Chapter 18 – Symptomata
July 25th, 2552 - (08:30 Hours - Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach
Csaba Mountain Region, Viery Territory
:********:
Duncan plopped down on a chair in the corner of the lounge room. A wave of relief washed over him at the most recent chance to get off his own two feet. He surveyed the room. Most of 1st Platoon were sitting down too, seizing the chance to cool their heels for the first time in hours.
The Large-Scale Platoon Tactics or LSPT arena was always unforgiving. As the second largest and roomiest arena aside from Company Scale Tactics or CST, the place sported several times as many objectives, enemies and ground to cover than any FIT or SSST combined. At the end of the day, it amounted to good cohesion between the squads and a lot of legwork. A lot. So far, the constant race against the clock showed them that working on speed was a greater challenge than working on stamina. This far into an ODST's career, it didn't matter what they could do as much as how quickly they could do it. In the world of shock operations, speed was an absolute necessity.
On that note, Duncan turned to the screens of the scoreboards set above the door to the LSPT's observation room. He singled out the highest ranked platoon with a tired delight: '1st Place – 1st Platoon: Squads Epsilon & Whiskey'.
So they had won. Below them, he saw the second place, formerly first place holders: '2nd Place – 2nd Platoon: Squads Hotel, Hotep & Horus'.
How long had it been since he saw their names up on those screens? For years, 2nd platoon was on top at the LSPT. In reality, it won by default. 1st Platoon wasn't there to compete because it hadn't been a platoon for a long while. Now that that had changed, so did the rankings.
The rest of the platoon was quiet. They were too invested in slumping into their chairs or closing their eyes for quick naps to notice the screens. The Staff and Sergeant Dalton did a number on them today. Two separate drops back-to-back and within less than 20 minutes of each other was a lot to ask. Thankfully, 1st Platoon showed it had a lot to give.
The platoon wasn't always as organized as it was becoming. Their first attempts at working together caused a few mishaps and miscommunications. Whiskey's challenge was keeping pace with Epsilon's movements while Epsilon's challenge was getting readjusted to coordinating for long periods with another squad. In a way it was a learning experience for everyone. In each case, the seasoned command of each squad-leader helped pull them together into a somewhat capable unit. Five months of consistent practice later and they had become a fully functional machine. Top contenders like 2nd Platoon could no longer outrun the results of Epsilon's speed and Whiskey's diversions. Together they were transformed into something of a hammer and anvil and Duncan could hardly wait to see the real Covenant smashed in between.
Then again, maybe he could wait. Best not to tempt the fates.
Zack was the next to notice the scoreboards and quickly pointed them out to everyone else. "Hey people, take a look. Guess who's not in first place anymore?"
"That's a sight for sore eyes." Rico remarked.
Mito yawned as he rubbed his eyes. "And they are sore. I'd say we more than deserved it."
"I'd say we all did." Nova nodded respectfully to their sister squad.
"Great work Whiskey." The Staff said. "Couldn't have done it without you."
Whiskey, though exhausted, was able to puff up with a bit of pride.
"Thanks." Dalton said.
"No, we really couldn't have done it without you guys." Zack chided. "I mean, it's called 'platoon tactics'. We're just a squad so you were pretty helpful, and not even just as placeholders too. Having you guys pick up the slack got us first place back."
"Hey-hey, I'll handle the rhymes around here buddy." Lang intruded. "And also, I'm pretty sure this 'placeholder' saved you from getting shot in the back twice."
Zack shrugged. "I missed a Grunt or two, figured I could leave them to you. What do you know, I could."
"So why'd you have to say 'placeholders' then?"
"I didn't, I was saying you guys are better than-"
Zack's mouth was shut as Nova put her hand over it. "Stop, stop talking." She turned to Whiskey. "You guys aren't placeholders. You held your own out there just fine. This guy's probably jealous you're starting to catch up to'em."
Zack said something muffled.
"What?" Nova suddenly shivered and yanked her hand away, revealing Zack's outstretched tongue. She stared in horror at her palm. "Did you just-"
"Yup." He grinned at Whiskey. "Anyway, I'm not jealous. I think you guys are doing good. But to be honest with you, there's a big difference between a cutout and an actual Elite that wants to disembowel you, a Brute that wants to rip your throat out or a Hunter that'll have the best time stomping your head into your stomach. I don't think you should get too confident 'till you find out how you stack up against the genuine articles. That's all I'm saying."
Nova wiped her defiled hand on Zack's shoulder pauldron. "Sounds exactly like what someone who's worried about upstarts would say."
"Or like good wisdom." Mito countered. "Kawazanyou: don't count your tanuki furs before they've been caught."
Zack twisted his way, a look of pure confusion on his face.
"Don't count your chickens before they've hatched." Hector explained.
"Yeah that's-, that's what I was going for."
"Riiight, of course it was, Mr. Enlightened." Zack laughed. "See, I can be wise too."
"A rarity, I'm sure." Nova murmured.
"I think I see what you're saying." Mackley noted. "Noah's ark was built before the rain, right? You wanted to prepare us for more than what we were getting taught in selection because combat goes beyond all that. You wanted to do it now while we've still got time."
The rest of Whiskey eyed him with a modicum of surprise. Dalton himself appeared quietly pleased.
"That's right." The Staff admitted. "Get in the ship before the rain comes down. When it does, you won't end up sinking."
"Can we relax with the proverbs for a sec." Lang insisted. "It's great and all but my brain's getting burned out here trying to understand what you're saying. You guys are talking about a boat and I'm still trying to figure out what the hell's a tanuki."
Mito perked up. "Oh, it's kind of like a racoon. Kind of like a dog too."
Lang was incredulous. "Okay...so which is it?"
"Well, it's neither but it's also both. It's sort of its own thing really."
"...Uhuh...switching topics here, can we leave now? It's getting close to 0900 and I-, I mean we need to beat the breakfast rush if we don't want to starve for the next two hours."
"Sounds like a plan." Zack groaned as he stretched his arms. "We clear for a raid on the mess hall, sir?"
They all turned to the Staff who took a moment to check off a list. "I already turned off everything in the observation room. We left all the gear in the armory except for our practice BDUs but we can stow those away at the Dante. Yuri, did you turn off the lights in the armory?"
"Yessir, I did." He replied. "I even turned them on and back off again just to be on safe side. I'm thorough like that."
"Good. Alright 1st Platoon, greenlight. Let's move out."
The platoon got on their feet and strolled out of the lounge, traversing the short catacomb of corridors and off-branching rooms before reaching the main foyer. The second they passed through the doors and onto the front steps, they entered into a world much unlike the one they'd left.
The sound of burbling engines, pressing orders and fast footsteps permeated the air. Rather than empty streets there were convoys upon convoys of Warthogs, Scorpion battle-tanks and other transport vehicles clogging Falchion's arteries. The Marines they carried were beckoning to others walking by, perhaps in the same unit and not even wearing their uniforms, to quickly run to them. There were confused shouts for answers on what was happening that received frantic replies amounting to 'just shut up and get on'.
From the steps of the RTETC, Duncan saw the streets beyond those closest to the building. He made out dozens of similar scenes playing out across wide swaths of the base. Marines were rushing to and fro to board transports. Not always fully armed or fully armored, some even dressed in their downtime shorts and shirts, they ran to grab hands that would pull them in. To Duncan's shock, he also noticed ODSTs running to Hogs in full armor, never minding who they tagged along with so long as they were on a vehicle. Every one of them wore the same look of bewilderment that spread like wildfire among 1st Platoon.
Multiple shadows zipped across the ground. Duncan looked up into Falchion's airways and paid witness to something similar to a disturbed hornet's nest. Dozens of AV-14 Hornets and Pelicans were flying across the skies. Despite the seeming chaos, they actually moved in an orderly fashion. Several lines of aircraft flew over Mount Csaba towards the landing pads before looping back around to pass over the mountain again like a circulatory system. It was a massive airlift operation.
A greater shadow passed over the platoon and stayed there. Its massiveness shut out the sunlight over the RTETC, the parking lot and the nearby streets. Everyone's attention turned vertical.
