Title: Battle: Actium
Summary: Before the Fall of Reach, the Battle of Actium was one of the bloodiest land battles of the Human-Covenant War. Experience the fighting through the eyes of those who fought, and died, in her defense. (Rewrite of earlier story by the same name.)
Author's Note: Hello and welcome the story.
This is a rewrite of a story by the same name that appeared on this website about a year ago.
For return readers, a list of general changes will be available at the end of each chapter. For new readers, take note:
This story takes place in 2545, 7 years before the events of Halo: Combat Evolved. Most of the cast are OCs. This story will only marginally follow canon.
Thanks, hope you enjoy.
As always, many thanks to my editor, Darkfire7881. Be sure to check out his work in the Command & Conquer category of this very website.
Chapter 1: Welcome to Actium
Camp Hoxha, 65 kilometers north of Byzas
Moesia Province, Actium
May 6, 2545
0500 (Three hours before contact)
Private Marcus Olsen
The bus rattled and shook as it hit a pothole, snapping Private Marcus Olsen out of his thoughts and causing him to bump shoulders with the soldier seated next to him. The man, whose biceps looked about as big as Marcus's head glared at him and Marcus could almost swear his eyes were glowing.
Mumbling a quick apology, Marcus tried to scoot away as far as possible from the man, which, despite its simplicity, was a lot harder than it sounded as Marcus was sitting right next to the window. Still, the motion seemed to mollify the man and Marcus let out a sigh of relief as he turned away, allowing him to return to his thoughts. He stared bleakly out the window, barely noticing the snow-covered landscape as it rolled by. He didn't want to be here. Plain and simple. He didn't want to be here, on this bus, in this dreary place, in the Army, headed towards his first duty station.
How did it all go wrong? He had plans. He was going to go to college in some tropical paradise where he would have been able to spend his weekends at the bar sipping on cocktails and picking up chicks. On the weekdays, he would have been in class, studying to be a film producer where, upon graduation, he would have found a job that would have allowed him to travel the galaxy, producing films that would have won him fame and fortune. That's what he was supposed to do. That was his plan. At no point did he ever intend to join the Army.
And yet, here he was.
Marcus just didn't understand. By official accounts, while humanity wasn't winning the war against the Covenant, they were at least holding their own. Yet, the Security Council still decided to implement a draft a few years ago, to make up for what they were calling a "shortfall" in numbers. While recruitment quotas had been left for the individual colonies to decide, unfortunately, Marcus apparently lived on a very patriotic colony; Actium had responded by drafting just about every single boy and girl who had turned eighteen since then. There only seemed to be three reliable ways to avoid it: be the son or daughter of someone important, go to one of the military academies, or enlist in one of the colony's militias.
As the only son of a factory foreman and an accountant, the first method wasn't an option for him. He would have joined a military academy, except Marcus wasn't interested in devoting eight more years of his life to the military after he graduated. Which left the militias: the Provincial Militia and the Actium Colonial Militia.
If it were up to him, Marcus would have joined his local Provincial Militia. They had all the benefits: as a reserve unit, they only met once a month for drills, and only on the weekends at that, meaning Marcus could have devoted all his free time to doing whatever he wanted. Joining his local militia would have meant he would have been able to stay close to home, meaning he probably could have stayed with his parents. Finally, but most importantly, the Provincial Militia never got deployed off world, meaning unless Actium itself were to get attacked, Marcus would never have had to worry about getting sent into combat. It would have been a win-win situation for him.
Except it seemed as though fate was conspiring against him. Less than two weeks before Marcus was going to sign the paperwork to enlist, the provincial governor had announced that, effective immediately, his local Provincial Militia was to be reduced in size by half, thus allowing for more people to be available to be drafted by the UNSC. Because of that, they were no longer taking new recruits, and Marcus was forced to quickly join the Actium Colonial Militia before he could get swept up by UNSC recruiters. Because of his haste, however, Marcus was forced to accept whatever they wanted him to do. Which meant despite his great displeasure, Marcus was assigned to the active duty side of the Colonial Militia and sent to this crappy place on the other side of the Euxine Ocean! If there was one consolation prize, it was that Marcus had at least managed to avoid being assigned a combat job. Then again, what he got wasn't much better.
Marcus subtly glanced at the transfer orders he had in his hands. He had been assigned as an 88M - Motor Transport Operator, AKA, a truck driver. It was the stupidest thing ever. Hadn't the Army ever heard of self-driving vehicles? Why exactly did they need someone like him to drive trucks around? Plus, it wasn't exactly the safe, cushy job Marcus had been hoping for. His time in AIT had shown that the Army expected even glorified truck drivers to get attacked every now and then, which gave Marcus a fair amount of consternation. Why couldn't he have been assigned to something safer, like a quartermaster or military intelligence or something like that? What exactly had he done to cause God to hate him so?
