0800 Hours January 3, 2525 (Military Calendar)
Aboard UNSC Destroyer Cherokee en route to
Richter VII
Simmons had made a "full recovery"all right. He could run over 50 KPH, and he had always been a slow runner before. He could also lift around eight hundred pounds. Everything seemed slow to him, too, like he was watching the world at half-speed. He marveled at his muscle mass and reflexes. He went to the gym aboard the Cherokee every day, went down to the section that was rotating at two Gs and would work out for hours. He also studied tactics and reviewed ancient battles; he would be ready to lead his platoon for sure. The only thing that bothered him about his new life was the fact that he was alone; he was the only survivor. He wished some of the others had survived. His best friend from the academy had been in the pod next to him, Dr. Halsey said the augmentation went too fast, and his brain over-loaded from all the change. She also said she was happy with the results. How? Nineteen men died, one survived, how were those good results? The Doctor must have had her reasons, she always did, but Simmons did not know what her reasons for this could have been, how had she helped humanity at all? Simmons pondered this for days, he refused to go into cryo, and was therefore left with nothing to do but think, work out and dread the day they would arrive at Richter VII.
On the day they were scheduled to arrive on Richter VII Simmons went to visit Major Sullivan, he was the executive officer of the Battalion of ODSTs stationed on the Cherokee. Sullivan had been a professor at the Marine Academy At Quantico on Earth, and taught Simmons for two years. Simmons wanted to ask him for advice on how to lead the hostile men in his charge; he wanted advice you couldn't get in a book. As he took the elevator to the Major's quarters he contemplated why the man had given up his teaching post for field duty, was he itching for combat, or sick of fresh officers asking him for advice on Marine life? He hoped it was the first one as he knocked on the Major's door.
" Enter," said a grizzly voice, Simmons remembered it as the Major's. He opened the door and walked in. Sullivan had put in wood paneling and pictures of ODSTs and Pelican Dropships were hanging on the wall. It smelled of smoke, which was of course against regulations, but if anyone dared tell that to the Major, they would regret it during their Hospital stay. The Major's voice wasn't the only thing grizzly about him, he was 6'5, all muscle and looked as though he weighed three hundred pounds, At first Simmons felt threatened, then he remembered that he could lift Sullivan over his head and throw him through the door, and he straightened up. Sullivan was looking over a data pad, then looked up at Simmons, he had a scar streaking down his left cheek that was not there when he left Quantico, his once slick black hair now contained streaks of gray. He had aged a lot since he had been transferred to the Cherokee and made over a dozen drops into rebel territory.
" Can I help you, Lieutenant?" He said, glancing over his data pad once more
" I hope so, Sir," Simmons said sheepishly "I was hoping for advice on leadership, now that I am going to lead a platoon of my own, Sir." Sullivan dropped his data pad and got up from his desk, and walked around Simmons, surveying him, he stopped in front of him; he apparently liked what he saw.
" I've heard things about you Simmons. Men say you can do inhuman things, Hell, I've heard stories that you can lift eight hundred pounds, what do you have to say about that?"
" Nothing, Sir," Simmons knew that project SPARTAN was classified.
" So you admit it then?" the Major said inquisitively.
" I have changed since the academy, Sir" Simmons said hoping the Major would change subjects, he did.
" So you want advice, eh? Well I'll tell you one thing Simmons, show them who boss, remind them it's you, not their Sergeant, you, can you do that?" the Major asked him.
" Yes, Sir, I can." Simmons told him.
" Good, then you're dismissed, Lieutenant" Simmons saluted Sullivan and exited the room. Show them who's boss? This was the Marine Corps; his men should already know who's boss. But Simmons made a note of the advice anyway, hoping he wouldn't have to use it.
Simmons packed his things into a duffel bag, and then slipped into his uniform. He placed his Standard Issue M6C Magnum in its holster, picked up his bag and walked to the hangar. The Cherokee would get in orbit around Richter VII and Simmons' Pelican Drop ship would go down to the surface on its own. The planet was in such chaos with the recent rebel insurgency, Simmons thought this was a bad idea, one drop ship would be an easy target for rebel anti aircraft.
He walked into the Cherokee's Hangar and looked around, there were three pelicans and only five Longsword Fighters, a small force compared to what most UNSC ships carried. He walked to the middle Pelican, which was being prepped for takeoff, he saw three men talking at the rear of the ship, and walked towards them. One of them was the pilot, the name Charles was stitched on his helmet and flight suit. There was a lighting bolt stenciled on his left sleeve, the insignia of the 36th Naval Air Squadron. They were famous for making their drops faster than anyone else. Good, their pilot was assured to be talented at evasive maneuvers, they would need that. The pilot was talking to an ODST named O'Donnell; he was a lance corporal, but he didn't seem the ODST type; he wore a casual grin, and his physique was less-than-stunning, but he seemed intrigued when Simmons arrived.
