Desperate Times

*Chapter Two

14th of October, 2553

UNSCDF HighCom, Russia

Earth

Horatio was asleep, floating through the black void that was unconsciousness. It was one of the first times he'd experienced dreamless sleep since the war had ended.

But it hasn't really ended, has it? He thought bitterly. He had a surprising capacity for lucid thought when sleeping. More death. More blood. More stupid fighting with dumb apes that'll probably bomb themselves to bits anyway. I might not show it, but damnit, I'm sick of fighting.

This turn of mood swung his sleep into a darker place. Now here came the images he knew so well.

…back on Madrigal as a child, scrambling through the burning ruins as Covenant aircraft screamed through the sky. Screaming himself as Elites, roaring with laughter, cut his mother down with their terrible swords…

…watching Madrigal burn from a refugee ship's screens, as alien ships, sleek and purple, rained apocalyptic fire down on his beloved homeworld. Swearing revenge on the aliens as tears of rage and pain blurred his eyes…

…his assault rifle juddering in his hands as he fired on the fleeing remnants of a Grunt platoon, in the battle of Jericho VII. Feeling cold satisfaction as he stood over their cooling corpses…

…watching as Spartans, titan-like and clad in emerald armour, moved with superior speed and effortlessly dispatched hordes of the enemy. How they inspired and gave hope to the marines in the field…

…seeing Reach, the stronghold of UNSC might, being destroyed by the huge Covenant fleet. Seeing the home fleet shot to pieces, the thousands of brave men and women aboard dying, the Spartans themselves being incinerated by plasma bombardment. Being on one of the handful of ships to limp away from the battle…

…fighting in the twisting streets of New Mombassa, back on Earth. Pushing forward into the city centre, seeing whole platoons being annihilated by the Scarab. Escaping on a Pelican out of the city, just escaping the actinic-white sphere of energy that enveloped the city after the cruiser jumped…

…fighting the horrific Flood parasite, after The Prophet of Truth activated the Forerunner artifact. Emptying clip after clip into the onrushing, zombified hordes, pissing himself in terror. Seeing fellow marines whom he'd fought with before infected by the Flood, being transformed into hideous, mutated combat forms…

…standing on the hillside next to the Ark Portal, as the sunset bathed it in gilden sunshine. Firing the twenty-one gun salute, his entire squad beside him, as they honored the fallen, and the one man who'd made a difference-the Master Chief, Spartan-117.

Then the dream changed again…

He stood on a wide, grassy plain. The sky was milky white rather than blue. The air was close and unbearably hot. On the right, a small stream ran by, the waters glistening. He walked towards it.

Two blurred shadows moved to intercept him. He shouted in shock.

He was struck to the ground by incredible strength. Pain swept through him. Blinking unsteadily, he looked upward.

A pair of faces, blazing white, peered back at him. He could barely make out their features.

Then they spoke.

"A soldier."

"A killer."

They raised their hands again-

Someone kicked him in the side. Grunting in pain, he rubbed his thigh. Len's grinning face gazed at him. "Rise and shine, buddy. It's 0600. Get off your ass. You got ten minutes to get it together." He moved off to kick awake another member of the squad.

Swearing under his breath, Horatio sat up on his marine-issue cot. Sweeping his legs off, he grabbed his kit and started getting dressed in his white-grey fatigues, given to them yesterday as a substitute for their usual khaki clothes. He pulled on his gloves and then did the same with his helmet, the neck seal closing with a quiet snik. When he had finished with that, he grabbed the case underneath his bed.

His eyes glowed as he once again inspected his newest possession. It was sleek and slim lined-the long barrel was already scuffed-looking, as if it had been in combat itself. Plucking one of the four-bullet magazines from the case, he inserted it into its slot and pulled the charging handle. He'd never had a sniper rifle of his very own-he was already looking forward to trying it out. He collected the rest of the ammo and put them into the ammunition belt tied around his waist.

Shouldering the weapon, he grabbed the rest of his equipment-helmet, pistol and combat knife. "Ready to go, 'he announced. In a few minutes the rest of the squad was also prepared. It was at that moment that Sergeant Kyle walked in.

The old veteran was dressed in black combat armour-his old ODST suit, or so it was said. He'd opted to carry his battle rifle, along with-somewhat incongruously-a plasma rifle as a sidearm. Scowling at what Kyle could only guess, he surveyed his squad. "Ready? You better be, or I'll have your asses in a sling. Right, we're taking a dropship to the combat mission zone. They're firing up the jets now, so let's go. Make sure you got everything. Oh, and the Elites are outside-make the meet-and-greet quickly, if you please."

