-Chapter 5-
Trainees Versus Trainers - II
December 5, 2540
0630 Hours Northern Standard Time
Decadent Forest, Onyx
Camp Currahee Warfare Complex 7, Nerve-Center tower.
Saint woke up, and instantly regretted it.
Blistering pain flared along his ribs. So much that he didn't want to breathe. Someone must've detonated a bomb inside his ribcage. Or planted caltrops into him. That's what it felt like. It was a gnawing type of pain. Something Saint hadn't experienced before, and he couldn't handle it. The scream that erupted from his throat was hoarse. Ugly and wailing and weak. I have to breathe! I have to function!
Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn't let that happen. Saint bit down. Gritted his teeth together and growled. Met the pain head-on and began to fight it.
Only then did he realize he couldn't move. His upper-body armor was gone, revealing just his chest and a gruesome bruise that covered seemingly half his torso. He was strapped to a chair, unable to do anything but take in his surroundings. A cold and well-lit room, bare of any decoration or furniture save for a table located off to one side. Saint couldn't identify what was on the table - even if he wanted to. That pain kept his eyes from focusing. But his mind could still focus, at least a little bit. And he had to focus on anything but his ribs. So he tried to analyze the situation. Tried to calculate. Then shook his head. That was impossible in his current state. So he switched tactics, and began to try his restraints. Legs first. But no luck. Someone had strapped him good and he had virtually no slack. Then he tried his hands. They were tied behind the chair, and even the little bit of movement he managed caused an intense flare-up. I need biofoam. Now.
The door across the room opened. A burly man that looked as though he were minted from tungsten walked through. The door locked shut behind him.
"You're in a lot of pain right now," Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose stated as he headed over to the table. "You're trying to fight it, but the fight's not going well. And you can't quite think clearly. Can't focus, can't plan. Which makes you weak. Vulnerable."
Saint watched in wide-eyed horror as Ambrose picked up something that looked like a drill.
Ambrose continued. "Worse yet, you're alone. Uncertain of where you are... But certain that it's a place you don't want to be. Your only company, someone you don't want to see. So you're afraid. Doubts and worries are - rightfully - dominating whatever thoughts you're capable of forming right now."
Saint swallowed. Then frowned. I can't go out like this.
"Let me loose! I'll show you who's scared!"
If Ambrose heard him, he didn't show it. Instead, the drill activated. It was an alarming sound. A wrong sound. Made a whirring that sounded as though someone were tunneling through the floor.
"Here's what you need to know, Saint," Ambrose turned to him with the drill. Took a step closer. "You've failed yourself, and your brothers and sisters. You got ahead of yourself... You got out of line. And now, you're living with the consequences. You have two fractured ribs, a bruised kidney, and no idea how to possibly save yourself. But worse yet, you allowed yourself to be captured by the enemy. That absolutely can never happen."
If Saint could just break out of his restraints, maybe he could do something. Anything. Anything other than sit and be helpless.
"I'm going to ask you some questions, Saint," Ambrose continued. He took another step closer. "Answer me, and I'll provide you with biofoam. Your wound will go numb and you won't be in pain. You'll be able to think and rest."
He took another step closer. "Don't answer me... And your ribs will be the last thing on your mind."
The drill increased in intensity. Ambrose was deadly serious. Unflinching in his gaze, and inching ever closer. At this point, Saint had to wonder if he were going to survive the day. Had to wonder if his life was now forfeit. Anger began to settle into him. Bitter rage blanketed his mind like a cloud. He wanted to fight, and felt utterly helpless now that he couldn't. He felt useless. Pointless and pathetic. Humiliation stung him more than anything as he began to recount what'd led him to this point. A dumb series of events and choices and ignorant missteps. Stupid! Stupid, stupid!
Saint's life was one little ball of hell. One pointless collection of disappointment and suffering. It was stupid and it meant nothing. An absurd sitcom. At that moment, the only thing he could feel was an overwhelming need to get even. To settle the score.
Just as quickly as the rage came, it left him. Vanished, leaving behind a cold trace of calm and focus. Determination.
"What is Tom planning? What's he got up his sleeve?" Ambrose demanded.
Saint said nothing. He'd always been good at keeping quiet.
"Who is carrying the bomb?"
Again, Saint said nothing. Ambrose brought the drill close. Inches away from Saint's face.
"It's Tom, isn't it? Is he going to attack in full-force? Use a diversion? What is he planning!?"
Saint shook his head.
Ambrose backhanded him across the face. A tooth went flying. Blood began to leak. "You've already turned your back on your teammates. You're not noble, and you never will be. Open your mouth and tell me what I want to know - or I'm going to kill you, here and now. You know I'll do it."
