Instrumental

All Spark – Transformers Soundtrack

-Shephard's Epic-

-Search and Rescue-

Two sets of boots traipsed the dimly lit hall, their footsteps echoing far into the distance. They came to a stop next to a non-descript blue door, the words "Briefing Room" stenciled in white across it.

"We all set?" Jackson said, chewing on a cigar. His subordinate handed him a manila folder, which the Lieutenant thumbed through for several seconds before opening the door.

"Attention on deck!" Someone yelled, as almost two dozen men, all clad in the same white camouflage fatigues, jumped to their feet, backs straight, heads held high.

Jackson didn't bother looking up as he took his place behind the podium at the front of the room. Behind him several blue holo-screens glowed, lines of unintelligible code rushing across them. Sighing, Jackson spoke. "At ease." The men immediately sat back down.

Taking off his aviators, Jackson set the folder on the podium and looked out at the soldiers. They were an eager looking bunch, surprisingly so, seeing as how they'd just returned from the front to what they expected to be some well deserved rest and relaxation, or R&R, only to find themselves right back in the thick of it. Most of them looked old enough to remember what real R&R was like, a majority of Delta Squad were original members of the 501st, though some were new recruits, barely old enough to remember the smell of fresh air.

"Look," He began, slightly smirking. "I realize that you were probably expecting to grab some rack time, maybe catch a hot shower," Jackson's eyes fell on one of the specialists, an old friend by the name of Perez, who was staring lazily off into space. "I know Perez here was looking for some quality time with his left hand," Perez shot him a look as the rest of the squad struggled to contain their laughter. "But this is big, and I need you guys. You're the best we've got." At least for the time being, Jackson lamented. With the way the skirmishes were going, that massacre that passed for a battle up in Seattle, their forces wouldn't have the man power to hold their own very soon, and might eventually pass on into legend themselves.

Tapping several commands into a keyboard on the podium, one of the holo-screens lit up, a map centered on the Pacific, with the east coast of Asia and the west coast of North America bordering it, sprang into view. Their current position, a red glowing dot on the west coast, blinked.

"This is a search and rescue op. We gotta man stranded." A dot on the eastern coast of what used to be China blinked as well. "This is the largest rescue op attempted since before the war. And I need each and every one of you." The men exchanged glances, and the murmuring began. Jackson looked down and rubbed his temples, how was he going to explain this. Then the questions came.

Who the hell is it?

What is he doing on the other side of the planet?

Was it some kind of special op?

One of the soldiers, a younger kid, maybe mid-twenties, the name Michaels embroidered above the left breast pocket, finally asked the question on everyone's mind.

"Is it Corporal Adrian Shephard?" The room suddenly caught fire, everyone was babbling. The rumors had spread through the base like wild fire, everyone was talking about it. The Great Adrian Shephard? The Savior of the HECU? The man who had braved Black Mesa after being left behind, and as the Vortigaunts had told them, fought the monsters to the breaking point, only to disappear into the ether before that deadly explosion.

"Come'on Colonel!" Someone yelled. "If we're riskin' our necks, crossing the goddamn ocean to save a single guy, at least tell us who it is!"

Jackson's brow furrowed, he didn't want to tell them, didn't want to give them false hope. Even the Vortigaunts weren't sure if this man claiming to be his lost comrade was really who he said he was.

"And why the hell should it matter?" A voice bellowed from the side of the room. Jackson, startled, looked over. He grinned. Tower, Major Tower, was leaning up against the wall next to the door. He must have come in during all the questioning. His face was finally beginning to show signs of aging. His once solid black hair now sported hints of gray. His face had several wrinkles cross-crossing it, but they were all stretched tight as his face contorted in a look of disgust. "You're Marines, you never leave a man behind, no matter who the fuck it is." The room was suddenly silent. "It's a shit job. It's been a shit job for almost twenty years, but we can't give up just because we got the deck stacked against us, we took an oath, and I'll be damned if I betray that." Tower's face relaxed somewhat, and he looked over at Jackson, nodding.

Returning the gesture, Jackson looked back out over the sea of faces. "Well okay then, lets continue. Now the bird is being prepped as we speak. As soon as we have meeting coordinates we'll be dusting off…"

After the meeting was finished and the soldiers had filed out, Jackson and Tower were the only one's left in the room. Sitting in one of the briefing chairs, Tower looked over at Jackson, standing in front of the map of eastern China.

Jackson finally broke the silence. "So, looks like Wilkes got you out of the brig." Tower simply nodded. "How's the hangover?"

Tower smirked. "A lot better, nothing to do in there but push-ups. Those are the best medicine." There was another long pause.

Jackson puffed out his cheeks in a defeated display of dismay. "Christ, Tower, you could have come to me. You didn't have to go straight to the top." George Tower chuckled and stood up.

"I don't want to have this conversation right now, Mitch." He brushed him off. Jackson took him by the arm.

