Chapter 55 – Petitio
August 30th, 2552 - (02:00 Hours - Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach
Viery Territory, New Alexandria
Lochaber Air Force Base
:********:
The Administration and Logistics Center was quiet as Brigadier General Abajjé walked out the doors of the arriving elevator. The silence was so pervasive that the sound of his footsteps echoed back to him in crisp repetition.
Along either side of the walkway that divided the second level of the command center, the sprawl of control stations and their accompanying consoles were almost entirely unmanned. Save for a few that were occupied, the majority had been abandoned.
They were hardly the only things being abandoned at the moment.
He made note of the remaining personnel. The men and women present were a skeleton crew compared to their usual number. Their relatively pristine uniforms could barely disguise the fact that their owners had been wearing them for several days straight. Neither could they hide the shadows hanging under their eyes from exhaustion or the jittering way in which some of them typed into their consoles, indicators of far too many energy stims and cups of coffee. Were it not for the air conditioning, the entire command center would have stunk of body odor and caffeine. Abajjé wondered how long it would remain that way now that the ALC had outlived its purpose.
Near the end of the walkway, he took in the sight of the tennis court sized tactical planner that dominated most of the space on the first floor. The table-shaped device was offline, as were the array of console stations and wall-mounted screens that surrounded it.
There was virtually none of the activity from the week prior. Back then, the displays were constantly alive with data streams and satellite imagery of various warzones around Viery. The quiet would have been a decent change were it not for the reason behind it.
He strode down the stairs, knowing, accepting that it would be his last time doing so. His next steps took him to the bottom and several more brought him before the tactical planner. He hovered his hand over the screen. Heat wafted from it, reminding him that it hadn't been long since its last use. He tapped on it and after three seconds watched the tactical planner reactivate with a sluggish pulse of light. The glow eventually stabilized as the device concluded its startup process.
He pressed a finger to his earpiece and watched the holographic icon of the UNSC coat of arms leap up in front of him. It took on a slow rotation as it moved to secure his connection.
Then the icon froze and vanished. A wide pane flickered on its place that was easily larger than any of the nearby displays.
Not even a second later the expectant, well-mustached and well-worn face of his new superior appeared on the screen.
Abajjé saluted. "Vice Admiral Whitcomb, sir."
Whitcomb nodded back. "Abajjé, I think it's about time for another one of your updates. Is your report ready?"
"I had it sent to your aide-de-camp a few minutes ago, as requested. It has everything in detail."
"Of course. However, by this point I think you've already become accustomed to my preference for information. A book's worth of data is great and all, but I'll take a five-minute summary whenever I can get it."
Abajjé wasn't surprised. He'd come prepared because he had expected just this, an expectation created courtesy of his being placed under his command. It was another one of those strange scenarios that came about as a result of the breakdown in the chain of command wrought by the Covenant's assault on Reach. First, he was an Army officer stationed in a base of operations for the local arm of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Then he was an Army officer stationed in an Air Force base, overseeing the back-and-forth air traffic between Lochaber and the nearest population centers. Now here he was, an Army officer taking orders from the Navy.
What was next? Was he going to start knuckling under to the Marines? God forbid.
It had been a strange month to say the least, and to top it all off, General Montague was gone. CENTCOM had called for his extraction to another part of Reach, one that was still somehow being successfully kept in the dark. It still boggled Abajjé's mind to think that despite the fighting at Szurdok Ridge, Operation UPPERCUT and the fall of major settlements and cities like New Alexandria, most of the planet still had no idea about what was happening in Viery.
ONI was working overtime.
That much was certain. He only wished the power to keep a good portion of a world's populace in the dark about what was happening on one of its continents could also be enough to save said world. If only.
The stated reason for the general's recall to the safer side of Reach was for reassignment to logistical support, but Abajjé had his doubts. More than likely the UNSC was preserving its high-ranking officials and administrational heavy hitters, protecting them from the wildfire of chaos that was spreading throughout the territory. Montague's reassignment orders came swiftly and urgently, arriving right on the heels of his debriefing with the Spartans of Noble Team. As his dropship took off with an escort of Falcons just a few hours later, he simultaneously left his responsibility for Lochaber to his second-in-command. Though Whitcomb had stepped in to provide oversight, he was more of a high-level manager, too far removed from the situation to have any real impact. Abajjé was the man on the ground, and it had been his job for the past four days to ensure that the base itself was fully evacuated.