Saint believed him, absolutely. But he wasn't going to crack. Wasn't going to taint his honor. He'd stay quiet. Let that be his final act of defiance. His final display of disobedience to an existence that'd never amounted to much. If Saint died, so be it. It wasn't like he was going to miss anything. Wasn't like he had anything worth holding on to.
When Saint continued to stay silent, Ambrose nodded once. "Good riddance," the man said.
Just before he drove the drill into Saint's skull, Ambrose paused. Put a hand up to the COM piece in his ear.
Saint listened, but he couldn't pick up the other side of the conversation.
"Total number of identified?... And time-intervals?" Ambrose asked someone as he began to back off.
Ambrose turned to look at Saint and paused there for just the briefest of moments. No longer than 2 seconds. And then Ambrose swiftly departed the room, taking his drill gun with him.
Saint hung his head and tried to take a deep breath. It wasn't easy. But he was started to get used to the pain. He was starting to think now. And that was an important milestone. Maybe Tom found a way inside? Planted the bomb? It's possible. Whatever Ambrose was told, it was important enough to get him to move. So something special had to have been reported. Saint took in a series of deep breaths. Plowed through the pain and dismay. The brain needed oxygen to work, and Saint desperately needed to use his brain. While he still could. Every second alive meant another second to make something happen. To clarify something or weaponize something. Kurt definitely asked for a number of 'identified's. So several guys are out there. Probably one of the two teams - either Alpha Team, or maybe even Bravo Team. Or both. That means time. Kurt can't be in two places at once, and even a spartan like him has to play it cautious in a situation like this.
Time. It's running out on me.
How do I get out of here?
Saint's answer stepped through the doorway across the room.
He half-expected to see Ambrose march back through. Ready to finish Saint off once and for all. Instead, he was surprised to see Sindy come strutting in. Red ponytail bouncing with each step and that cocky smile on her face.
"You look like capital-L loser," she said, circling around him to undo the wrist-bindings. "But I've seen worse."
"I'm... Sorry," Saint told her as she freed the restraints around his wrists. He immediately began rubbing at the sore skin - and winced in pain when his ribs flared up.
Sindy didn't say anything. She undid the restraints tying down his legs, then kneeled next to him. Looking at his wound. "You tried to fight the Lieutenant Commander... Idiot."
"Is it that obvious?"
She didn't say anything again. Just had a worried expression on her face. Then she got up and headed over toward the table. Saint made to follow - but the pain immediately put him back in his place. He hissed like a snake. Dang.
Sindy came back over, a can of biofoam in one hand and a napkin in the other. She knelt back down, readying to spray him with the biofoam.
"No - let me," he told her.
She looked at him a moment, then handed the can. "Hurry up. We don't have much time."
Saint sprayed it into his wound. He'd never felt it before. Hadn't ever taken an injury requiring it. The foam was ice-cold at first, and intensified the pain. Then he willed himself to rub it into his skin. The sensation was... Unsettling. It felt as though a swarm of ants were crawling into his body. Worming through his insides and wiggling over everything. But the pain began to subside immediately, and Saint jumped on the opportunity to breathe easy. Taking in big gulps of air and relaxing for a second. Then he pressed the napkin to his mouth. Spat out an inky wad of blood and saliva. Gross. And it hurt like hell. As if he had a toothache that'd been aggravated by some dentist cutting into his gums.
His eyes met Sindy's. "I owe you one. Really."
"And I'll remember that."
"How did you...?"
Sindy stood and cocked her head to the side. Didn't say anything. Saint was starting to realize that she had him beat on the quietness front. Then she reached into her utility belt and pulled out a COM-set. Tossed it to Saint.
Saint recognized it as one of the kind used by the instructors. He tapped a button on it. Heard a voice reporting an attack on the western end of the Nerve-Center. Grid coordinates and all. The audio clip looped back to the start. He thumbed off the playback button.
Impressive. Saint didn't want to know how Sindy had gotten one of the guards to feed false intel, so he didn't ask for further clarification.
Instead, he stood up. "Where is this room we're in?"
"Two floors directly beneath target room."
"So based on those coordinates, we've got... Best guess 2 minutes before Ambrose is on to us."
Sindy dipped her head to the side with that cocky smile. Tapped her ear.
Saint put the COM-set back up to his ear and switched to the open channel. Then realized there were randomized reports filtering in from multiple different locations. Someone was feeding a lot of false intel into the network. Clogging it up and making it impossible to tell which reports were real and which were fake. Smart tactic. But Saint didn't like it. Ambrose would see through it in a heartbeat. Was probably already heading for the target room. Probably already in there and waiting.
"Where's Tom?" he asked.
