Chapter 3: All Aboard the Anchorage

March 21, 2356. C.A.C. Nova Scotia.

Nighttime – more or less. Night was really a figurative term when it came to space. Going by Earth time, it was definitely night – 2130, standard time. But seeing as it was always night…thinking about this stuff gave me a headache. Never mind.

I climbed into the lower bunk of our bunk bed as Rick climbed up to the top. Seniority had its privileges, so Rick got the top, but I really didn't mind. I preferred the ground anyway. Rick was a pilot, and also a little crazy – both by choice. He probably felt like he was flying or something, I don't know. I tended to ramble when I was tired.

After the obstacle course was finally completed – no one dared to mess up a second time – the day had gotten progressively more boring. I had been right about the briefings – we had three separate hour-long meetings that covered stuff that everyone already knew, or should have known. In between the meetings were a required workout and a video on hangar safety protocol, of all things. And finally, to top it off, a late dinner. What a wonderful day.

Rick had told me about the flight sims when I got back to barracks. He had been right – they were flying the Buzzards, and he said they were great, if the sims were anything like the real machine. Other than that, he'd had the same problem I had all day – briefings and more briefings.

But finally, here we were, ready to sleep. I was somewhat happy because, as far as we all knew, the briefings were mostly over. Tomorrow we were being shipped to the Anchorage for weapons exercises. I heard about what we would do from people like Victor who had done this before. There would be range practice – something I enjoyed – and simulated firefights. I was looking forward to it.

"Lights out!" came Sarge's voice, soon followed by total darkness. Any marine who wasn't in bed by now would be hard-pressed to find it in the pitch-black room. I closed my eyes in preparation of a good night's sleep. My body was certainly ready for one, and I knew I would need it.

"Alvin," came a voice out of the darkness. It was deep and stereotypically masculine. There were maybe five women in my company, including Shana – it was predominantly male, like most companies, and most of the men in E-12 Barracks were from the fifth.

The voice was still distinguishable from the rest; it was Peter Wellington, usually known as Pete. He was from a curious blend of Australian and North African descent, giving him a unique accent. His paternal grandparents, owners of a mining company, had moved to Mars before Pete's dad was even born. Pete's mother had been second generation Martian. The influence of New Zealand, Morocco, and Mars on his genome resulted in a seven-foot-tall, dark-brown-skinned muscle mass that currently lay on the top bunk across from me on the aisle. "Yeah, what is it Pete?" I replied.

"Nice job on the course t'day."

"Thanks, Pete. You too."

"I saw your interaction with the corp'ral. I b'lieve she's interested."

I really, really hoped that Rick was asleep. I hadn't told him about my short conversation with Shana. No need to get him excited. Or make him ask for an introduction. "Don't worry about it, Pete, it's nothing. Really."

"If you say so. 'Night."

I closed my eyes once more, hoping to experience eight hours of blissful unconsciousness. I got my wish.

March 22, 2356. C.A.C Nova Scotia.

"Last call! Third, fifth, sixth, eighth, and ninth companies, board up!"

Rick and I found the last two empty seats on board one of the shuttles in the hangar. So far, it looked like Rick had been asleep before Rick was in the 3rd Aerial Company, one of ten aerial companies in the fifty-sixth. There were a total of thirty companies, ten of which were recon like mine. The remaining ten were specialist groups such as battle engineers and other classes.

It was finally time to head out to the Anchorage. After a few minutes of tense waiting, the doors finally closed, and we felt the smooth rumble of the shuttle engines firing up. This shuttle, one of the five in HB Delta, lifted off of the deck and cruised through the open bay doors into space.

Space. Nothing like it, really. The windows of the shuttles provided plenty of space for us to see the Anchorage, looming out of the white-speckled darkness. I've always felt empty in space, but it was a comforting emptiness. I can't explain it. Don't make me get philosophical.

I watched the Anchorage float through space. The UNSC exploration forces went in groups of two: the battleship and the carrier. But when I looked out, at least five other gray ships floated in the void with it. Where'd they come from?