" You the Lieutenant goin' down to the surface?" the pilot asked.
" Yes, I am," Simmons told him. Next the third man, a colonel, spoke up
" Then I believe we are ready to takeoff, Warrant Officer," the senior officer told the pilot. Simmons could not believe he had not realized the man was an officer, and snapped a quick salute, which the colonel returned, seemingly indifferent to the breach in etiquette. The Warrant Officer walked into the cockpit of the drop ship, and the Colonel and O'Donnell strapped themselves into their crash seats, Simmons followed suit and two Maintenance personnel shut the back hatch, which hissed violently, signaling atmospheric pressurization. A voice came from the cockpit, seemingly the copilot's,
" Welcome to UNSC flight 4311, one way to Richter VII, there will be no in-flight movie, no in-flight meal, and no stewardess onboard. We hope you enjoy your flight." Even through the COM system's distortion, the copilot's tone was unmistakably mocking.
As it echoed through the back of the drop ship the Lance Corporal cracked a smile, it quickly faded away, as the drop ship entered Richter VII's atmosphere, and the Pelican started shaking violently.
"We are now experiencing some turbulence, if there was a seat belt sign it would be turned on, so don't get up," the copilot shouted back to them. O'Donnell turned to Simmons and looked inquisitively.
" Something wrong, Lance Corporal?" Simmons asked him.
" No, Sir, it's just I believe you've been assigned to my unit, Sir," O'Donnell told him; he had a thick Scottish accent.
" Well I believe you're correct, but I don't think that's what's bothering you," Simmons told him. O'Donnell had thick brown hair, and his nose appeared to have been broken several times.
" Well, I just, I've heard stories, Sir. I was in cryo the whole time, but people tell me you work out like a machine, that you go to two G's and lift for hours, no one can do that, Sir" O'Donnell shouted to him, over the roar of the Pelican's engines, he seemed to be bursting a bubble inside him, and his feelings flowed uncontrollably, a bad sign in a Marine, let alone an ODST.
" Well I won't lie to you, O'Donnell, I am not weak, and yes I did work out many times this past voyage, but I don't believe I am a machine." Simmons said flatly, O'Donnell looked satisfied, but Simmons knew he wasn't. The turbulence stopped, and the Pelican ride became smoother. The copilot's voice sounded again, " We are about thirty minutes out, and will begin taking evasive maneuvers in ten minutes, if we survive, it should stop in about five minutes." Simmons hoped he was joking. He wasn't. They heard flak blast around them, the Pelican moved nimbly between it. The pilot was certainly talented, and he seemed to be so in control that he could will the flak out of their way. Simmons admired this. He wondered if his brother, a member of the Twenty-Third Naval Air Squadron, was this good. His brother had been a pilot for three years, and knew nothing of Simmons' status as a Spartan. Neither did his uncle, Captain of the UNSC frigate Antitem. Simmons could never tell them about SPARTAN, but he knew if they met in person, they would be suspicious.
The flak stopped and the ride became smoother, Simmons estimated another fifteen minutes until they reached Camp Ulysses, where he was stationed. Simmons dreaded the landing, he wasn't fully prepared to meet his platoon, and the Major's advice didn't help. But Simmons knew it would come, and tried to occupy him self with his duffel bag, which had become loose. He reattached it to its hook, then looked at its contents, his spare uniform, clips for his sidearm, and a data pad of information on his platoon. He turned it on and glanced over their service records, O'Donnell's was last, it seemed he was to lead Simmons demolitions squad, O'Donnell didn't seem that type, but Simmons knew not to question HighCom assignments.
The Pelican touched down at Camp Ulysses, and the three men exited the back hatch, after being quickly refueled, the Pelican took off. The Colonel walked towards the camp's Headquarters and O'Donnell started walking towards his barracks, where the rest of Simmons platoon was. Simmons walked to the officers' quarters and entered his room. The floor was wood paneled, and the entire room smelled of wood stain. It was bare except a cot in one corner, and a dresser in the adjacent corner. Simmons placed his spare fatigues in the dresser, put his spare ammunition on his belt, and threw his duffel under the cot, then walked out of the room. He went to headquarters and was given his orders and a Warthog; then explored the base in his new Light Reconnaissance Vehicle. The base was positioned at the foot of a tall mountain, which had many tunnels that were once old mines, now used for storage and a fallback position, in case of overwhelming attack. Simmons doubted that all the Rebels in UNSC controlled space combined could take this camp, which had a Regiment of ODSTs, an entire Naval Air Squadron, and fifteen scorpion tanks, not to mention almost three thousand regular Marines. Simmons doubted that Ulysses would ever fall to the enemy.