Chapter 51 – Una Res Plus
August 23rd, 2552 - (20:24 Hours - Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach
Viery Territory, New Alexandria
:********:
Night had fallen fast over New Alexandria.
Epsilon Eridani's gaze was almost gone, reduced to little more than a minor glow on the edge of visibility. The light was steadily being overwhelmed by a pinkish purple atmosphere that became less purple and pinker the closer one looked to the horizon.
The sun was only just beginning to disappear for the day when the rain came down, arriving as a mild drizzle from the darkening skies overhead.
With it came the familiar blanket of fog that rolled in on the easterly winds, part of a well-established routine of meteorological phenomena. It did the scarred city a favor, submerging most of the skyscrapers in a sea of haze so that nothing could be seen above a few hundred meters. Nothing except towering shadows and the fast-moving silhouettes of random aircraft. There was an occasional flash of light above the veil of rain clouds that hung high over New Alexandria. Something similar happened within the veil of fog that had come to divide the ground from the taller variety of metropolitan forestry. The first case was often followed by a rumble of thunder. The second, however, was more often followed by a trickle of metal debris, pieces of wreckage that fell from the on and off engagements scattered across the airspace.
Things were quiet for the most part, however. Quieter than they had been in days.
Even given everything else around him, Duncan could appreciate that. The natural ambiance of gunfire and explosions were still there but they were too far off to be of any concern. What had come to take their place was the interweaving clamor of raindrops that dinged off his helmet and slapped the ground in hisses of steam, so much steam that at times he could barely see his own boots. His feet were regularly lost beneath the ankle-deep layer of evaporation that covered the western hills from end to end. Wisps of steam curled skyward where the evening precipitation reverted to gas upon impact with the tar-like splotches that covered the grass. The aftermath of the corvette's bombardment had stalled some time ago into a dead landslide of charred matter. It caused the entire sector to hiss with heat as if an army of unseen serpents had come to invade. Within the frozen waves of dirt and grime that dotted the hills things jutted out from the rubble, the glimmering mouth of a plasma pistol here, a fatigue covered leg there and anything and everything in between.
The environment was littered with sights that it was best not to look at for long. There were dented guns, busted equipment, burnt things that were too deprived of muscle and bone to be recognizable, all of them belonging to UNSC personnel and Covenant alike. The rain was causing the less vitrified portions of the landscape to become muddy. Spent gas masks and holed helmets came sliding and clattering down the quickly liquifying slopes. The indicator lights of point defense gauntlets glimmered like green eyes in the hot fog as their power cells began to die. Rifle barrels budded up awkwardly from the ground like the roots of purged shrubs. Often beside them were the smoldering stumps of decapitated trees that sometimes weren't trees at all but slumped over bodies that created strange silhouettes in the distance.
Human corpses sat in collapsed dugouts where the dirt had covered them up to their brows, weapons clutched in their hands with vice grips that clung on even in death. Others lay half crawling out of trenches subsumed by the oncoming rubble that had been blasted outward by the corvette's salvos. They were joined by the tattered frames of Covenant troops, many of which had died where they lay, many more of which the mud had carried down the slopes, away from where they had been killed on the hilltops. The remains of the enemy were in even higher concentrations along the paths leading between the hills. There they lay on gutted stomachs, bullet-riddled backs and eviscerated sides, resembling once thriving ant trails that had since been found and exterminated.
They weren't alone. Their remains were further joined by the scores of Warthogs and Scorpions that had been reduced to blackened skeletons and vaporous specters, their flames only just petering out. Many of them had slid down from the tops of the hills and had come to occupy the many slopes. Gravity still tugged at those wrecks that hadn't settled in place. Some inched further down every now and again with groaning jerks, bringing the bodies with them of the men and women that lay headfirst against their wheels or sprawled over their treads. The fractured fuselages of fallen Banshees likewise littered the area. Their curved husks lay at the end of long impact scars or in the middle of craters, a testament to the battle that had unfolded in the air.
Beyond the hills themselves, two large fires still burned. Duncan couldn't see the flames directly. However, their defiant blue glow was more than visible against the backdrop of the rain. The Scarabs from earlier would take a while longer to have their blazing wrecks extinguished. Out of everything else around him, they had the most combustible material to work with.
It was a landfill of the dead; a cemetery where whatever part of the body hadn't been buried or burned to ash served as the gravestone. In many cases it was the only way to tell that anyone or anything was down there.
The worst part was the faces.
He could care less for the frozen screams on those of the enemy, but he couldn't take looking at those of the soldiers for long. The last words that might have come out of their mouths were written into the muscle of their countenances, sharp grimaces, gritted teeth, eyes squeezed so tight that their foreheads were still creased. He would sometimes think a few of them were still alive. The idea was usually dismissed a second later with a glance at the scorch marks burrowed into their armor or the spikes lodged in their breastplates that had long since cooled. The worst ones were those that looked like they really were alive regardless of their wounds. Their mouths were wide open as if they were in the middle of shouting their next order, as if dirt wasn't pouring out of their lips from where the ground had half-consumed them.
He struggled not to think of the few pictures he'd seen in high school of the trench warfare practiced in one of Earth's old wars. The World Wars, he remembered. That's what they called them then. 'World Wars'. He always thought it was a funny name really. Somehow, he couldn't help a morbid amazement with the idea that at one point they were the pinnacle of the concerns of ancestors whose names he didn't know, concerns that they would lose one world, one solitary planet to a single, all-out conflict.
And he envied them for it.
Something about it sounded so relieving, to lose everything once and for all, and not have to deal with it again and again and again, world by world, planet by planet.
He envied them for it.
Then again, he suspected why those wars had been seen as so terrible. Back then, Earth was all humanity had to its name. Even Luna was just a twinkle in some bureaucrat's eye, nothing more. How long, he wondered, before that was once again the case.
A part of him almost wished mankind had called it quits on Earth. Maybe then they would have never had to find out how awful the galaxy actually was.
There was nothing that could be done for the dead. Nothing aside from a basic recovery detail, of which there were dozens currently roving the hills. Squad-sized recovery teams of soldiers combed the area for casualties. They stooped down to grab the more easily accessible of their fallen. They carried the corpses between themselves towards the collection points that were established beneath the starport's veranda. For those that were a bit more 'entrenched' in their old positions, someone was always close at hand to pull out an entrenching tool and start digging. However, a few of the searchers had broken away from their groups. The incidental loners among their number stood statuesque over some of the bodies as looks of wide-eyed recognition dawned on grime-soaked faces.