Marcus was jarred out of his thoughts when he felt the bus start to slow down. He looked up to see they had arrived at their destination. He watched through the window as the bus pulled up to the front gate before coming to a complete stop.
"Camp Hoxha," the bus chimed before the doors opened with a hiss of pneumatics.
All around him, Marcus's traveling companions for the last forty some minutes began to stretch and gather their things before climbing to their feet and walking towards the door. He watched through the window as they filtered out of the bus and headed towards the camp's gate where they were processed by the scarlet-beret clad military police officers standing guard there, before disappearing behind the camp walls. Marcus knew he should join them but for the moment, he just sat there, wondering what would happen if he didn't leave the bus. There was no one here to make him get off; this bus, like all public transportation vehicles, was driven by the city superintendent, so no one could physically force him off. Eventually, the AI's programming would force the bus to return to its regular route, even if Marcus were still sitting there. He could sit there and wait as the bus returned to the airport, then buy a one-way ticket back home and forget about this Army business. He would probably get dishonorable discharge for deserting, but honestly, would that really be all that bad?
Marcus snorted. Of course it would. Not only would a dishonorable discharge look really bad on his record and make things very difficult for him in the future, but there was also the matter of public perception. On a colony like this where everyone had family or a friend in uniform, not only were deserters ostracized and shunned by society, so were their families. And while Marcus felt like he could handle being the colony's outcast, he didn't think his parents could. So, with a loud sigh, Marcus grabbed his duffle bag and reluctantly walked off the bus.
Shivering because of the cold, Marcus walked through the gateway. He was the last one through. As soon as he cleared the path, there was a rattling of metal and he turned around in time to see the MPs closing the gate behind him.
Well, running was out of the question now.
Jogging to catch up with the rest of the group from the bus, Marcus quickly fell in line, hoping they knew where they were going. Camp Hoxha was a small base but in the dark, it looked really easy to get turned around, especially since all the buildings looked the same. Marcus dolefully plodded along the snow-covered sidewalks until the group reached one of the buildings and walked inside. He absentmindedly knocked the snow off his boots and sighed in relief as the warm air washed over him.
Inside, there wasn't much to see. Just a couple of bored looking soldiers manning some reception desks. Marcus' group was already forming lines behind each desk, and Marcus hastily moved to join one of them. He noticed everyone was handing the soldiers manning the desk their transfer orders, and Marcus realized these two men were responsible for checking everybody in. It struck Marcus as a rather inefficient system; surely it would be faster for an AI to conduct the check-in, rather than a couple of soldiers? But then again, this did fit Marcus's experience with the Army so far. Even in BCT and AIT, Marcus had noticed the Army was rather traditional in the sense they always seemed to prefer to have humans do jobs that really have been allocated to AIs.
Marcus absentmindedly began fiddling with the strap to his duffle bag as he stood there, waiting. Now this, this right here, really made Marcus feel like he was back in basic. Standing in line, just waiting for something to happen. It was amazing, really, just how boring the Army actually was. Marcus had figured the Army was going to be a lot of things but boring was never one of them. That's not to say he wanted it to be any other way, it was just that standing here waiting in this line, Marcus couldn't help but think about all the other things he'd rather be doing right now.
Finally, it was his turn.
"Next," the soldier at the desk called out.
Marcus marched over to the desk. He dropped his duffle bag on the ground and, just because he didn't know what else to do, snapped to attention. The soldier at the desk didn't even look up.
"Transfer orders?"
Marcus handed them over.
"Name, rank, service number?" the soldier asked as he took Marcus's orders.
"Olsen, Marcus T., Private," Marcus reported, and noticed the soldier appeared to be double checking the information Marcus was providing to the information displayed on his transfer orders. "Service number is 87662, 12457, O, M."
"What's your MOS?"
"88M."
The soldier grunted in acknowledgement before falling silent. Marcus waited a bit impatiently as the soldier began typing all the information Marcus had provided him into a data pad before opening another page. The soldier then abruptly picked up a phone.
"Good morning First Sergeant Rivera, this is Private Orlović over here at battalion reception," the man said into the receiver. "I have a new eighty-eight Mike who just arrived on base this morning. Do you think your company could use him?"
"Hooah, First Sergeant," Orlović said after a couple of minutes. "Are you going to send someone over to pick him up? Okay, roger, I'll have him wait. Thanks, Top."
Orlović hung up the phone. Turning to his data pad, he quickly typed something in before glancing at Marcus, who automatically straightened.
