One
"Forty-five seconds until landfall!"
Everything was dark. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. It wasn't supposed to be dark. He was supposed to be able to see. But all he could do was feel. And hear. His CO's voice was still coming over the comms. But so were the screams as men and women burned alive and cried out in terror as things kept going wrong. So, so very wrong.
"Forty seconds until landfall!" The CO was still there. Focus on that.
"Thirty-five seconds!" The pod was free falling at terminal velocity, jarring and rattling itself apart as it tore through 10,000 Kilometers of atmosphere. The pod bucked, his head whipped back into the seat.
"Twenty seconds!" His hot breath ricocheted off his visor back up against his face.
"Ten seconds!" The air brake deployed and yanked the pod out of freefall. He bit his lip.
"Nine! Eight!" He was still falling fast.
"Seven! Six!" He gripped his weapon as tight as he could and blinked his HUD into life.
"Five! Four! Three! Two!" An explosion jolted the pod and the power came back on. He could see.
"One!" The ground rushed up to meet him.
Bjorn shot straight up with a shout. He drew in ragged drafts of cool air as his breathing normalized and he calmed. He blinked rapidly to adjust to the darkness and felt out the terrain immediately in front of him.
He was in a bed. His bed.
Bjorn pulled his feet back towards himself and gently placed his forehead on his now propped up knees, hands clasped around the base of his skull. How much longer? How much longer until I can just sleep again?
The war had ended a year ago. But every night it was the same. Flashback nightmare, wake up scared for his life, find himself at home six years later. The routine was starting to get old.
Bjorn pulled his still clasped hands up around his head and back down his face. He checked his alarm clock, the blue digital display glowing softly on the nightstand to his left. 0449 hours. He'd be starting PT early, again.
Running helped him find his center and pull him back into the present day. There was a rhythm to it, there had to be. Anybody who hauled ass, balls-to-the-wall would have to stop and slow up eventually. If you had a rhythm, then you could go forever. Bjorn always started his rhythm with breathing. Two breaths in, one out for every four strides. Fifty one strides to one hundred meters. One thousand meters to a kilometer. If you could breathe, you could run; if you could run, you'd get where you were going a hell-of-a-lot quicker and square up with your objective that much sooner. Being in the ODSTs had taught him to tackle everything head on. Or feet first.
Bjorn didn't care what the pamphlet said, it was that never quit mindset that made an ODST, not jumping feet first into hell. He'd met plenty of Marines and Soldiers who were in love with the idea of falling out of orbit but who couldn't hack it with the ODSTs. Some just didn't have it in them.
As Bjorn finished up his run and pulled up sweaty to his apartment door he checked his watch. Battalion formation was at 0700, full battle rattle. He'd need to shower and suit up quick then. Half an hour later, Bjorn strode into the assembly area, red trimmed helmet tucked under his left arm. He quickly picked out his platoon.
"Platoon, uh-ten-shon!" Sixty-four ODST "Helljumpers" snapped as one into the position of attention. The sharp clap of armor plates was among the most satisfying sounds Bjorn had ever known. "Alright, I don't know why they've got us all dressed up, probably some more training. Lieutenant Colonel Neeman will probably be another half hour, so if any of you need to take a piss, do it after we fall out here in just a minute. Any questions?"
Sergeant Fore, a new transfer from another ODST unit, raised his hand. "Fire away, Sergeant." said Bjorn.
"What kind of training do you think we'll be doing, sir?"
"I honestly haven't got a clue, probably some new SOP from the higher ups, but your guess is as good as mine. Anything else?"
"No, sir." Said Sergeant Fore.
"Good. And stop fucking calling me 'sir', I don't give a rat's ass if I am your LT." Bjorn checked his watch, "Everybody be back here by zero-seven-twenty hours. Fall out!"
The platoon of ODSTs took a step back in unison, shouted "Feet first!" and scattered in various directions. Bjorn remained in the assembly area, he never felt the need to relieve himself until far later in the day. Combat had worked a strong bladder into him.
It was a quick half hour when Lieutenant Colonel Neeman came in from the far side of the assembly area. Someone from Alpha Company called the battalion to attention. The LT Colonel was in his dress uniform, so whatever the rest of the unit was doing today, he wouldn't be participating.
Oddly though, Colonel Neeman wasn't alone. He was being trailed by someone Bjorn had never seen before. He wasn't military, and he carried a clipboard. Colonel Neeman stopped roughly front and center of the battalion. As with horseshoes and hand grenades, apparently close enough was good enough. Fuck it, right?
The Colonel started, "As you all know, the war with the Covenant ended a year ago, and this has largely been attributed to the heroism of the Spartans, particularly the Master Chief. Since the war's closure, ONI released several previously classified details about the Spartan programs and is now under serious investigation for war crimes and crimes against humanity." Colonel Neeman paused. "However," he began again, slowly, "the UNSC as a whole cannot deny that the widespread success of the Spartans. Many of you served alongside them at one time or another, you can attest to that."
I most certainly could, Bjorn thought. He'd fought alongside Spartans more than a time or two.
Lieutenant Colonel Neeman continued on, "In light of this, the UNSC has decided to further the Spartan program by creating a new branch for the military and initiating the Spartan Fours. The Spartans will spearhead further operations as we pursue remnants of the Covenant and explore Forerunner artifacts."
The assembly area was dead silent. Even though it was expected when a superior officer was speaking, something about this silence felt different to Bjorn.
"Any trooper wishing to join the Spartan program needs to see Mister Hubbard here. If you meet the requirements, you will be transferred from the ODSTs and sent to the Spartan Processing Station and there you'll begin your recruitment phase. As for everyone else, this unit is disbanding. You will have one week's leave as you are transferred to other units."
Bjorn flinched at that. This unit was the only home he had known for six years, and every other home he'd ever had was glassed by the Covenant during the war. Losing his unit was going to be like losing himself.
"Company Commanders, I hand you back your troopers to have final words. ODSTs, it's been a pleasure serving with you. Helljumpers!" the Colonel said. The entire battalion sounded off as one, "Feet first into hell! Oorah!" and Lieutenant Colonel Neeman left the assembly area.
Bjorn and his platoon received a short speech from his company commander then quickly had his platoon fall out. His mind raced. Simply remaining an ODST wasn't something he was looking forward to. He'd had a lot of pride in being in the elite, but half of what he considered elite came from being a part of this unit, not just an ODST. Transferring to another ODST unit would be painful, losing many of his comrades he'd bled and killed with, survived the war with. This was like losing his brothers.
The line to Mr. Hubbard though, was surprisingly long, despite moving very fast. More than just a handful of the ODSTs - mostly the ones who had fought in the war with Bjorn - from his unit were going to give this Spartan thing a shot.
The bonds of camaraderie pulled at his heart. What he'd found he valued most in the ODSTs were the men he'd served with. He would follow them anywhere, even feet first straight into hell. If his brothers were going to become Spartans, so would he. He didn't waste any time making his way for Mr. Hubbard. One way or another, Bjorn was going to be a Spartan, and he would keep with his brothers.