They were abandoning Lochaber.
The impetus to do so had come as a direct order from HIGHCOM.
With the Covenant having taken so much of neighboring Viery, the Navy, already bleeding ships and crew in multiple intracontinental engagements, had no means of ensuring its protection. Lochaber was about to be cut off. It wouldn't be much longer before the enemy made their final advance, and the UNSC was helpless to stop it.
Although he didn't want to admit it, he hated more than anything else that they were giving it up without a fight.
Not so much as a bullet was to be spent in the defense of the single largest Air Force installation on Reach.
"Since our last conversation, we've confirmed that there are only about 2,000 or so civilians left to evacuate." Abajjé said. "They've been mostly congregated around Airfields Delta and India or are being shuttled up the space elevator. As for military personnel, we've progressively reduced that number to around 5,000 with evacuation sites reserved to Airfields Alpha, Bravo, Tango, Whiskey and Zulu. At this rate-" He stopped to ponder on the heaviness of his next words. "...One more hour and we'll be done here."
One of the vice admiral's brows arched up his wrinkled forehead. "Good work. You're about half a day ahead of schedule. You made sure to secure your own exfil?"
"Yessir, I have a Pelican ready. It's going to have to wait though. I want to make sure my boots are the last to leave this place."
Whitcomb shot him a faint look of respect. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. How about online infrastructure? Have the last of the navigational databases been rendered Cole-compliant?"
'Cole-compliant'.
It was an easier way among officers to refer to The Cole Protocol and its associated procedures.
Abajjé didn't respond right away even though he already knew the answer.
The protocol itself demanded that he purge any and all information pertaining to Earth and the inner colonies. It almost felt unnecessary, like wiping away his own tracks to keep a hungry bear just a few steps behind from following him home. There were hardly as many inner colonies left as there were when the nigh mythical admiral had issued the order. In truth, by now the protocol was only meant to protect Earth, and it was seeming more and more as if it had come at the expense of everything else.
He momentarily peered back at those working their stations on the second floor.
"All navigational data has been erased, sir. I currently have my communications specialists conducting triple screen checks of the various servers. We want to be thorough before we drop the leash on the data scavengers."
"Good." Whitcomb paused, arms behind his back, eyes narrowing in a scrutinizing glare. "Looks like everyone is ready to leave, son. Are you?"
Abajjé winced.
Was it that obvious?
He had forgotten how discerning the vice admiral could be, and how personal. He'd picked up on it during his joint meetings with Montague, but it was never aimed at him directly. He was sure that he was barely a decade younger than the man and yet he still felt as if being called 'son' made sense from someone like him.
Abajjé shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be, sir."
Whitcomb nodded. "So, you're not."
He grimaced relentingly, accepting defeat with a shake of his head. "No, sir."
Whitcomb's expression softened empathetically. "I understand. Believe me, I do. If it were up to me, I'd use a battlegroup and a few divisions to see if we couldn't hold out, keep the Covies from taking any more than they already have."
There was a brief fire in his eyes, as though he were genuinely considering it, only for that fire to dim and fade, ultimately extinguished by the breath of a long sigh. "...But it's not up to me, or you. All that's left to us is to leave as little as we can to the enemy. Do you understand that?"
"I do, sir. On the one hand, I'd hate to see a place like this given over to the Covenant. On the other, well, I'd rather not waste lives that aren't mine trying to protect something we can no longer afford to keep." He let out a lengthy exhale of his own. "...I just wish it never came to this."
More of the hardened stoicism ebbed away and Whitcomb's gaze fell into a reminiscent stare. "Don't we all."
Right then, Abajjé imagined the vice admiral as something other than what he was, perhaps a hardy pioneer in a past life that had gotten more downtime than was good for him to think about everything he'd left behind. That all changed when the senior officer folded his arms across his chest and held his head upright. Then he was a vice admiral again.
"I'll be expecting your next report in another two hours. By then I hope to see you aboard an outbound Pelican. Am I clear, son?"
"Crystal, sir."
Again, an arching of the brow. "Am I?"
Abajjé sensed the beginning of a smirk tugging on his lips, like a son being given his curfew by his own father. "Well, I can't defend a base this size with a few thousand troops, sir. That's off the table."