Almost a kilometer overhead, a battlegroup of several Paris-class heavy frigates pierced down through the clouds like a gathering of ethereal spirits. They came to settle directly above Falchion, the closest of which covered the platoon in its shade. Before long, the airlift operation rediverted and the legions of craft made for their open hangar bays.
"Can someone tell me what's going on please?" Daz asked as she marveled at the ships.
"Someone's under attack." The Staff said.
"Is it us?" Berlin whispered.
"No, not us, not Reach." The Staff replied with enough assurance to offer some calm to Whiskey. He looked to the parking lot. Duncan followed his line of sight to a squad of Marines. They were hustling across the asphalt, carrying crates of extra ammunition between them from a nearby munitions depot.
"What's going on, Marines!?" The Staff called.
One of them heard him and skidded to a stop, barely regaining his balance to keep his crate from tumbling forward. "The Covies, sir! They just entered Cygnus! Command's calling for the closest emergency QRF to reinforce New Jerusalem! That's us!"
"Cygnus?" The Staff said thoughtfully. "Which outfit are you guys!?"
"The ones moving now!?"
"Yeah!"
"26th MEF, sir!"
"Expeditionary Marines. Are you getting any support!?"
"Yeah, they said the 7th Shock would be tagging along! That's what I heard anyway; the memo just came out a few minutes ago!"
The Staff shared a curious glance with Dalton. "Alright, thanks!"
The Marine nodded off to them and got back to running after his squad who were calling on a passing transport like a taxi.
"Cygnus." Dalton remarked, sounding uneased. "That's not that far from here, is it?"
The Staff gave a slow shake of his head.
"We going too then?" Duncan asked.
"Let's find out for sure. 1st Platoon, get to your Hogs. We need to reach the Dante Building."
In what felt like the blink of an eye, the platoon was down the steps, hopping into their Warthogs and leaving the parking lot. They raced where they could and stopped where they needed to. Hector took the lead. He brought them through the out-of-the-way access routes he used during rush hours. Less than five minutes after leaving the RTETC, they rolled to a stop along the sidewalk in front of the Dante Building.
They would have run straight through the front doors were it not for the stream of ODSTs already pouring out. They gave them the right of way before slipping inside.
The ground floor lobby was awash with activity. Troopers rushed to and from the elevators and stairwells. On their shoulders they carried their gear and possessions in duffels. The Staff pushed on to a corner of the lobby. Duncan anticipated his trajectory and spotted a familiar face there. Gunnery Sergeant Singh was standing atop a crate of M41 SPNKR rockets from which he directed the flow of traffic across the floor.
The Staff had to shout over the commotion. "Hey Gunny, I heard about Cygnus! Got any more details!?"
"What've you heard!?"
"The Covenant showed up near New Jerusalem so the 26th are heading out! Looks like we are too!"
"Looks like it! We're on the roster for the quick reaction force so I'm trying to keep things running smooth around here!"
"How much time before Bravo needs to check out!?"
"Half an hour!"
"Copy that!" The Staff took a step and stopped. "What about the colonel!? I heard he headed out earlier today! Is he back yet!?"
"Don't think so! He might come later!"
"Might!?"
Singh shrugged. "Don't know for sure, everything's going topsy-turvy this morning!"
"...Copy that!"
The Staff gestured to the platoon and they followed him to the elevator just as it arrived. The doors slid open and spilt the ODSTs of 2nd Platoon onto the ground floor. Duncan would have gladly taken the chance-meeting to rub their victory at the LSPT in their faces. They could no longer hold it over Epsilon as the one thing they could still beat them at. But now was not the time. The recent training was no longer at the forefront of his or likely anyone else's mind.
The second the elevator was clear they piled inside, filling it to maximum capacity. The Staff punched in their floor number. The doors shut and a slow ascent ensued, too slow for anyone's liking.
"Well, this is a bit sudden, isn't it?" Daz laughed nervously.
"Life is a bit sudden, isn't it?" Lang laughed back.
"And so is death." Mito declared with a meditational seriousness. "But neither have to be. Both can be slow."
The elevator went quiet. Daz and Lang slowly turned to him, their unsettled expressions never putting a dent in his relaxed disposition.
"We'll only take what we need." The Staff said. "We'll be in and out, 10 minutes tops."
"If Bravo's leaving in half an hour then that's all we can afford." Dalton agreed.
"Right."
Duncan swallowed. "Is that enough time to make a quick call, sir?"
The Staff half turned to him. He looked him over understandingly. "If you're fast enough."
The elevator chimed as its ascent died. The doors slid apart and the platoon swarmed inside. They quickly undressed in their own parts of the quarters, taking off their practice BDUs before moving to their armor lockers off to the sides of the room.
Duncan stowed his practice armor in a compartment of his personal locker before donning his undersuit. He took down the components of his BDU from their molds in the dark foam of their containment unit. He put on each piece systematically, starting from his chest and working his way down to his boots. He was faster than the others mostly because he was under a greater time constraint and therefore in a bigger rush. By the time he was fully decked out with his helmet clipped to his belt, it was already five minutes into their timeframe. He finished with his locker and sealed it shut. He ran back to his bunk and pulled out his duffel. What little he had was stuffed inside in a matter of seconds and he tossed it over his back.
"Heading up to communications."
"Be quick about it." The Staff replied.
Instead of the elevator, the most obvious and likely most useless means given the situation, he chose one of the building's underused stairwells. He leapt up the stairs and bounded across the landings. Even as a squad of troopers came barreling down towards him, he swiftly forced himself against the wall and ran without slowing.
On the way, he considered his own state of affairs. Months of inactivity were suddenly and rather unexpectedly coming to an end. He almost wished the war could've delayed itself for another month. Just one more and he would have been free to go to Noah's bring-your parent-to-school day. Since January they had gone back and forth about him bringing his BDU. Noah insisted it would be the coolest thing and that with it he would outshine every other parent there. How could a kid expect to impress their friends with their accountant dad when another kid's dad showed up like he was about to go to war? Even Erica started warming up to the idea. Moreover, Duncan found himself wondering how he might sneak his BDU out of Falchion and through the security scanners at the New Alexandria starport.
Those dreams amounted to nothing more than that. He needed to tell them he was leaving and who knew for how long. He was certain the news wouldn't go down so well with Noah. Making him another promise and promising to keep that one didn't sound like a solid strategy. Noah was too smart. He would see through that as well. The best Duncan could do was not use the same parental white lies he saw other troopers use with their kids. He had to trust that he was strong enough to handle the truth.
He reached the door to the 10th floor and swung it open. The communications cubicles sprawled out before him like a traditional office space. The rows upon rows of private, walled off spaces were a haven on any other occasion than today. Today saw them full of troopers sitting and standing amongst the displays. They typed on their screens and squinted at them as they tried to use them. There was an air of frustration, groans, growls and shouts of anger.
It was a familiar scene.
The door to the stairwell he'd used swung open again. Someone came beside him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, did you find a spot?"
It was Nova. "I came to keep you on task."
Duncan was still fixated on the sights around him. His worries rose to a boil. There was a chance the problem hadn't been fixed. He walked towards the nearest cubicle and peered inside. The trooper sitting at the display was sighing defeatedly.
"Hey, did your call get through?"
The man turned to him and shook his head. "Sorry Iris, looks like the system's still down. I thought they would've sorted this out by now."
"You've got folks off-world you're trying to call?"
He nodded. "Earth. I'm not getting through to them though."
"...Alright, thanks."
Duncan went to the next cubicle with Nova following. He asked them if they were getting their calls through and learned they couldn't reach anyone either. He went to the next, gave the same question to the trooper sitting there and got the same answer. Several more tries yielded the same result.
The sad truth made itself evident. This made the third day Falchion's interstellar communications were down. It was also the third day that he couldn't contact Erica and Noah. Whatever the problem was, it was affecting the base's long-range communications as well all short-range and unencrypted communiques. Their devices here couldn't contact anyone beyond the Csaba mountain range. As far as the base was concerned, Falchion itself was almost entirely cut off from the rest of Reach aside from its dedicated communications servers. But those were reserved for high-encryption messages to officers and generals, not families and friends.