Duncan had gone out into the rain with the rest of 1st Platoon. Reznik, Zack and Renni were with him. The others had broken off into similar sized teams and were out and about doing the same grim work.
He was making his way along the base of one of the hills. He stopped just short of tripping when his boot hit something hard. He looked down and found another boot touching his own, albeit from an odd, sideways angle. Its owner was oriented the same way, although he couldn't see most of them by virtue of their having been buried in the muddy hillside.
"Hey, I got one." He called out over the drumming of the rain.
Reznik was the closest to him.
Further up the hill, Zack nodded down to Whiskey's demolitionist while he and Renni made for another body. "All yours, pal."
Reznik eased himself back down the incline, fighting to keep his feet from slipping out from under him. "How deep?"
"Up to the heels. Doesn't look like it'll be that hard to pull them out though, not with the two of us."
Reznik skidded down the last half meter and caught himself on the landing. "Man, I hate this."
"You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn't. I'll take the right; you take the left."
"Got it."
Duncan reached down and got a firm grip on the right foot while Reznik grabbed ahold of the left. They pulled together. The mud gave way surprisingly easily and sloshed down over the BDU of the corpse as they drew it out into the open.
One second, the two of them were getting an eyeful of who they had recovered. The next, they were dropping her legs and back-pedaling as fast as they could in order to give her a wide berth.
Beneath the brim of a shattered helmet, the soldier's bangs were matted across her pale face. One eye was more swollen shut than the other, but Duncan was far more concerned with what she'd been holding. Her hands were clasped together on top of her breastplate as if she'd prepared herself for her own funeral. Instead of flowers, however, he could see through her fingers to the frag grenade caged within. At a glance, he could tell that the safety pin was long gone.
Duncan did the same as Reznik in making sure he was well out of the blast radius. "Think it's a dud?"
"She's been dead for at least a couple hours. Has to be."
"Uhuh...so, you want to do the honors?"
"There're no honors to be done. It might not have gone off, but if we handle her wrong, there's still a chance that dud could stop being a dud. My theory is she bled to death and decided to boobytrap herself just before, maybe to make sure the Brutes didn't get their hands on her. Guess it worked."
"A little too well." Duncan added. "Any ideas?"
"Yeah," Reznik sighed, offering up a reluctant shrug. "I don't see a way of taking her out without her taking us out. I say we leave her as is. I'm all about getting our guys back home but I'm not about to get myself blown up for it."
"Aren't you EOD?"
Reznik side-eyed him. "Does it look like I have the gear to survive a frag to the face if that thing goes off?"
"...Point taken."
Reznik looked around, fixing on a nearby recovery team trying to dig out a pair of cadavers from a collapsed fox hole.
"Hey guys, keep clear of this one, alright!? She's loaded, frag grenade!"
Duncan saw a few nods, even a wary "copy that" from the commanding sergeant, but nothing more. The other team quickly returned to their work, not sparing so much as a second longer worrying about those they couldn't recover.
He couldn't blame them. He took one last look at the body then reached in and carefully got ahold of her dog tags. A cautious tug popped the articles free of her neck. He pocketed them and went on his way.
It didn't take longer than a few seconds for them to stumble across another body. Whether it was originally a fox hole or a crater, he couldn't say for sure. Whatever it was didn't matter, however, because it had simply been turned into one of many small pools of dirty water scattered across the area. The next corpse lay within it. The soldier's back rested against the wall of the hole, head tilted, an arm hanging out over the rim while everything below the breastplate remained submerged. The man almost looked like he was enjoying himself in a sauna. He was far too burnt, however, to even be enjoying a breath of air. His skin was scorched to a crispy texture. The scent of barbecued flesh hung thick in the air. It overwhelmed the naturally earthy scent drawn out by the rain and grew sickeningly pungent the closer they got to it.
Coming to stand above the corpse, Duncan took one look at the water below and shook his head. "I'll take the arms."
"You know, I'm starting to think you're taking the easier jobs on purpose." Reznik said as he ventured a tentative foot into the crater and plopped down inside.
Duncan gently took the arms in hand, shrugging as he did. "Perks of seniority."
Reznik stooped down and reached into the water. "I swear, I'm bullying any new guys we get from here on-..."
Duncan noticed when he stopped rummaging around. "What's up?"
Reznik took a moment longer before standing back up, pulling up something long. With so much water dripping off it, the thing was so mangled that Duncan had to single out the knee and shin guards before he recognized it as a leg.
Reznik shot him a questioning look that he answered with a slow shake of his head, prompting the demolitionist to slowly lower the severed limb back into the water. He waded closer to the body and grabbed what he could on the other end.
Duncan raised a brow. "Ready?"
"For this? No."
"Three...two..."
With a grunt, both of them lifted the corpse into the air. More water dripped from the back as well as from where the waistline of the soldier's BDU gave way to raw meat. It looked like something big had taken a bite out of him. Whether it was a plasma mortar or a shark attack, the damage made either cause seem equally plausible.
Duncan backed up and gave Reznik the room to clamber back onto level ground. They turned towards the starport and started walking. They were careful to mind the arms and legs of the Grunts and Jackals sprawled across their path, occasionally stepping on them and driving the once hostile cadavers deeper into the mire. Duncan maintained a close watch over his shoulder to make sure they maneuvered around Brutes altogether. They were much too big to do otherwise.
Bits of their charge's entrails swung about with each step. Here and there human matter splashed and splattered down on their boots or on their legs. The worst part came from holding onto the forearms. Duncan realized he'd made a mistake once he felt the singed skin beginning to shift and tear like the sleeve on a wrist.
"How much further?"
Reznik craned his head to peer past him. "About 20 more meters to the highway. Twice that to the veranda."
"Let's push it. I feel like this guy is going to fall apart any second now."
"Going to?"
"Come on."
The two of them picked up the pace, turning their awkward walk into a shuffling jog. More pieces of their quarry sprinkled over their feet, but they made up for it by covering more ground.
