Chapter 13

0600 Hours, April 28, 2525(Military Calendar)/

UNSC Carrier Atlas, on patrol in the Lambda Serpentis system

"Ma'am, you realize its 6 am and I'm on liberty, right?" Doctor Halsey seemed to have taken an officer's quarters on the ship, and a high-ranking officer at that.

"I appreciate the time, and how precious it is to you. I brought you here to tell you a few things. Firstly, you really helped the Spartan II's with their training, and I would appreciate your obliging me again on occasion. As such, you and your unit have been reassigned to Reach permanently. When the Spartan II's go on a mission, you men will be following them. You are, in effect, on Spartan duty. I want your men to be the best unit in the Marine Corps, since you'll be backing up the best unit in the Navy. When the Spartans need to train with a Marine unit in support that will be your men by their sides. Other units will be used as adversary units; your men will only ever be friendlys. I want the Spartans to associate with you as an extension of their unit. Are your men up to it?"

"Of course ma'am. What kind of training are we looking at? What kind of missions?"

"Anything and everything Lieutenant. Your men have to be as versatile as the Spartans themselves. I'm attempting to acquire men to reinforce your platoon, and if all this works out, you will be promoted. As soon as we get back to Reach, we'll finally get to see if the Spartan project was worthwhile."

"Ok ma'am. I'm really looking forward to it. Anything else?"

"Let me see… oh yes, the missions. The Spartans will be a pinpoint strike force; your men will be their backup. If you engage in unit-to-unit fighting, it means the mission is going south. You should teach your men a considerable deal more field medicine than usual. I'll help you with that. That should be all for now Lieutenant. Thank you for your time."

As the Doctor showed Simmons out, he realized life was gonna get tougher before it got better. He planned it out in his head: three days with the unit, three days with the Spartans, one day R&R. He sat down at his computer and sent a message to O'Donnell and Dominique to get the men on the best physical fitness regime in the Corps. He started booking ranges in advance for training and he acquired as much new gear as his clearance would allow. Drops were expensive, so they couldn't practice that, but they could practice insertion by Pelicans, and Simmons saw the squadron working the field next to them was the Twenty Third. 'That's my brother's unit.' Simmons thought. 'That'll be great, but it might cause trouble.' He was actually looking forward to seeing his brother again despite the problems it might cause. 'No, wait, they'll be gone before I get back. Oh well, crisis averted.' It seemed the Twenty Third was operating off the cruiser Pillar of Autumn. What a crappy name.

0600 Hours, May 4, 2525(Military Calendar)/ Epsilon Eridani System, UNSC Military Reservation 01478-B, planet Reach

"Painland" had practically become home to Simmons' men since the time he arrived back on Reach. They had trained on every conceivable squad based weapon in the UNSC arsenal, and a few some rebel factions were using. The fitness regimen was enough to get even Simmons sweating at times, and only Dominique seemed to be taking it in stride. The LT had been back just four days, and each one resulted in every member of the team collapsing on the ground. On this particular morning, Simmons patrolled the area directly behind the shooters and listened to the squad Sergeants shout orders and insults. What the men didn't know is that the shooting was just the beginning today. They were going to start working on the Warthogs today, and O'Donnell said he was really looking forward to it.

"Alright ladies, let's get going for the depot, it's just a quick six mile jog," As the statement started, the men cheered the LT for idea of using the vehicles and resting their weary feet, but their method of travel to the depot was met with considerable discord. "First things first, put on the MILES gear." The only voice that could pierce the deafening groans that followed was Dominique's.

"Sir, that gear weighs eighteen pounds and the men are fully loaded already," he said, with sincere concern for the men entrusted to him.

"I'm aware of the weight of the gear Sergeant, we need to practice with it, and when it's gone, you thank me." Little did they know there was a combat exercise planned, and it was to be the first time 89th Drop Jet Platoon (Reinforced) would support the Spartans in a combat situation.

