HAPPY AMERICA DAY
==================================================================
(3rd Pov)
Admiral Preston Cole stood on his stage as his neural implants dinged a hail for him in the bridge of the Everest. "This concludes the broad Operation portion of the briefing," he turned, glancing at the lead Spartan and Johnson, "I'll leave the minor details regarding infil, exfil, and other important information," he nodded to the pair.
"We'll watch your backs up here in Space. Make sure those aliens don't get a leg up on us," he paused, "Well, more than whatever lead they already have," he added in a quieter voice.
He moved to stand at attention and saluted the crowd of soldiers. The crowd likewise did the same, a mutually equivalent showing of respect on both parties. Cole departed the stage, and replacing him were two super soldiers, one obvious, the other not so much.
The two glanced at each other, and a silent understanding passed between them as Johnson stepped forward and David moved a half-step behind. David slid his helmet back onto his head, the young face now enveloped by the honeycombed visor of Mjolnir.
"The first facility on the docket is located near the northern pole of Harvest," Johnson said as the holoboard behind him reignited, showing various images of a frozen landscape. "The pole gets particularly cold due to the tilt of the planet, and it's winter in that hemisphere. So to keep things short, prepare yourselves to walk into Santa's workshop during a blizzard."
"Luckily, both ODST armor and Spartan armor have heat regulation systems," Johnson paused. "So I better not see any hand warmers on this op," he got a few chuckles from the ODST as the Spartans remained stoically silent.
"But that does mean you need to bring winter gear. Specifically ice picks and spikes for climbing because everyone will be getting some free climbing practice in," a couple groans were let out.
"We'll be pulling a play from the back of the book this time as well. After we break the hard deck of 35,000 feet, we'll be HALO jumping into a blizzard, and there will be no thrust packs," Johnson said before smirking, "Back in my day we didn't have any soft-handed 'jet packs'; in my day we had a bed sheet and a strong grip. But today is your lucky day because you all are getting the best piece of canvas the Corps can afford," he undid the straps around his BDU before holding up a parachute.
"Today you will be waiting until you hit the HALO floor of 1000 feet before you pull this string," he pointed to the main chute release before moving on.
"Stick to short to medium range weapons; most of the site is corridors and small rooms. This is a quiet infiltration, meaning smaller calibers or suppressors. If we end up needing long range, then we might as well ring the doorbell while we are at it,"
"The Admiral already said it, but we are moving in using three S-117 Night Owls. Because of that, everyone is getting split up; not one of them can carry everyone, and I'd personally rather not put all of our eggs in one basket," he paused and looked at the four Spartans below him, "And yes, that includes you four, but it looks like one of you will be on your own-"
"I'll do it," a voice came from behind Johnson. David nodded at the Sergeant's glance, confirming what he'd said.
David took a step forward, entering the briefing for the first time. "We are short on time; the rest of the briefing can be done in transit. You have one hour to collect whatever gear you require. Be in the hangar by the end of that time, or be left behind."
Johnson briefly paused before nodding and turning back to the crowd, "What he said."
"You got your orders. Don't be late,"
…..
….
…
..
.
As the soldiers dispersed, the members of Alpha team rallied, heading for a more private armory on a level further away from the hangar.
"This is the third time you've decided to change your loadout for this mission," Daisy nagged. "Trust me, David, whatever gun you pick, it won't change much."
David remained silent as they walked, but the rest of Alpha recognized the subtle shift in his posture. To anyone else, he looked impassive. To them, he was getting irritated.
"Ammo capacity, stopping power, and effective range all depend on what weapon I bring," David began to speak through his helmet, repeating himself for what felt like the hundredth time, "And no gun is a one-size-fits-all for every mission."
Jorge nodded at "stopping power.", "He's got a point," the big man admitted, to which Daisy rolled her eyes.
"But David, your marksmanship scores show that any difference between weapon usage is minimal at best and arbitrary at worst," Cal chimed in, trying to provide help.
"Again, stopping power-" David began to speak
"-doesn't matter if you aim for the head. Right?" Daisy cut him off. David's visor shifted slightly in her direction, to the right of him. The end of Daisy's lips perked up ever so slightly as she knew that he was glaring at her through the helmet.
She had to admit, when it was Sheila annoying her, it was a pain in the ass, but when she could do it to David, it was far more enjoyable.
"Hey, me and Jorge feel left out. We can annoy Dave too," Sheila spoke up from the back.
"Don't worry, Captain, if you need it, I am more than willing to lend you my chaingun. Then you won't have to worry about ammo capacity," Jorge said, fully knowing he was stirring the pot.
There was a slight groan from David, "Ugh, this is why I am riding alone."
A moment of silence passed as they reached the armory and the doors opened.
Cal looked up as if she had just remembered something. "You volunteered before we started talking," she pointed out.
There were a few quiet chuckles as the armory doors closed, and if anyone paid close attention, they would find that David held each weapon a bit tighter than usual.
…..
….
…
..
.
"Spikes… check! Picks… check! Water…three canteens…check!" Jenkins continued to stuff equipment in his bag as he spoke.
His rucksack by now looked as though it contained every piece of equipment ever issued to him. From afar, it looked like the rookie was going overboard, but none of the ODSTs seemed to bother telling him. A "rite of passage" is what they would call it, as they were perfectly content to laugh watching the new guy do things because he lacked experience.
In their eyes, experience was a teacher, and no lesson could be much clearer than the one gotten by lugging around an extra hundred pounds in a blizzard up a mountain.