The brow fell. "So long as you know. As much as I'd appreciate an Alamo scenario for myself, I'd prefer you let the present we left under your boots handle everything for us."
Abajjé felt the smirk break through his guard. "Will do. I'll keep you posted."
Whitcomb appeared to share the sentiment. "Safe travels. Whitcomb out."
The feed ended and the screen returned to the rotating image of the UNSC emblem. Abajjé waved off the projection.
As he did, he noticed that he was tapping one of his feet. It was a minor thing, an unconscious expression of his own frustration, but it seemed to hold a deeper meaning that he was only just beginning to recognize.
Below him, below the ALC itself, some 10-meters underground in a concealed silo was a SHIVA-class thermonuclear warhead. It wasn't primed yet, but he had both the access code and the private connection. Whenever he decided it, he would punch in a few numbers on the personal datapad in his pocket. In so doing, he would not only prime the warhead directly below him, but the five others spread throughout the radial circumference of the base, a pentagram of hidden destruction. Once that was done, he would turn the entirety of Lochaber into a city-sized boobytrap.
A variety of dedicated sensor equipment was going to be left online at the base.
Observation teams around Reach would watch and wait. They would let the Covenant arrive in force, perhaps a cruiser or two or a battlegroup if they were lucky. They would let them deploy their troops by the thousands or, again if their fortunes were good, by the tens of thousands. Then they would be erased.
SHIVAs were tactically underrated weapons of mass destruction. As devices meant to still pack a punch in the vacuum of space, their destructive capacities within an atmosphere would be magnified severalfold. Then of course the specially placed charges set along the upper heights of the Markoláb would cut down the soon to be weakened space elevator. In its pre-planned descent, it would wrap itself around the open oceans and less occupied latitudes of Reach, just about sparing any cities or settlements from the hammer blow of orbital debris. The same couldn't be said for those Covenant that might somehow survive the initial detonations.
This wasn't simply an evacuation.
It was a demolition, a delayed one at that, one that the enemy would set off themselves.
Within the last decade, many UNSC facilities and installations in the inner colonies had learned from their ill-fated counterparts in the outer regions. It had become common practice for the most valuable among them to have nuclear devices rigged to detonate once they were claimed by the Covenant. Their obvious status as points of interest for the invaders made them perfect as target rich environments, drawing them in like moths to a flame.
If the last day of the Siege of New Alexandria was anything to judge by, the Covenant would not pass up on a target as large, and by proxy as important as Lochaber. Satellite intelligence confirmed that they were amassing their ships and forces a few hundred kilometers to the north and south. They were projected to arrive later in the day. Abajjé simply wished he could be there to see it. A little bit of atomic payback would do wonders for his mood.
If they wanted Lochaber, they could have it.
But then that line of thinking reminded him of something else, something more consequential.
The Lighters.
He recalled his conversation with Fox, his ONI liaison, focusing on the part where he had made mention of the 'Lighters'. One had been taken off Reach. The other was staying behind. Both belonged to the very same man he had just spoken to.
He wanted to kick himself for not daring to ask what the vice admiral had in mind. He couldn't see him answering that kind of question, but if he had, it would have ended up being more important than any other answer to any other question he could ask in his life.
But that was above his pay grade as well as his authorization.
Whitcomb would have never told him a thing, and his latent curiosity would have become all the more unbearable for it.
He reached down to turn off the tactical planner. His fingertip had brushed the surface when one of the comms personnel spoke through his earpiece.
"Brigadier General, sir, a call just came in. It's for you."
"...Can I get a name?"
"Colonel Garrison, 7th Shock Troops Battalion. He says he's currently on the move."
Abajjé blinked away the brief shock of the moment. "Patch him through."
He stood up and waited, both out of intrigue and concern. The fate of the 7th Shock Troops Battalion's commander was a mystery he wanted to solve, and a second later, as the screen switched on, he was faced with the man himself.
It was immediately obvious that the colonel was using a camera on the inside of his helmet. Unlike Whitcomb, his face was much closer to the screen, giving Abajjé a better view of the snow-white hair and grizzled features that made up the leader of the 7th Battalion.
"Colonel Garrison." Abajjé said in welcome.