The highway in front of the starport came up. They passed through one of the many gaps of bent metal that had been blown out of the guardrail. There were a few squads of soldiers patrolling the lanes, acting as the second to last ring of security for what remained of the 109th's base of operations. One of them broke apart to make way for the pair as they came through. A few of the troopers gawked at the state of the soldier they carried. Most were wise enough, however, to turn their eyes elsewhere.
Duncan navigated towards a crater blown into the median of the highway that was quickly filling with water. He side-stepped around the crumbling rim and got them to the other side. From there it was a short stretch through the dead traffic to their destination.
There was already plenty of activity happening beneath the shade of the starport veranda when they arrived. Just as multiple recovery teams roved about the hills, scores of company medics roamed among the lines upon lines of the dead and dying, those that had at least been recovered. They had been laid out one beside the other in long rows that could have once been whole platoons. They were further arranged in three distinct sets that could have once been whole companies. From Duncan's point of view, the veranda was host to somewhere around 500 casualties at the bare minimum. He was frankly surprised that they were able to recover so many, especially after the hammering they'd taken from the corvette. It was another one of those little combat miracles that no one had asked for, but a miracle all the same.
He walked through puddles of water that had mingled with blood both new and old. As he did, moving from point to point, he concluded by means of simple deduction that most of the losses around him were from 4th Battalion. They had been the ones to primarily hold the hills. All the while, the heavy losses of 1st, 2nd and 5th Battalions were probably still being accounted for on the newly retaken promenade. However, he surmised that the majority of those were lost on streets, in alleyways and anywhere and everywhere within the burning maze that had once been the first, second and third defensive lines.
The medics had their hands full in every sense. Instead of handling wounds, they laid out body bags. With help from others, they lifted their new occupants inside and crouched down to wrap them in place. The entire space felt like an oversized mortuary, one that many others came to visit. Nearly twice as many soldiers moved around the medics to search among the faces below.
Duncan spotted one that must have found who they were looking for. As he headed along one of the open aisles towards Terminal B, he saw a soldier on his left kneeling down beside a body, hand to face. He was letting everything out while a medic kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Duncan stopped next to them and gestured to the body he was carrying.
The medic nodded and pointed further along the path. "Doc Camacho's got a few more spots down that way."
"Thanks." He moved around the pair and continued towards the entrance to the terminal. Eventually, he came to a stop at an empty spot in a row of the dead that were set beside the doors. He was grateful to see a bag already available between a pair of sealed bodies.
One of the nearby medics walked over to them as he and Reznik lowered their newest delivery onto the bag. It was the same one Duncan remembered from several earlier back-and-forth trips, the one the others called 'Doc Camacho'. He was a tired looking old salt type, perhaps a senior medic. Nevertheless, the strong browed face beneath his helmet creased with an additional exhaustion that Duncan had never seen in the half an hour or so that he'd known him.
Camacho put his hands to his hips, jaws clenched tight at the newest wreckage of a human being that was now his responsibility to pack away.
"Know him?" Duncan asked gently.
"Knew him." Camacho corrected. "...Platoon Sergeant Marcos...I was wondering where he ended up."
"I'm sorry." Reznik said.
"Don't be. You're not the one who took him out, just the one who brought him back. Now I'm the one that has to write a letter I don't want to write. You ODSTs can go on. I'll take care of him."
At that last part, Duncan thought he heard the slightest tremor in his voice.
The two of them were about to give him his space when he perked up and pointed to a ammo crate set against one of the veranda's support columns. "Almost forgot. If you've got any new tags, there's a bag right over there. We've got tallymen swinging by, and I'd rather keep them updated."
Duncan spotted the small bag on top of the crate as well as similar bags that had been laid atop crates up and down the length of the veranda. He also saw the pairs of officers that were moving from one to the next. They were taking up dog tags for a quick examination before typing down the information on their datapads.
Reznik got to the bag first and dropped a few tags in. It reminded Duncan of the very thing he'd been trying to do since the fighting stopped. He reached into one of his pockets and took out the handful of tags he'd collected from his time working on the recovery detail. Dropping them in, he then pulled out Private First-Class Sizemore's from another pocket. He held it out and let it slide off his fingers into the pile, listening as metal settled against metal.
The act left him feeling ever so slightly lighter once he was done.
He joined Reznik in the walk back out of the veranda. The latter's attention lingered on the bodies they passed along the way, observing the many person-sized lumps sealed off beneath the polyethylene coverings.
Emerging out onto the highway, Duncan could sense what was on his mind.
He heard Reznik mutter under his breath. "That could've been us."
"But it's not."
Reznik shot him a quiet glare.
He kept his eyes straight ahead. "Don't think about it too hard or it'll be all you ever think about, trust me."
"...Guess I'll take your word for it."
Duncan left it at that. The two of them headed back through the guardrail and out onto the fields.
They found their next body in under a minute. The soldier was halfway through the windshield of a burnt-out Hog that had slid part of the way down a hillside. With how he was slumped over the hood, Duncan had to get into the driver's seat to push his legs while Reznik pulled on his arms. The rest of the windshield shattered as they yanked him through the glass and out onto the ground. From there, it was another short walk through the rain towards the veranda. They entrusted the body to Camacho and went back out.
The next trooper they had to drag out from beneath a pair of Grunts. The one after that had barely had his face sticking out of the mud and required a good deal of digging to set him free. After that was another gutted corpse who had a trail of personal belongings strewn back up the face of a nearby hill, pointing to where something powerful had blown him clear out of his fox hole.
They were trying to pull out a dead radioman that had gotten himself pinned beneath the slowly sliding wreck of a Scorpion tank when the Staff spoke over their comms.
"Ep-1 to 1st Platoon, make your last recovery run then head back to Terminal A. We're switching out."
"Who's taking up the slack, sir?" Nova asked.
"That'd be 5-Actual. It's his turn for the next hour or so. He says we can come on in."
"God bless." Hector groaned.
Duncan shared a nod with Reznik. The two of them gave one last heave that finally pulled the radioman free of the tread.
"I got arms this time." Reznik said, not even giving him a chance to respond before he made a beeline for the limbs, only to stop midway. "God, what killed this guy?"
Duncan saw it too.
The helmet was gone and the head along with it.
He could see all matter of torn skin and muscles jutting out of the stump of the neck as well as the dull fragments and shards typical of a needle rifle.
