0710 Hours UTC, 22 September 2552 (Military Calendar)/
Sol System, Earth, UNSC Science Outpost 01A-77
Rooftop, Parking Garage
The Cosmic Background
A harsh blaring was what woke Fontaine out of his slumber.
He rose slowly, not readily recognizing whatever was chirping so loudly and rhythmically. Like lightening, he shot up and laced up his boots. He'd slept in his clothes.
Once the fog of sleep was rubbed away from his eyes, the Chief looked around the tent for the GUI. Though the audible alarm was a warbling, shrill tone, the display was green and did not hint at any problems or past events. To be sure, he sent a ping to a well-known host address on the other side and instantly received a set of echo-request replies. All message protocols were confirmed to be functioning. He power-cycled the console just to make sure it wasn't glitching.
But the alarms still sounded while the handheld GUI softly powered down and back up again.
He searched for the source of noise, then realized it was two sources of noise simultaneously, just barely out of synch with one another.
He glanced around. From the corner of his eye, the display for the tropo scatter console could be seen bathed in a tell-tale bright-red. He lunged towards it, scooped it up and confirmed the major error interrupt prompt boldly announcing itself as error messages tended to do. He acknowledged the notification, therefore silencing it, and tossed it to the floor, saying, "Whatever."
Scanning for the other console belonging to the SATCOM—which had also experienced the same kind of fate from recent troubleshooting efforts—he soon located it, muting its incessant audible outputs instantly.
Silence.
He sighed. "Now I can get some damned sleep. Don't need either of you anymore, anyway."
The alarms re-sounded.
"Ugh."
Rion rose again and silenced both alarms with a swift jab of a finger on each display, then strode outside to each pedestal and disconnected the console cables at the ports, replacing their dust covers. He then returned to the tent and the meager comfort of the cot, wholly prepared to doze off until he was needed again. But he could see activity on the display of the spectrum analyzer he still had connected to the receive side of the SATCOM's MODEM. Its traces were dancing all over the display.
But it wasn't just the new, erratic interference that caught his attention. It was the fact that it was the noise floor itself meandering all over the digitized chart. He stared at it.
"What the…"
The only time this ever happened was when he tried to get the RF equipment to transmit out. He expected this anomaly to change, to instantly revert back to normal. All communications professionals—from newly-trained technicians to theoretical scholars—knew that the noise floor was ever-constant, never-changing. And there were no other carriers within a hundred megahertz in either direction, so Rion knew there was no reason this should be happening.
He ran out to the SATCOM dish and deactivated the auto-track servo motors, then grasped the rotary wheel of a crank and began winding it clockwise. As he did so, the elevation angle of the dish rapidly changed. It started to deflect upward, its angle obtusely high such that nothing much would strike its parabolic reflector and provide anything of tangible value to the diagnostic equipment registering this spurious behavior.
Once he placed the dish outside in a bird-bath orientation, he ran back inside, rushing to the display of the analyzer.
The display was still a disaster. The noise floor was shaking up and down and pulsating as if trying to carry an ordered set of data. The whole horizontal domain was a choppy, disorganized wave. Rion shook his head.
"This is too much."
He scooped up the LASER's user console and confirmed it had completed its power-cycle, a flashing prompt now awaiting his commands. He issued a single ping to the LAN of the central server and instantly received a reply. This meant he was still in contact with the only asset that was still functioning over the only link in his stable that was still operational. This gave the Chief Warrant Officer some elation. The prime [and only] path was still green. But what he was witnessing in the lower reaches of the electromagnetic spectrum was unheard of.
He then stood up, straightened out his fatigues and dialed into the HQ office, direct to Colonel Kromer.
"Fontaine?"
The field-grade officer's face looked somewhat droopy as well, the man obviously spending his nights at his post just like Fontaine. The hair was tattered just like his uniform.
"Sir, can you or any of your aides confirm any interference over the UHF through EHF bands?"
"Is this urgent, Chief? We need to conserve all the spectrum we can out of this link. Remember that this is a priority asset for those folks out there and we're now sharing in their bandwidth."
