Chapter Forty-Nine: Second Best

July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) \
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System

When the Captain had told us we'd be sealing off part of the Olympic Tower, it hadn't seemed so bad. Compared to what we've been through in the past, it wasn't so bad…but still. The Captain failed to mention that we would be on lockdown duty for close to thirty-six hours.

There were always four squads on duty with the remaining two on break. Every four hours, those two squads would relieve another two squads. All six squads would rotate every twelve hours.

I don't think it would have been so bad if we were actually guarding something. We had locked down an entire section of the Olympic Tower for a meeting between higher-ups that was actually taking place far underground. We were here for an illusion…and that just didn't feel like something worth standing watch eight hours at a time for.

"And what makes ye say that?" Celt was asking Cheyenne, an older Helljumper from one of the other squads that was pulling lockdown duty alongside us. He and a few of his buddies had been chatting about something big going on up in FLEETCOM HQ, and we couldn't help but overhear.

"Whenever you hear news, it's always from the mouth of someone else, you understand," Cheyenne explained. "So you have to take it with a grain of salt, you know? But anyway, Lieutenant Commander Angiers, our handler, told us that all of our forces in this entire sector are apparently being recalled to the Epsilon Eridani System—here."

"That be a lot o' ships…" Celt murmured.

"Upwards of a hundred-fifty," Cheyenne agreed. "A tad bit on the large end of the spectrum, wouldn't you say?"

"It makes no sense," I frowned, recalling something Delucci had mentioned during our last briefing. "Our handler told us something about FLEETCOM HQ losing contact with the Sigma Octanus System. We all know what lost contact means…so why—if the Covies are attacking Sigma Octanus IV—is the mobilization centered here, at Reach?"

"Hell if I know…" Pisces, one of Cheyenne's squadmates, gave an impassive shrug. "Since when did we ever know why the spooks do the things they do?"

Celt smirked at that. "Good point."

"Alright, cut the chatter," the Master Sergeant Rhodes, the leader of Cheyenne's squad, growled. "I think I hear a lift coming up."

Celt and I quickly returned to our posts with our squad while Cheyenne and company hurried back to their own.

Rhodes was right; I could hear the soft, sliding noise of an ascending lift as well. No sooner had I stood up straight at attention when the elevator doors dinged and slid apart.

Captain Delucci emerged from a lift. He looked odd in the crisp, white naval dress uniform. In fact, I think this was the first time I've ever seen him wear one. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I've worn a dress uniform.

Delucci was with three other men. One of the older men was none other than Captain Gibson, the overall head of ONI Black Ops. There was a tall, thin, pale man who wore the two-and-a-half stripes of a Lieutenant Commander. He was most likely Lieutenant Commander Angiers, the ONI handler of Cheyenne's squad, based on the way he and the other squad of Helljumpers interacted. The last man I didn't know. He was a shorter, red-haired Lieutenant—nothing special about him.

"Sir, nothing to report topside," our Master Sergeant said to Delucci as the Captain approached our two squads.

"Didn't think there would be," Captain Delucci nodded. "Make sure all your gear is in order; we're going to Camp Hathcock."

"Camp Hathcock, sir?" Virgin couldn't help but ask. He wasn't the only one who was surprised; this was turning out to be one hell of a week. First, going to Reach—which was a rarity for a unit like ours—then to the Olympic Tower…and now Camp Hathcock.

"Yes, Camp Hathcock," Delucci repeated himself. His tone was stern and clipped enough to efficiently insinuate that he was not in the mood for our usual chatter. And rightly so. "Fall out."

The officers led us outside back onto the external tier overlooking the rest of the building and compound. The other five squads of Helljumpers—including Rhodes's squad—who had been on lockdown detail with us joined us outside, where a pelican and three falcons were waiting.

The officers all climbed aboard the pelican, along with my squad and Rhodes's. The other Helljumpers climbed aboard the trio of falcons. I suppose having your squad's handler as one of the ranking members of the ONI conclave got us first-class seats.

"I've heard nothing but good things about you men," Captain Gibson said to us after the pelican lifted off and got underway, settling into a steady speed as we soared above the clouds.

This was the first time I had ever seen Gibson in the flesh. Rear Admiral Rich commanded ONI Covert Ops—which translated to basically every field operation, besides those of the Spartans. Captain Gibson was the field officer in charge of the Black Ops division, which was the hands-on, messy section of Covert Ops. Rear Admiral Rich was the spearman, Captain Gibson was the spear.

Nominally, all ODSTs belonged to the 105th Marine Expeditionary Unit, but we weren't embedded within conventional UNSC forces. We would, on occasion, conduct joint operations with marines or Army troopers, but we weren't bred for conventional warfare. While we were subordinate to our respective battalions, we rarely fought in anything larger than our individual squads. So when we learned that the entire 7th was being mobilized in the Aszod Province, you could understand our surprise.