Horatio's head snapped around at that. He had completely forgotten about the Elites. And now he was about to meet them. Steeling himself, he followed the squad outside.

The foul weather they'd had had slackened off since dawn, and the sky was now clear, a blank blue. The sunlight was still weak, however. A steady breeze could be felt coming in from the north. Exiting the barracks field, they approached the landing zone. A Pelican dropship was sitting on the pad, strobe-lights flaring. The hatch was open, and standing next to it was Lord Hood, the Arbiter and the Elite team.

The three aliens were all tall and in black armour, but the similarities ended there. The first was the broadest of the lot, with shoulders as wide as Horatio's sniper rifle's barrel was long. Shark-like eyes glittered through the slits in his helmet, filled with an eagerness that Horatio found oddly disturbing. He stiffened as he realised this alien was the one with whom he'd conversed. He carried a carbine and a plasma pistol.

The middle was the clear leader, the tallest of the three; he'd added golden stripes to his chest plate, and a strange pair of gauntlets that he'd never seen before. He held a needler and an energy sword hilt was visible at his hip. His pose was one of complete, unchallenged dominance.

The last Elite was gangly, with a strangely disproportionate body; underdeveloped arms but enormous legs. He may have seemed weak compared to his comrades, but the look in his eyes suggested a will not easily pushed aside. He had a formidable fuel rod gun over one shoulder, and-incredibly-a spike rifle.

It couldn't be put off any longer; the squad made it to the Pelican. Hood looked over them approvingly, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Sharp as ever, I see. How's the squad?"

"Green, sir."

"Excellent. Arbiter?"

The leader of the Elites stepped forward, his voice a bass rumble. "Soldiers, allow me to introduce the Third Lance of the Kalkoro Legion. On the left stands Dasa Virot', heavy armaments specialist." He indicated the broad-shouldered Elite. "In the middle stands the leader, Gerun Nefur'." The Elite with the needler. "And finally, the marksman, Lazu Urdoq." The Elite with the fuel rod gun.

So. Dasa, Gerun and Lazu. Whoop-tee-doo. Horatio glared unabashedly at them. Part of him knew it was irrational to hate them on sight-they weren't the ones who'd glassed Madrigal. And they hadn't done anything to him. Still, he refused to acknowledge that feeling.

Kyle cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Good to have you, warriors." Evidently the Sarge had been brushing up on his old-fashioned lingo. "Allow me to introduce my squad. They're the finest soldiers anywhere; razor sharp and deadly."

Did Sarge just compliment us? The last time he did anything like that was when Terry saved him from those Grunts in Jelba City on Paris IV. And as soon as that was done, he annihilated him for not keeping the safety on his rifle. Wow.

"This is my corporal, Len." The soldier in question stepped forward, a mocking smile on his face-his usual expression, in other words. "Nice to meet you. So, Gigantor, 'he said conversationally to the biggest Elite, "how often do you hit the gym?"

Kyle snarled and slugged him in the side of the head. It caused the corporal to stumble. "Shut your mouth, Len, unless you got something civil to say. Don't mind him, Dasa (Horatio noted the use of the Elite's first name), he has no social skills."

Dasa chuckled. It was a scary sound. "No need, Sergeant. I've met his like before-they are a great asset in times of war." Len winked at him. The huge Elite winked back.

It broke the ice; the Arbiter burst out laughing. "Would that Sergeant Johnson was here now. I wager he would have set Corporal Len straight." Hood shook his head, grinning.

Kyle grunted, obviously undecided. "Right. Anyway, this is Terry, our stealth expert. Ollie, tech specialist. Xavier, demolition man. And finally, Horatio, marksman."

Lazu leaned forward, head cocked inquisitively. "A fellow sharpshooter? We shall be working close together, you and I. Well met…Horatio. Again."

Hood turned to the Marine and frowned. "You've already met?"

Horatio nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, we have. It was a pretty short meeting, though."

The Elite kept a straight face, but his eyes were filled with mirth. "Indeed it was. But rest assured we can resume it at any time." He stepped back.

The "meet-and-greet" as Kyle put it, concluded. "Alright ladies, get aboard that bird. Strap in and check the gear-I won't stand for slip-ups on this mission. Move, move, move!" Kyle's voice sounded like a drum. The squad immediately formed up and clambered onto the Pelican.