One of the Dante's tech specialists had proposed the day before that it might not be a Falchion problem at all. He said there were no signs anything was amiss with the base's infrastructure. Rather the problem had to be, though was statistically least likely to be, stemming from an issue at one of Reach's three primary carrier hubs. Building on that theory, somebody else suggested a techie on their side must've been just as useless as the techies at Falchion and spilled some coffee on some important machinery at one of the relays. If that was the case then Duncan wished he could have taken that same coffee, reheated it and tossed it back into said techie's face. For the first two days it was simply an inconvenience. Now that the battalion was leaving, it was fast becoming a dilemma.
Nova grabbed him by the arm as he moved to question his tenth person. "I think that's enough. We know now."
Duncan bit his lip and nearly split it. "There's got to be one that works. There's got to be..."
"We have to go, D. There's probably a private communications station like this on the ship we're boarding. You can talk to them from there before we leave the system."
"If I'm allowed to." Duncan whispered hoarsely. "They don't really like us talking right as we're about to leave the system, remember? Standard mission secrecy and all that?"
"At this rate it's your only option. Take it or leave it."
After a moment of uncertainty, he decided to take it.
"Let's hope you're right about this." He said and let her lead him to the exit.
She pushed through the door and into the stairwell. She began their long descent step by step. "I hope I'm right too."
"Is everyone already set?"
"That and heading downstairs already."
"Roger, let's not keep them waiting."
:********:
Brigadier General Abajjé scrolled through the texts of the service file on the holographic screen in front of him. It was good to have a review of such things in order to strengthen his case. He wouldn't have to prove his point to the others in the room but to the man of the hour coming for a visit. Funny how that worked, that a group of high-ranking officers were going to try convincing a junior officer, though arguably with just as much seniority, why he was worth being promoted.
Abajjé had his doubts on whether this would work from the start. The man they were aiming to convince to play a bigger part in the war had already played a huge part in it. There weren't many people still around who could say they had fought in this conflict from year one. He personally knew of whole families whose first, second and third generations were wiped out either because they volunteered for the front or their home became the front. Strange to think then that someone could exist who was fighting for all that time and still refused to let others do it for him. Far stranger that said someone was part of a branch with one of if not the lowest life expectancy in the UNSC, a colonel of a shock troops battalion.
Stopping near the top of his career service vitae provided by UNSC Personnel Command or PERSCOM, Abajjé noted the very first operations listed. His career began as a PSC assigned to the 7th Battalion after graduating with top honors from the Special Warfare Center in United Korea, one of Earth's best ODST training facilities. He was slated to work with Bravo Company, 1st Platoon, Squad Foxtrot under the designation of 'Fox-6'. His fighting record started like so many other ODSTs at the time on Eridanus II. In his first operation he participated in foiling an Insurrectionist car bomb plot at the Luxor Starport. His second operation showed a similar action but with greater consequence. He helped detect and diffuse timed explosives buried under a playground at Primary Education Facility #119 in Elysium city, a school with a repertoire of having many children of UNSC officers and CAA officials in attendance. There was a meritorious list of other counter-insurgency operations undertaken on Eridanus II as well as on other planets, most of them successful.
Then there was the arrival of the Covenant.
The Harvest Campaign was an eye-catcher namely because of its seminal importance. The wider UNSC had learned how to fight their newest and greatest enemy there, and so had the colonel. They also learned what it would cost to beat them. So too had the colonel. Few experienced personnel were still alive and active from those days. To see a shock trooper live as long as he had was enough to make the staunchest intellectual mind believe in some measure of divine providence, not in that which the Covenant used to justify their mass genocide but the type that made a person sit and question things for a while. For all intents and purposes, this was someone who Abajjé and his associates could not allow to slip through their fingers. He was too valuable to waste on a single battalion, however capable it was.
Abajjé took a break from what was his eighth time examining the whole CSV. He peered around to gauge the others' expressions. It was a tough room to read. Half of UNICOM's Reach branch was in attendance. Gathered within one of Sword Base's secretive conference rooms, the half a dozen uniformed men and women sat around the U-shaped table at the center of the room. They were likewise scanning through the service file in a concerted effort to remember exactly why the man of the hour was overdue for a promotion. Brigadier and Major Generals were here as well as one that attained to the coveted first, second and third silver stars. Young faces like himself as well as old. In the latter case, the best example was that of General Joaquin Montague. His seniority shone through not merely by the three silver stars he sported on his shoulder pads but also the mirror-smooth baldness hidden beneath his officer's cap. He looked good for someone pushing 70. There were few signs of his true age save for maybe the thick mutton chops that could have seen him mistaken for a member of Napoleon's admiralty. Maybe that's what he was going for. The former Navy captain turned lover of everything groundside was examining the text like a gentleman impressed. The only thing he was missing was a monocle on one eye, a cup of cabernet sauvignon in his left hand and a quill in his right.
Whereas Montague was the eldest of the gathering, Abajjé was far from the youngest. That honor fell to the officer sitting on the direct opposite side of the table from him. Major General Harris Hill was a rank higher and ten years younger than Abajjé. Barely into his 30s, his youth was evident in his strong sideburns which showed neither the signs nor willingness to make the switch from dark to gray. He perpetually wore a disagreeable look on his face as if he was ready for any and every argument, both real and imagined. That same disagreeable nature had reared its head for the past six months straight. Its target for the most part had been Abajjé, him as well as those on his side of the argument that had occupied them for half a year now.
Everyone who was currently at the table were up until only recently a part of a special and highly classified committee. Both its existence and purpose were so sensitive in fact that Abajjé doubted his great grandchildren would ever learn of it from the mouth of historians or himself, if he ever had children to begin with. They were among the few specially selected by HIGHCOM from the UNICOM personnel on Reach to oversee a special assignment. The 'assignment' really was nothing short of paramount given the times. He was surprised something so stupendously huge was handed down to him. After all, if all its descriptions were to be taken seriously, then the most important thing he might ever do with his life would be to organize the most significant cross-species kidnapping in the history of mankind.
Operation RED FLAG was not an easy affair to carry out. There were many variables at play. As such, neither was UNICOM's job of choosing which secondary units would be used in supporting the highest concentration of Spartans he had ever heard of.
The actual logistics of the operation were a nightmare. Everyone in the room insinuated as much as ONI's head, Admiral Margaret Parangosky, made a personal visit from her lair in Sidney to brief them on its existence and overall direction. To say its undergirding plan was 'dynamic' would have been an understatement.
Sending Navy forces to a world under attack by the Covenant was a familiar danger faced by most shipborne servicemen. Where it became extremely risky was to have one of those responding ships disable an enemy flagship carrier. That was already asking a lot of most able servicemen and women. However, the madness refused to stop there. Spartans would then be called on to board said ship and commandeer it. This was where the plan went from tentatively plausible to downright suicidal. Most disabled Covenant ships preferred overloading their own reactors and destroying themselves rather than allowing their vessels to fall into enemy hands. In a way it was like their own version of the Cole Protocol and served the same basic function of asset-denial. To ask the navy's premiere fighting force to board what could essentially at any moment become a ticking time-bomb, and their tomb, was surprising to say the least.
And it didn't stop there either.
Stopping a Covenant ship's crew from initiating their own Great Journey was one thing, commandeering and piloting that ship was another. Still, the operation called for it. Some 'specialist' would have to take said ship into the very heart of the Covenant, to their supposed floating capital of which Abajjé had only ever heard rumors. To cap off the most insane plan was a final stage where the Spartans would infiltrate this city, this High Charity, and kidnap one of the Covenant's High Prophets, the Hierarchs. From there they could force the Covenant into a truce thereby bringing an end to the war.
He wouldn't have believed HIGHCOM's Security Council seriously greenlighted the operation if they weren't already sitting in the room to hear its details. He wouldn't have believed it came from a sane mind had he not heard it straight out of the admiral's own mouth.
Parangosky assured them RED FLAG was going to be well-organized. She told them of the years of preparation that ONI had placed into its foundations, almost a decade. To everyone's shock, she went so far as to divulge a secret for which Abajjé was surprised he wasn't suicided after hearing it.