I nudged Rick and pointed out the window. "Do you know what those are?"

Rick stared. "I thought we just had the Nova Scotia and the Anchorage. I have no clue what they're doing here." He stood up and walked to the front. As he approached Sarge, I stared out the window again. They didn't look like war vessels – they looked more like personnel transports used in-atmosphere on Earth, just on a larger scale. I didn't know what they were for, but I intended to find out.

Rick came back and sat down. "Sarge doesn't know either. He says that he'll pass the question up the chain." Even though Rick was in the third company, he lived and breathed like a member of the fifth. My Sarge was his Sarge.

I wasn't too concerned – I figured that we'd find out what they were eventually. It's not like the ships were hiding from us, so they weren't secret. Still, it nagged at the back of my mind as the shuttle drew closer to one of the Anchorage's hangars.

The large bay doors opened as the shuttle approached to within one hundred meters of the battleship. We passed the bay shields and came to a soft stop on the hangar floor. Waiting a few meters away from the shuttle was a bearded man in a crisp green uniform. I guessed that he was a captain, judging by the insignia on his shoulder.

The doors opened. Rick and I stepped out onto the cool gray floor. The rest of the occupants followed, spreading out around the captain. When everyone was assembled, he cleared his throat and spoke with a slight Southern accent.

"My name is Captain Bill Murphy. I will be in charge of the first six companies of the 56th Special Battalion during your time on the Anchorage. Sergeant Lester," he said, turning to Sarge, "take your men to the firing range."

"Yes sir." Sarge saluted and turned to us. "Fall out!" The fifth recon company followed Sarge as he headed towards one of the exits. Another shuttle passed through the shields and landed near out shuttle. As men and women began pouring out of that shuttle, Rick tapped me on the shoulder. "That's my company, Al. See you later." He slipped away to the incoming shuttle as the fifth continued out of the hangar bay.

After walking through various corridors for a few minutes, we took a lift down to our destination: the shooting range. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all reinforced so that stray bullets wouldn't cause any damage to the ship. There were one hundred shooting stations, each with two hundred yards' worth of targets. I was impressed that they could fit this much into the ship. The Anchorage was somewhere around 800 feet long – one of the largest ships in the UNSC fleet – but this range must have taken up almost an entire level.

We followed Sarge to the adjacent armory, where a grizzled-looking gunnery sergeant waited. After introducing himself as Tony Hawkins, he said, "Hopef'lly y'all can use assault rifles. These 're the new kind – SA17. Help yahselves." We started pulling the nearest guns off of the walls. I studied mine approvingly. It had a 2x scope melded into the body – it definitely wasn't a sniper's weapon – and a curved compact surface. It was sleek and refined. I liked it.

I looked up to see Hawkins studying me. "When yah's finished eyein' the gun, maybe yah want to use it." Most of the company had already found spots on the range. I found one of the many empty stations and checked the electronic readout below the scope. Forty-five shots. Not an amazing capacity, but not too bad either.

I set the rifle to semi-automatic and took off the safety. I started with the fifty-yard targets, firing without the scope. It was fairly accurate, hitting reasonably close to the bulls-eye. It was pretty quiet, too. This was a recon jock's weapon, no question about it.

I used up the clip on the closer targets, admiring the accuracy and feel of the weapon. I became even more excited when I felt a circular groove under the barrel. I knew enough about guns to realize this groove was made for a bayonet knife. These rifles were amazing.

As I fired my last few shots, footsteps came up behind me. I turned to see Shana standing with Sarge, watching. "Good shooting," said Sarge. "You like the gun?"

"Yes sir, it feels great." Why are they talking to me?

"Take out that clip and leave it here. Bring the gun back to the armory."

"Why, sir? What's going on?"

Sarge smiled. You could tell at moments like this that he loved the military. Or hated it. Didn't really matter either way.

"You're going to the Killing Field."

Chapter 4 sometime late next week, when I get back from France. Reviews make my day, so feel free to cheer me up.