Gerun snapped out his own orders. "Sheath your weapons, warriors. Ensure all of your equipment is sound. Dasa, have you blessed our mission in the name of the Gods?" As well as the heavy weapons man, Dasa doubled as the Lance's chaplain.

"I have, war leader. Blood of my ancestors was spilt onto the black rock on the dropship to curry their favour and guidance."

"Well done, warrior. May our swords stay sharp."

"And so may we better find victory."

"Fight with blade, weapon and fist-guard the lives of your companions."

The ritual was completed. The three Elites bowed to one another, and entered the darkened recesses of the Pelican. The hatch closed, the engines roared, and the aircraft climbed into the sky.

Horatio settled himself in, clipping himself into the leather harness. The red light bathed the troop bay in a crimson glow. With a surge of annoyance he saw Lazu seating himself next to him. The metal seat creaked as the Elite placed his massive bulk onto it. He reached up with his long, spindly fingers and strapped himself in. "Good hunting this day, human."

Horatio grunted in a non-committal way. He wasn't ready to engage his new allies in conversation. This entire op-practice or no-pulled at every fibre of his being. He grabbed his sniper rifle out of its slot behind and above his head and began checking it again. Lazu snorted, and commenced loading his carbine. Horatio looked down the row of seats. Everybody else was locked in and ready.

Kyle's voice echoed through the Pelican. "Everyone's prepped. We hit dirt in about ten minutes. Be ready or else."

Ollie's voice came from the other end of the troop bay. "What's the deal with this op, Sarge? What the hell are we doing anyway?"

"You'll find out, Private, "said Kyle. "'Till then, stow the questions and check your gear."

Ollie sniffed. "Is that all you can say?"

"What was that, Ollie?"

"Uh, nothing', Sarge."

"Good."

Horatio shook his head, smiling. Despite all they'd been through together, the squad still managed to knock sparks off each other.

"Your soldiers are a strange breed."

This comment had come from Lazu; loud enough only for him to hear. Horatio's smile faded, and he turned away from the Elite. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do. The warriors of our race are proud-each will unfailingly follow orders without question. Yet yours quibble and argue."

"So what, you're saying we're inferior or something?" Horatio snapped.

"Don't be foolish. Your soldiers clearly use their jibing and mockery as a weapon against war. It has made them tenacious. The strength of your marines lies in the unit-and this they know. You are very much like the Sangheili in this regard. It is one of the reasons we allied."

Horatio had never heard so many words used by an Elite, and so forcefully; he still didn't care. "Yeah, well, that's interesting but whatever. You just do your job and I'll do mine."

"My point from the very start."

Suddenly the pilot's voice crackled over the radio. "We're nearly at the site, Sergeant. Y'all got 'bout five minutes."

"Roger that, "said Kyle over the radio, then clicked it off. He got out of his harness and stood up, facing the squads. "Alright, listen up. The exercise starts as of now. First part-we ain't gonna be landing this bird. We're dropping out, ODST-style." A wicked smile crossed his face.

"What?!" Xavier moaned. "We haven't done something like this in years-"

"Shove a cork in it, Private. As I was saying, we'll be dropping out-with parasails." He glared at Xavier. "You'll be leaving in groups of three-ratio is two humans and one Elite. Elites, you've been instructed on how to use these-but if you need assistance, tell someone. Make sure you're properly kitted out, or you'll be leaving a red smear about seventy metres below." Len laughed-but he was the only one. Kyle continued. "Your parasails are underneath your seats. Put 'em on-and hurry up."

There was a great kerfuffle of limbs and material as everyone reached down for their parasails. Terry yelped as Gerun accidentally elbowed him in the face. "Oi, watch it, you big oaf!"

Gerun bared his teeth and growled. Ollie prudently turned away, strapping on his parasail.

In a few minutes they were all ready. Kyle clicked on the radio. "Pop the hatch, El-Tee."

"Roger, "came the reply. With a groan the back hatch of the Pelican opened, sending a hissing fusillade of snowflakes into the troop bay. They all shivered in the cold.

"Right, groups are as follows; Xavier, Dasa and Len. You'll jump first. Then me, Gerun and Ollie. Lastly, Horatio, Lazu and Terry. LZ's below-get ready to jump! When we've landed, I'll explain the rest of the mission. Group one, to the edge!"

Gingerly, the first three made their way to the hatch. A fierce wind tore at them.

"Alright, go go go!" Kyle yelled.