"Brigadier General." Garrison replied. "I'd salute but I don't think you'd see it."
"No, I don't think I would. Can I ask what you've been up to these past few days? What's your status?"
"Wouldn't know where to start, sir. I'm sure you can tell I haven't been in one place for very long. I've been running from one end of Eposz to the next trying to find my ODSTs. Can't say I've been too successful past a few scattered platoons. As of now, I'm aboard a Pelican inbound to my battalion HQ. I haven't been able to reach my on-base AI or other support personnel to confirm Cole Protocol compliance. I'm on my way to investigate."
Abajjé understood. His was far from the only base to be cut off from the larger planetary network.
"Not sure if you knew this but the Covenant started targeting our satellite relays right after Alexandria."
"Makes sense. It's playing hell with my long-range communications, which is why I'm surprised this even went through. But Falchion seems...different. I'm not getting so much as a word through the static. In any event, sir, I didn't call just to brief you. I need your help. Can you confirm for me if any elements of my battalion made it to your location? I'm thinking I might need backup for this one."
"Here at Lochaber? No, none that I-"
Abajjé caught himself.
There were some 7th Shock Troops here.
He was aware of a mere handful that had reportedly arrived three days after New Alexandria fell. They had made a real ruckus in the Army barracks on the west side of Lochaber, checking every bed and closet for signs of their battalion. Unless he was mistaken, he was reasonably certain that they had somehow survived the glassing of the city. As a result, they were left initially unaware of the strategic fallout that had unfolded mere days before their arrival.
In more recent times, they were in the business of making themselves useful wherever they could, utilizing abandoned Warthogs and Mongooses to navigate across an increasingly empty base, searching for places to lend a hand. They assisted with providing security for evacuation sites and provisioning manpower for equipment extractions.
They had somehow become more of a helpful group of good Samaritans than a team of stranded special forces.
"There's at least one platoon here that I know of." Abajjé said. "I believe they said they were from...Bravo Company?"
The first indication that he'd said something important was the strained relief that dawned over the colonel's demeanor.
"Bravo?" He echoed.
"Yes, that's what I've been told anyway."
"...Did they say which platoon?"
"I can't remember, but I do know they were being led by someone, a staff sergeant named-"
"Atell?" Garrison asked, finishing the thought for him.
"Yes, actually, I think that was it."
The colonel's relief became that much more visible. The change suddenly made Abajjé aware of just how tense he really was.
"Can you do me a favor, sir? If they're in a position to, I need them to rendezvous with me at Falchion for an asset denial op in the next three hours. I'd need you to pass on the message. They'll also need transportation."
"We should have enough dropships on hand for the task. Are there any other assets you think you'll need?"
"If you've got any Longswords available for forward reconnaissance, it would be a big help."
"Not here, but there are other air stations close to Falchion that should be able to assist. I can get in contact with them on your behalf."
"I'd be grateful. I'm not too sure what we're walking into at this point."
"I don't doubt it. I'll pass on the message. Stay in touch if you can, alright colonel?"
Garrison shook his head. "I can't make any promises these days, sir. All I know is we need to get there."
Abajjé nodded. "Then I wish you luck. See you on the other side of all this, if there is one."
"Let's hope so." The colonel replied, a slight smile managing to break through his preoccupied mug. "Garrison out."
The feed switched off.
Abajjé stood there for a while longer than he intended. When he moved, he did so with a gentle finality, pressing a finger to the surface of the tactical planner until the hovering projection vanished.
He looked up to the windows that lined the second floor. There were motes of light, some moving, some unmoving, sprinkled across an ocean of darkness that was once fully illuminated. Far ahead of him, he laid eyes on a large collection of lights that travelled up and down along the heights of the space elevator.
He tried to imagine it in its entirety. Then he tried to imagine it falling to the planet.
If there really were people on Reach who still didn't know what was happening, they were soon to find out.
He pressed his earpiece. "This is Brigadier General Abajjé to Warrant Officer O'Neal, I need your help finding a few ODSTs."
:********:
Duncan lifted with his knees.
Yuri did the same.
Together, with a growl of strain, they heaved the crate off the ground and began hefting it towards the waiting pallet. There were already a few more crates sitting in a large stack on top of it. They worked together to bring it over, resting their charge on top of the pile.
Duncan stepped back to survey their handiwork.