"I change my mind. I want the legs."
"Fine." Duncan shifted past him and got a grip on the arms, remaining ever careful to keep from looking too long at the damage. He preferred the arms anyway. The legs were both bent at too weird an angle to make for an easy carry. Nevertheless, Reznik managed to find purchase. They lifted together and started down the hill towards the starport.
Halfway there, they ran into Zack and Renni who were a few steps ahead. They were ferrying a body between them that bore ragged claw marks which had torn through armor and flesh in equal measure.
"What happened to her?" Reznik dared to ask.
"Got mauled." Zack replied.
"Found a Brute right next to her." Renni added. "Still had a few chunks of her in its teeth. Not the best way to go if I'm being honest."
"No," Duncan said, trying his best not to remember Ballast. "It's not."
They waddled as a group back to the highway alongside several other pairings that were returning with their charges. Some of them had been lucky enough to find a stretcher which had quickly become a commodity in the last hour or so.
They moved across the highway and under the refuge of the veranda. Camacho had two new slots for them after a few of the bodies had been carried off. They unloaded their cargo and turned back around to head for the doors to Terminal A.
The sprawl of the dead became thicker and harder to navigate the closer they came to the entrance. The others were already there, waiting for them. It was a welcome sight amidst the carpet of pale faces and body bags surrounding them on all sides.
The Staff waved them over and started through the doors which slid out of the way in jostling movements. Duncan pulled his helmet off as he came after them, allowing himself to enjoy the open air for the first time in almost half a day before he slipped inside.
:********:
The Staff pried off his helmet the second he was in the safety of the building. He took a deep breath and let the cool air bring a much-needed relief to his lungs. The interior was mostly dark. The same went for the whole building. It had been purposefully made that way to avoid drawing any more unwanted attention from the skies. Still, he could see the trails of chem-lights and dozens of emergency lanterns that had been laid out on the floor. The green glow and pale lighting marked out the different pathways, seating areas and intermittent support columns around the terminal as well as the residents therein. There were soldiers scattered across the space. Most were chatting in groups within the seating areas, gathered around lanterns and chem-lights like campers around a fire. Others were alone, leaning against the supports in deep thought, their faces half obscured by the dark.
The Staff went on ahead down the main walkway. He heard the rest of the platoon following on his heels. The wet plop of their footsteps eventually faded as they started to dry off. Their passage garnered them a few passing stares and exhausted nods from those around them.
"So, get this, right?" Zack huffed. "I just got off the line with one of the air control guys working Olympic. Apparently, there was a frigate in atmosphere over our airspace, Stalwart class. Duvall was in contact with her captain, trying to get air support for those liners."
"What'd they say?" Mito asked.
"That they weren't in a position to assist. No fighters, no air cover, nothing. They left us high and dry."
"Well, thank God for the Navy." Lang hissed.
"Who knows," Nova cut in. "Maybe they really weren't able to assist. Might've already had their hands full."
"With what?" Zack shot back. "What could be more important than covering the evacuations that we've been pulling our hair out trying to get up and running for almost a week?"
"He's right." Dalton chimed in. "It's not like the Covies haven't already hit other cities in the region. If that frigate was that close, we should've taken priority right then and there. We might've even managed to send out five ships instead of four."
At the mention of the ships, the memory of the one that plunged into the bay crossed the Staff's mind. It was a sight he'd rather forget.
He made a left turn, leading them onto the part of the main walkway that ran from one end of the starport to the next. "They could've been engaging other Covenant forces in the area. I know we've been here for a while, but we shouldn't think for a moment that we're at the center of all that's wrong with the world. The Covies aren't here for NA. They're here for Reach. NA's just a part of that."
"I respectfully disagree, sir." Hector argued.
"Oh? And why's that?"
"Don't got a reason. I just disagree."
The Staff allowed himself a small smile as they made a right turn that brought them into the very back of the atrium. A smidge of natural light shone through the skylight overhead to slightly illuminate the space more than was possible with chem-lights and lanterns alone. With it came a heavy downpour of rain as well as streams of runoff that waterfalled in through the large hole at the center of the glass, the spot where one of the Banshees had crashed inside. That same Banshee was now on the ground floor, lying in the middle of the light as well as the rippling pool that was steadily expanding out from the walkway to the surrounding seating. The starboard wing lay beside the tilted remains of the fuselage whose flames had long since been drowned into submission. Even so, sparks continued to spit out from the gaping wound left by Hector's rocket.
The Staff briefly wondered where the pilot was. His curiosity only grew as he wondered the same thing about Captain Barrett. He looked among the haggard faces of the groups of soldiers standing, sitting and meandering about the atrium but found no sign of 5th Platoon.
"Over here, staff sergeant."
The voice, Barrett's, came both from his comms and from his right. Off to the side of the walkway, past an empty seating area, he sighted a roofed lounge of cubed sofas, tall chairs and mahogany tables. Set against the back wall, behind a marble countertop was the cafe itself with overhanging glass cups, mixing machines and display cases whose desserts had long since been stolen. Captain Barrett was behind the counter as well, holding something to one of the coffee machines. The rest of 5th Platoon were up to their own devices around the lounge, sitting relaxed on sofas, chairs and even overturned tables.
The Staff walked over with the rest of the platoon. Upon approach, he noticed that most of Barrett's troopers were holding lidded coffee cups and ceramic mugs that they casually sipped from as they talked among themselves. The scent of freshly brewed coffee hit his nose, as did a stench that drew his eye down to the floor. A trail of bluish-purple blood streaked past his feet like the work of a deranged artist. It led to an open spot in the middle of the lounge's arrangement of furniture. There, a dead Brute, what the Staff guessed to be the missing Banshee pilot, lay splayed out on its back, jaws slack, eyes dilated. It wasn't alone. Several ODSTs sat cross-legged around it. Each was holding up a hand of cards that they looked over while taking casual sips of coffee, placing their chosen play on a pile of cards atop the Brute's chest. It was like watching a game of poker over a taxidermist's carpet. Walking on past, the Staff got a few nods of acknowledgement from the sitting troopers.
He gestured for the others to find themselves a seat before taking a stool and propping himself on the other side of the counter.
Barret turned around and placed a fresh cup of steaming coffee in front of him. "Two shots of cream. Enjoy it while it's hot."