"You're getting assigned to the 707th Transportation Company," Marcus was informed. "Someone is coming to pick you up. Go down the hall and wait in the waiting room until they arrive."
Marcus sighed. More waiting. "Thanks, I guess," he said.
"Yeah, bro," Orlović replied as he handed Marcus back his transfer orders. "Next!"
Marcus grabbed his orders in one hand and his duffle bag in the other before heading in the direction the man indicated. He plopped himself into one of the available seats before pulling out his transfer orders. They had been updated. Originally, all they said was that he was getting transferred to Camp Hoxha in the Thracia Province. It still read that, but now it also stated that he was getting assigned to the 325th Combat Sustainment Support Battalion, of the 197th Sustainment Brigade.
Marcus re-read that first part. Combat Sustainment Support. Hm. He wasn't too sure what that meant, honestly, but the fact that the word "combat" was part of his battalion's name wasn't exactly encouraging. Combat was the last thing he wanted to see. He could only hope and pray that the name was just that, a name, and wasn't indicative of the roles he could expect to see.
Cold air blew through the room as someone walked into the building. Marcus looked up to see a soldier, wearing the three chevrons of an Army sergeant, enter the room.
"Morning everyone. I'm looking for," he glanced at a data pad in his hands, "Private Olsen, Marcus T.?"
Marcus's head snapped up and he raised his hand. "That's me, sir."
The man walked over to Marcus.
"Sergeant Theodore Dresden," he declared. "Guess I'm your new squad leader."
Marcus immediate leapt to his feet and snapped to attention. "Private Marcus Olsen, reporting as ordered, sir!" he barked like he'd been taught during basic.
Dresden chuckled. "Relax, Private. No need to shout. We're Colonial Militia, not the goddamn Special Forces. Come on, grab your stuff. Let's get you over to the dorms, get you settled in."
Marcus hastily stuffed his orders into his pockets and grabbed his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he followed Dresden outside. Sitting outside was a small, four-seater golf cart. Gesturing for Marcus to sit in the front passenger seat, Dresden hopped into the driver's and took off.
"So, Olsen, Marcus T., how you doing?" Dresden began conversationally. "What's your story, what's your background? You from around here?"
Marcus shook his head. "No, sir, not around here. I'm from overseas. Levant. City of Astoria in the Aquincum Province."
"Astoria, huh?" Dresden commended. "Never been there personally, but I heard it's a nice place. You like it?"
"Well, I grew up there, sir," Marcus awkwardly commented.
Dresden laughed. "Okay, fair enough. Well, I was going to ask where you transferred from, but I think I can guess: you straight out of AIT?"
"Yes, sir," Marcus answered, surprised. "How did you know?"
"You keep calling me 'sir.' Drill sergeants make you call them 'sir' or 'ma'am' but out here in the real world, only commissioned officers and warrant officers are supposed to get called that."
Dresden pulled the cart to the side and stopped in front of one of the buildings.
"Now, I don't give a shit what you call me," Dresden cheerfully continued as he climbed out of the cart and gestured for Marcus to do the same. "Like I said, we're Colonial Militia, and combat service support at that. Call me Sarge, Sergeant, or Dresden. Hell, you can call me Theo if you like. Whatever you want. We try to keep a chillaxed atmosphere around here. But do be careful who you call 'sir.' Some people kind of take that personally."
"Yes, sir!" Marcus automatically barked out, then froze. "Uh, I mean, Sergeant. Sarge. Theo. Sorry."
Dresden laughed. "Don't worry about it dude. Seriously, relax. You don't need to get so worked up." He jerked his head in the direction of the building. "Come on. Let's get you set up in your room."
He turned and headed for the door. As Marcus followed in his wake, he couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. If Dresden was anything to go by, then this entire Army thing might not turn out to be as bad as it seemed.
He might actually enjoy this.
XXXXX
Town of Newington, 15 kilometers south of Byzas
Thracia Province, Actium
May 6, 2545
0600 (Two hours before contact)
1st Lieutenant Link "Zelda" Kepler
BUZZ!
1st Lieutenant Link "Zelda" Kepler jerked awake at the sound of his communicator going off. He automatically lifted his arm to grab it, only to find it blocked by a sleeping woman. At once, the events of last night came streaming back into his mind, and Zelda couldn't help but smirk even as he lashed out with his free hand and snagged the small communicator off his night stand.
" – lo?" he mumbled when he finally managed to stick the piece into his ear. At once, a holographic image of a very irate man appeared before his very eyes.
"Are you fucking kidding me, Zelda? You're still in bed!?" the man harshly demanded.