"Screw you man, we're in this together. I can't have you going over my head. You need to get your shit together. The general is pissed off at you enough as it is. The scuttle is that he wants to put you on disability. A fucking desk job, you want that? The only reason he hasn't yet is because we can't spare the experience." Tower shrugged off Jackson's hold on his arm, but didn't move to leave. His head held low, he spoke almost in a whisper.

"I don't know where it all went wrong. I thought it'd be over by now, I never thought… I never thought we'd be fighting this long." Jackson's face relaxed into a frown.

"No one did, buddy, no one did. But look, I need you on this. This could be it, man. Adrian's back." Tower turned and shot him a piercing gaze.

"And exactly the fuck does that mean? You think he's gonna come riding in a white horse and save the day? Jesus Mitch, what happened to you? You're just as bad as the boots! The Great Adrian Shephard this, the Great Adrian Shephard that…" Jackson cut him off.

"He's just a man, George, I ain't got no illusions about that. But you saw those guys in here before. They think he's gonna save them, that he's here to end the war. We need that. They need that, if we're ever gonna survive this." Jackson looked around the room. "We're running short of everything; guns, bullets, food. But man, man you gotta believe me when I say the one thing we're missing most is hope. Without it, all the guns, all the bullets, all the tanks in the goddamn world aren't gonna help us end this thing."

Tower didn't look at his friend; he was silent for so long that Jackson was about to give up hope.

"I'd given up hope…" He turned to Jackson. "That day when the general came down and gave me the news that someone had radioed him, telling him he found a drifter wearing Adrian's 'tags…I…I gave up hope." He laid a hand on Jackson's shoulder. "I'm here for you now, buddy."

Jackson smiled and took Tower's other hand, shaking it. "Glad you're back on board."

The tower men exited the room, and found themselves face-to-face with a short, stout man. No younger than fifty, his gray, balding scalp sported several scars, one traveling all the way down his face, across his left eye, leaving it a milky gray.

"…the fuck, Tower!" He said, almost throwing his fist in rage. "How the hell did you get out of the goddamn brig?!"

Jackson stepped between the two. "Colonel Butler, what a pleasant surprise!" He said with mock respect. The Colonel sneered at Jackson.

"Don't give me any shit Jackson, I'm here to talk to you. But you!" He pointed at Tower. "You and I aren't done." Fire burning brightly in his one good eye, Colonel Butler, the General's right-hand man, focused his rage on Jackson. "This is utter bullshit," He said, pushing a cream-colored folder up against Jackson's chest. "Search and Rescue of mission critical personnel? Do you think I'm an invalid?"

Jackson chuckled, which only further enraged Butler. The man was known for his brutal and ruthless tactics, tactics which admittedly had pulled the surviving remnants of the United States Armed Forces out of the shitter several times, more times than Jackson cared to admit. But he was a pretentious asshole, who was never one to simply let things go. So when Jackson went over his head, going straight to the General for permission to requisition troops and supplies for the mission, Butler was pissed, to say the least.

"Don't laugh, you son of a bitch! You deliberately went over my authority. You knew that Destovaya's got a soft spot for Shephard and you exploited it!"

"The General." Jackson said, stressing the rank. "Was the only one who understood the time-sensitivity of the mission. I didn't have time to argue with you." At this Butler exploded.

"You bastard! Do you have any clue what the chain of command is? Or did they forget to teach you that at Paris Island? Christ you fucking non-coms are all the same." Butler moved threateningly close, his tone hushed. "The General has already green lit you little shits, but believe me, when you get back, I will march you in front of JSOC myself and make sure your ass is court-marshaled." And with that, he turned and walked away.

Tower and Jackson stood speechless. Finally Tower chuckled. "And you were giving me shit about the chain of command?" Jackson grimaced.

"Don't start. You know Butler wouldn't have even wanted to hear it. He doesn't think the mission is worth it. Too much hardware for one rescue op. You know he never bought into the myth like everyone else."

"Yeah, well at least we got the General on our side." Jackson sighed. For now. His conversation with the general had been short. He had already seen the communiqué, so was up to date on all the facts. Jackson didn't see the hope in his eyes that he saw on the faces of the soldiers, though. He thought he saw something like…pity? Regret at leaving a man behind? Jackson knew that the General felt responsible for leaving so many men behind in those hectic days at Black Mesa. Was he green lighting this mission out of some misguided attempt to save his own soul?

"And what about all that shit about JSOC? They wouldn't court-marshal you, would they?" JSOC, Joint Special Operations Command, was the tribunal that governed what was left of the armed forces, made up of Generals and leaders from each branch of the service and special operations teams. General Destovaya was technically the de facto leader, but JSOC had the power to call investigations, and yes, to court-marshal. If Butler really wanted to, he could have Jackson's infractions investigated.

Jackson, holding Butlers copy of the mission report in his hands, took out his cigar from his breast pocket and began chewing on it. "It's not important right now. Get you're shit together Tower, we're leaving."

"Let's go get our friend back." Tower said, a smile finally crossing his face.