The Staff gestured with his head at the others.
"Sorry about that. We'll be heading out in a minute, so they'll have to get it on their own."
"Copy. Thanks."
The Staff took the cup in hand and brought it to his lips. He took a careful sip then a long drink, savoring the hot, caffeinated delight that followed. It was the closest to hot chow that he had gotten since the short meal at the container port.
"Our evacuation orders just came in."
The sweetened savor of the coffee disappeared. In its place came a bitter aftertaste. The Staff swallowed and put the cup down, choosing to look in the captain's direction rather than meeting his eye. "...When do you ship out?"
"Around 2100 Hours."
He grimaced. "That's 15 minutes from now."
"Yeah, 15 minutes and we'll be out of here. We were the first in, but it's sounding like Colonel Taylors wants us to be the first out. We're going to see what we can do to help our friends in the Army before we go."
The Staff's gaze fell to the counter. "And when do they ship out?"
"From what I hear, Brigadier General Caruso is trying to exfil what's left of his division by 2140 Hours, 2200 at the latest. They're already running Pelicans and Albatrosses off the tarmac like school just came out."
"...I see."
Barrett stepped closer and leaned against the table. "What about you, Staff? What's Colonel Garrison saying about the 7th?"
"Still waiting on that."
"Well, he better hurry up before the sky starts falling. The Covies get a say in what we get and don't get to do. Turning off their shields and switching those defense batteries back on might've shewed off those corvettes, but it won't take them long to realize that was our last shot. They'll be regrouping soon, and we better be well away before that happens, all of us."
The Staff silently agreed, although he wished deep down that he never had to.
A general announcement had gone out less than half an hour after the last starship had cleared the starport. The UNSC Command echelon operating out of Olympic Tower informed every soldier, ODST, tank driver and pilot in the city of the success of the evacuation efforts. At least 70% of New Alexandria's civilian population, the percentage that had survived so far, had been successfully evacuated. Hundreds of thousands had been sent off to safety over the course of five consecutive days and nights, a herculean feat made to look smaller than it was thanks to the size of the city itself. With that threshold having been met, all of their forces were authorized to act on their evacuation orders.
The 109th and 145th Infantry Divisions, the 7th and 22nd Shock Troops Battalions, even the 77th Armored Division, all were being ordered to leave.
They had put up a good fight.
But Barrett was right.
Getting those ships out of the starport was their last shot, their last attempt at a concrete defense. As for the rest of the city, the losses on the ground coupled with the brief but punishing bombardment from the corvettes had effectively crippled whatever chance anyone had left of holding on. The momentary victory was hollow at best, like having finally fended off a mother bear after it had already ripped away an arm and a leg. All of that with no way of knowing when it would come back to finish the job. No one wanted to wait around to find out when that would be.
They were done here.
They were abandoning New Alexandria.
From what he'd heard, other elements of the UNSC presence were already preparing for the last wave of the Air Force's 83rd Auxiliary Wing that was currently trickling into the local airways. Anyone trying to get out was taking their chances now that the corvettes were no longer an issue. Though the Covenant still owned the sky by virtue of having more in it, there had never been a better time to skip town, especially since it had become a well-accepted fact that the Navy had all but forsaken the city. They were stretched too thin across Viery, meaning any Tom, Dick and Covenant ship could pull in over the area whenever it wanted. From there they would be more than free to do whatever they wanted to anyone and everyone unfortunate enough or stupid enough to still be around. Sure, the corvettes lacked the heavy artillery needed to glass New Alexandria, but with no friendly air cover available for hundreds of kilometers, it wouldn't be long before something packing a much stronger punch came around for a visit.
"Well, it's about that time, Staff." Barrett said, reaching over and grabbing his SMG from where he'd rested it on the counter. He slapped it onto his back harness and held out a hand. "Just in case your orders come in after we leave."
The Staff set down his cup and clasped the captain's hand in his own for a firm shake. "It's been an honor, sir."
"Right back at you, Helljumper, and hopefully not the last. See you around."
The Staff watched him leave from behind the counter and walk out into the lounge.
"5th Platoon, fall in. We've got one more recovery detail before our flight. Let's go."
Barrett's troopers ditched their chairs and tables, some downing the last of their coffee, crushing the cups and tossing them aside before slipping on their helmets and gear. The group playing cards on the dead Brute got up as well. One of them dumped his cup of steaming hot coffee into the corpse's waiting jaws before jamming the whole thing into its mouth. Another gave the corpse a solid kick to the temple to make sure the cup wouldn't fall out. The group shared a laugh over it as they said their goodbyes to 1st Platoon and ambled back into the atrium with the others.
"I call the espresso machine." Hector said, speed walking behind the counter towards the device in question. He grabbed a cup for himself and got to work.
"Can I put in an order?" Zack called over.
"You paying?"
"I'll pay you with my presence."
Hector glanced back at him, stifled a laugh and got back to what he was doing. "Anybody else got an order?"
While more requests came in from everyone else, the Staff remained pensive. He hadn't heard much of anything from anyone in the rest of the 7th Battalion for the last two days. He had no clue exactly where they were or what they had gotten up to.
He took another long drain on his coffee.
Zack suddenly walked up beside him with his helmet back on. "Sir, I've got Colonel Garrison on the line."
The Staff arched a brow. "Personal comms?"
Zack shook his head. "Battalion freq."
The Staff put his cup aside and slipped his helmet on as well, right in time to hear the colonel's announcement.
"Neptune-Actual to all 7th Battalion personnel, I say again, start moving to your designated evac points. It's set up company by company in relative proximity to your AOs. Alpha, you've got NA Central. Bravo, you've got the Bárány Finance Center. Charlie, you're at the Downtown Physiotherapy Center. Delta, Árkád Park's all yours. Echo, same to you for the Barta Charity Foundation. Evac begins at 2120 Hours. Troopers, make sure to get yourselves in position well beforehand. The 83rd might have the airlift but they don't have a lot of time. Neither do we and neither does New Alexandria. We'll exfil from the city then regroup and rearm at Lochaber Air Force Base. We've done good work here, Helljumpers, but now we're going to have to live today for tomorrow's fight. Let's get it done."
The communication ended, then came back on as a looping message in the background.
The news was bittersweet.