For a space big enough and wide enough to fit an Albatross, the cargo container was nearly filled to capacity. In the last ten minutes or so that they had spent working on it, they had managed to stack many of the small storage pens and shelves of the second floor with crates of various sizes and consignments. On the first floor, a more diverse display of crates was gathered within an intermingling collection of barrels. They were all arranged at the periphery of a parking space wherein six Warthogs were secured, their large tires fastened to the ground by weighted wheel restraints. In truth, it struck Duncan as more of a private garage than a mobile container unit. Even then, it was just one of half a dozen cargo containers within the Markoláb's possession, half of which were currently ascending to or descending from geosynchronous orbit.
He took the momentary reprieve to size up some of the cargo, eyeing the crates and assorted pictographs detailing what weapons, munitions or equipment components were housed inside. He did the same with the barrels and picked up on a reoccurring theme of fire hazards. There were enough flammable materials here to blow everyone around them to hell twice over. It was perhaps for that reason alone that the others carried both themselves and their charges with an air of caution. A full platoon of Army troopers moved about on the same work detail, albeit less enthusiastically. They were on either floor, laying down additional cargo or performing quick maintenance checks on wall-mounted apparatuses.
There was a need to make sure they weren't overloading the container. How pressing that need truly was Duncan found debatable. He was already sure that the unit could carry a heavy-duty dropship without issue. In as far as he could tell, the real concern wasn't with the amount of weight but with the frequency of travel. The elevator was being used every hour of every day for the last week or so, causing it to host much higher levels of traffic than it was accustomed to. Those in charge were trying to play it safe. None of them wanted to risk an unseen strain on the structure turning everything they had worked so hard to achieve into an artificial meteor shower.
The concerns of the brass were vaguely familiar to him. They dredged up old memories that he rarely ever visited, taking him back to his days in the Marine Reserve. Once upon a time, he had served as part of the groundside security team for the space elevator Victoria back during his stationing in Chicago. The minor computer work that he'd done there in troubleshooting the small-scale technical problems of the Earth-bound tether was actually beneficial. It allowed him a decent impression of the insane amount of systematic cooperation occurring around him at any given moment.
"I'm getting tired." Yuri groaned, pressing his hands to his back with a series of muffled cracks.
"You and me both. Anyways, no rest for the weary. Time for the next one." Duncan turned back to the wide-open entrance, one so large that he wouldn't be surprised if an aircraft mistook it for a docking bay.
"Whoever came up with that quote obviously never worked day in their life." Yuri grumbled as he followed him.
Stepping outside, they exchanged the ceiling lights of the container unit for the overwhelming illumination surrounding the base of the elevator. An encompassing Stonehenge of floodlights stood watch around the bottom of the Markoláb, bathing everything in their glow, casting the back-and-forth shapes of those moving about in a mass of shadow puppetry. Hundreds of servicemen and women were carrying off or rolling along all matter of materials. Driving around them were multiple forklifts, each hefting pallets full of the larger freightage that couldn't be carried by hand. The vehicles maneuvered alongside the maglev rails that funneled through the guideways which grooved the various sectors of the Markoláb's foundations. Each of them stemmed from elevated networks of support rails that branched in from the rest of Lochaber. Trams were arriving and departing on a regular basis from virtually all directions. The moment they slid to a stop; the large doors of their own container units were opened. Waiting forklifts drove inside to grab ahold of the heavy loads within. As they reversed out, watchful personnel stormed in to take care of the lighter cargo.
Crates and barrels weren't the only things being delivered by the trams. The doors of their passenger coaches also opened to release their human contents. In the last few days, the transports had delivered civilians to the Markoláb by the thousands. That was no longer the case.
On the closest tram, Duncan watched from the sidelines as just under 50 people disembarked. A cool pre-dawn wind blew in from the north and whipped through the hair, clothes and baggage of several families. They were the stragglers, leftovers of the ongoing evacuation efforts from the base itself. Going off of their more rural appearance, Duncan guessed they were either homesteaders that had just arrived from the interior of Viery or locals that refused to leave the nearby countryside until circumstances had forced their hand. Whatever the case, what mattered at the end of the day was that they were here. They were heading to safety, which was more than Duncan could say for himself. He had no clue where the platoon would end up once their stay at Lochaber was over.