"And a good morning to you, Captain Odessa Lords," Zelda replied with a yawn. "And how are you doin' on this fine Tuesday morning?"
"Enough with the jokes, Zelda," Odessa snapped. "You were supposed to be in ten minutes ago. Where the fuck are you?"
"Ah, what's your rush, dude?" Zelda airily replied. "You know Marshmallow lets me get away with just about anything – I'm his best pilot by far, after all!"
"Even if that were remotely true, it hardly matters anymore," Odessa snapped back before taking a deep breath. "Colonel Russo is out."
That caught Zelda's attention and he automatically shot straight up, inadvertently waking his bed companion in the process, who looked around the room with beady eyes. He ignored her though, focusing his attention on Odessa. "What the hell do you mean by that!?"
"Word came down late last night: Marshmallow's wife was shot down and killed in action over Newsaka," Odessa grimly reported. "He was granted emergency family leave, probably left the system a few hours ago."
Zelda grimly absorbed the information. Lieutenant Colonel Russo's wife had been an Air Force… Longsword pilot? Or maybe she had flown Pelicans. Either way, as tragic as that incident was, Zelda was admittedly more concerned about, "Who's running the squadron now?"
"Major Pax."
Zelda scowled. "Bellum's in charge? Why? She fucking hates me!"
"Gee, maybe it's got something to with the fact she's the executive officer," Odessa sarcastically replied. "As for her hating you, well, that's the reason you need to get your ass in right fucking now!"
"Alright, alright, I'm going," Zelda replied as he reluctantly climbed out of bed and began digging through his closet for a flight suit. "I'll be there in ten."
"Make it five. Odessa, out."
Odessa's image disappeared before Zelda could snort.
"Who was that?"
Zelda glanced back towards the bed where his bedmate was sitting, blanket wrapped around her naked body in an attempt to ward off the cold.
"My flight leader and wingman," Zelda casually replied, even as he frantically tried to remember her name. It started with an 'A,' he remembered that much. Amy? Or Amelia? Maybe it was Amber. Hmm. That sounded right. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. You can go back to sleep."
Amber shook her head as she shrugged the blankets off her shoulders. "Nah, it's better this way. I need to report back to my ship in a couple of hours, and I should probably let my friend know you didn't kidnap me and, I dunno, brutally murder me or something."
With that, she climbed out of bed and began gathering up her clothes that had been scattered around the room. Zelda leaned against the doorway to enjoy the view as Amber subsequently threw her clothes back, topping it off with a well-worn UNSC Navy work jacket. As a general rule, Zelda tried to avoid sleeping with fellow service members – even ones from other branches and especially not enlisted personnel – but every now and then he came across an exception to the rule. And Amber had definitely been worth it.
Without warning, Zelda abruptly felt a wave of longing pass over him, and he couldn't prevent the next few words from spilling out of his mouth, "See you around?"
Amber paused, halfway through zipping up her jacket to give him an odd look.
"Probably not," she said, dispassionately, before walking out of the door without a second glance. Zelda waited until she was out of earshot, before letting out a loud groan.
"Great. Good going, Zelda," he said as he vigorously rubbed his eyes before running his hands through his hair. "Why the hell did I say that!? Now she's gonna think I'm super fucking clingy!"
Letting out a string of curses under his breath, Zelda would have stayed there for who knows how long, if his communicator had not suddenly let out a loud buzz, causing him to jump in fright.
"Ah, fuck off Odessa!" Zelda exclaimed, even as he darted out the door. "Alright, I'm going, I'm going!"
He headed towards the elevator and rode it all the way down to the underground garage where he kept his motorcycle. It was admittedly too cold to be riding his bike, but if he was as late as Odessa seemed to think he was, then public transportation just wasn't going to cut it: he had a need for speed.
Hopping onto his motorcycle, Zelda did his best to coax out every ounce of horsepower from his vehicle. He had spent quite a lot of money making sure his bike had the best and fastest engine on the market; it was, after all, the only way for him to recreate the speed and agility of his beloved F-41A "Broadsword" fighter, short of actually being in one. Plus, the ladies seemed to love it, which was always a bonus.
That speed, coupled with his natural talent at flying, allowed him to make it to the gates of O'Neill Air Force Base in exactly seven minutes. Slowing down as he approached the front gate, he waited until the base security had scanned, and then cleared him for entrance before driving his bike directly to the fighter hangers. There was a parking lot designated for the air base personnel which is where he technically was supposed to park, but there was no way he was going to leave his baby out in the snow like that.