They were leaving. They had a way out. Well, at least the rest of Bravo did. Isolated so far out from the battalion's area of operations in the green zone, the Staff saw no other option for 1st Platoon than to book a ride with the 109th. As a division, he suspected it would take far longer for them to extract all their remaining men and material than it would for the battalion, meaning they might be hunkering in place long after their buddies in Bravo had left. The longer they stayed, the longer any of them stayed, the lower their chances were of ever leaving.
"So, that's it then."
The Staff knew who said it but didn't want to turn an eye in his direction. If he did, he had a feeling he would try to say something different than what he was about to, something that might hint at how they shouldn't fall back, how they should try to hold the city.
"Yeah," He replied coldly. "That's it."
Though nothing more was said, it didn't stop the Staff from sensing the gaze burrowing into the back of his skull.
He turned around to find Duncan looking at him from his seat on one of the cubed sofas, back bent, hands clutching consolingly at his cup like a man that had just been pulled out of the rain, which he was. They all were, and they were all engaged in one-sided staring contests with the walls, the ground, their cups or right back at him. Not one said a word.
The Staff shut his eyes tight for a moment, certain no one could see him do it thanks to the tint of his visor. The memories of the last five days panned through his thoughts one after the next. The landing, losing Berlin, the initial push, the mess at Császári, the wild rollercoaster ride of tram duty, the fight for NA Central, the ambush by the Gunboats, the rescue mission at the Csillagos, Noble Team's operation, Rico's death run and the fall of the western defenses. So much seemed to have happened in so little time, and so much more was still set to happen in an even shorter span.
He wondered what it was worth in the bigger picture. They, along with everyone sent here, had helped to save what, to everyone's surprise, turned out to be the majority of New Alexandria's population. They had saved the people, but not the city itself, not the buildings or the roads or anything of that sort. But it had to be worth something.
The memory of one of his trooper's pods vanishing into the side of a building as another vanished in a streetside explosion made him grip his cup tight.
It had to be worth something.
Those lives were worth something.
"Come on, you should stay." A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts, echoing up from the deepest recesses of his mind that he always made it a rule not to visit. "They've already planned everything out for you. You'll love it, trust me. Just try to stick around this time, will you? It'd mean the world to them."
"Sir?"
It was a man's voice, a real voice.
The Staff opened his eyes and saw Hector standing in front of him on the other side of the table.
He didn't say anything but pointed to his cup. The Staff looked down and realized he had squeezed it so tight that its sides had crumpled. Much of the black liquid within had spilt out over the countertop. He slowly eased his grip in order to save what little was left.
"You good, sir?"
It was a question that, had Hector asked anyone else, he would have gotten the same answer that he received from the Staff.
Silence.
"Hey Ep-1, Captain Eddies is on the phone for you." Zack said. "Patch him through?"
"...Send it."
A moment later, the voice of the captain and Bravo Company's temporary CO came through his helmet, a much-appreciated relief to the tension in the air.
"Ep-1, this is 4-Actual, are you reading me?"
"I read you, sir."
"Good." Eddies sighed, hinting at his own relief. "Glad to hear it. Listen, I'm sure you and your guys caught the colonel's message. You and I both know you don't have the time to make it back here either on foot or on wheels. Even if you did, I doubt you'd make it in one piece. I'm having Bravo rendezvous at the Bárány Finance Center now. I suggest you find your own ride out of here if you haven't already."
"Working on it." The Staff replied.
"Don't waste any time you don't have, Ep-1. We're pressed as it is. Secure a transport as soon as possible and get yourself and your platoon the hell out of here."
"Roger that, sir. I'll keep you updated."
"Likewise. Keep a close ear on your comms, Staff. I'll be nagging you about it every minute on the minute until I get the all clear from you, you understand?"
The Staff nodded, though he knew the captain couldn't see it. "Roger, 4-Actual. I'll see you at Locha-"
"Staff? Staff, can you hear me?"
"Yes, sir, I-..." He paused as a rise of buzzing static washed through his communications.
"Staff-, can you-, me-, I'm getting inter-..."
The static finally overwhelmed the last of what the captain had to say, and it was somehow getting even louder.
It reached the point that the Staff had to cut the line altogether to spare his own ears. "What was that?"
"Anybody else having the same problem?" Mackley asked.
"Yeah," Renni agreed. "I can't hear the colonel's message anymore. It's all broken up."
"Same on my end." Yuri harped.
"Sounds like jammer tech." Nova noted, arms folded disapprovingly at the situation. "Well, that's just great, isn't it? They're jamming us now."
"What next?" Reznik sighed.
The Staff took a deep breath. Letting it out nice and slow, he put aside what was left of his cup and stood up.
"What happens next is what they told us last. We're going to find a bird, we're going to get out of here, we're going to regroup, rearm and get ready to hit these bastards where it hurts. That's the end of it."
Yuri grunted approvingly. "Sounds straightforward enough."
"I wouldn't be so sure." Zack said as he took a step towards the Staff. "Sir, I'm getting another contact here. Unrecognized freq, high security."
The Staff felt his eyes instinctively narrow. "Unrecognized?"
"High security?" Hector echoed.
Mito sniffed at the air. "Smells like ONI-business."
"It-..." Zack straightened up, then fixed his sights squarely on his squad leader. "Sure thing, ma'am. I'll send you through."
It took the Staff a second to realize that he wasn't talking to him, and by the time the voice came into his ears, he understood exactly why he reacted the way he did.
"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time, staff sergeant."
A ghost of a smile broke through the Staff's dour mug. "I'd hardly say there's ever a good time, lieutenant commander."
Despite not being able to see her, he could practically hear the sarcastic grin in the Spartan's voice.
"I see. Well then, you're in luck, because it's about to get a whole lot worse."
:********:
For a full minute, Duncan sat quiet and motionless, waiting like everyone else for the moment the Staff would let them in on the conversation. He had a strong hunch that on the other end was none other than the lieutenant commander. It could only mean one thing if he was right, that the next few minutes or hours of their lives were soon to get that much more dangerous. The stakes were about to get higher, if they weren't already.
After a short while the Staff turned to everyone else.
"Heads up, 1st Platoon. New orders just came in. We'll be operating under Lieutenant Commander Kat from here on. LC needs us to run a search and destroy op. I'll let her fill you in on the details."
A second later, Duncan heard the voice of the Spartan in his helmet.