"Eastern entrance, outside. Fortunately."
Saint nodded. "You're thinking what I'm thinking, then."
"Yep. It wasn't easy convincing Tom, but I did."
Saint nodded again. Nice. She's... He did a slight bow to her. One of the kind that Mr. Shepard used to do way back in the day. Then met her eyes. "I need a weapon."
Sindy reached behind her back and pulled out a pistol stowed away on her utility belt. Handed it to him, along with a pair of magazines. Then she brandished her own M7S.
"We've only got about 15 minutes," she told him. "Try to keep up."
Saint would've felt more comfortable with his body armor on. With something on. Even a tanktop would be fine. And a rifle couldn't hurt. But he was just thankful that Sindy had rescued him.
She was in front of him, leading the way throughout the Nerve-Center as they rushed to reach the bottom floor. And Saint could tell immediately that she'd mapped the building out. Most of it, at least. Apparently, it'd been hours since Saint had first gotten captured. He had no idea of the time, but Sindy claimed it was morning. She must've spent most of that time inside the Nerve-Center. Infiltrating it, scouting it, memorizing it. Because she led them down corridors and pathways that seemed both rarely used and highly efficient. They dodged patrols, slipped by cameras, and crept past motion trackers. And Sindy was moving fast, too. Saint had never really worked alongside her before. They'd competed against each other dozens of times. And Saint had gotten a somewhat decent idea of her capabilities. But he'd never actually been this close to Sindy for any period of time stretching longer than a minute. Unfortunately, Saint just couldn't quite keep up. The biofoam had helped a lot, but damage was damage. He could still feel an angry, dull throb within his core. It made rapid movement difficult. And he could tell that Sindy was slowing herself up to keep from leaving him... And that was unacceptable.
"Just go ahead. I'll catch up, find my own way out," he demanded, spitting out another wad of blood onto the floor. Fighting off another wave of pain in his mouth.
She glanced back at him. Slightly frowned, but didn't say anything. She wasn't going to be convinced. Saint sighed.
They rounded a corner, where a team of guards were stationed at the far end of the hall. The guards raised their guns - and bullets began peppering what little cover the trainee pair had. Saint slid back behind a stone pillar, crouching low and pressing up against it to make himself as small a target as possible. He didn't have any armor protection. Couldn't afford to catch a bullet to the chest. Sindy rolled to the far side of the hallway, sliding into cover behind her own pillar.
They were pinned. Vulnerable. This was going to slow them down too much.
Saint fired off a series of shots down hall. Not really aiming, just trying to give the guards something to think about. The gun was a standard-issue silver M6, and bucked in his hands with each shot. It wasn't easy holding it steady. But he managed, and poked out of cover just for a moment to try and draw a bead. He spotted three guards. Two of them were similarly behind their own pillars, while the third advanced behind some type of riot shield. Saint popped one off at him, and the bullet pinged off the corner of the shield and ricocheted to the ceiling. Hard target.
Saint turned to Sindy. Went to do a series of handsigns... Then realized she'd already pulled out two flashbangs. Glad to see she's still got those. Rule number one of warfare - always come prepared.
She heaved one - then waited a beat, and threw the second. A pair of distinct explosions rippled down-hall. Saint leaned out of cover and took aim. It wasn't easy. The M6 was big in his hands, and he wanted to make the shot count. The barrel hovered and waivered over the riot-shield guard. Found an opening when the guard twisted and held a hand up to his eyes. Saint let a round off - it grazed the guard's shin and sent him tumbling to the ground. Saint went to fire again, but the gun clicked. Jammed.
"This way," Sindy called, pointing to a doorway several meters behind her. She fired a trio of rounds down the hall. "Move!"
Saint couldn't move as fast as he wanted. But he managed to scramble his way across the hall without getting hit. The doorway opened into a shorter hall with a stairwell at the end. There were a pair of cameras in the hall. Which meant that there was no question - the defense team was aware of their position. Somebody was. The only thing to help weaken that fact was the flood of false communications overflowing their radio channels. Saint unjammed his gun, ejected a round, and shot both cameras.
Ambrose was out there somewhere... And he wouldn't be avoided for long.
Saint turned back to see Sindy still firing at the guards. He grabbed her by the arm. "Come on!"
She spun through the doorway, and Saint palmed the keypad to shut it behind her. Then keyed in the locking sequence. "Got any more flashbangs?"
"Just two left. Here," she tossed him one as she backed down the hall toward the stairs.
