
It won't be long now, he thought, and at least it's not raining. He waited a few minutes. Slowly, his squad assembled, along with members of other squads who had apparently overheard about the announcement, or had been told in the same manner as Tom, from one of his superiors.
The Sergeant Major finally arrived and stumped up a small wooden podium where he could be seen by all. Seconds later, a bell sounded and the Marines and other personnel not in attendance were rudely notified.
After waiting several moments the entire camp was now present. A motley crew of more than two hundred Marines and other UNSC personnel gathered around to hear what the Sergeant Major had to say.
"Today, there will be no drills. I don't expect to hear any cheering because thanks to the Covenant, we're going to be fighting them instead. Officers, I'll need to see you in my quarters immediately. As for the rest of you, get your stuff together. Marines be ready to travel in ten minutes, have your packs filled and your weapons loaded. Any other personnel, I ask you to arm yourselves and go back to you regular stations and await orders. I'll be around," he said, and in good time too. Just as he was finishing, the once calm and wet camp quickly became an active and wet camp.
Tom hurried to the armoury. He got in line, second from the front. He waited for a few seconds while the standard issue was handed out to the two female Marines in front of him. He made it to the front, showed the grungy arms keeper his badge on his arm and awaited his weaponry. An M6C sidearm, two clips of ammunition, two fragmentation grenades, and an MA5A assault rifle with two extra magazines.
"Hey, buddy listen it's gonna be tough out there, can't you give me anything better than this pistol? Give me something that's going to hurt these guys. Come on, I'll bring it back," Tom pleaded.
"Yea, I know what you mean. The standard issue's been outfitted with a scope but it still just isn't good for much of anything really. Here, take this M7A magnum and these cartridges. Just give me the 'C' back and we'll call it a mistake if anyone asks how you got one of these," the Gunnery Chief replied, spinning the short revolver's hefty chamber before passing it to Tom.
"Thanks. Good luck!" Tom yelled behind him, thankful to be out of the growing line.
He waited by his barracks for his squad leader, Lieutenant Jones, to return with their orders. After waiting a few minutes with the rest of his tired and blurry-eyed twelve man squad, Jones came rushing to them, drawing his pistol and eyeing the sky every chance he got.
The Lieutenant was a middle-aged man who concealed his age under layers of thick muscle. He had thick dirty blonde hair and a large scar on his left cheek. He was a no-nonsense person; he was a fierce fighter. He led his squad by example and was never in the back. He was a real leader.
"They've arrived. Our ships are engaging their fleet while we speak. We've been ordered to link up with a squad from Delta Three-Three at this location," he said, pointing to a small clear area on his map. "Right here between Apollo valley and our current location. If they're not on time, we're ordered to wait at that location until they do arrive or are reported unaccounted for. Any questions?" Jones asked, holstering his pistol.
"When do we leave?" Tom blurted out.
Before Jones could reply, above them the sky filled with hundreds of small teardrop-shaped Covenant dropships and more bulky human ones as well. The Covenant had made short work of the human defences and now the survivors were returning to the surface, imprinting the clouds with small dots, sending a continuing pattern of black and grey across the morning sky for miles.
The Sergeant Major came running up to the podium like a mad man, "Get out of here now! Get moving. Securing those life pods is vital! The entire planet is being invaded by the thousands. Our orbital defences may not hold through the day. A relief fleet is on its way but we have at least forty-eight hours before they'll arrive. So, dig in and give 'em hell!" He finished, snapped an unsightly salute and got in line for the armoury himself.
"You heard the man; time to roll out!" Jones roared in his gruff voice, shouldering his assault rifle as he began to march his way slowly towards the camp exit, followed by a single file line of twelve Marines.
Just as they reached the rectangular camp's exit, located in the far south-westerly corner of the camp, the morning turned even worse. A landing craft nosed down inside the camp. The sides of the diamond-shaped lilac craft blew open and a swarm of assorted aliens jumped out, eager for battle.
The camp lit up within seconds. The Covenant soldiers charged into the fray, attempting to gain ground on the surrounding Marines. The camp personnel continued to back off slowly, firing as they went, completely engulfing the badly outnumbered landing team.
