Chapter Thirty-Five: Golden Opportunity

February 19, 2537 (Military Calendar) \
New Harmony, Beta Persei System

"C'mon, Demp!"

"Drown that sonofabitch!"

"Fuckin' A, he's actually doing it!"

A ring of us had gathered around Dempsey, who was chugging a tall glass of something very potent.

The Fort Braxton military pub was alive and roaring with intoxicated furor. Everyone was in good spirits, and with good reason: The Covies had left New Harmony. And the 9th Force Recon hadn't taken any losses.

How the hell did something like that happen? Was it my attempt at a prayer? Was there a god? Or perhaps even an entire pantheon of deities, all paying attention to my personal desires?

I'm drunk. I've missed being drunk. Everything made sense when I was drunk.

Now wasn't a time for pondering life's great mysteries. Now was a time to drink until I had to concentrate to remember my own name, let alone Humanity's ceaseless teeter-totter at the brink of annihilation. These times in the pub were among the best times in my life, topped only by those quiet nights in the foxholes I had shared with Soph back on Verus III, and more recently the less-quiet nights in our barracks' utility closet.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dempsey emptied the tall glass, set it down onto the table triumphantly, and gave us a wide, toothy grin. The bright silver New Harmony Campaign medallion, which he had clamped between his teeth, flashed in the light. How in hell he'd managed to down an entire beer without swallowing that medallion, I would never know.

"Woo, yeah! Semper Fi, asswipes!" he cackled, waving for another drink amid the cheers and laughter.

I think we should do this more often. If I had a choice to die laughing or crying, I would choose laughing every time. Or both at the same time. That would be profound, wouldn't it? Tears and laughter? Truth and the pleasure of recognizing beauty?

I am really drunk.

Sadly, there were no major barfights this time. No kissing. Ever since that last little scuffle Dempsey and I were here for, the MPs had started keeping a close eye on this establishment, and so we were careful not to come to blows while on the sauce. MPs always loved having heads to crack.

We partied throughout the night. I think it was around 0300 or so when I managed to stumble back across the greens, into my barracks, and finally into my bunk. Blessed sleep followed immediately afterwards.

The first thing I woke up to was the blaring trumpets of Reveille, reminding me of the cost of every night of revelry I have ever enjoyed: the next morning.

If the Covies had better aim, at least I would have been spared this hangover. My head felt like it was about to burst, and when I swung myself out of bed I realized that I was still faintly intoxicated.

I need food. Now.

We assembled on the parade field, stood silently as the equally hungover members of the honor guard unfolded the UNSC flag and attached it to the flagpole. When the flag was raised, we were dismissed and allowed to eat breakfast. I lost myself in my tray of hashbrowns, sausage, bacon, and eggs. The hashbrowns and bacon were nice and greasy. Just what I needed. Greasy food helps hangovers, although I could not explain to you why. That's a question you'd have to ask Doc Patrikos.

After breakfast I still felt like shit, but ever so slightly less shitty than before. This hangover wouldn't go away until later in the afternoon. Nothing to do except throw myself into the routine of another uneventful day in Fort Braxton. I picked up my battle rifle from the armory and whispered to it my undying love and gratitude as we walked together to the firing range.

I grabbed some ear protection from the box at the firing range's entrance, snagged an open booth, and hit the button which activated my station, generating randomly located split-chin holograms. I aimed my battle rifle downrange and opened fire, steadily squeezing off controlled bursts into each of my split-chin targets, checking my results after shooting the last one.

My results were good, but there was always room for improvement, so I hit reset and went at it again.

I wasn't the only one in here, either. A dozen or so others were also practicing with BRs or magnums. Most of them were from different units, except for Esposito, who was several booths down, swearing at his jammed rifle for being an asshole. Because of all the noise and din, I didn't notice when Colonel Ndebele entered the firing range until he was standing right behind me.

The Colonel cleared his throat noisily. I turned around, giving a start of surprise as I came face-to-face with my battalion commander. "Sir!" Instinct kicked in, and I snapped to attention.

"At ease, Sergeant," the Colonel replied with a faint smile, "before you give yourself whiplash."

It was then that I noticed the Colonel wasn't alone. Accompanying my battalion commander was a thin man with deep-set eyes, thin lips, face like a skull. He wore a simple black uniform. I could tell this man was a spook from a mile away, and this was confirmed by the insignia emblazoned his sleeves: a black-and-white eye with the words Semper Vigilans emblazoned around the iris.

ONI.

What the hell was the Office of Naval Intelligence doing here? Did they suspect I was a split-chin wearing a Human suit?

"Let's take a walk, Garris," Colonel Ndebele said, turning towards the exit. I fell into step beside him. The ONI officer trailed behind, and I tried really hard not to glance over my shoulder. "You have served in my battalion for how long?" asked Ndebele. "Five years?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir, ever since the Harvest Campaign ended."

"I care about my marines, Garris," the Colonel continued, leading the way through the exit and outside onto the gravel. "And I notice what happens in my battalion. You served with distinction at Cedar Rapids, and again during our engagements here on New Harmony. I am proud to have served with you, and so it is with some small degree of sadness that I offer you something which is long overdue."

"Sir?" my ears perked up. I didn't know where this was going, but I liked the sound of it.

As we reached the parade field, Colonel Ndebele came to a stop by the flagpoles, allowing the ONI officer to catch up to us. "This here is Captain Delucci, ONI black ops," Ndebele introduced the spook.

"Captain, sir," I offered the spook a wary salute.

Maybe this guy was an asshole, maybe he wasn't. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the fact that he was ONI couldn't be good. When ONI got involved, pleasant things rarely happened.

"Captain Delucci requested for you specifically, Garris," the Colonel explained. "You may not remember him, but we met on Verus III, during the assassination op."

The ONI Captain took up the conversation on that note. "We have met before, Sergeant Garris. At the time, I'm afraid I was bleeding on the ground with two spiker rounds in my chest." As the ONI officer referenced the wounds, I wasn't sure if I noticed a faint wince, as though Delucci could still feel them. He probably could. "I was wounded during an operation undertaken by my unit to neutralize a Covenant Prophet. You were part of the relief force sent to extract us, and I am told that you were the one who neutralized that Prophet and completed our mission."

"Yeah, I crowned that bastard," I replied on impulse before I could put a gag on my brain's profanity center. Shit. "Pardon my French, sir."

Delucci offered no outward reaction to the crude language. "After the mission's success, my superiors saw fit to grant a favor to the ODST squad I oversee. They asked for a sniper, and they requested specifically for you. So I've pulled a few strings with your division, and the opportunity is now yours for the taking. Do you want it?"

I stood there, openmouthed as the ONI Captain offered me the chance of a lifetime.

"You would have to go through another round of Basic in the Ural Mountains on Earth," the ONI Captain warned me. "And you will be demoted to Private. But if you survive selection, you'll have a squad waiting for you at the other end."

"Sergeant Garris," Colonel Ndebele said to me formally, addressing me as if he were on inspection. "How would you like to join the ODSTs?"

I swallowed. "I think it's Private Garris now, sir."

END OF SECTION II