RED FLAG really began its preliminary preparations back in 2544 starting with the special infiltration intelligence named quite simply 'Mr. Green'. The navigational data the AI acquired from its time inside a Covenant ship called the Heart of Sacrifice was to be provided to RED FLAG's current mission specialist, the AI that would be flying the stolen carrier for the Spartans. When pressed by one Major General Hill on how they managed to get an AI onto a Covenant ship, and the major security breach this represented, Parangosky merely told him it was classified. Of course it was. When General Montague asked who this current mission specialist would be or what kind of ship they would use capable of knocking out a Covenant carrier, he got a similar non-answer. Abajjé expected no less from the CINCONI. If anyone decided which information was absolutely classified and which was not, it was the elder goddess of knowledge and ignorance herself.
What followed after the briefing was a dispute that saw the special committee torn clean in two. Everything was fine when they pointed out which Reach-bound Marine units were up to the task. Where things fell apart was in discussing the ODST question, specifically which shock troops battalion was best fitted for the job.
In the first few days they boiled their options down to those on Reach. Then it was narrowed down further between which were available and which were of the highest expertise. From there it devolved into a question of quality over quantity.
For quantity, they had the 1st Shock Troops Battalion under the command of a Major Antonio Silva. Silva was a veteran officer and an unusual one at that. Most battalions were commanded by lieutenant colonels at the least. However, the whittling down of the 1st's officership in battle after battle left only Silva standing. Given his familiarity with and capability of taking command, the battalion fell to him, all 1,200 ODSTs of its five companies.
'Five' was the opportune number there which gave the 1st an edge over their main competition, the 7th Shock Troops battalion under the command of Colonel Garrison. With the 7th, quantity changed hands with quality. They were a much more veteran battalion than the 1st with a higher mission success rate, overall survival rate and longer operational history. Their track record was a few decades lengthier than the 1st which gave them the edge in trustworthy performance. The only strike against them was quantity. Though a victory, Ballast witnessed a rare mass-casualty event for the battalion that left it bereaved of half of an entire company. Without a fully functional Delta, the 7th was subtracted to its usual Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Echo components. This left them comparatively undermanned as a result.
Not everyone was keen on sending an understrength battalion on the most important operation in humanity's history. Neither was everyone keen on sending a battalion with a pyrrhic track record. Abajjé fell along the lines of the former though not for any reason he made obvious. If he did expose his rationale, it would have meant expressing doubt about the operation as a whole. And oh did he doubt.
Parangosky or not, Operation RED FLAG was a stretch. Abajjé defended the use of Silva's 1st Battalion for the same reason he had called for the current meeting: worth and experience. Though not always explicitly tied together, there was a fine nexus between them in the shock troops community. ODSTs were like fine wine. If they weren't taken off the shelf too early, if they didn't die, but were allowed to ferment then they would age extremely well. The 7th Battalion was the best example of that and so was its colonel.
Abajjé was sure Montague would appreciate the parable and, perhaps indirectly, he did. The general supported the option of the 1st but more so for the sake of using a full force of ODSTs. The last to agree with them was Major General Himari Watanabe. She was Abajjé's peer and only a few years younger. Her story which she entrusted to few was probably why she sided with them. Being the daughter of the late ONI field officer, Major Akio Watanabe, she understood better than most when the minority of lives held more worth than the greater sum. The greater good sometimes meant fewer benefited from it in the short-run. She threw in her lot with them in the long-term hope that both battalions would benefit: the 1st would carry out their role in RED FLAG and the 7th would remain as one of the 105th's most handy units.
Major General Hill disagreed. In fact, he let them know as much for six months. He was of the opposite yet equally applicable view that the 7th's veterancy made them ideal. He backed up his claims with examples of the battalion working well alongside Spartans in various groundside engagements such as Miridem in '44 and Actium in '45. He won over two to his side. Brigadier General Helia Schneider was the first, never the most easily swayed albeit willing to hear out either side. Second was fellow Major General Andrei Horvath, a Marine-turned-Army man. Horvath added more weight to Hill's claims by expounding on his own experiences working with the 7th during the Battle of Miridem. All three were in favor of using Garrison's battalion to achieve the best possible outcome.
The committee was evenly divided. There was no telling when exactly HIGHCOM would commence RED FLAG. For that reason, neither of the two debated battalions were permitted to leave Reach until either the committee's time was up or they arrived at a decision. It was easier to secure the 7th however than it was the 1st who only had one and a half of their companies on Reach, about 400 troopers. The rest were swallowed up into an emergency task force bound for a besieged system before the halting order could come through. Since then they were yet to return from that campaign.
The lessening of the 1st's numbers did a number on Abajjé's arguments. So did the arrival of reinforcements for the 7th's eviscerated Delta Company which Garrison had hounded him for. Despite losing ground he refused to concede. So did Montague and Watanabe. To him, letting Hill have his way meant the possibility of the 7th suffering far greater casualties, the kind that would make what happened to Delta look like little more than foreshadowing. Who knew if the 105th, the whole of the ODSTs or even the UNSC could afford that. This war depended on reliable outfits like them and not letting them be lost to suicide missions that risked hastening humanity's defeat. The Spartans weren't in his power to dictate whether they went or not. If they were, his treatment for the 7th would've gone triply for them. But he didn't have a say. That was for HIGHCOM to decide and so with what authority he had he hoped to preserve what lives he could.
Neither side let up on the other until a tiebreaker was finally sought. It came from the very person who introduced them to the operation. In a video-call, Parangosky settled the matter in a way nobody quite saw coming. She chose Major Silva's 1st Battalion for the job. However, perhaps irritated by how long it took them to reach a decision, she also decided to take the battalion as it was. There would be no waiting for the rest of their ranks to return from the besieged system. They would go as they were.
"After all," She had said, "I don't see the need for more than 400. Any more than that and we risk slowing the Spartans down which is the opposite of what they need. They need speed but also power and versatility, and a small force like this one grants them that."
And so it was settled and the result of the last half year of their bickering came to naught. Still, in a way Abajjé had won. The 7th was spared. However, it also cost them months of inactivity. While there were sufficient battalions to take on the 105th's recent workload, there was no telling whether the worlds attacked in that span of time might have fared better if the 7th were deployed instead, like Fumirole. Ultimately, he was left with a bitter-sweet victory wrought by the work of his own inner bureaucrat. He had saved 1,200 lives potentially at the expense of millions more.
But this also served to bring him to today's agenda.
"You think he'll actually take it this time?" Hill asked from across the way.
"I'd hope so." Abajjé replied. "If not then we can always waylay him."
"Aren't we doing that now?" Schneider questioned. "We practically pulled him right as his battalion's heading to Cygnus. Was that wise?"
"Wise?" Montague said thoughtfully as he scrutinized a section of the CSV on 'New Constantinople'. "No, it might not be. However, we can use it. We didn't plan on New Jerusalem being attacked so soon but we can take the opportunity to do what Abajjé suggested."
Hill arched a brow. "And what was that again?"
"Separate him from his battalion for a while." Abajjé said. "It'll give him some breathing room, some time to think."
The conference room's intercom chimed and one of their attendants spoke. "Please be advised, the colonel has just passed security and his on his way."
Montague pressed a reply button under the desk. "Thank you." He released it and spoke more candidly. "Frankly, I'm tempted to think he's a hardcase."
"A hardcase, sir?" Abajjé asked.
"Mhm, the good kind. The type who you don't want to leave their position even though they're overqualified for it. They're the ones that do their job well, almost too well. They know it and they know that we know it." He scrolled down to another operation on the CSV. "He strikes me as a good man from what Abajjé's said of him and an even better commander from what I'm seeing here."
"He's solid, sir." Horvath said. "His troopers are some of the most squared away personnel I've run into in this war. They've personally saved my life and that of my whole division at one point."
"That confirms it." Schneider sighed. "So the question really is if he's willing to give that up."
"Not exactly." Watanabe corrected. "The real question is if we're willing to give that up. Are we?"
"He's capable." Horvath said. "The head on his shoulders is still working fine. I say if anyone's up for it, its him."