Small aliens, nicknamed Grunts were cut down within the first seconds of combat. Rounds cut through the little creatures like Swiss cheese, bursting their methane breathing tanks and sinking deep into their flesh and armour.
As the ranks of the aliens thinned, they finally had gained enough ground to engage the Marines on even ground. The Grunts were in short number but their companions, however were not. Surrounding the entire landing team were nearly twenty birdlike creatures that each carried a small sidearm and a large round energy shield varying in colour from yellow, red and blue. These creatures had been nicknamed Jackals and with their shields, they usually offered a much better fight than their counterparts, the Grunts.
Using their shields, the Jackals had created a box around the team, protecting the remaining fighters until they could get close enough to do some real damage. Inside the small grid were the highest ranking members of the assault group and by far the most deadly; the most vicious creatures of the crew were the 'Elites'. These creatures wore suits of coloured armour, blue armour signifying a regular foot soldier and the more complex red armour signifying a veteran warrior. These 'Elites' were surrounded by energy shielding which could absorb a limited amount of damage before failing and leaving the creature vulnerable.
A single Marine lobbed in a fragmentation grenade from the balcony on the second floor of the main command room. The grenade landed on the Covenant grid's left side and blew away five Jackals, leaving their flank open and the Elites unshielded from the attack.
The Marines filled the Elites with round after round as they charged helplessly forward to their deaths. The rounds tore through shielding, armour and flesh, leaving few of the creatures, only to stand in pools of their comrades' iridescent blood.
A single gold armoured warrior had managed to enter the Marine ranks. He hacked and slashed wildly around with a glowing blue energy sword. It cut through a squad of Marines like raw meat, splattering gore everywhere. The Elite continued on his rampage ripping Marines apart until finally, his shields failed under fire and his lifeless body slumped to the ground under the weight of hundreds of assault rifle rounds.
Tom walked closer to the beast, inspecting its odd shaped mouth. The thing had large fangs and a mouth which split into four sections. The creature was much taller than any Marine, standing at a rough seven feet—or so Tom guessed. Unlike the Jackals who were near average human size or the Grunts who were just above four feet, the Elites brought fear into the heart of their opponents. They were large and vicious beasts that were also cunning and proud. They were born leaders, inspiring even the most cowardly of the Grunts to stand tall and fight it out.
Tom was happy that the thing was out of their hair now. He watched as the last few Jackals were mopped up and rejoined his squad to move out. He shouldered his assault rifle and fell in line with his fellow squad mates and discussed their latest encounter.
"Shut it and keep moving! I don't like this anymore than you do, but talking isn't going to help us any. So keep quiet and keep alert, those things could be anywhere waiting for an ambush." Tom's Corporal said, antagonizing him once again with his droning tone and his thick accent.
By midmorning the clouds had momentarily broken in favour of a glaring sun. The air became hot and the squad was forced to rest. They set up camp in a small grove of tall dark trees, completely shading them and cooling them off to a pleasant, more bearable temperature.
"How much further L-Tee?" Tom questioned, hoping to hear that they wouldn't need to go much further in the current heat.
"Not far now, we've still got a bit of a hike, about another three miles due northwest. We've got to cross open ground soon, though, so keep your eyes peeled and no goofing off—all of you," Jones said, wiping his forehead with a cloth before saying, "I kind of miss the rain now. Hopefully this doesn't keep up."
As if he was a god himself, moments after he spoke, the clouds rolled back in and poured more rain to the ground below. It beat down harder than ever and drenched the once drying ground. The dirt turned to mud again and the grass to pure slush and swamp. The trees grew heavy from the weight of the downfall and Jericho VII's oft-volatile western hemisphere was showcased at its worst again.
"Let's get a move on. This rain will cover any tracks we could leave. We've got about half a mile 'till we hit open ground and become easy targets. No stopping until we reach that point. We can't risk it in the wide open and we can't risk stopping in the woods after that, we have to keep moving. We can't let ourselves get pinned down. Now, let's move out!" The Lieutenant stated conclusively as he picked himself up off a tree stump and began to walk out in front.
"Jennings, get our six. Waters you got point. Let's move, single file, and keep sharp," he yelled, waving forward with his pistol in hand, signalling to move out.