"Noble-2 to 1st Platoon, it's good to know you guys are still kicking around out there. I've already discussed this with Ep-1, so I'll keep it short and to the point. I'm sure you've noticed the Covenant have been playing hell with your communications lately. They've been setting up jammers across the city for the last half an hour. By what I'm hearing from some of my forward recon teams, they just switched one on in your general area."
"And you...want us to take them out?" Zack asked with a note of worry.
"No, I've already got someone working on that. What I'm telling you is just half of the story. They're jamming us but they're also listening in on our communications, which is why I have to keep this conversation short. We've zeroed in on a Covenant listening post operating in midtown New Alexandria. They're using it to get a fix on localized comm chatter between platoons and companies, any forces too close together to effectively jam. We've received reports of several evac sites that have been targeted this way that we've since lost contact with. As you would've guessed, it's divide and conquer out there. They're trying to stop us from leaving by isolating us then picking us off. That's where you come in. We need that listening post knocked out. I've sent the coordinates to Ep-1. It'll be your last mission before you head out of NA. I've also dispatched a Pelican to your location, callsign Vulture-5-2. He'll be landing on the south side of the tarmac in the next five minutes. I suggest you get your hands on whatever extra weapons, ammo and equipment you need before he shows up. Any questions?"
By the end of the briefing, the silence was back.
From the details he'd gathered, Duncan couldn't help remembering the many different scenarios they had faced during the operation against the corvettes. He couldn't quite imagine what they would be getting themselves into this time around.
"I got one." Mito said. "Once we take out that listening post, Vulture-5-2's taking us straight out of the city, right? No detours?"
"No need for any." Kat replied. "It's the only job I need you to do and once it's done, there's no reason for you to stick around."
"Why is that if I might ask, ma'am?" Nova asked. "Why us I mean?"
There was a pause.
"Because I know you. I've seen you at work. I'd rather hand something this sensitive over to people with a proven track record that I can vouch for myself. Noble has our hands full for the time being. Outside of us, I'd say you're the ones I trust the most with this kind of op...unless you disagree?"
The question was a teasing jab at their pride. Duncan could see it for what it was, and it still worked regardless.
"I'm game." Yuri insisted. "One last firefight never hurt anybody."
"I don't know what world you're living in, Ruskey, but I wish I could to." Hector added. "Anyway, I'm in."
"You better hope it's just a firefight." Renni said.
"I'm down too." Mackley announced. "Me personally, I'd rather stay out of the rain, but hey, if it means more of us get to go home then it's fine with me."
"And me." Daz parroted. "One more for the road, am I right?"
Reznik nodded. "Sounds good."
Duncan felt a number of eyes land on him though he refused to meet any of them.
"...I'm killing whatever we find." He said, as if it were a pre-established fact. "Grunt, Jackal, Brute, so long as it's not human," He nodded to himself and finally met their gaze. "I can make peace with that."
Across the way, Yuri flashed a wild-eyed smile at him. "See that? That right there, that's why I like you, D. When it comes time for mest', you know just what to say."
"Mest'?"
"Revenge." Nova explained.
Duncan's jaw shifted around contemplatively, locking back in place as he saw his own murderous intent reflected at him in the subtly animalistic glare of Yuri's eyes. "...Yeah...mest'."
He listened to a few others voice their opinions, some nervous but none objecting to the mission in any sense.
Once they had all said their peace, the Spartan chimed back in. "So, it's settled then, not that it was ever really up for debate. All the same, it's good to know each of you are ready to bring the pain for this one."
"Respectfully, LC, I'm ready to bring a whole lot more than just pain for these guys." Duncan said, slowly coming to realize that he had his rifle back in hand and held at low ready. He wasn't exactly certain when he'd picked it up.
"Copy that, Ep-8." Kat replied, the genuine encouragement in her voice lost on none of them. "Make us proud."
"Will do, ma'am." Duncan relaxed back in his chair as the Spartan switched her focus to the Staff.
"Ep-1, I'm counting on you. I'll be in touch here and there, but secure channel or not, I've already been on the line far longer than I should."
"Roger that, LC. We'll let you know once the job's done."
"Copy your last, Ep-1. Good luck. Noble-2 out."
The external comm-link fell silent.
As soon as it did, the Staff pointed past the lounge's entrance to another establishment on the other side of the atrium, a souvenir store that had been transformed into a weapons depot.
"Vulture-5-2 will be here any second. Ep-4, 9, I need you back on rocket duty for AA support. Get yourselves some launchers and pack some extra ammo for the ride. Ep-8, Whiskey-5, get some M319s. You'll be serving backup for 4 and 9. Everyone else stock up on grenades and ammo. Be ready to head outside in two minutes. Go."
The platoon got up from their seats and jogged out of the lounge, leaving the Brute corpse behind as its last occupant. They flowed into the unoccupied weapons depot and started helping themselves to the full ammo crates and weapon racks.
Duncan dug into a crate that Dalton and Daz had popped open, sliding one fresh magazine after the next into his mostly empty pouches. In short order, the ammo count for his MA37 came up to a satisfying '256'. He moved through an aisle of New Alexandrian paraphernalia and made for one of the weapon racks at the very back of the store.
Reznik reached it first, snatching a grenade launcher from one of the four on the rack. "How about a bet, Ep-8, you and me? If I kill 3 Banshees first, I win 30 cred. If you kill 4 first, you win 20."
Duncan strode past him and grabbed another launcher. "What man in his right mind is going to take a lose-lose deal like that?"
"Never said you were." Reznik gave him a prodding grin before moving on to the case of launcher ammo nearby.
Duncan thought about it for a moment. He held back a chuckle while he whipped open the weapon's breech to make sure there was one in the chamber before snapping it shut. "...Alright Rez, you're on."
He grabbed what he needed from the ammo case and stashed it in his bandoliers until all three were full. Then he was off, streaming out of the depot with the rest of the platoon. He found himself behind Mito and Hector who were hefting their newly acquired rocket launchers over their shoulders like lumbermen armed with logs.
He leaned in close enough to whisper to them. "Do me a favor, guys. If we run into any Banshees, try to keep Rez from getting a hit. I'll cover you."
Mito looked off to his left to pretend he wasn't paying attention. "What's the bet?"