Hill shook his head. "Like I was saying for the last few months, he's got what it takes to stay on top of the fights he gets himself into, him and his whole battalion. If he gets replaced, who knows how good their leadership will be later. I'd say probably not as good as this. That would probably affect the quality of the 7th too. I'm not sold on this to be honest."
"For riches are not forever," Montague remarked with a religious intonation. "And doth the crown endure to every generation?"
Hill nodded. "Amen, sir. I'd say it doesn't."
"I agree." Schneider said. "We may do more harm than good. What do you think, Abajjé? After all, this was your idea first."
Abajjé didn't like the way the conversation was going and sought to change its direction. "He's a perfect pick. He's been in the service long enough to be overqualified for this position too. He's held it off for years and who knows the price the colonies have paid for it."
"Who knows." Montague echoed as he continued scrolling. "But I know what price the citizens of Paris IV paid for him staying in the same position: about 40,000 colonists saved from that god-awful siege. Sure, it was only 3% of the population, but in a situation like that, anything's better than zero."
"He's been pulling the trigger on Covenant forces for longer than most of the men and women under his command have been out of the womb." Hill declared. "And still going strong too. Why upset that now?"
Rather than Abajjé, Watanabe stepped in. "Because he might bring his expertise to thousands more. Imagine how things would be if every battalion in that division was run with the same efficiency, the same attention to detail. This is too big to let slip. He stands a good chance of saving more lives if he accepts than if he refuses. We should act now while we still have him here on Reach. We may not get this chance again."
And like that, the room was once more split down the middle. It was right before Abajjé needed them to be whole. Horvath was open to it. So was Watanabe. If he didn't have Parangosky to act as tiebreaker this time then he needed to make a tiebreaker out of the man himself. His direct agreement to the offer would settle it.
Interestingly enough, they didn't actually need him to agree to anything at all. They simply needed to promote him and inform him that they had done so. His input wouldn't have been needed if he were a regular commander. But he wasn't. He was too well decorated to ignore what he might have to say. Plus, the group was too divided for a basic stamp of approval on a CSV to decide the matter. Unlike most enlisted, the colonel's word would decide his own fate, the benefit of a lifetime of service.
The intercom chimed again and a new attendant spoke. "Please be advised, the colonel has arrived outside the door and is waiting for your permission to enter."
Montague pressed the reply button. "Let him in."
A moment later a section of the seamless wall slid apart as it became a door. The man of the hour stepped inside. Dressed in his ODST fatigues, he quickly ended his stride with a crisp salute.
"Welcome, Colonel Garrison." Montague said. "We hope you had a tranquil commute."
"It's always tranquil this far north, sir." Garrison replied as the entrance shut behind him.
"Right. I don't think we need to beat around the bush. I believe you have some idea of why it is we've called you here today."
"Is it a promotion, sir?"
The rest of the room perked up at his discernment. Montague smiled, visibly pleased. "That's correct."
"To which rank?"
"Brigadier General." Abajjé said almost impatiently. "Something that's been in the pipeline for you for a few years now."
"And you keep refusing it." Horvath added. "Before we ask you what you think, it would be better if we knew why it is you've previously refused the promotion. You've respectfully turned it down twice so far. I'm hoping this doesn't make the third."
Garrison smiled expectantly. "Do I have permission to speak freely, sir?"
Horvath glanced at Montague who gave him a nod of approval. "Go ahead, colonel. Speak your mind."
Garrison inhaled as he prepared to make his case. "Is this about taking command of the 105th Shock Troops Division?"
"That it is." Abajjé answered.
"Well, the reason I turned down prior offers was rather personal actually. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want to serve. I do. It's just I wish to keep doing so in my current capacities as a colonel. I fear a promotion would take that away from me."
"You have an attachment to your battalion, yes?" Watanabe queried. "A deep one I'd say judging by how long you've stayed with them."
"Correct, ma'am."
"And this has stopped you from wishing to move on to greater responsibilities?" Abajjé asked.
"Correct, sir."
"Then why not broaden your horizons? There's much you could convey to, say, your whole division in terms of knowledge and expertise."
"Respectfully, brigadier general, the knowledge and expertise you speak of, I only have a small fraction of it compared to others out there. There's plenty of talent besides me, younger than me, more reliable and with more of a future in the position. As for me?" Garrison shrugged. "I'm an old man. It might be too late for me. I'm so used to the battalion that I honestly don't know what I'd do if I was given charge of more than that. And if I am as reliable as you say, there's a good chance I won't stay that way for long, age and all that."
Abajjé quietly scowled. Garrison was good. The colonel was taking the very same point he was hoping to use about his expertise and turning it against him.
"I don't see that as fair." Montague argued. "I do believe I am ten years your senior or thereabout. Yet here I am still functional and I'm not the one dropping through the sky in an insertion pod. So imagine where you'll be at this age. You still have time, certainly."
Abajjé sat stumped. A second ago the general was expressing doubts about bringing Garrison to the next level. Was he suddenly playing devil's advocate or was he playing the middle like Schneider liked to do, testing the colonel to see where he'd ultimately make his decision.
Garrison's smile lessened slightly. "I wouldn't say that, sir. ODSTs are a bit different from others, not that I'm trying to sound high and mighty so please forgive me if I am. To make it to this age and still be in the field is a blessing that I can't say I've earned. Sadly, most don't make it this far. I'm glad I did, but I can't see myself going beyond the niche I've carved out for myself where I am. Perhaps it's because I'm lazy or unmotivated. I couldn't say for sure. What I can tell you with a degree of certainty is that there is no guarantee I'll be able to translate what I know from the 7th to the whole 105th. I could recommend a few others who probably can however. There's Colonel Hayes of the 10th Shock Troops and Colonel Taylors of the 22nd. Both are very versatile men. They would arguably be better fits than me."
Hill, Schneider and Montague shared a look that told Abajjé they were convinced. He was nearly convinced as well. The colonel had a way with words when he was given permission to speak them as he wished. Abajjé considered that their first mistake. They let Garrison plead his case. He sorely regretted that they had. If the colonel was a regular officer then they could've bypassed all this ceremony altogether. He felt on the verge of losing a golden opportunity. He tried a new strategy, a losing one but a means of testing the man's resolve.
"You recommend these colonels. That's fair. They may be worth consideration. However, if this promotion was given to you regardless, would you still carry out your duties with the same level of dedication that you demonstrate in your current position?"
Garrison turned to him. "Is that an order sir, because it sounds like one."
The others turned to him also.
"And what if it were? What would you say then?"
Garrison considered it and ended his contemplations with a dismissive shake of the head. "I wouldn't be able to say anything, sir. Orders are orders. Carrying them out has done me just fine all these years, mostly. However, some of my orders were the kind I questioned as I carried them out. I did not perform them as effectively as I otherwise could have because the reasoning behind them was not made clear to me. I even found myself agreeing when others dismissed or disobeyed them outright."
At that, the colonel shared a knowing glance with Horvath. The major general chuckled as he folded his arms over his chest. "This is a losing battle. I can see it clear as day. With a man like you, Garrison, we'd have to lay siege to Falchion before we got you to leave it. We'd have to send Spartans to pull you out and even then, you'd give them a hard time of it just because." He turned to Abajjé. "Abandon this crusade, Abajjé. You're wasting your time."
Abajjé said nothing. Inside he was scowling at the loss of yet another ally to Garrison's stubborn subtleties. He still had Watanabe. However, she was hardly a majority and the newfound pensiveness in her expression was concerning.
Abajjé was running out of allies so he played for his second objective: time. "Why don't you stay for a while, colonel? You can think it over here at the base. You'll never have so much time to be with your own thoughts again. It might be the first breather you get in years. I recommend you take it."
"A breather, sir? What's that?"
There was a minor laugh around the room.
"Precisely my point. It may or may not allow you a chance to weigh your options depending on how you use it. We have private quarters here. If the general is willing," He peered at Montague, "We could reconvene tomorrow morning. Whatever answer you give then would be final."
Montague thought it over. "It all depends on if the colonel is open to it."