Saint caught it mid-air and primed it. He would've preferred something more explosive. Something more destructive. But the flashbang would have to do. He wedge it up against the door, right where it met the threshold so that it'd activate the next time someone opened the door. Then backed off, thinking hard. That would slow them down from pursuing. For about a couple minutes. They wouldn't want to risk a speedy pursuit, if they were expecting Saint and Sindy to be laying potential ambushes.
He checked the enemy COM-set again. That's when things got worse. Because the COM flood had stopped. Somebody had shut down the false signals that'd been getting sent, leaving behind just the actual reports. And it didn't sound good. First was that someone was re-directing a team to cutoff Saint and Sindy on the lower level. Probably to shutoff an escape route outside the building. And worse yet - there was a report requesting immediate assistance against a team exfiltrating from the Nerve-Center ground level. Tom's team.
They were out of time.
Saint decided to keep the COM-set on; at least he could hear their intel. But he caught up with Sindy as she headed downstairs. "We're out of time," he told her, descending behind her. He peeked over the railing. They were about 5 stories off the groundfloor. "And they're waiting for us down there."
"I figured," she said. But kept on heading downstairs, her gun raised and ready.
Saint didn't move. "Tell me you've got an exit strategy. One that won't get us killed or worse."
She turned to look up at him. Cocked her head to one side and did that smile. "Scared?"
"Pardon me for not wanting another tooth knocked out."
"Well," she turned back around, then reached the next floor down. "That's your own fault, idiot."
"Yeah, well... I saw an opportunity and I took it."
"Next time, don't expect me to save you. I've filled up my hero quota for the year."
"... Was that a joke?" Saint asked, genuinely surprised.
She turned away. That slight frown on her face. "Yeah. Obviously, idiot."
"Word of advice," Saint said as he continued down the stairs. He unloaded the magazine from his M6 and checked to the rounds in it. "Leave the jokes for Jonah, hero. And my name's not 'idiot'... Idiot."
Hours later, the pair found themselves underground. In the sewer system, where it smelled like vomit and acid and filth.
Sindy hadn't planned on ending up down here. But her timeframe hadn't accounted for Saint's wound, which had slowed her down too much. Now, she was basically freestyling. Playing it by ear. She had no idea where they'd find an exit. Nor how long it would take. The easy part had been getting the Nerve-Center target 'destroyed' - getting Tom to agree to plant the bomb outside and on the ground level, where such an explosion would've leveled the entire building and done the job anyway. So not entirely played by the rules, but rules don't exist in warfare anyway. Now it was time to retreat. Make it back to the safety bunker by 1200 hours.
"We should've just snuck our way into the motor pool," Saint looked over his shoulder at her. In the sewer, neither of them could move particularly fast. So he'd taken point. "Stole a warthog and peeled out. 'Cause this sucks."
"I know - you've told me a thousand times already."
"Not only are we going to be cutting it close - they're going to be in the woods looking for us. And we stink. And I still don't have a shirt, or anything," Saint told her, shaking his head in disgust as he looked forward again.
Sindy hid her laugh as best she could. It was funny seeing him frustrated. Especially whenever she out-competed him.
"And the LC's gonna be out there somewhere. We have to plan for that," he added.
"Let's assume Tom made it back to base," she said. They didn't really know for certain. They didn't know much, in fact. Not since someone on the defense team had rerouted the communications to a secondary secure channel.
"Why?"
"Think about it - Tom had a big headstart. And we drew most of the aggro when we ran into that team back at the Nerve-Center. They would've had two targets at that point - us, and everyone else. We would've been prioritized."
Saint nodded in agreement. "Right. They would've assumed we had the bomb. That we were the infiltration team. If not us, then somebody inside the building, at least. They would've had to make that guess. So they would've guessed that Tom's team on the outside was the diversion. That buys Tom a lot of legroom to escape. And that explains why we didn't run into Ambrose. Ambrose probably headed to secure the target room. I would have done so."
"Good. So, they know not everyone's made it. Two targets still active in the area. Armed and dangerous. What type of force do you use to hunt them down?"
"Depends," Saint answered. "They'll definitely make use of warthogs. I would. We know those were at the motor pool, they're fast, agile, and high-powered. There'll be multiple fireteams as well. Somebody trying to locate tracks."
"Or," Sindy suggested. "They'll have a map of the region. Better than the one you drew, at least."
He turned his head. "I did what I could, given the circumstances."
"Yep. So... Ambrose is going to identify the most likely routes we could take to reach the exfil point. He'll police those routes heavily."
Saint sighed. Scratched at his head. Paused, and turned to face her. "All I know is this - we don't have the firepower. And we won't be able to figure out anything concrete until we get back to the surface. Which could be in Zone 67 for all we know. You really think we're going to win this time?"
Sindy shrugged.
He smirked. "I think I like this new you better. Not nearly so overly confident."