Stashing his bike near the mechanic's station, which he knew he would be able to get away with because the chief mechanic had a crush on him, Zelda began making his way towards the squadron briefing room, hoping he could sneak his way in without getting spotted by Pax. He had just put his hand on the door-knob when:
"Lieutenant Kepler!"
Zelda grimaced and turned around. Walking towards him was his newly inducted squadron commander, Major Katherine "Bellum" Pax, with a rather annoyed look on her face. Following behind her was Odessa, looking highly amused.
Quickly adopting an air of innocence, Zelda lifted his hand in greeting, as if he hadn't been trying to avoid them.
"Good morning Bellum!" he greeted as brightly as he could. "I guess congrats are in order: you're finally in charge of the squadron, just like you always wanted!"
"Not that I'm saying you wanted what happened to Marshmallow's wife, of course," he hastily added at the incredulous look that appeared on Bellum's face. "It's just, uh… has anyone told you, you look absolutely stunning today? New hair style?"
Bellum stared at him like he was an idiot, before shaking her head.
"It's been like that for over a week now," she dryly informed him, clearly opting to ignore the first part of his ramblings. "You're just noticing now?"
"No, of course not!" Zelda said smoothly. "I just haven't had the chance to fully appreciate it, what with us being so busy and all."
"Uh huh," Bellum said, clearly not buying it. "You're in an oddly cheerful mood today."
Zelda brightened. "You know, it's funny you should say that because I actually had an excellent -"
Bellum held up her hand. "Let me just stop you right there: that? That was me just making a comment: I didn't come over here to listen to your life's story. No, the reason why I called you over is because of this." She thrust a data pad into his hands. "Your after-action report from yesterday is incomplete. We need to go prep our Broadswords, but after we're done, I want it finished and on my desk by the next hour. That understood Zelda?"
"Your wish is my command!" Zelda announced flirtatiously.
Bellum snorted, then walked away and Zelda let out a mute sigh of relief. For whatever reason, it looked as if Bellum wasn't going to ream him out for being late. Thank god.
"Oh, and Zelda? One last thing."
"Son of a bitch!" Zelda swore under his breath. He knew he shouldn't have said anything. Fuck.
Bellum raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Uh, I mean," Zelda trailed off as he casted around the room, looking for some excuse for him to have cursed like that. He couldn't find anything, and his ability to bullshit was getting compromised by the fact that Odessa looked like he was on the verge of bursting out laughing. "What I meant by that was, uh, 'Son of a bitch! I left my coffee on my kitchen counter!'"
"You don't drink coffee," Bellum pointed out.
"I just started?" Zelda said. "I mean... I just started."
"Oh, is that why you're on time for once?" Bellum noted. "I was about to say, will this become a daily occurrence from now on?"
Zelda didn't respond because at that point, he had stopped listening and was instead staring at Odessa in astonishment. Unfortunately, Bellum seemed to take that as a negative and let out a sigh. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Well, of all the days you needed to be on time, today would have been it: the squadron is on QRA duty. If you were late - and on my first day as squadron commander - I would have… well, I don't know what I would have done, but I guarantee it wouldn't have been pretty."
With that, Bellum walked away, leaving Zelda gaping at Odessa.
"You told me I was late," Zelda accused as soon as Bellum was out of earshot.
Odessa shrugged, unapologetically. "And if I hadn't, you would have been."
"You conniving son of a bitch," Zelda said with a shake of his head. "You know I had a chick over last night, right? I could have stayed in bed with her a bit longer if not for you!"
"Any woman who could be convinced to spend the night with you, is probably not a woman worth knowing for very long," Odessa casually noted. "Almost seems like I did you a favor: saved you from not only getting reamed by Pax, but also from having to pay future child support."
"Child support? Pft. What, you think I'm dumb enough to get some chick pregnant?"
"I think you think more with your dick than you do with your brain," Odessa dryly noted. "I think if a woman stripped naked in front of you, you'd jump straight into it, without even bothering to stop and put on a condom or make sure she was on the pill or something."
Zelda opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped as he remembered that was exactly what had happened last night, so he tried a different tactic. "Hey, my instincts are what made me into the best fighter pilot in the entire AO."
Odessa raised an eyebrow. "Best fighter pilot? I'm sorry, but who won our last matchup? And the one before that? It certainly wasn't someone named Link."
Zelda growled at the reminder. That loss had been a hard pill to swallow. "I had a bad wingman and you know it."
"True," Odessa conceded. "But as someone once told me: 'a win is a win. Everything else is just excuses.'"
"What sort of dumbass said that?"
"You did."
That stopped Zelda short. "Must have said that before I started losing," he muttered to himself. "Fine then. You and me, one on one. No wingmen, no handicaps, nothing. Just a duel between two gentlemen. Let's do it."