For the time being, he had to content himself with the thought of what he needed to do with the next few minutes, and that was to deal with the cargo aboard the newly arrived tram.
He and Yuri went ahead.
As they walked, the latter rolled his shoulders to stretch his muscles. "Time for round two, or three, or ten, or whatever delivery this is."
Duncan could relate. They were decked out in their full BDUs. They were also fully armed, weapons on their harnesses and magazines in their pouches. The Staff didn't want anyone in the platoon to be caught off guard once the Covenant finally arrived. It was well known by those remaining in Lochaber that their ships would soon be on their way here, if they weren't already. When that time came, they would have no other option than to withdraw with everyone else. What came next would be anyone's guess.
"Ep-1 to 1st Platoon, listen up."
Duncan stopped in his tracks, hearing the Staff's call through his helmet. Yuri did the same, both of them listening in.
"We've got new orders. Drop what you're doing and rendezvous at the north side."
Duncan saw a NAV point appear out of the corner of his visor. He looked around the busy circumference of the elevator's base. The meet-up point was just out of sight.
"About time." Yuri huffed. "I was getting bored of being bellboy."
Duncan smiled. "You and me both."
The two of them turned off from their approach to the tram and fell into a jog towards the north side. On their way there they weaved through the crisscrossing crowds, dodging around piles of leftover freight that was yet to be stowed away.
To their left, the Markoláb's many hangars went by in an unmoving carousel of additional storage units, maintenance cars and welcome wagons, most of which were waiting to takeoff with their living and non-living payloads. The entire thing was like the cylinder of an old-fashioned revolver, each chamber waiting its turn to be fired.
He spotted the same rural families from before now forming into an orderly line at the hangar to one of the welcome wagons. The squad of soldiers that had shepherded them from the tram proceeded to lead them inside. A number of the kids shuffling beside their parents were shouldering backpacks meant for people twice their size. That was enough to convince him that they were born of a hardier stock than most.
Homesteaders.
The idea of it stuck out to him then. Something about a life apart from everything else, from crowded cities and busy outposts sounded appealing. Tending to an upcoming harvest while the rest of the world burned down around him was the closest thing to a peaceful existence that he could imagine.
He only hoped he got to live long enough to find out for himself.
His stay at the hospital, by comparison, turned out to be much shorter than he was expecting.
In the day or so that they spent there, the doctors were able to give them a summation of their conditions.
Their exposure to the burst of radiation from the Covenant's opening bombardment of New Alexandria was mostly mitigated by three factors: their armor, their quick response in running down to the bunker and Renni's treatments of potassium iodide.
Mostly but not entirely.
The bombardment had given them an intense dosage.
It wasn't going to make them drop dead or cause them any visible problems, at least none beyond the initial symptoms that had stopped plaguing them after they left the city.
Those of them who had been on the roof that day would be able to continue on without any major decreases in their abilities.
But long-term damage had been done to some of their DNA.
The consequences it would bring about were problems reserved for the future, specifically just how much of a future they had left to look forward to.
Duncan, Zack, Mito, Hector, the Staff, Dalton and Reznik, the seven of them would get to enjoy their late fifties, which wasn't saying much in Dalton's case.
Their sixties were in debate but still within range.
Their seventies were a long shot.
Their eighties were entirely out of the question.
Treatments to eradicate the cancer cells expected to propagate in their later years would be able to buy them time, but the repair mechanisms of a good deal of their DNA would never recover.
On the morning after they arrived at the hospital, as the chief physician delivered the news, Duncan remembered one thing and one thing only.
As the old expert finished up, he waited for their response.
All he got was laughter.
Everyone burst out laughing, from Zack's guffawing fits to the Staff's mildly amused chuckle.
Duncan laughed as well, so much so that his sides hurt.
He couldn't help it.
None of them could, and the look of surprise on the doctor's face and those of the nearby nurses only made them laugh that much harder.
It was the funniest thing any of them had ever heard.
It was almost touching to have someone tell him that he was going to die in the next few decades, meaning that he still had longer to live. That kind of sentiment went a long way, especially after he had lived so much of his life with the certainty that he would die the next day.
If he survived the war, if humanity survived the war, then he didn't care when the grim reaper decided to come knocking. As far as he was concerned, the bastard had been trying to break into his house for the last eight years straight.