"You want me to sleep on this?" Garrison noted. "I like the idea of a little vacation here as much as anyone. But what about my battalion? I'm sure they're getting ready to leave the system by now. If they go without me-"
"The Reach QRF won't be departing for Cygnus until it's received its full complement of men and material." Abajjé stated. "This won't be until tomorrow around noon. You'll have enough time to deliver an answer here and get back to your battalion."
There was silence for a while as Garrison mulled it over. "In that case...I won't mind a vacation. Viery's beautiful this time of year."
"Is that a definitive yes?"
Garrison nodded. "What time do you need me to be back?"
"Let's do 0800 Hours." Montague said. "That way we can still have time for coffee. Sounds good?"
"Yessir." Garrison agreed. "I'll be there. Moreover, I do not know where I'll be staying exactly. Does anyone have directions?"
"One of our attendants will direct you to your private quarters for the day." Abajjé said. "Think on it, Garrison. Think hard."
"Will do, sir."
The seam reappeared in the walls and they slid apart again. Garrison saluted, pivoted smartly and walked out, following an attendant that led him back out into the base. Abajjé leaned back in his chair, watching anxiously as the walls closed.
"You're a bit desperate, aren't you?" Hill chided.
Abajjé grinned at him. "These are desperate times. Desperate times call for desperate measures." He nodded after Garrison. "And guys like him are the desperate measures."
"We'll see what he says tomorrow but I wouldn't bank your hopes on it." Montague said, and with that, he adjourned the meeting.
:********:
Garrison was escorted back outside. The attendants brought him to one of the minor entrances that conjoined with Sword Base's central bridgeway. There they left him to the pair of MPs standing guard. He remembered them from his last visit. They also remembered him which was why they quickly saluted.
"I see you boys haven't forgotten." Garrison chuckled.
"Thank you, sir." Bisenti said. "We've been sticking with it like you said."
"We'll escort you the rest of the way to your quarters." Gonzalez added.
"Sounds good. Lead the way."
Bisenti and Gonzalez went slightly ahead of him though they never stayed more than a step or two away. Their weapons were held at the ready, their guarded posture vigilant. Secured and secretive base or not, they were making sure to pay courtesy to his rank and perhaps a little more than that. He held a deal of respect for their discipline. The feeling seemed to be mutual.
They took him across the central bridgeway to the base's eastern wall which doubled as a building. The housing within served as barracks for Sword's security contingent. They reached the opposite platform and passed into the wall's main entrance. Aside from a similar setup to the other entrance, this one sported several corridors running perpendicular to the main atrium. MPs strolled through the upper and lower floors. Several of them on the upper floor saw the group come in. They spotted the colonel and immediately stopped what they were doing to salute. He appreciated that. Perhaps his friends here had taught their comrades a thing or two.
Bisenti and Gonzalez turned down the closest passage on the second floor with a sign above it that read: 'Officers & Guests Only'. Doors of an unexpectedly decorative mahogany lined the walls. They were a noticeable change from the base's prior patterns of sterile white, gray and silver. They really must have been for officers and guests only, certainly not something the average soldier could hope to set foot in.
Bisenti stopped them at a door near the middle of the passage. He gestured the colonel towards a finger scanner next to it. Garrison pressed his thumb to the screen and listened to it buzz and chime. The door hissed open in response.
Inside was a space akin to a compact studio apartment, an all-in-one bedroom, living room and dining room with a bathroom hidden behind a door at the back. It was a decent setup, a nice place to hold over for officers or guests in transit. Garrison stepped inside, whistling at the amenities. "This is all mine?"
"Yessir." Gonzalez replied. "As you saw, your fingerprints are already in the room's recognition system so you'll be free to come and go as you please."
Bisenti pointed to the small fridge in the corner. "It's all stocked with everything you'll need for the day. You can take it easy if you like. Be sure to press the intercom if you need anything else."
Garrison nodded. "You know what, I think I will take it easy. Thank you, gents. That'll be all."
The pair saluted and walked out, letting the door shut behind them.
The colonel took a second to breathe everything in. He checked on the fridge and was delighted at the resources he had on hand. He investigated the bathroom, scrutinized the dining room and stopped at the living room. There he considered plopping down on the couch and using the display projector to tune into Waypoint. He reconsidered it however as he felt the exhaustion gnawing at his thoughts. He hadn't had much sleep in the past day or two thanks to the preparations he had to make for the trip to Sword Base. His own willpower was barely keeping him going. With the meeting out of the way, or rather the first of two, he turned for the room's single bed.
He would take a nap now. He would maybe go outside later and strike up a conversation with Bisenti and Gonzalez as he was want to do when his chauffeur, Badger-4-1, was late in coming.
He threw himself onto it and felt a satisfying jiggle from the mattress. The pillows were temptingly soft and lulled his eyes shut. He decided to leave his boots and fatigues on. He didn't want to go through the trouble of throwing them back on if he was only going down for half an hour. And it was his bed. Who was going to tell him to do otherwise?
A voice called to him, distant at first then becoming gradually closer.
"Gary...Gary...GARY!"
The shout was right in his ears. His eyes shot open and he sat up in his bunk, incidentally knocking his head on the one above. "Huh, wha-, what?"
He turned to his left and found himself looking at a wall. There was a small mirror there, his. His reflection stared back at him. His skin, smooth, was missing some of its luster thanks to not being out in the sun for a while. Too much time in his armor. His dirty blonde hair, once at a respectful buzzcut, was high and rumpled from his sleep. A bad case of bedhead.
He rubbed his eyes and remembered someone had called him. He turned to his right, to the speaker and found instead another wall, this one of black and gray. It took him a second to realize he was looking at an ODST shirt, not a poster, with gray pants and the usual fatigues. Except the man wearing them was unusually large. He always was. He loved to use it whenever and wherever he got into a fight with another trooper, typically those he goaded into it. Garrison watched the tall and muscular figure bend down to come face to face with him. He was a darker man with a rectangular jaw and menacing eyebrows that were scrunched together in mock confusion. The ODST Garrison recognized as Corporal Jonathan Gadston or simply as 'Gad' shook his head disapprovingly.
"What do you think you're doing, Gary?"
Garrison shrugged. "I don't know, sleeping? What about you?"
"Me?" Gad asked cynically. "I'm having the most wonderful evening, or at least I was until I came over here to try and figure out what's going on with you."
"What do you mean?"
He pointed to Garrison's feet and the boots that were still on them. He pointed next to the MA5B assault rifle lying on his bunk. "Want to tell me what those are doing there, trooper?"
"Well, these are my boots." Garrison explained. "I can keep them safe and sound if I leave them on." He pointed to the rifle. "That's just in case any Innies show up."
Gad arched a brow. "On Reach?"
"Yeah. I mean hey, look what they did to those folks on that ship. What was it called again? Ugh-, yeah, National Holiday. Nobody saw that coming but that didn't stop them from pulling it off."
Gad raised his other brow. "At Falchion?"
"You see, that's the exact kind of attitude that could leave us with our pants down if the Innies actually did show up."
Both Garrison and Gad rounded on the next man that came walking to his bunk. His stride was more of a waltz really, a carefree soul that wandered over to them. The casual saunter of Specialist Christopher Sasso or 'Chris' was a sign he was either going to defend Garrison or he was going to pass on by, merely poking his head into the argument for the sake of screwing around. Compared to Gad he was almost pale, a vampire of a man. Rather than hiding himself from the overhead lights however, he only hid his burgeoning myriad of non-regulation tattoos beneath his fatigues. Yet the black markings of some still poked out from his shirt collar and sleeves. They became much more visible as he pointed an accusatory finger at Gad.
"How can you come over here to bust our boy's balls when he's got a point? If the Innie's can turn a luxury liner into a bonfire right on our doorstep, then there's really no telling anymore when or where they'll show up. You have to be smart, Gad. Tactical foresight like that is key."
Garrison pointed to him. "What he said."
Gad inspected him. "You drunk?"
Chris shook his head. "Not today. Not right now anyway." He briefly peered elsewhere in the room. "You know that you-know-who doesn't like me knocking back glasses on-base."
"What do you want?"
"For you to not pick a fight with somebody in here every other second. Geeze my guy, take a break, get a girl, have some fun."