The first group jumped out of the dropship, spiralling downwards. Soon, they disappeared from sight.

"Second group, up and at 'em!" Kyle walked over to the hatch, grasping a tangle of wires for support. Moments later Gerun and Ollie joined him.

"Jump!" Kyle bellowed, and they did.

This is it. Horatio got up from his seat, followed by Terry and Lazu. The latter touched a hand to his forehead in a gesture of benediction. "Blessings on your journey, Horatio."

Horatio nodded half-heartedly. "Yeah, sure." He leaned back, readying himself to jump.

"Go!" yelled Terry, his voice tinny in the face of the wind. As one, the trio leapt from the troop bay of the Pelican.

Horatio plummeted fast-extremely fast. The descent caused the already loud gale into a screaming monster. His sniper rifle barrel was smacking him in the back of the head. He was deafened. Twisting his head to the left, he saw the frail forms of his teammates. If he listened hard, he could hear Terry alternating between foul curses and wide-eyed prayers. He hadn't hot-dropped in a long time-none of them had. Horatio didn't like the squad's chances so far.

Suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him-he fumbled frantically for the red handle above his shoulder. He couldn't find it. Panicking, he swept his hand around and accidentally clanged his glove-clad hand on it. He pulled it.

With a ripping noise he was jerked upwards momentarily as the yellow-grey parasail unfurled. His rapid drop slowed, and he took the time to look around. Not far from where he was going to land, he could see a complex of grey buildings-not unlike HighCom. It was surrounded by a barbed wire fence. It was a fairly sizeable place-the whole place encompassed two square miles at least-

With an almost powdery thud he hit the ground, his parasail settling over him like a cloak. It took Horatio a few seconds to realise he'd bitten his tongue-he pulled off his helmet and spat blood, a crimson string splattering the snow. Horatio put his helmet back on, drew his knife, and sliced off the straps biting into his shoulders. Pushing away the chute, he got to his feet.

Ahead about one hundred paces was the eastern fence. Large mounds of snow were located here and there between him and the fence. A massive tower-it looked like an office block-was about fifty paces inward from the fence. The fence itself was wired with motion sensors-green lights flickered like snake eyes. A gate could be seen, made of steel and inset into a concrete gatehouse. Small figures could be seen moving around inside. What the hell? It's like we're assaulting an enemy fortress. Part of the exercise? This whole thing stinks…

Horatio chanced a look upwards, and saw Terry and Lazu coming in fast. The pair hit the snow with a flumph. Walking over, he helped Terry pull the parasail's chute off. "Rough landing, huh?" His fellow marine grunted his assent sourly, rubbing his arm. On his right, Lazu burst through his own chute, shaking the snow off him like a dog. He was clearly annoyed; he glared about, one hand reaching for his carbine. "A dangerous method of insertion. Methinks only the foolish and the brave would attempt something like this."

Terry laughed shakily. "Don't say that to an ODST, if you meet him. Let's get a move on, guys, rest of the squad's gotta be somewhere." The infiltrator marine unlimbered his assault rifle, pulled back the charging handle and racked a round into the chamber. "Hope we get a chance to turkey shoot today."

Lazu frowned. "What is a turkey shoot?"

Horatio grinned in spite of himself. Privately he was glad his grin couldn't be seen through the helmet. "Means an honest-to-God firefight. We should swing west-I think I saw one of our groups end up there."

A screeching noise came his way. He turned, to see the gate of the complex open, the twin metal plates sliding open. From the inside, two vehicles roared out. They looked like Warthogs, but were slightly different-the bonnet and sides were painted red, there were no "tusks" on the front, the windshield was tinted and on one, instead of the standard M41 LAAG, there was-Horatio squinted-an automatic grenade launcher. Dotted all over the bodies of the vehicles were reinforced steel plates-hastily welded on. All in all, it looked nothing like the usual LRV. Horatio's gorge rose-something was not right.

He looked uneasily at Terry. "Friendlies?"

Terry shook his head. "I'm not sure. There's something familiar about them…"

''Ware!" cried Lazu.

The oddly designed Warthogs were approaching quickly-now, Horatio could see a man standing on the machine gun turret of the first one. An emblem was visible on his chest-a white fist, surrounded by a red circle. Horatio's eyes widened. The turret locked onto them.

As the trio dived for cover, a hail of bullets scoring jagged marks in the snow, the realisation came that whoever these men were, they weren't friendlies; and that something had gone terribly wrong.