UNSC ' Infinity '
0900, shipboard clock.
Orbit over Earth, directly above Singapore.
Standing at parade rest, with his freshly( and throughly ) polished VZG7 combat boots planted solidly on the durasteel deck plating that covered every sqaure inch of Hangar bay, Master Sergeant Marcus Stacker watched the D79-TC Pelican as it flared in for a landing.
The jade-colored, ultra-streamlined craft's manuvering jets and thrusters rumbled and roared, remaining loud even though they'd been dialed back quite a bit from the power output they'd have needed to carry the hefty dropship all the way up from Earth's surface. Blazing a brilliant white, they smoothly settled all 64 of the Pelican's tons of onto its skids, with a barely audible, but nontheless deep, thud of its formidable mass on steel.
Stacker's stance didn't falter. After 15+ full years of being in the UNSCMC ( United Nations Space Command Marine Corps ) he'd seen- and experieced- more Pelican landings than he could keep track of , even if he'd actually attempted to count them all.
Some had been smooth and textook, like this one. Others, had been the polar opposite; loud and violent crashes. The former had been organized and calm; the latter had been anything but.
The Mombossa seawall. Dammned Scarab smacked us clear out of the sky. We came down so hard back there. I don't think I've been on a beach walk at all after that day.
It wasn't even as random as a Jackal headshotting someone. It was a Pelican crash. We weren't pilots or air crew; we had no control over what was about to happen to us.
Like a wet sparking battery, the memory came, and then was gone. In those few seconds, though, a lot was recalled.
For a few seconds, Stacker saw, in his mind's eye, the crackling, furnace hot fires and buckled metal sheets, of that doomed Pelican that had nearly killed him. By some God sent miracle, it was the only crash of his career, but it had stuck with him. Trapped in the hold of the Pelican as it hurtled Earthward, ablaze and out of control, he'd felt utterly helpless.
The impact had shaken his body like a rag caught in a terrier's mouth; everying in sight had been obscured until he could get his bearings again. If anyone else had been screaming, or cussing, or both/ eitehr, he didn't hear them.
It'd been the most jarring moment of said career of his, rivaled by his very first encounter with getting caught under .50 caliber machine gun fire ( courtesy of an Innsurectionist cell, who Stacker eventually had the satisfaction of taking out with a grenade ).
But, the real reason why Stacker didn't let himself think of that crash for more than a few seconds, was something else alltogether.
The only death of his squad- the only man to die among it up till that point, in the whole 25+ years of the conflict, which was undiniably another God sent miracle- had struck then and there. That it hadn't been his fault at all, with the COD being a out of control crash, didn't mean anything to the then-Gunnery Sergeant Stacker. He would not allow himself to admit that to himself, needless to say. Dead was dead, and wether it was thanks to enemy action or not, Stacker would remember every one those who hadn't made it under him.
Nicholas O'Brien.
I am so sorry, kid. There's better be a form of justice in the next life, because otherwise, there won't be enough dead Covenant in the galaxy for me.
He hoped and prayed that the host of new arrivals that was about to disembark the newly landed Pelican wouldn't be among anyone who'd ended up that way. Or, at least, he wanted it to be that they could outlive him. The UNSC had many veterans of the conflict with the Covenant that'd survived, but as many, if not more, had been killed during it. Those that were left, had more vital responsibility left to perform: mentor and shepard the waves of fresh recruits that were entering the ranks.
They wanted to do their bit for humanity, which was good and commendable in of itself. It was up to men like Stacker to do all they could to give their chances at survival a worthwhile boost. That they didn't have to put themselves in harm's way was the crux of it all, though. The Covenant were take care of. There wasn't the desperate need for more fighters that there'd been even 8 years earlier.
These new kids could've gone into careers that had nothing to do with facing mortal risks. They'd choosen to sign their names to an oath of service anyway.
To them, I am the old man here.
The Pelican's jets began to spool down, the rumble and roar they were raising dying out, as the back hatch of its troop bay swung open.
It quickly lowered- Stacker always noticed how the D79's doors lowered a lot more silently than the previous Pelican models, like the D77. UNSC engineering had progessed signifigantly over the years, and it showed.
That might play a role in thier survival odds too.
Needless to say, that wasn't ignoring that the risks were always hovering high. All the scrap metal from all the downed Pelicans that the UNSC had lost could've built the Infinity herself- and at several miles long, Infinity was a big girl.
The ramp hit the deck. Stacker put his personal thoughts as far back as he could for now; he had others he had to focus on.
A Navy loadmaster was visible on the threshold, one hand on a hold mounted around the mouth of the bay. He glanced back into the depths the hold, and gestured sharply outside,
" Allright-Go, go ! "
From out of the dropship's bay shadows, a full strength squad jogged briskly out. They were all clad in UNSCMC fatigues, with fully packed kit bags held in one hand. Service caps adorned their heads.
" Hurry up ! "
" Asses and elbows ! "
" Waiting on you, Petty Officer Italiano ! Why are you always late ?! Was the ride too crazy hectic for ya ?! "
Stacker's gaze methodically worked its way over each of them, as they finsihed clearing the ramp, and formed themselves into a line with the familar martial tune: the stamping rythm of boots on steel plate.
5 of them were men. The other 3 were women. Most of them were Caucasian, while others were not. Stacker couldn't care less, though. It didn't matter wether they were black, white, orange, blue, or fusia, especially seeing as they were fellow soldiers.