"As much as I'd like to show you some real flying, you know we can't. Not today. We're on quick reaction alert duty. And you know what that means," Odessa pointed out.
Zelda let out a sigh of annoyance. Unfortunately, he didknow what that meant: a long day of sitting on his ass, waiting for something to happen. It was bullshit like this that made Zelda sometimes regret his decision to join the military in the first place. If it weren't for the fact the Air Force left him fly supersonic jets, he probably would have left ages ago.
Well, that, and the fact there was a literal war of extermination currently going on…
"ODESSA! ZELDA!" Bellum suddenly yelled, causing Zelda to jump. "Ladies, you have plenty of time to flirt later! Pre-flight checks! Let's go!"
Zelda let out a sigh before heading towards his Broadsword. This was going to be a long and boring day.
XXXXX
Graham Quarry, 57 kilometers southwest of Byzas
Thracia Province, Actium
May 6, 2545
0700 (One hour before contact)
Sergeant Tariq Helmand
Sergeant Tariq Helmand let out a loud, aggravated sigh, as a dull THUD echoed through the confines of the vehicle and the tank began rattling and shaking.
"Sonofa…" he began before he impulsively grabbed a nearby bullet casing and hurtled it at the back of his new tank driver's head. "Motherfucker! What part of 'follow in the lead tank's tracks' did you not understand! FUCK!"
His driver flinched, but to his credit, didn't bother trying to defend himself. Instead, Tariq could see him reaching for the gear shift –
"No, don't fuckin' do that!" Tariq snapped. "You're gonna fuck things up even more! Stop the fucking tank so we can get the fuck out and see what the fuck is wrong! Fuck! What the fuck are they teaching you fuckers in OSUT!?"
"Whoa. You alright there, Sergeant?"
Tariq whirled around at the sound of the newcomer's voice, only to see his tank commander, 2nd Lieutenant Columbus Buckley, climbing down from the commander's hatch where he had been scanning the horizon for threats with a pair of thermal binoculars. Plopping down into his seat, he gave Tariq a mild look of bemusement.
"No, sir, I'm not fucking okay, sir," Tariq snapped, doing his best but failing miserably to hide his aggravation. Buckley frowned.
"Sergeant, take a deep breath and calm the fuck down, holy shit. What the hell just happened?"
"We just lost a fucking track, sir," Tariq snarled. "Because fuckface here – "
"Whoa, take it easy Sergeant," Buckley interrupted before Tariq could continue his rant. "There's no need for that type of language. Specialist Koroma is straight out of training, so he doesn't have the same amount of experience you do, but I'm sure he's trying his best. Aren't you, Specialist?"
Koroma miserably nodded his head. "Yes, sir."
"See?" Buckley pointed, as if that somehow made everything better. "Besides, that's why we're all here at this training center: so the entire brigade can not only learn to work together as one cohesive unit, but also so individual members can gain almost as much experience as the veterans. Now, come on, let's dismount and see what the damage amounts to. You too, Specialist."
Hiding his aggravated sigh, Tariq reached out to grab a can of dip, popping a copious amount of tobacco into his mouth while at the same time, reaching up and pushing the gunner's hatch open. Wiggling his way out of his seat – and snagging his M7 SMG on his way there out of habit – he exited the tank and emerged into the fresh cold air of the early winter morning.
Outside it was pitch black – dark enough Tariq couldn't see anything beyond a hundred centimeters in front of him without night optics – but Tariq had been working around M850 "Grizzly" main battle tanks for nearly five years now, and he knew every line and every curve of the tank like the back of his hand. By the time he made it down to the snow covered ground, Buckley had already conducted a full walk around of the entire tank and identified the location of the break.
"Well, that doesn't look too bad," Buckley was informing Koroma by the time Tariq had joined them by the front right track pod. Buckley had already pulled out a flashlight and was using it to point out the damage, but that was hardly enough light for Tariq's liking, so he quickly pulled out his own. "Looks like the track just slipped off the drive sprocket is all. It didn't break nothing: bogies look intact, tensioner is in good condition, and none of the sprocket teeth are bent. All in all, it could have been worse."
"Thank fucking god for small mercies," Tariq muttered under his breath as he viciously spat on the ground. More loudly he said, "We're still gonna need to get the fucking side skirt off, sir, before we can begin work. And dig this bitch out."
"Then we better get started," Buckley jauntily replied. "Hey, Specialist!"
Koroma started. "Sir?"
"Go get the tools. Make sure to get the crowbar and the shovels."
"Yessir!"