All the same, as he watched the late arrivals begin to step into their welcome wagon to disperse among the aisles of seats, he couldn't help but hope that he lived up to the doctor's expectations.
The memory of Erica and Noah looking back at him through their starship porthole slipped through his guard, strengthening the slight smile he had managed to hold onto.
Thirty or forty more years was enough.
More than enough.
Emerging from beneath the large shadow of the Markoláb's northern support strut, he caught sight of the NAV point.
The others were already gathering into a small circle. The Staff was at the center of it, and beside him stood an Army officer. Slipping into the group, Duncan singled out the silver bars of a warrant officer on the latter's shoulder.
The Staff gestured to the newcomer. "Platoon, this is Warrant Officer O'Neal. He has the specs on our new op so listen close."
"Op?" Zack questioned. "We're taking orders straight from the Army, sir?"
"Negative, trooper." O'Neal replied, focusing on him in particular. "I'm just the messenger. Your battalion colonel was able to get in touch with us."
The mention of the colonel immediately lifted Duncan's spirits. It came as an unexpectedly welcome shock to know that the man was still around, still giving orders. The news made him pay even closer attention as O'Neal continued.
"Colonel Garrison needs you to fly over to Falchion Base to back him up for an asset denial. He's enacting Cole Protocol procedures. Apparently, communications were lost with the 7th's base of operations some time ago. We're not sure if the necessary data purge has been carried out. You'll reinforce him until he can confirm that no sensitive materials remain at the site. Your expected rendezvous is in three hours."
Duncan was only paying attention before, but he was zeroed in now.
It wasn't the coolness of the wind that caused the goosebumps to rise all over his body. Despite his armor, he could feel the hair on his skin standing on end as an alarming dread pulsed through his being.
Falchion.
Falchion?
Of all the places...
He was shaking his head before he even knew why. The knowledge itself came as an electric shock of fizzling heat that treated his gut like a furnace. It was another one of those things he never expected he would have to do, another place he never expected he would have to fight.
No.
He should have expected it. He could have.
He chose not to.
He realized the only reason he was so caught off guard by it was because he had kept himself from giving it any serious thought.
It was his home.
It was their home.
Why would he want to think a day like this would come?
Why didn't he?
Nevertheless, here it was in all its suddenness, and regardless of his armor, his weapons and his supplies, it had caught him when he was least prepared.
"Falchion." Nova said, her hoarse voice breaking the seconds-long silence.
Zack's stance slackened. "No shot..."
"We don't know if it's under attack." O'Neal corrected. "That remains to be seen. All the information we have available at the moment suggests that the Covenant's efforts to attack our satellites in orbit have created a communications blackout around that sector."
More than a few uneasy looks were shared among the platoon. Not least among them was Duncan. For him, though it felt like years had passed since last they had been to Falchion, it was almost as if someone had broken into his own house. Grim reaper or not, he took exception to that.
The windy thrum of fusion drives drew their eyes elsewhere.
O'Neal turned as well, pointing to where they were all looking: a bright, silvery dot cruising through the dark skies.
A Pelican.
"And that should be your ride coming in now. If I remember correctly, your staff sergeant informed me that one of you happens to be a pilot."
As the dropship grew closer, Yuri stepped forward. "That'd be me."
O'Neal nodded. "She's all yours."
The Pelican slowed out of its speedy descent, the flare of its drives dying down as it raised its wings into the air, using the motion to swing its tail around. It slowly leveled out and backed towards them. Its landing gear extended outward while its bay door fell open. The aircraft hovered to an unoccupied section of the elevator's base, settling down with a bobbing impact.
"Thanks for the assistance, sir." The Staff said.
"Thank your colonel." O'Neal replied. "I heard about what happened to you guys after the siege." He extended a hand. "All the best to you."
The Staff took it with a grateful shake.
O'Neal nodded off to the platoon and stepped aside, walking away to some other duty.
"Let's go." The Staff moved forward.
He only took a few steps before stopping at the ramp. Without turning around, he'd picked up on the fact that his were the only boots moving towards the dropship.
"...I know." He peered back at them. "But he needs us for support. It's already settled."
"...Think he's already there, sir?" Mito asked.
"All I could give you is a best guess."
"...Think they're already there, sir?" Mackley asked.