"You're sitting with the best, sir," Captain Delucci said in response to Gibson's earlier statement, gesturing to both squads sitting in the troop bay.

"I was a Helljumper before I joined ONI," Gibson mused. "We were always the best…in many ways, I believe we still are. I'll level with you; ever since Halsey's toy soldiers went public, we puny little human commandoes suddenly became second-rate leftovers in the eyes of HIGHCOM, and I don't appreciate that one damn bit."

There were grumblings of agreement from many of the Helljumpers present in the troop bay. I didn't share in the bitter, negative view most ODSTs had of the Spartans—I don't have to explain why, because I've already done so about a thousand times. However, just because I didn't hate them didn't mean I loved them. I didn't appreciate how much HIGHCOM liked to play favorites with the Spartans at our expense. After all, Helljumpers have been around a lot longer. We have shed much more blood than the Spartans ever had, and people seem to repay us by patting us on the head and saying, "Oh, thanks for everything, but I we think the shiny new supersoldiers could do this mission better."

Maybe that's exaggerating, a little bit. ODSTs were still among the most revered and respected members of the armed forces, and we still had our fair share of impossible missions we were expected to carry out…

I suppose it's all a matter of wounded pride. We've been the top dogs for so long; it's like a slap in the face to suddenly have someone else—in this case, Spartans—become the best. Almost like an old beast deposed by an upstart cub with genetic augmentations.

But, once again, I digress.

"Lieutenant Haverson, I trust the intel package is ready for presentation to Admiral Whitcomb?" Captain Gibson asked the red-haired Lieutenant.

The ONI Lieutenant gave a short nod, but there was a flicker of doubt in the gesture. "Do you really think it's necessary to bring Whitcomb into this? It's probably nothing. We could send a few agents to Visegrad and find out for ourselves that it's nothing. I'd even go myself."

Lieutenant Commander Angiers arched an eyebrow at that. "Really? You'd go to Visegrad yourself and figure this whole thing out? You can speak Hungarian, Lieutenant?"

Haverson's mouth hardened into a thin line. "No, sir."

"I thought not. And it's because it's probably nothing that we are informing Admiral Whitcomb," Captain Gibson continued. "If we thought something…sensitive…was going on, we would handle it quietly."

"And where do we factor into all this?" Master Sergeant Rhodes spoke up.

Delucci and Gibson traded a discreet glance with each other before Gibson gave a slight nod to his subordinate.

"There have been reports of disappearances in the Visegrad Province," Captain Delucci told us. "And not your usual missing child or senior citizen, as one would expect from a remote farming region like that place. Entire families have been vanishing for nearly four days, now. Every six hours, we get updated reports from the outpost in that sector, and many of them contain names of more missing civilians."

"Insurrectionists?" Apache guessed.

Captain Gibson gave a grim nod. "That's what we're thinking. They're a shadow of what they used to be before Harvest happened in '25…but even so; I never thought they would have ever come to Reach, of all places."

"Army troopers have already been dispatched to restore the peace," Angiers informed us. "But we'll eventually be sending your squads in with translators who are fluent in Hungarian, so you can converse with the local populace. We want you to find out if there are Insurrectionists in that area; and if there are…well, you know what to do if there are."

I think the stars must have been in some sort of special alignment, because I've never heard so many straight answers come from an ONI spook's mouth until today.

I had thought we would be dispatched to Visegrad almost immediately. Based on how the officers had been talking about sending us out there, I had kept all my gear packed and ready to move. But after landing at Camp Hathcock—the military reservation deep in the Highland Mountains reserved for top brass, VIPs, and heads of state—we were allowed to set up quarters in one of the barracks facilities. All six of our squads were able to fit in one of the spacious buildings. All of us were ready to move back out in a moment's notice, but our orders never came.

We slept through the night somewhat hesitantly, expecting to be sent to the pelicans before dawn tomorrow…but again, the orders never came. So we got up, ate breakfast, returned to the barracks, and slept some more. That was one of the first things we had learned on the battlefield: a soldier can never get too much sleep.

And the cycle continued. We would sleep, wake up for meals, spend some time on the weapons range until it was dark out, then sleep until the next morning. When you get a solid routine down, time just seems to slip by. It hadn't felt like we were at Camp Hathcock for very long until the Master Sergeant was suddenly summoned to a squad leaders' meeting with Captain Gibson. I realized soon after the Master Sergeant left that we had been sitting here for five days, and we still hadn't been sent to investigate the disappearances in Visegrad.

When the Master Sergeant returned with Rhodes, Dupont, and the other squad leaders, we all found out why.