"Now, let me show you guys a trick I learned back when I was an 11M with the 31st Armored," Buckley declared with a grin as Koroma ran off. Tariq frowned as he noticed Buckley beginning to roll up his sleeves.
Spitting out his wad of tobacco, Tariq reached out and grabbed Buckley by the shoulder. "Sir, what do you think you're doin'?"
Buckley gave him a puzzled look. "I reckon I'm fixin' to go fix this track, Sergeant."
Tariq sighed, and resisted the urge to rub his temples. "With all due respect, sir: no you're not."
Buckley blinked.
"Sergeant, I don't know if you've noticed," he began, sounding bemused, "but I'm in charge here – "
"That's the problem, sir, you are in charge," Tariq interrupted. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure Koroma wasn't within earshot, before leaning in close and quietly say, "Sir, you're not an enlisted man anymore, you're an officer. Your job ain't to get down in the weeds with the rest of us, it's to give orders and delegate. And that's what you need to be doing right now."
Tariq watched as a look of confusion passed over Buckley's face, and he bit back a sigh before hammering the point in. "Sir, do you even know what the fuck the rest of the platoon is doing right now?"
A look of dismay seemed to pass over Buckley's face, before he glanced at the thrown track before glancing back at Tariq's face.
"R… right," Buckley stuttered, before clearing his throat. "Um… maybe you should handle this, Sergeant. I'll just, um…"
Tariq watched as Buckley took a step back, looking lost.
"Sir? Maybe you should go and let the rest of the platoon know what's going on," Tariq suggested when it became clear a moment later that Buckley wasn't going anywhere. "And then go check in with our infantry support, and see if they've pushed out security or not?"
Buckley visibly jumped, before looking around as if he didn't know where he was.
"That's, um… that's a good idea, Sergeant," he said awkwardly. "I'll, uh, I'll go do that while… that is to say, you and Specialist Koroma get this tank back in working condition. Report back to me once you're finished."
"Sounds like a plan to me, sir," Tariq replied.
Buckley nodded and turned around to walk away, only to almost run smack into another man.
"Oop – sorry, sir!"
"No worries," Tariq heard Buckley quickly say. "That was my fault, Sergeant Preve… Perev…
"You can just call me 'Chenko,' sir," the man replied, relieving Buckley of his struggles. "Everybody else does."
Tariq could hear Buckley nodding his head. "Very good, Sergeant Chenko. Um… as you were."
"Sir."
Tariq waited until he heard Buckley walk away, before looking up and exchanging a bemused look with his best friend, Sergeant Svyatoslav "Chenko" Perevernykruchenko.
"Gawd damn!" Chenko spoke in a low voice to make sure it didn't travel in the cold night, but there was no hiding the amusement in his voice. "If I didn't know better, I would have thought this was the first time the man's been out in the field!"
Tariq let out a derisive snort.
"That's cause the fucking idiot still doesn't know what the fuck he's doing," he growled under his breath, before agitatedly pointing in the direction Buckley had left. "You know, everyone always tells me that Mustangs make the best officers, but so far, I ain't impressed. This fucking dumbass acts like he just graduated from OCS!"
"Well, to be fair, he did," Chenko pointed out with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "It's only been, what, a month? Two months? Since he was first assigned to this unit?"
"Still, the fucker has served in an armored unit before. He's been in combat. He should know what a lieutenant does. Yet he's acting like he's a dumbass butterbar fresh off the street. Like, what the fuck?" Tariq reached up to run a hand through his hair, only to find the action was blocked by his helmet. "Fuck! And you know what the saddest part is? I finally get it when my mother always told me I drove her to drink."
Chenko let out an appreciative snort as he pulled out a can of chewing tobacco and offered some to Tariq, who gratefully took a pinch. "Missing your old crew already?"
"Fuck yeah," Tariq emphatically stated. "Seriously, why'd you have to join the dark side? You, a goddamn crunchie? I thought you were smarter than that. Should have stayed in the tank with me."
Tariq had intended his comment to be a joke, but from the grim look Chenko gave him, it was clear he took it as anything but.
"You know the answer to that," Chenko darkly replied, and Tariq felt himself shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Anyways," Tariq began a moment later, in an effort to clear the dark cloud that had suddenly fell over them. "What the fuck are you doin' here? Shouldn't you be with the rest of the infantry guys, watching the perimeter? After all, isn't that what you guys are? Glorified security guards?"
Chenko let out an appreciative snort as a challenging gleam entered his eyes. "Oh, sure. Yeah, we'll see what you have to say when we prevent a fuel rod cannon team from launching a rocket up your ass."
"I thought you liked it up the ass," Tariq sneered.
"Only if they give me a reacharound," Chenko slyly returned.