"It's not overconfidence if it's accurate. Idiot."
Saint turned back around and continued forward. Only then did Sindy take note of the tattoo running along his lower back. It wasn't big, but it was there there. It was like some type of symbol. Or emblem. A star, stretching out in 9 distinct points, with a cross that split it in half diagonally. Tribalistic patterns circled it like a wreath. If it was an emblem, then it was one that Sindy hadn't seen before. How did he get that? He must've gotten it... Way back before. Strange. Must've been painful. Sindy was going to ask him about it, until he finally stepped to the side and pointed ahead for her to see.
"Ladder down there."
"How long have we been walking?" She asked. He checked his chronometer.
"Three hours, roughly. Factoring in all those turns, and if my sense of direction is on point..."
"We're about 6 kilometers outside the base," she finished.
"I can barely stand," he admitted. "Don't know if you noticed."
"I noticed you trying to hide it."
"Well, that biofoam's starting to wear off. And my mouth's gotten to the point where my whole cranium hurts. Can't think straight. I don't know how much help I'm gonna be in a pinch."
"I should've left you up there," Sindy told him as she slipped past and took point.
"I literally told you to go on ahead. Idiot."
Sindy sighed. That was true.
She made it to the ladder. It ran upwards about 15 feet, and the cover at the top had small holes providing some sunlight. Some fresh air. She un-holstered her M7S and checked her ammo. She was down to one magazine. So if a fight broke out, she'd have to make it count. She took a deep breath, then headed up the ladder. It was longer than it'd appeared from below, and she checked down to see Saint looking up at her.
"I'm not catching you if you fall," he said.
Sindy made her way to the cover and paused once there. Tried to listen for any non-natural sounds. But she didn't hear anything of note. Just birds squawking, insects crawling and chirping. Leaves crunching. Possibly footsteps. She waited until the sound began to grow distant. Then began to open the cover. Slowly applying strength as she opened it. The cover crept up until she had just the barest of gaps to peer through. Didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and no landmarks. Mostly just a bunch of trees, bushes and flowers. So they were outside of the base somewhere. And then she spotted movement. A pair of armed guards from the complex, both of them heading away and scanning the environment. Sindy assumed that the direction they were heading in was away from the complex. Probably out west, but she wouldn't be able to confirm that from her current position. Then she further assumed that there were no other nearby patrols. No reason to waste resources on sending multiple teams to cover the same locations. She glanced back down at Saint and whispered.
"Two hostiles. About 40 meters off, heading away from us. I don't see anybody else." She signaled for him to come up. "This is our chance."
He pulled out his M6 and headed up the ladder. In the meantime, Sindy finished sliding off the cover of the ladder. Crawled her way out slowly, careful to scan for potential targets elsewhere. She didn't see anything. But she did identify the Kileeni Squares at her feet. They pointed at an angle away from the guards. So her assumption had been correct: the patrol team was moving west. Toward the bunker. Her and Saint would have to deal with them in one way or another. Unless they found a different route - which would only increase the risk of running into more patrols. Better to deal with the known quantity than take an unnecessary risk.
Saint appeared from the hole and crouched beside her. "Hmm. That's west, so... They'll have to go."
"Follow my lead," she told him, heading off into a flanking position.
She spent the next several minutes circling from one position to the other, moving quietly and keeping as low as possible. It wasn't dark out like it'd been last night, so visibility was a serious variable to factor in. But she was good enough. She went prone as she closed the distance, and checked over her shoulder. If Saint was behind her, she couldn't tell. Good. Then she angled herself to get behind the patrol. Fall into their rear. She had one magazine, and firing from that position would make it count.
Until she started hearing the warthog engine.
Sindy crawled her way to a tree and packed herself tightly into the shadow at the base of it. Smeared some dirt on her face.
Bad news. Her plan to take out the patrolling guards was practically dead in the water now. She backed into the tree and peeked around the side, trying to spot the warthog. It looked to be 200 meters out. Picking its way through the forest like an animal on the prowl. And the cannon on the back was mounted; sunlight gleamed off the tri-barrel gun as it scanned around. But they were moving slow. Slow enough to formulate a new plan. And an idea was already starting to form in her mind. She needed Saint, though.
He appeared from the undergrowth with a strained expression on his face. A hand clutching at his wounded ribs. Moving slow.
Sindy should've left him back in the Complex. But... Well, she still worried about him. He didn't look so good. She scooted over in her spot to make room for him.
"You alright?" Sindy whispered as he backed his way into the tree next to her.
"Kinda," he grimaced.
"Can you fight?"
He hesitated a moment. Then looked at her. "I have to."