"Remember those Army troopers who were sent into Visegrad to find out what the hell was going on?" the Master Sergeant asked us. When all he received in reply were nodding heads and affirming grunts, he went on. "Well, we lost contact with them earlier today. And to add icing on top of the cake, the Visegrad Relay Outpost has also gone dark. Originally, Admiral Whitcomb was going to send us in to investigate."

Cajun pursed his lips, the ends of his horseshoe mustache bristling a tad bit. "Originally?" he echoed, obviously not liking where this whole conversation was headed.

The Master Sergeant gave a thin, mirthless smile. "Yes, originally. Instead, he turned it over to Colonel Holland from Army Special Ops, and he's decided to send in-" the Master Sergeant grimaced, as if the words themselves were sour, "a team of Spartans. They leave first thing tomorrow morning. We're not going to Visegrad, boys."

As the other squad leaders broke the news to their respective units, the barracks was filled with the not so pleasant language of twenty-odd not so happy ODSTs. This wasn't the first time I had been passed over in favor of another unit…nor was it the first time that said 'other unit' had been a team of Spartans. I found myself having to think more and more about Verus III to remind myself that I didn't—wouldn't hate Spartans the same way most of the others did…but it was getting harder to do every time something like this happened.

"C'mon, Scar," Cajun gripped my shoulder as he walked past, pulling me with him. "I feel like shootin' the livin' shit outta the range targets…"

"Count me in," Celt fell in step behind us as we grabbed our weapons and pushed open the door stepping outside into the chilly, North Eposzian evening.

The western sky was still a rich amber-red, lingering even as the sun vanished below the horizon. I pulled on my half-finger gloves as we made our way across the greens towards the firing range. Further up the small hill which this part of Camp Hathcock was built upon was the inner compound, where Admiral Whitcomb, his staff, and the other higher-ups resided. The rest of the camp was spread out at least two kilometers in every direction.

The firing range was not a building, like in so many other bases. It was a large, unmechanized, open field. If you wanted to use it, you would set your own targets and clean up after yourself. Despite the extra workload, I preferred outdoor ranges; for sniping purposes, it helped to practice with other elements such as the wind interfering with my otherwise true shot.

There were five marines already practicing at the range; all of them using MA5Bs except for one man, who was firing a BR55.

Cajun, Celt, and I set up next to these marines, but we didn't socialize. We had just lost our op to a team of Spartans yet again; we weren't in a talking mood. We were in a shooting mood.

After an hour or so of steady target practice, one of the marines approached us. He was a shorter, dark-skinned, Indian man with a trimmed, pencil-thin mustache. For some reason, he looked oddly familiar, though I couldn't quite put my finger on where I had seen him before. "Evening," he gave us a nod. I didn't say anything back to him.

"What do ye want," Celt asked the man coolly, firing a short burst from his MA5B into one of the targets.

I loaded a round into my SRS99C's chamber and aimed downrange at one of the long-distance targets, adjusting the sights of my scope.

While most marines probably would have taken the hint that we weren't in the mood for chitchat and simply left it at that, this Indian man did not. He must be a longtime veteran, I thought. Someone who has fought the Covies long enough to lose the ability to fear other measly humans. That was to be expected, though…the marines who garrisoned Camp Hathcock were about as battle-hardened as they came.

The Indian man asked us what battalion we were from, which was interesting. Most people, when they learned we were ODSTs, left it at that. They never usually bothered to find out what battalion we were from. We told him we were from the 7th Shock Troops just to make him shut up and go away. And finally, he did.

However, ten or so minutes later, one of the other marines ceased fire and approached us. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man. He had the three stripes and single rocker of a Staff Sergeant on his sleeves, so he had definitely been through the mill.

"Lance Corporal Singh tells me you boys are from the 7th Shock Troops," the Staff Sergeant remarked casually, as if he were talking about the weather.

"Supposin' we are," Celt replied. "What's it to you?"

The Staff Sergeant slung his rifle across his back, giving all three of us a quick once-over. "If you were, I'd ask you if you know a Staff Sergeant Garris."

Unfortunately, he said that right before I fired. My shot went wide, drilling into the hillside beyond my target. I swore, sliding another round into the chamber, and aimed downrange once more, ready to take the shot again. "He's a Gunnery Sergeant, now," I said as I squeezed the trigger. As I saw the round strike the target's inner circle, I lowered my rifle and stood up, turning back to face the Staff Sergeant.

Though most of the Staff Sergeant's face was obscured by his reflective glasses and helmet, I could tell that he was studying me intently. His gaze flicked from the Gunny stripes on my sleeves, to the sniper rifle I had been firing a second earlier, and back to my face. Finally, a wry grin broke out across the other man's face.

"You've gotten old, Alley," the Staff Sergeant chuckled, pulling off his helmet and sunglasses, revealing features that were beyond familiar; even with the effects of middle age, I instantly recognized him. "Took you until you saw my pretty little face to recognize your old friend Dempsey."