"Sir, this information could allow me to narrow down the source of interference out here and potentially resurrect both of my downed terminals."
"Roger, stand by."
Rion turned up the volume on the console's loudspeaker and skipped over crates and piles of clothes and made his way to the fridge. He retrieved another soda and popped the top, taking a few swallows before meandering back to the console's display.
"Chief, Kromer here. Negative, we are not experiencing any interference on those frequency bands. Again, we'll do what we can in sending you some replacement hardware for whatever you have that's in the red. You need to hold fast until reinforcements arrive. I'll try to arrange it so the new equipment is sent along with them."
"Sir, who is coming to reinforce me?"
The Colonel chuckled before he replied, the eyes squinting. "The Seventh Army, no less, so sit tight. You'll be in good hands."
0807 Hours UTC
Rooftop
Rion could hear them. UH-144 Falcons on approach from maybe a few klicks distant. Their twirling blades buffeted the wind, sonic pulses propagating far into every direction. He sat up and peered outside the ops tent. Originating from the Eastern horizon, a small squadron of combat aircraft appeared as angry specs inside the rising sun, drawing ever closer.
"Here comes the cavalry."
Rion donned the entirety of his uniform and stepped outside, zipping up the tent's lining. He glanced around at the state of the place. It was a sty. He'd let its condition depreciate over the days since his arrival. All he'd cared about lately was the condition of the X-ray LASER link. Everything else became tertiary. He began to unpeg the SATCOM from the ground, reeling in its swiveling feet and stowing everything else associated with the terminal. He glanced rearward and noted the approaching aircraft again—gaining fast on the parking garage in a staggered beeline formation.
Back to the task, this time more quickly, of clearing an LZ for at least one of the birds, Rion tripped over one of the grounding rods anchored into the floor and flew forward. He saved the terminal from tumbling over the nearby ledge on his way down, but the right knee took the brunt of the impact upon crashing into the concrete. He rolled over to his side and winced at the pain. He rubbed it for a few seconds, then shot back up. He limped to the tent, unzipped the entryway and took a seat on the cot. He rolled his pant leg up and examined the kneecap, noting only a small scrape and a diminutive amount of blood. He assumed the pain would soon subside and flicked the fabric back over his leg, draping it over the boot again, tucking the excess beneath an elastic blousing strap. He glanced upward and across the tent's interior. Something in the display of the spectrum analyzer then made him stare at it. He witnessed a behavior completely different than minutes before.
The cabling remained connected to the MODEM, the spectrum analyzer still picking up anything the terminal's aperture received outside.
And this display told all.
Now the strange waveform was at least one-hundred times stronger than before with a new Δ value of +20dB.
He slowly stood again, leaving the tent and walking toward the outdoor gear. Half its chassis was draped over the parapet, its feed boom pointed nearly straight down toward the desert floor. The only thing holding it there was its heavy base. The tilt-rotor formation was getting louder, making the Chief Warrant Officer glance rearward again. He focused back to the site and forgot about the SATCOM terminal resting awkwardly on the edge of the roof where the ground met the chest-high ledge.
The only thing left to do was push the old tropo terminal from its spot and relocate it to some corner, which by Rion's estimation would clear enough area for two of these airframes to land safely.
He jogged over to that antiquated equipment and threw his shoulder low into the middle of the chassis, thrusting his entire weight forward. It complied, though the sectioned roof panels worked against him every time the edge of the rigid terminal transitioned over them. After another thirty seconds and some heavy exertion, the gear thudded into the low wall. He withdrew from the olive-drab burden and spun around. The VTOL aircraft were on final approach and the rotor wash from the exposed fans articulated his way and swept large amounts of air down onto the rooftop, once again throwing dust plumes everywhere.
The Chief covered his face and bent lower while backpedaling to another ledge, pinning his back there while two of the craft descended.