" Hey, Imma take out the white/ black, latino guy first. ! " Death doesn't care. I don't give a flying f on making a mountain out of what color your skin is- I never have, and that was before I joined up. Understood that camaraderie is the glue of any sucsessful military, as much as discipline. Anyone who gets hung up on " he's white ", etc, is being an idiot.
For the upteenth moment, Stacker mentally cussed out his family's ancestral origins, in the depths of the US South. The racisim had died out there centuries ago, and he knew how pointless it was to think about, but the acidic traces of it could skip a few generations, like lumps of Chernobyl debris on a pond.
Screw them. These new kids are my family too.
Every marine/soldier/sailor he'd ever fought alongside, or even spent more than a few days with in a barracks or a foxhole, was his family. Even the ones he hated. Even the odd ones: those who were late so often to everything, or the ones who had bizarre fascinations with " classic " things, like cars from the 1960s. They weird as heck, sure, but they were all kin.
This new Pelican load were the newest members of that kin. Some NCOs cared and loved theirs more than others. Stacker, for one,
Speaking of which, they were now arranged neatly shoulder to shoulder, standing at parade rest and looking at a point that wasn't sqaurely Stacker himself, but close. The presence of a senior NCO like Stacker had been pretty much what they had been expecting, and they'd quickly got into formation.
" Atten-hut ! ", Stacker commanded.
They stood as ordered without missing a beat. Each and every one of them.
Hmm. So, discipline hasn't fallen completley by the wayside, in current training these days. So far, at least.
He subtly inhaled, drawing in air to begin the most cherished of a sergeant's responsibilites: Greeting novices and newbies. He'd been a newbie once, after all.
They should be grateful they're not being met by a US Marine sergeant. All primal rage; its like putting a paperclip under a plasma beam. That's what it does to their underlings.
Besides, they were not all that raw. He'd spotted corporal's chevrons on several of them, which was better than receiving a herd of pure-grade PFCs. Even a slight ammount of experience( as much as it took to become a corporal, compared his own lengthy service record ) was better than none.
Stacker had already known the names of every one of them, after having consulted his data-pad. The handy device had been laden with all the collective service records of the entire unit, along with a few addtional details:
Let's see what and who I've got here
1. Petty Officer First Class Jennifer Italiano. MOS: Culinary Specialist. She was the one with glasses, and the look of someone who enjoyed getting up far too early. Virtually no travelling done prior to entering the military, which was rather inexpicable, as someone who doens't travel far has a lot left to learn about the rest of their world.
2. Petty Officer Second Class Michelle Ridley. MOS: Corpsman. An Australian brunette, from Sydney, home of UNSC high command itself. A strong affinity in PT, particularly in running.
3. Corporal Karen Lang. MOS: Drone Operator. Another brunette, and a native of Chicago, in the United American States of North America. Family history of public service, including the Chicago Fire Department and PD.
Dear God. Her sister died on Alpha Halo- Lance Corporal Ava Lang . And now Karen is following in her footsteps ?
For a few heartbeats, Stacker thought of what that said about Karen. Willing to march into a career that had claimed her own family member's life ? Then again, many of the untold billions slain by the Covenant hadn't asked or wanted to fight eitehr. Even so, this was heading directly into the fight, not waiting for it to come to you.
That's going to be something we'll have to talk about, for certain.
Without revealing his thoughts, though, Stacker read on through the list:
4. Lance Corporal Sam Ackles. MOS: Grenadier. A Texan, who had a spotty discipline reccord. A few warnings about him having a temper, but no violent altercations with superiors, at least.
5. Corporal Dean Jensen. MOS: Scout Sniper. Another Texan. Less of a record of anger issues, but he did have a few reports of attempted theft from a few mess halls. Bizzarely, he was after pie.
6. Private Leroy Deeks. MOS: EOD specialist. A Canadian. He had actually grown up on Elysium, same Homeworld as the Master Chief. No doubt, that'd made him humble.
7. Private First Class Martin McGarrett. Hailing from Hawaii. MOS: EOD: Heavy Weapons Specialist. His ancestors had served in the United States Navy SEALs, and he had stated ambitions to join the ODSTs at some point in the future.
8. Private First Class Gordon Swagger. MOS: Scout Sniper. The only OUTER colonial of the group, hailing from the world of Sedra, he had a profile of not speaking much, except on off- base R and R.
And, that was it.
So, these are my new kids.
Barely a minute had gone by. They were fresh off the Pelican, standing right here in front of him, waiting with imrpessive discipline for orders. Waiting to be integrated into his unit.
They had to know what that entailed. There was going to be a lot of risk involved- if there wasn't Covenant Splinter factions, there were more Innsurectionist groups. Or Forerunner revivals. Or God knew what ELSE was out there.
Stacker had seen a whole lot of good men and women die. As long as Humanity existed, they would have enemies.
There was nothing he could do to have stopped them from joining. Perhaps it was because they knew staying home was no garuntee of safety, and they wanted to put themselves at risk for the sake of everyone else. Maybe they were all true soldiers at heart, or maybe they all had it running in the family.
For Karen, I know that's true.
A lump rose in the back of Stacker's throat. These kids were raw as raw could be, but they were here, and that alone told him they were some of the bravest folks he'd ever met. They were willing to serve, and willing to risk their own lives, in a galaxy that was peppered with conflicts and flashpoints of violence. There was plenty of fighting to be had, Covenant or no.
I am so damn sentimental.
Well, sue me. They may work for the UNSC at large, but they're in MY platoon. That's the whole essence of being an NCO- heck, being a leader. Sometimes, I need to remind even myself of that.
And if any of us are going to die out there-
Let it be me. Let it be me a thousand times before any of them.