"I got a girl." Gad said defensively.
"Who, your mom?" Chris grinned.
"No, yours." Gad grinned back.
"That's funny, I don't remember selling her services to you."
"Oh, I forgot, she said it was on the house."
The two of them stared the other down for a moment. Chris was the first to break. Gad was next. A muffled cackle here, a muted giggle there and before long a bout of roaring laughter broke out between them.
Gad patted him on the shoulder. "Good thing Izzy wasn't here to hear that or she'd be giving us a hard time of it by now."
"Exactly what I was thinking." Chris snickered. "Tell you what, say that in front of her and I'll pay you."
"You crazy?"
"I'm an ODST. My sanity's not a job requirement."
"Good point. How much?"
"50 credits."
Gad whistled. "Tempting offer but not tempting enough."
"Can't do more than that, sorry."
"Then no deal."
"I'll do it." Garrison said. "I'd do it for free too just to see her reaction."
"Free, you say?" Chris quipped. He grinned malevolently as he walked off, burying his hands in his pockets. "Well go right on ahead. You get a sore spot on the side of your face and I get some entertainment around here."
Gad's attention returned to him. "Back to what I was saying, Gary. Boots off, gun stored, get it done."
"What? What about what Chris said?"
"Which was exactly what you wanted to hear."
"But I want to stay ready."
Gad blinked. "No, you're just lazy. That training exercise was a whole hour ago, Gary. All you've got in that thing is TTR rounds. I don't know what you expect to do against Innies with those other than convince them you're the easiest target. Take a lesson from the sarge, get it together and get your gear where it needs to be."
Gad left him then. As he moved out of the way, a good deal of light from the ceiling met Garrison's eyes again. He was in the Dante Building on the floor that served as 1st Platoon's quarters. He heard the squads other than Foxtrot chatting and moving about within the sea of bunks and steel frames. But he couldn't see them. The labyrinth was always too dense for that. What he could see however was the man sitting on a bottom bunk a few steps away from his own.
The man sat upright with his back to him. He was sturdy, built strong like any ODST so that he looked like a honed human-weapon. The only thing Garrison could see as it related to his face was the buzzed dark hair on the top of his head. He looked like he was working hard on something, wiping perhaps or scrubbing. What he was doing precisely Garrison wasn't sure. Then he saw the different components of armor scattered across his bunk. They were disassembled and yet he could recognize each piece even in isolation. His training had drilled each component's function into his memory so that he knew it better than his own body. Altogether they comprised major parts of an ODST's battle dress uniform.
As he scanned the items, Garrison saw the collar of his BDU and spotted the writing on it. It was so small that he could only just make it out: 'Property of SGT. N. Iris'.
The sergeant, his squad-leader, was doing his own thing in quiet. Garrison was sure he'd overheard the conversation but he hadn't said a word to suggest he did. He continued what he was doing as if he hadn't.
"Hey sarge, you okay over there?"
Sergeant Iris perked up but didn't turn around. "You need something, Gary?" He asked, his voice even but not entirely focused on the question itself.
"No, sir. I could ask you the same thing though. You look like you're thinking hard about something."
There was a pause as Iris put greater effort into what he was cleaning. "Not something," He paused again for another concerted effort. "Someone."
"Ah, your folks?"
"That's classified."
"What, you missing them already, sir?"
"Classified."
"You're worried if they're okay? What, what is it?"
"What did I say the last time? I'll say it again: classified."
"Classifi-, what are you, ONI?"
Despite him not turning around, Garrison sensed his sergeant smile as he replied. "Why do you want to know so bad?"
"'I'm curious, sir."
"Curious?"
"Yup. As Foxtrot's psychiatrist, it's my job to be curious what everybody else is thinking."
"A psychiatrist, huh? Who gave you that job?"
"The captain."
"Oh?" Iris held up what he was working on to examine it against the light. It was a section of his BDU's shoulder pauldron. "I'll be sure to ask him when it was we made that position."
"You're evading my question, sir. Is everything alright?"
Iris put the piece aside and picked up another pauldron component to work on. "To be honest, no, but I hardly see that as any of your business."
"It is my business" Garrison insisted. "Squad psychiatrist, remember?"
"I remember." There was quiet for 30 long seconds as he dealt with his armor. Finishing that part of the pauldron, he checked it in the light and gave a pleased exhale, yet Garrison could hear the worry before he spoke. "I've got a few things on my mind. That's it really."
"Is it Mrs. Iris?"
"No-no, she's fine."
Gad suddenly reappeared. For all his bulk, he could be amazingly stealthy. He leaned against the other side of Iris's bunk, giving Garrison the evil eye. "Are you trying to get the sarge talking just to stay out of doing what I told you?"
"Probably but it's fine." Iris said, waving him off. "Let him be. He's got me going now."
"Can I ask what about, sir?"
Iris stopped cleaning. With a sigh, he said; "My kid."
Gad turned to him. "Duncan?"
He nodded. "His birthday's coming up. I've been trying to figure out what to get him for weeks now. I have the credits. I just don't have the imagination to guess what it is he'd want. What do you guys think? A souvenir or a glass bobble maybe? I don't know."
"How about a toy?" Gad asked. "He's a kid, right? Makes sense."
Iris shook his head. "No, you don't get it. He's not a normal kid. Last time I went back, Lian had to get me to convince him to stop jumping out of trees."
"Trees? Why?"
Iris laughed as he remembered. "He wants to practice for using a drop pod."
"He wants to be an ODST?" Garrison questioned.
Gad chuckled under his breath. "Like father like son."
"Yeah, that's pretty cool sarge."
"It stops being cool when you find out how many times he's sprained his ankles. I worry about him sometimes. Right now, I've got another worry. This is going to be his first birthday where I won't be there to see it. He hasn't seen me in a while and I want this present to be special. He doesn't do toys as much anymore so what else is there?"
Garrison thought about it. A terrible idea came to mind that he wanted to play for kicks. "How about a rock?"
"...A rock? You shootin' straight with me, Gary?"
Gad glared at him. "Can't be."
Garrison held up his hands defensively. "I'm serious. Get one from some place he's never been. Better yet, get one from a drop zone we land in. Once you hit the ground you can throw it in your pocket and ship it back home. It'd be like a souvenir he can keep to feel like he's gotten a real taste of the Helljumper experience, like he gets to be there with you, you know? And make sure to tell him you got it from a drop zone too. That's what'll really sell it."
Gad looked like he was ready to tell him off but the sergeant's laugh stopped him. "Gary, anybody ever tell you you're a genius?"
"No, sir."
"Good. They don't want to lie to you."
Garrison smirked and laughed as did Gad. Their laughter petered out as a commotion deeper in the room briefly drew their attention.
Iris calmed down and sighed again. "I'll think about it. I mean hey, a rock is a hell of a gift to give a kid. Think he'll appreciate it?"
"He loves you, right boss?"
"Well, I'd hope so. He says as much."
"Then he'll appreciate it. It's better than nothing, right?"
Iris considered it for a moment and laughed a little more. "Yeah, I'll give you that. It's better than nothing."
The commotion grew louder. There were gasps and other expressions of shock. Garrison peeked through the sea of bunks and saw troopers from the other squads running past. They gravitated to each other's bunks across the floor, showing others something on the screens of their datapads. Whatever it was, it elicited similar reactions from their comrades.
"What's going on?" Garrison asked.
Gad shrugged. "Don't know. Must be interesting though."
Chris reappeared, racing around the bunks in order to reach them. Garrison noticed he'd somehow managed to get paler than he was when he walked off. He also noticed the datapad he was clutching in his hand. He gripped it tight, as if it were a grenade ready to go off without the extra pressure.
Chris came to a stop between Gad and Garrison. He was out of breath. "Guys you gotta-...you gotta see this."
Gad surveyed him. "What is it? And why do you look so out of it? You just jogged across the room, not across the base."
"It's big." Chris explained. "Really big. Jesus, we're screwed."
Garrison felt fear pulse through his veins. It wasn't like his squadmate to be in a panic like this. Not even discovering primed IEDs at armed checkpoints on Eridanus II made him act like this. Garrison hopped out of his bunk and stood up, eyeing the datapad. "What is? What's big?"