Sindy nodded. Good enough. "That warthog's about 50 meters out. Cruise speed. I think we can take it."
"You're trying to go head-to-head with a M41 Vulcan. What?"
"No - I mean, we're going to take it."
"Explain."
Sindy glanced back at the warthog. It was probably around 160ish meters out now. Still good time, but it was running out. She turned back to Saint and handed him her M7S. "Rear tire first. Then the gunner. Can you do it?"
Saint took the gun and checked the ammo, then nodded.
"Ohkay. I'm going to get into position. That rock, right there," she pointed to a spot about halfway between their tree and the encroaching warthog. Right along the warthog's current trajectory. "Wait until they close distance with me. Ten meters."
"Ohkay. Get a move on, slowpoke."
Saint checked his sights one last time. Range was good. He didn't really need to be that accurate. But he only had about a magazine of ammunition. If things go according to plan, that would be more than enough ammo. But if things go sideways, it wouldn't be nearly enough. So he needed every shot to count. For his own sake, as well as Sindy's. It was a risky little plan she was going for. Saint didn't much like it. But there weren't any better options if they wanted to reach base in time. He just hoped that Sindy knew what she was doing.
She seemed to. She'd hurried her way into the bush and undergrowth, disappearing from sight as easily as a chameleon blending into its environment. Saint couldn't directly see her. But he knew where she was going, which was good enough.
It became a waiting game. Saint was good at those. Usually. But this time, he had the distinct disadvantage of having blistering pain rocketing throughout his upper-body. The biofoam had just about worn out... And his mouth was getting worse by the second. His whole head, in fact. It was just too difficult to think straight. Now, he had to worry about shooting straight.
The moment came up sooner than expected.
Sunlight gleamed off the warthog's windshield as it crept over logs and rocks. The cannon mounted on the back rotated slowly, passing over the terrain like a watchtower spotlight. That was going to be the harder shot - he could just barely pick out the trooper's armored body behind the Vulcan's defense shield. But he didn't need a good shot. He just needed to hit, and inertia would do the rest. And Saint had always been a good shot.
The warthog rolled along, its engines growling deep and giving it the visage of a prowling tyranno-tiger. Saint pressed the butt of the M7S even closer to his shoulder. Wiggled ever so slightly in his prone position, making sure that his legs were properly placed. It flared his chest, but he ignored the pain. Willed his hands to hold steady.
He wasn't going to get a signal from Sindy. Not any audible cue, and definitely not a visual cue. So the onus was on his shoulders to start the show. He could've already fired... But he wanted the warthog to get a bit closer. See if their path would take them slightly closer to Sindy's position. He needed to give her the smallest gap possible. Make her chances as best as he could. He couldn't wait too long, though. Couldn't let the warthog creep past her spot. That would cost them their window. Cost them the mission.
Saint let it edge just a tad closer, and figured that this was as good of a moment as he was going to get. He fired off a round, the M7S silently bucking in his hands. It wasn't an easy shot. The bullet punctured the rear passenger-side wheel. Air swished out of it and the warthog slowed to a stop. Saint just barely heard the driver curse.
"Damn! Probably hit a fucking spike." The driver clambered out the warthog. "Stay on that gun, Shipps."
"Aye, sir!"
Saint breathed. They hadn't suspected a bullet. But they would once the driver investigated the wheel. So he readjusted his aim. Tried to settle on the gunner, but he could get a clean line-of-sight. Couldn't quite hold his hands as steady. Needed to, though. The driver disappeared around the backside of the warthog, bending down to check out the wheel.
Saint fired again. The round pinged off the Vulcan turret's protective shield. He fired again when the gunner instinctively ducked - and this time clipped the trooper in the shoulder. The bullet sent the man tumbling off the backside of the warthog. At the same time, Sindy broke out from cover at full sprint, covering the distance in record time. Saint sent a few more rounds overhead. Just to try and keep the driver's head down. Keep him on the backfoot, suspecting a full-scale ambush.
Sindy leaped into the driver's seat. Saint could just barely see the top of her head as she gunned the warthog, kicking up huge plumes of mud and dirt onto the troopers. She fishtailed for several meters, struggling to keep the vehicle under control. Driver's seat was too big for her. But it seemed to work, even as the troopers began firing their own weapons as they tried to stop her.
Saint stopped lying around and rolled out of cover - too fast. The pain that shot through his body almost toppled him, but he bit his lip and fought through it. Scrambled his way over vines and tree roots and bushes, trying to get into the open where it would be easy for Sindy to scoop him up. Assuming she didn't outright run him over, which Saint half-expected.