After the "quick jog", the men spent five minutes drinking water and fighting over who would get which Warthog, with the drivers analyzing every feasible aspect, including paint jobs and numbers. Simmons waited for them to finish, then assigned them to the Warthogs on the other side of the depot, which were also equipped with the MILES gear. Before the men had time to think about what all this simulation gear could mean, Simmons gave the word to go. After a mile, the roads ended and the Marines were on open fields next to Reach's famous forests. Simmons was reminded of the Midwest back on Earth. The green rolling grass covered the green rolling hills and blew softly in the wind. The trees formed a giant oval around the field, and if Simmons hadn't known what was coming, he would have stopped to enjoy the scenery. Tango Company's barracks were just a mile to the northwest, and Simmons was wary of irregular movements in the trees. He was expecting the Spartans at any moment, and he didn't have to wait long.

A single Warthog came blazing out of the woods with three occupants. The driver and gunner seemed to be 18 year old guys who had "borrowed" their ROTC's 'Hog to take out their girlfriend. Then Simmons squinted and saw they were all wearing fatigues, and their "girlfriend" was holding what appeared to Tango Company's flag in the side seat. "Prepare to open fire!" Simmons shouted to his men, then put the call out on his radio. The men were aiming at the single Warthog, when a dozen more came chasing the first, and the men started picking individual targets. Then a Scorpion barreled out at full speed to close off the Warthog's escape. The Scorpion fired its main gun and the gunner of the lead 'Hog waited for the explosion that would follow.

It never came. All three-dozen vehicles on the field had been equipped with the simulation gear and were firing blanks. Even the tank. "The 'Hog with the flag is a friendly. All other targets are enemies. Form a square around the flag 'Hog and proceed to eliminate all Tango Company targets." For the next twenty-seven minutes, thirty-five LRV's and one MBT dueled on a field a mile wide and twenty miles long. When a vehicle sustained enough simulated 'shots' the engine would shut down, and that vehicle would be out of the fight. Simmons' men had lost four 'Hogs to Tango Company's nine by the time they had gone half way down the field. The tank accounted for three of the 89th's losses, but O'Donnell had taken it out with his rocket launcher. In simulation only, of course.

The battle ended when Tango's CO drove his vehicle a little too close to the center of the square and O'Donnell blew him figuratively into the stratosphere. After that, the guns started to quiet, and the men realized there was nothing else to shoot at. The remainder of the platoon drove to the end of the field, where a Pelican was awaiting the three teens. "Driver, report here please."

"Sir, yes sir! Spartan 117 reporting sir!"

"At ease soldier. Just a few questions before you go. How did you guys get Tango's flag?"

"It was our mission, sir."

"I know that, but how did you get it?"

"I don't think CPO Mendez would like it if I disclosed tactical information so loosely, sir," the young man said with a grin.

"Fine. Who are your friends there? I'd like to meet them."

"Sir, yes sir. This is Spartan 087, Kelly and Spartan 104, Fred. Over under the trees there is Linda, number 058," as he spoke he pointed to a shady spot, where another teenage girl came out into the light.

"You guys must be pretty good. I didn't see you there, Linda." The girl cringed at the sound of her name, as if it made her vulnerable to hear her name spoken aloud.

"Thank you sir," she whispered. Simmons was admiring the fact that she could carry, much less aim, the SRS99C-S2 in her arms.

"Um… I don't know how to say this sir, but you're one of a very select group of people outside the team that knows our names. Dr. Halsey says its okay for you and your men to know, but it makes us feel kinda weird." The teen showed his first real uneasiness, shifting his weight and looking nervous. Throughout the fake conflict, the Spartans had show incredible cool under fire, even if it was simulated.

"I understand. Well, don't keep Chief Mendez waiting. Send him my regards Spartan."

"Sir, yes sir." With that the Spartans jogged off to the drop ship with their new prize, and as they flew off, Simmons and his men drove the Warthogs all the way back to the barracks, where the men were happy to hear they had the rest of the day off, provided they cleaned the spent shells out of their vehicles.