The Staff turned to face them all. "And if they are?"
No one answered him back, nor did anyone move to try.
"Let's go."
He turned back around and walked up the ramp. Nova was the first to follow him. The rest of the platoon trickled in one after the next. A silence akin to the one that had seen them through their flight from New Alexandria took hold once again.
Duncan was among the last to come aboard.
The Pelican's pilot passed through the bay as they were all trying to find their seats, looking around for someone specific. "Your pilot?"
"Da." Yuri replied as the last person to stroll in.
"Try not to scratch the paint. It's new." The pilot shot him a grin and left it at that, walking out down the ramp.
"I'll keep that in mind." Yuri carried on to the cockpit.
All the while, Duncan pulled his rifle across his lap to make himself comfortable.
The feeling from before, the disbelief was gone. So was the shock.
But he was still cold.
It wasn't the wind either.
With Erica and Noah off world, with New Alexandria in pieces, there was still one thing on Reach that he wanted to protect.
Though he had laid his rifle on his lap, he hadn't let go of it. His hands were latched on tight. His trigger finger itched.
He needed to kill something.
The sound of the bay door beginning to rise assured him that he would soon get his chance, or at the very least he might.
The whine of the drives rose anew, and he felt them beginning to lift off the ground.
They were on the offensive when they dropped onto the corvettes.
They were on the defensive when they dropped into New Alexandria.
This was different.
It was personal now.
:********:
Airfield Sierra was quiet.
There wasn't a sound to be heard save for two: the gentle whisper of the wind rustling through the grass and the air roaring from the drives of the last Pelican in Lochaber.
Abajjé was walking towards it.
A personal security team of four military police flanked him on either side. They matched his pace, rifles in hand while they watched the skies. There was still no sign of a Covenant cruiser or even a fighter in the pitch blackness overhead. What there were, however, were dozens upon dozens of bright dots that were getting further and further away. The remaining aircraft, both UNSC and civilian were heading off to meet with those translight-capable starships still waiting for them in the upper atmosphere.
Far below them, the ground was a maze of dark shapes, gigantic silhouettes and expansive voids laid out across a murky terrain. They were buildings, towers, roads and highways. They were merely part of a vast expanse of darkness that had come to cover the full extent of Lochaber Base.
Of the whole of the kilometers-wide base, not a single light was left on. By his own authorization, the installations providing power to the location were shut down.
Not even the Markoláb was spared.
Abajjé gave it a glance, examining the lightless edifice that stretched on and on through the clouds like a dark pillar. No welcome wagons or container units prowled its heights. With the last of them having ascended away a few minutes earlier, it was completely and utterly abandoned, as were the countless structures that surrounded it.
His sole guiding light came from the open cargo bay of the dropship. His security detail were the first ones up the ramp, just as he'd requested. As they settled in, he stopped short of following them inside.
He took in the sights or lack thereof, slowly coming to terms with the reality that he might be the last person to ever do so. He breathed in the night air, savoring the refreshing feeling in his lungs.
Then he released it, and with that, he turned away.
He put one foot to the ramp. The last one remained stubbornly on the grass, as if gravity were pulling it back with everything it had.
At length, he lifted it from the airfield and walked inside. He found himself a seat next to the door and sat back while it began to close. The scream of the drives around him sped up into an ascending shriek. The door thumped into place and sealed shut, offering him his last fleeting glimpse of the base through the rear viewport.
The Pelican started lifting skyward, preparing to join the Falcon escort waiting for them high above.
He took the opportunity to slip his datapad out of his pocket and switch it on.
The arming suite for the base's SHIVA warheads was already open. All it was waiting for was a twelve-digit activation sequence whose entry function glimmered in and out of sight. He pulled up the keypad and typed in the code with one careful stroke after the next. When it was done, his fingers hovered over the green button that read 'Initiate'.
For a heartbeat, he was tempted to press the red 'Abort' button on the opposite side of the screen. The compulsion was strong, but not that strong.
He pressed the green, watching it respond with a confirmatory flicker and a beeping chime.
Lochaber was primed.
He looked out the viewport at the base itself and at the empty skies overhead that were soon to be filled with hostile ships.
And he smiled.
It was a bitter smile, but a smile nonetheless.
"All yours."
Petitio - Request