The warthog leaped over a hill at full speed. Bounced violently as it landed in a puddle, showering the surrounding terrain in murky water and filth. Then it slid sideways, braking to a halt a few feet in front of Saint. He wasted no time and practically dove into the passenger-side, laying sideways in the seat and growling out in pain. Sindy shifted into gear and sped off, still struggling to keep the warthog controlled. And it was going to be like that, because one of the tires was blown out. Which meant that Saint was in for a bumpy ride. He twisted in the seat, getting upright and trying to get as comfortable as possible.
"You almost blew it," Sindy accused him angrily.
"A little dramatic effect never hurt anybody. Wanted you to feel a little suspense. Makes everything better."
Sindy jerked the warthog hard to the right.
"Ouch!" Saint complained.
"How much time do we have?"
He checked his chronometer. Then popped open the glove compartment and fumbled around until he found a map. Tried to study it for a few seconds. It wasn't easy. Couldn't quite think straight. He gave up and handed it to Sindy.
"If you avoid the main paths... We'll probably have time to spare. As long as you don't crash us."
Saint kept the M7S held tightly in his hands. Just in case. The most dangerous part of any mission was the home stretch. That part where it seemed like things were done. Where soldiers would let their guards down. Saint couldn't mount the M41 Vulcan, but he figured he could do enough with the M7S. At least, that's what he thought.
He blinked, and didn't open his eyes again, unwittingly falling asleep for the first time in over a day.
December 12, 2540 - One week later
1700 Hours Northern Standard Time
Stallhorse Forest, Onyx
Camp Currahee Command Center
Saint stood at attention. He didn't like like these types of gatherings. And this one was serious. All 418 recruits were present. Packed into neat formation like a bunch of statues. Like the Terracotta Army from the ancient Chinese empire. Out ahead of them were the command drill instructor staff. All the NCOs, including SCPO Mendez and Staff Sergeant Bickers, as well as Lieutenant Alex Truniht. And Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose topping it all off. They were sitting next to each other at a long table. The big screen normally used for Indoctrination class films framed the group of instructors like a giant picture. Something big was going down. Maybe Beta Company was finally going to be given the famed SPI armor. Saint couldn't wait to wear his, and neither could anyone else.
"At ease," Lieutenant Truniht ordered.
Saint shifted positions. There was still some discomfort in both his ribs and his bandaged jaw. The medical attention he'd received yesterday had been... Modest, at best. Intentionally so. The instructors were keen on teaching everyone to embrace pain and suffering. Easier said than done.
SCPO Mendez tapped his microphone. Cleared his throat, then addressed the assembly.
"We've reached an important milestone. Following recent performance trials and examinations, we've reached our final Company trainee count: 418. Everything you've done up to this point has been preliminary. It's been toned down and easy. Introductory. The beginning phase. From this point forward, you should all consider yourselves to be in extreme at-risk of death. Only 300 of you will make final selection, and those that don't will likely miss out, not due to being dropped, but as casualties. Furthermore, Beta Company will now begin taking care of itself. We're no longer operating as chaperones. You're no longer recruits. No longer trainees."
"No longer little shits," Bickers muttered into his mic.
Mendez continued. "As such, your barracks is now off-limits. You'll have to live in the wilderness from now on, out on the fringes of Stallhorse Forest and beyond, and you'll have to survive. You'll scavenge your own food. You'll treat your own injuries. You'll make your own shelter. And you'll be expected to complete your assignments. You will do this, or you will die."
Lieutenant Truniht activated his microphone then.
"Now that we're in phase two of training, you're all officially inducted into the UNSC. We'll be assigning roles and teams... Though the Company Commander will have discretion to make adjustments as he sees fit."
Everyone in formation shuffled at that. Wondering who'd get the job. Saint already induced who it was.
Truniht continued. "Tom-B292, step forward."
Out at the head of the formation, Tom marched his way to the spotlight. That empty area between the trainees and the instructors. Snapped off a hard salute and stood at attention.
"Tom, you are hereby assigned as Beta Company Commander, official rank Petty Officer Second-Class. You're the leader of 417, and your job is not enviable. You'll be chiefly responsible for keeping your company alive. For maintaining unit cohesion. For making difficult decisions."
"Sir!" Tom saluted again.
Truniht waved his hand, and Tom slipped quietly back into formation.
Lieutenant Commander Ambrose stood.
"All of you have come far, and have made yourselves - and us - proud. Know that if we had the budget, all 418 of you would be made spartans. Easily. Those of you who do not - if you survive - will have the highest recommendations in continuing service to the UNSC. Whether that be combat roles or not. You're better soldiers than most of the military already. To that point, we are assigning you all the enlisted rank of Petty Officer Third-Class, though that will likely change as we get closer to graduation date."