"About 20 for me, 30 for him."
"Kinda one-sided don't you think?"
"Tell you what, I'll split it between us. How's that sound?"
"Well, I'm broke so it sounds like a deal."
"I heard that." Reznik griped as he came speed-walking after them.
"You should get that checked, Whiskey-5." Hector said. "Hearing voices isn't a good sign."
Duncan swallowed another laugh, ignoring Reznik's prying questions on the way to the east wing. They maneuvered through one of the seating areas to avoid the flooded, sparking wreck of the Banshee and reconvened at an exit on the right.
The doors slid open and the artificially cool air gave way to a damp breeze wrought from the rain clouds overhead.
The skies on their side of the starport were far busier compared to those in the west. Just as Captain Barrett had said, Albatrosses and Pelicans were in abundance both in the air and on the ground. The departure of the civilian liners from the south side tarmac had made way for several squadrons of the heavy troop carriers and dropships to make themselves at home, if briefly.
A long row of the boxy Albatrosses dominated the landing space at the heart of the apron. Their backs were turned and their rear doors lowered, providing ramps for the long columns of soldiers walking, trotting and limping into the well-lit refuge of their expansive cargo bays. It wasn't only the living either. Stretcher bearers among their number carried their deceased deliveries into the aircraft. Many of those soldiers waiting inside were using overhead handles that hung down from the ceiling like emergency oxygen masks. Below them were thick gatherings of occupied body bags that carpeted the floors of the bays from end to end. The braver or perhaps more desensitized among the living passengers took to sitting around or even on top of the dead, making themselves comfortable wherever they could.
The Pelicans that had landed around the edges of the tarmac similarly had their bays open to line after line of inflowing troopers. There were Warthogs as well which waited for the dropships to flare their drives and rise off the ground before lowering their tails towards the vehicles, connecting their hardpoints to those on the Hogs in order to carry them off. There was even a single, solitary Scorpion tank driving itself closer to the eastern fence. Duncan recognized it by the plentiful scorch marks polka-dotting its hull as the one he'd seen fighting for its life in the western hills. Having already onboarded a platoon of soldiers, an outgoing dropship planted the bottom of its tail onto the top of the cannon and had its hardpoints clamp down. Then, drives roaring, the dropship lifted off with the last Scorpion in tow. Flying out towards the bay, it made room for one of the many UNSC aircraft still circling in the local airspace to land.
Duncan guessed he was looking at one or two companies taking their leave of New Alexandria. Within the lines shuffling towards the transports, he couldn't find a single soul that held their head high or carried themselves upright. Exhaustion was written at large on every person in sight, whether it was their face, their posture or their pace.
The short-lived levity of the last few minutes simmered away beneath the assault of the rain. The sight of so many now turning their backs on the city they had sacrificed so much to save struck a chord in him. The entire situation forced him to look away after he felt a warm sensation prickling the back of his eyes.
The platoon carried on across the tarmac. Unlike when they had first arrived at the starport, their passage didn't earn so much as a curious glance. Not a helmeted head or blood-red eye turned in their direction while they walked through the gaps in the lines.
"Staff Sergeant Atell!?"
The Staff stopped, and so did the others. They turned to see a soldier that was walking towards them from his place in one of the lines. Despite the dark, there was still sufficient light left for Duncan to recognize the face of Captain Thompson.
The Tango Company commander stopped in front of the Staff. "Atell?"
"Captain Thompson, sir."
At hearing the Staff's voice, the captain visibly relaxed. "I'd say I envy you, staff sergeant. Looks like your platoon is still intact. Wish I could say the same for the battalion."
"Is this Tango, sir?"
Thompson stopped talking and stared hard at him for a moment, not out of offense or confusion but out of some sense of a painful reminder.
"...No...this is 1st and 2nd Battalion..."
The words almost punched Duncan in the gut, wordlessly knocking the wind out of him. He checked around again. Judging by the surrounding faces alone, he could've sworn it was only two companies at most, not two whole battalions...or what should have been two whole battalions.
"You guys got a way out?" Thompson asked, thankfully changing the subject.
"More like a way in. Your mission here is done, captain. Ours isn't."
Thompson's expression hardened with genuine bewilderment. "Good God, don't tell me you're headed back in there."
"Apparently so. There's still one last job to do. After that, we're out, same as you."
Thompson fell silent as the evening downpour drained down his helmet and dripped past his face. It was a sullen thing to behold. Duncan even thought he saw a deep empathy hidden there for a moment.
Then the company commander raised a hand. Just as with Barrett, the Staff took it in a firm shake.
"Thanks for the help, ODST."
"Thanks for keeping us busy, sir."
The Staff tipped his helmet to him and moved on. Thompson stepped aside to let the others pass. He watched them go by, doing so with the reverent speechlessness of a funeral goer.
Up ahead, a Pelican swooped in from the direction of midtown to the south. Slowing and turning its tail end to the starport, it commenced a stable descent towards the end of the tarmac.
Duncan heard a man's voice break in over their comms. "Vulture-5-2 to Ep-1, your carriage has arrived. Landing on the south side of the starport now. Are you close, over?"
"Affirmative, Vulture-5-2. I see you coming down. We're 50 meters out. Be there in a sec."
"Copy."
The Staff took off at a brisk jog that prompted everyone else to follow suit. Rainwater splashed around them with each step. Duncan saw the dropship touch down. The thrust of its still active drives sent out shallow ripples across the surface of the several-inch deep bayou that had submerged much of the apron. The rear door fell open, the red-lit interior within practically tempting them with how dry it looked.
Reaching the ramp, they clambered inside and spread out to the seats. Duncan took one of the two that sat the second closest to the rear, putting him right beside Hector as he posted himself at the door. Right across from him, Reznik had done the same, sitting beside Mito in a matching support position.
They watched and waited while the ramp commenced a groaning rise, the metal incline causing the accumulated runoff to pour into the interior and swish past their boots.
Duncan took his last glimpse of the starport, of the evacuation efforts on their side of the tarmac and the lights on the other side of the atrium hinting at more activity.
Then the door closed and the starport was gone.
The drives whined and droned, propelling the Pelican off the ground and into a sturdy ascent towards the south.
"No cheating." Reznik said.
Duncan snuck him a half-hearted smile. "No promises."
Una Res Plus - One More Thing