Chris showed them the pad.
A video was playing on the screen. At first, Garrison wasn't sure what he was seeing. It was grainy footage from a camera feed. The only part of it he could see clearly was the sole video source captioned in the corner: '(Battlegroup 4) CMA - Heracles'.
The video slowly gained in visual quality. Garrison made out the curving surface of a planet viewed from close to its atmosphere. Perhaps an exoatmospheric view.
But there must have been a problem with the camera because there were multiple lens flares. He was almost going to chalk it up to a faulty device when he realized there were none of the typical scatter points or refractions. The video feed made a noticeable increase in quality and the surface resolved more clearly. He then saw that they were not lens flares at all.
They were rings.
Fiery rings of what looked like orange-red magma were carved into the surface in geometric patterns, scarring the land as well as the oceans...or what were once oceans. The clouds were a baleful bronze and the surface of the planet glowed. The scale of it suddenly registered and Garrison experienced a new dimension of fear he never thought possible. If the whole of the Csaba Mountain range were there it would be nothing more than a speck in the landscape of destruction. Without meaning to, his expression began to mirror that of Chris and Gad: pure horror.
The magnification increased dramatically to focus on different regions. Doing so gave Garrison the best real-world idea he ever saw of what hell looked like. Cities came into view. Cities on fire. Molten seas surrounded them and surged through them while buildings, or the skeletons thereof, leaned at perilous angles as if they were slowly sinking into them. There were no signs of life. Even the areas away from the major population centers were torched and desolate.
"My God," Gad whispered. "What is this?"
"There's more." Chris said grimly.
The feed eventually changed direction, turning towards the northern pole of the planet. The view zoomed in again and centered on an object before resolving further. Garrison couldn't believe his eyes. There was a blue whale floating above the north pole. It was the closest thing he could think to compare it to. He reconsidered. Was it a manta ray? A jellyfish? In space? A second look made him see it more as a species of the aquatic horrors native to the deepest depths of Earth's oceans. He gradually noticed the smooth surfaces and angular constructions of its frame which fully suspended what remained of his unbelief.
It was a ship.
An alien ship. Very, very alien.
It floated peacefully for a while. Then there was a flash of blue, followed by several more. What looked like teardrops of blue fire flew out from it and shot towards the source of the feed as well as elsewhere. A barrage of archer missiles was launched. They traced smokey patterns across space and converged on the alien vessel. Few ever made it to their target. Most were cut down by lines of purple energy that lanced out from the ship to destroy them. Those that made it impacted the hull. At least he thought they did. However, a distortion of energy surrounding the ship flickered into being, a shield which stopped the missiles from making contact. MAC rounds were tried next. He saw three strike the ship and knew there could be no less than three human ships firing at it. This too failed. The shield took a salvo big enough to tear apart an Insurrectionist fleet and held.
By then the teardrops of energy had reached their targets. While most went off-screen, he saw a few of them strike somewhere close to the camera. There was shaking, rumbling. Fires blew out from what was likely the hull. There were other explosions afar off, out of view but much brighter, possibly the other ships. Within moments a rift in space was opened. The ship with the video source, the Heracles, shot into slipspace. The feed ended and so did the video.
An unearthly quiet resumed between the members of Squad Foxtrot.
"There was a-...a leak from the Colonial Military Administration." Chris finally said with the slow deliberateness of a man recovering from shock. "I bet ONI and DCS are going to be all over this if they aren't already."
"Forget the CMA." Gad hissed. "Forget ONI, DCS, whatever. What was that?"
Chris licked his lips. He choked out an answer with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Apparently, they're called the...'Covenant'."
"The what?"
"The Covenant. That's what they call themselves."
"What kind of name is that?"
Chris glowered at him. "I don't know, why don't you go ask them yourself. That is if they don't burn you before you get close like they did these poor souls here."
"Th-, that's a colony?" Garrison queried, feeling out of breath. He realized he hadn't breathed for much of the video.
Chris shook his head. "It was a colony."
"Which world is this?" Gad asked, hiding none of his trepidation from his voice.
"Harvest. Epsilon Indi system. It's pretty far out."
Garrison got another eyeful of the carved-up planet as the video looped."...Not far enough. Hey Sarge, you should take a look at-"
To Garrison's amazement, and subsequently Chris' and Gads', their sergeant was not paying attention to them or what was playing on the pad. He was totally invested in wiping down the breastplate of his BDU on his lap. Chris walked around to the other side of his bunk and offered him the pad. "Sir, this is important. Me and the boys were just talking about it. We think you should have a look too."
Iris took the pad and held it out in front of him with one hand. With the other he continued cleaning his breastplate as he played the video. Garrison wished he saw the look on his face. He couldn't since his back stayed to him the whole time. He never saw his posture change or slacken as he observed the burned planet, as the alien ship appeared or as it opened fire. He remained unchanged. However, he had slowly stopped cleaning. Soon the video was over. Iris didn't immediately give the pad back. It took the video replaying halfway through its length and Chris asking if he was okay before he handed it back.
The squad watched attentively while he laid his breastplate aside. It was finished, sparkling clean. He reached under his bunk and pulled out his MA5B assault rifle from underneath. Garrison was surprised. First at the fact he was able think of anything else after the video, second at what he was seeing. The sergeant hadn't secured his own rifle, an act of 'laziness' Gad had just finished wringing him out for. One of the benefits of being a noncom, he thought, was that other noncoms lower in rank couldn't tell them off for minor infractions.
Iris examined the rifle. He checked that it was empty before gradually field stripping it. The rifle's prominent barrel shroud, bolt carrier group and charging handle among other pieces were methodically pried from their housing and placed on the bunk. He didn't stop until the weapon was a shadow of its former self, little more than a barrel and its non-detachable components. He took out a bottle of gun lube and began treating the weapon one piece and one wipe at a time.
Garrison wasn't certain what was going on. From the look of the others, neither were they. Hoping to figure it out, he coughed beseechingly. "So ugh, what's your personal philosophy on aliens, sarge?"
"No philosophy, just expectations." Iris said in a surprisingly calm tone. "I figured they were out there, that there was only a certain amount of time before we bumped into something in the stars other than us. I figured they might do something like this too, declare war I mean. They might be aliens but we used to be aliens to each other back when we were stuck on Earth. One alien killed another back then too, whether it was with a rock, a sword or a rifle. This is just a repeat of that with bigger guns."
"Bigger stakes too I'd say" Gad butted in.
"And you'd know all about that since you're an Earth-boy, right sir?" Garrison nervously joked.
"Indeed, I would. I guess we know where we're going next."
"And where's that?"
"Where else?" Iris took a moment to complete the treatment of each individual component then reassembled the weapon with unbridled speed. When it was finished, he gave a test-pull of the charging handle which slid into place with a resounding clack. "We're going to pay'em back for the home they just stole from those people. Wherever they go, we go."
Garrison was silent again. He turned to the others. He saw they were caught off guard too but found that there was a resolve growing behind their once defeated stares. They said nothing. However, they stood in quiet agreement.
Garrison took another look at Iris or really his back since he never turned around.
He blinked. When he did, he felt himself returning to full consciousness. He opened his eyes again.
He was still in the guest room at Sword Base.
He hadn't slept at all. Instead, he had wavered in a twilight zone between consciousness and sleep, the place where old memories so often love to sneak in. One certainly had. He looked right and saw no giant corporal waiting to chew him out for wearing his boots in his bed. He didn't see Chris either or Sergeant Iris. However, he could still see them at moments like these, moments of peace.
He got out of his bed figuring plenty of time had passed. He went out the door and left for where he knew Bisenti and Gonzalez would be, thinking of a few good conversation starters along the way.
The idea of taking the rank of brigadier general was too far removed from his thoughts for him to give it the contemplation Abajjé wished. He was too wrapped up in his memories of his old days in the 7th, wrapped up in his duties to the battalion, to care for what others wanted him to care for. They were his friends, his family, his home, and he was reluctant to so much as ponder the thought of leaving them if not downright against the idea of considering it altogether.
Symptomata - Symptoms