Tariq couldn't help himself: he burst out laughing.
"You're a fucking pervert. You know that, right?" Tariq retorted, though without any real malice. "Get the fuck outta here, bro. The real men around here have got some work to do, and you're distracting me."
"'Real men,' huh?" Chenko shot back, even as he started walking away. "Remind me again: who are the dudes who have to face the Covenant 'mano y mano,' versus the pussies who do it while hiding behind nearly a meter worth of steel and composite armor?"
Tariq grinned and waited until Chenko was almost out of earshot before yelling, "That's just being smart, dude!"
He could hear Chenko let out a surprised bark of laughter, before he completely faded into the darkness, leaving Tariq alone by his tank. Tariq could feel his grin sliding off his face as he slowly turned back to confront his damaged vehicle, and mentally began calculating the best and fastest way to restore the MBT back to working order.
"And where the fuck is my driver!?" he exclaimed to himself. "How fucking long does it take to get some goddamn tools!?"
With a loud huff, Tariq turned to go look for him. Between dumbass lieutenants and brain dead FNGs –
- this was going to be a long day.
XXXXX
Yankee Remote Scanning Outpost, Heliopause, Ambracia System
May 6, 2545
0753 (Seven minutes before contact)
...INITIALIZING...
SIGNAL DETECTED.
WARNING! PROFILE MATCHES SIGNATURE OF INBOUND SHIPS.
SEARCHING DATABASE FOR SCHEDULED FLEET ARRIVALS.
...
...
...
ERROR! NO MATCH FOUND!
SEARCHING CIVILIAN MANIFESTS FOR SCHEDULED FLEET ARRIVALS.
...
...
...
ERROR! NO MATCH FOUND!
SEARCHING MILITARY RECORDS FOR SCHEDULED FLEET ARRIVALS.
...
...
...
ERROR! NO MATCH FOUND!
ATTEMPTING TO ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS: ATTEMPT 1.
...
...
ERROR! ATTEMPT FAILED. RETRY.
ATTEMPTING TO ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS: ATTEMPT 2.
...
...
ERROR! ATTEMPT FAILED. RAISING DEFCON ALERT STATUS TO LEVEL 2.
FINAL ATTEMPT TO ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS.
...
...
ERROR! ATTEMPT FAILED.
ALERTING ACTIUM DEFENSE COMMAND
…..
….
…
General Notes
Battle: Actium: The title of this story is inspired by the 2011 sci-fi film, Battle: Los Angeles (known internationally by the title, World Invasion: Battle Los Angeles,) starring Aaron Eckhart, Michelle Rodriguez, and Bridget Moynahan.
11M: 11M is a former MOS (military occupational specialty, i.e., a soldier's job) code of the U.S. Army, used to designated "mechanized infantry." It was combined with the 11B code (general infantry) in the early 2000's, however given the theoretically massive size of the UNSC Army, I imagine more specialized infantry MOSs would have made a return.
Mustang: slang term for a commissioned officer who began their career as an enlisted service member
Butterbar: a condescending term used by the U.S. military to refer to brand new 2nd lieutenants. The term is derived from the fact that in the U.S. military, the rank insignia used to designate 2nd lieutenants (as well as ensigns in the Navy and Coast Guard,) is that of a single gold bar.
Crunchie: derogatory term used by U.S. military tankers to refer to dismounted infantry. Derived from the noise infantry make when they get run over (crunch.) I've also read that the term might also come from the noise infantrymen made when walking through the thick undergrowth of the jungles of Vietnam
Change Log
Marcus:
- Camp Hoxha has been moved from "south of Byzas" in the Thracia Province, to "north of Byzas" in the Moesia Province. (More on that in later chapters)
Zelda:
- Changed Zelda's last name from "Kuang" to "Kepler"
- Changed Odessa's rank from "1st lieutenant" to "captain"
- Changed Bellum's rank from "captain" to "major"
- Changed Bellum's initial role from "squadron commander" to "squadron executive officer"
- Zelda's bedmate's name has been changed from "Jess" to "Amber" (who is intended to be cut character Amber Owain – one of my original drafts had Amber occupying this role as a way to subtly connect the characters together, but when Selene's story changed, so to did this part. Since both Selene and Amber have both been cut from the story, I decided to change it back to my original plan to provide a sort of "cameo" appearance for Amber.)
Tariq:
- Replaced character "First Sergeant Octavia Noble" with "2nd Lieutenant Columbus Buckley" as I found in my first draft I had difficulties depicting the role of a company first sergeant in interesting and exciting ways
- Dropped Koroma's nickname of "Corona" and will just be sticking with the character's actual name
- The tank is no longer named Lillian