In between the obscuring wisps of dust careening in and out of sight, he uncapped his eyes and confirmed both vessels had a full load of troops on-board, most of them sitting on the flanking support skids with the mounted chainguns angled down. They were fully armed as were the Falcons themselves. Within thirty seconds, their flat chines touched down onto the surface with a gentle thump and the fans spun down to an idle, the troops immediately dismounting. Rion jogged toward the scene and met them halfway.
"Chief Fontaine. Good to see you. You the Seventh?"
A senior-ranking, brawny NCO with a uniquely-Army patch sewn into the sleeves extended a hand while stopping in place. "Yes. Sergeant First Class Hickman, Nine-Oh-Sixth Air Cav., Third Battalion. We're here to support you. This all your stuff?"
"Yes," Rion said, making introductions, "this is all of it."
Fontaine looked around. All told, there were twelve troops occupying the rooftop, not including him. More were somewhere down below. The pilots soon exited the birds and strolled closer to the group that gradually coalesced around Fontaine and the leader of this unit. Everyone had convened near the tails of the Falcons.
"Alright, troops," the SFC ordered, gesturing outward, "set up shop." He refocused to the Chief. "Mind if we talk inside your tent over there?"
0825 Hours UTC
Rooftop
"They'd have to have a pretty massive fleet to take down Reach." Rion said, breaking the silence.
The NCOIC of the newly-arrived combat support unit finished disseminating some additional orders to his soldiers and was now hydrating from a cold bottle of water taken from the fridge. He was a stout, yet tall soldier, filling out the clinging uniform, the stitching bulging from a solid mass of lean muscle within.
"…And if they get here before the rest of the friendly fleets do, we're not gonna be able to—"
"—Nope." Hickman shook his head. "The orbital defense grid came online a week ago. No Covenant fleet is going to be able to get through that kind of mess. And if they do make it downstairs, we'll finish 'em off for dessert like Zanzibar spicecake."
Rion nodded, pursing his lips, hoping the Army Sergeant would be proved correct if the Covenant was in fact en route to Earth. But even as the two spoke in perfect safety, the Chief couldn't help but feel that Earth was no more prepared for full-scale invasion than Reach was up until just one week ago. Having such a vast, powerful network of orbital Super MACs was a reassurance, but it was just old technology used in extreme application. The Covenant always were more advanced. The UNSC was just competing against them in their shadow.
"So," Fontaine said, breathing deep, "Earth defenses are on high alert?"
"Yes, indeed. UEG's placed all the armed forces at DEFCON Two."
"How many did you bring here with you?"
"There's another couple of Falcons down below and an Attack Hornet in case we need the heavy air support. Another thirteen troops should be making their way up the building right now."
"Is that going to be enough?"
"Not really sure, just following my orders. I leave the strategic thinking to Colonel Mattis."
"No shit. That's your commander?" Rion sat straight up. "Colonel Mattis from Sigma Octanus?"
Hickman nodded. "Just transferred in from that system a few months ago."
"I read about him. Man's a legend in Wide Area Repulsion."
"Well, he ought to be." Hickman shrugged. "He co-authored the training doctrine for that program. Leads the Nine-Oh-Sixth Brigade now." The NCOIC lifted a water bottle and stole a few gulps between conversation, pointing toward Fontaine's spectrum analyzer. "That thing supposed to be doing that?"
"No, but I ain't worried about it right now."
Of course, Fontaine was worried about this, but too many things were happening at once.
"Not a priority for me."
"Did you need a hand recovering that antenna out there? I saw it balancing on the edge."
"Sure, why not?"
The two stepped outside.
"Was it us that knocked it over on approach?"
"No, it wasn't the Falcons. I brought it down by mistake. Actually, I might've kicked the damned thing over subconsciously." Rion chuckled, spitting at the ground.
In lockstep, they reached the terminal and pulled it back from the brink, setting it gently down a few meters inward from the vertical parapet. Rion gazed Westward again, noting Kilimanjaro with a clear view.
"You'd think it would never come to this." Rion sighed.
"Yep..." the battle-hardened Hickman said with a grunt, following the Chief's sights. He then pivoted one-eighty and scrutinized Mombasa in the far distance. "...seems like our fight here is just about to begin."