Saint hadn't expected all this. It was a lot to process. To think that everything he'd done these past few years was just the easy part was insane. But he'd been trained to anticipate and appreciate challenges. He wondered what was going through Tom's mind. It made sense that Tom was the Commander. Tom wasn't the most astute or shrewdest, but nobody could match him in terms of leadership. And everybody liked him. Everybody expected him to lead the way.
"Any questions?"
Multiple hands rose.
"Go ahead, Tom."
"Will we still be assigned missions?"
"You will. You'll be assigned weekly tasks, as well as mandatory academic instruction from a fragment of Deep Winter. And make no mistake - Deep Winter will be instructing you. However, both your Company as well as Camp Currahee now have an extended degree of autonomy. We expect you to carry out your own missions, as you should expect us to do as well. And you'll have to, because whatever we assign you will have to be done - and we're no longer handing out equipment. Consider Beta Company at war with Camp Currahee... And I've brought in more than enough Auto-Ms to make it distinctly hard for you."
So that explained all the dropships that been ferrying back and forth from orbit. Hundreds of auto-mechanicals. Robot machines that had basic functionality and behavior programs. They weren't smart - at least, individually. But they could operate well enough. And an AI could control them if need be. Like a hive mind. A smart AI like Deep Winter.
Some small, distant part of Saint wished he was... Elsewhere. It was strange. The type of thought that rarely crossed his mind. Saint could barely remember anything from before his conscription. He vaguely remembered his mom and the way she smelled, but he couldn't picture her face. Just the breakfasts she would cook for him. He remembered Jericho VII and fleeing his homeworld. And he could vaguely recall Rear Admiral Shepard... Though not much else about the man except for the orphanage. And that was it. He couldn't even remember his last name. His true name - not the service number he'd been assigned. But part of him wondered if that other life would've been better. Wondered about what he'd forgotten, and if it was meaningful. If he died here on Onyx, his life will have amounted to very little. And that thought disturbed Saint.
Saint closed his eyes for a moment.
Over the next few minutes, the instructors read off some more information about Phase 2. Informed them of distinctly harsh new realities. And then they began the process of forming teams. Tom had been given a 6-soldier team, while mostly everyone else was broken up into 4-soldier teams. The instructors further broke everyone down into more specific roles and jobs. MOS-types. There were technical experts, logistics experts, medics, engineers, designated snipers, and so on. It was a long process. Slow and methodical. Stiff and official-like. Paperwork-heavy. Saint had been made into an advance-range scout... Which meant that he didn't have a team, and would likely end up working alone more often than not.
But the worst part of the day was the neural interface, and Saint quickly realized that this was his first true challenge of Phase 2. His first true challenge on the path to becoming a spartan.
It was a brute surgical procedure. Raw and invasive. The kind done by a surgeon who needed to dig around in someone's head.
And so he'd been forced to shave his hair.
Saint had always kept it trimmed above regulation length, but he'd had his dreadlocks for as long as he could remember. It was one of the only things connecting him to his past. Having his hair shaved made him feel naked. Vulnerable and weak. Exposed and bare. Nothing remained of his hair but stubble and peachfuzz. And Saint had spent a long time staring at himself in the mirror.
And then it'd taken all day before his turn to get the implant came about. To the point where his chronometer read 0100. It'd been hours of waiting in a quiet and cold room for his name to be called. They'd grabbed him by the arms. Strapped him face down onto a surgical table that smelled of disinfectant. And then they'd put a soft, chewy piece of fabric in his mouth.
"Bite down on this," they'd said. "It helps."
Except it didn't. Not really, not even after the dose of anesthesia. Drills bore into the base of his skull. Saws and needles and tongs bit at his nerve-endings. Clawed through his bone. Blood poured along his neck and dripped into his mouth as he'd screamed. It wasn't really a scream of pain - it was more so a scream of horror. Something was biting away at his brain. Prickling his mind itself and scrambling his thoughts. To call the sensation terrible would be more than an understatement. And the shock that went through his head, through his brain, was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Fire surged along his nervous system, reaching from his head to his toes. Ripped through his entire being - both mind and body. Like someone had filled his conscious experience with boiling acid. Rage surged through Saint's bones at the sensation. He wanted to fight it. Wanted to go fisticuffs with it. Wanted to die.
And the surgery lasted a long time. Too long and too much.
By the time it'd finished, Saint had been shaking violently in his restraints. The doctors had wheeled him into a room with the others, where he spent the next two days in recovery. Two whole days, locked inside that room as his mind adjusted to the neural intrusion. Two whole days to think about his existence and his future before the instructors kicked Beta Company out of Camp Currahee, sending them to fend for themselves in the wilds.