"Stop what you are doing, Wally," Jenkins paused in the middle of grabbing another item for his bag.
"What's up, Sarge?" he asked passively.
Johnson moved to the spot beside him. "Dump out what you got. I wanna see what you're taking."
Wallace shrugged before picking up the bag and shaking it out onto the table.
BANG
CLATTER
THUNK
For a moment there was silence as Johnson simply stared at the mountain of various equipment. Even behind the two, a couple of stray ODSTs finishing their own packing tried to look over and see what happened.
"Dear God, are you trying to pack your entire bedroom in that bag?" Johnson shook his head tiredly.
Jenkins fidgeted nervously, feeling that he had done something wrong but was unsure what. "Uh- what do you mean, Sarge?" he asked, scratching the back of his head.
"Look, how long do you figure we are going to be out in the field before re-supply?" Johnson asked, beginning to teach the young ODST.
"Ah… a week or more…right?" he asked unsurely
"Negatory, young grasshopper," Johnson raised three fingers, "At the latest for an operation and mission scope of this size, we will be getting more ammo and necessities by the third day."
He reached over and swiped over half of the stuff. "Don't bother with this. Even if this turns into a shit show, having so much weight will only weigh you down and wear you out quicker. Not to mention having to keep up with everything."
Johnson picked up one of the magazines left in the pile to keep. "Instead, load up on ammo, not enough to kill yourself in a sprint, but enough that you won't be begging others for spares in a firefight."
Jenkins nodded understanding, but still had a question, "What about food and water? Shouldn't I bring extra of that?" he asked, pointing to the leave-out pile.
Johnson shook his head, "That's what you'd think, but no, you wouldn't," he paused, raising a finger. "First thing is that you gotta know your mission area: We are going to be on a snow-covered wasteland with ridges, valleys, and mountains. So don't worry about water; if you run out of it, just pack some snow from the ground into it."
"As for rations, don't even think about carrying more than one. You won't die from being hungry," he said before grumbling, "Besides, those things go right through you."
Jenkins nodded, "Ok, got it. Thank you Sarge," he appreciated the help from the veteran.
The Staff Sergeant patted him on the shoulder, "Don't mention it, Wally. Now, come on, it's just about time to board the drop ships."
…..
….
…
..
.
The pair, Johnson and Jenkins, walked into the hangar of the Everest and stopped near the doorway, observing the room.
In front of them, three blackened-plated Pelican variants were fueling, technicians and pilots alike doing last-minute checks. The aircraft themselves looked almost absurd.
Covered in weird geometrical-shaped panels, the ship barely resembled the dropship it was a derivative of. It almost completely lacked any color, only having a white 001, 002, 003 for the corresponding ship under the main cockpit, and a white UNSC on the outer bulkhead. Unlike the Pelican that had stubbier wings and quad thrusters, the Night Owls had longer wings with only two super-turbo jet engines.
The ship looked more like a prowler mixed with a long sword than a Pelican.
Jenkins whistled at the sight. "Sarge, you didn't tell me that we were flying in a Decepticon," he smirked.
Johnson snorted, "Leave it to the ONI egg heads," he said before turning and spotting some naval officers.
"I gotta talk to some of the Navy guys over there. Find a spot and sit tight, Wally," the Sergeant said before walking away.
"Roger," Jenkins acknowledged before looking around for a place to go.
On one side, near the first Night Owl, the ODSTs were in a crowd conversing just like they did in the briefing room.
Across the hangar by the third were the five Spartans. They were completely silent; the one-Sheila sat on the bay door while the other four stood. Daisy was leaning against the landing gear of the Night Owl with her arms crossed, seemingly watching the hangar in her direction. Cal was looking through a data pad, every now and then looking at the Captain who stood between her and Daisy, maybe speaking through a private channel. Jorge seemed to be wiping down a MA37 assault rifle mechanically, though the gun was already spotless.
Lastly, the leader stood with his arms similarly crossed like Daisy, but was looking at the ground, appearing absent-minded. Every now and then he'd glance at Cal, probably responding to something she'd said.
'Talk about bipolar,' Jenkins thought, recalling how the team had acted earlier.
But the ODST paused as his eyes caught something. 'Wait,' he narrowed his eyes before his brow shot up.
'Why are they bringing a rocket launcher?' strapped to Daisy's armor was a SPNKR rocket launcher. He shook his head, but then he noticed a light machine gun on Jorge's back.
"So much for a stealth mission," he muttered to himself.
"Alright, ladies, we are ready to rock. Board the Owls," Johnson called out
A feeling of anticipation welled up in Jenkins' stomach. "Let's do this," he said, putting on his helmet. The HUD lit up in response; after a moment, the visor solidified, obscuring his face.
"Hey rookie," a voice to his left spoke up. Turning, he found the Corporal of the ODST force. "We drew straws for deployments, seeing as each drop zone gets worse the closer you are to the mountain."
The Corporal placed a hand on Jenkins' shoulder, "And I got some bad news. You got the shortest straw."
The color vanished from Wallace's face, but before he could protest the Corporal patted his shoulder and began to walk away, "You'll be in Screecher-1, but don't worry you got the lead freak with you. You'll be fine," he jabbed his thumb toward the group of Spartans.
Johnson moved back over to Wally. "Well, Sarge, looks like we got a mountain to climb," the ODST helmet reflected, showing his sad expression.
"Actually, Wally, you're on your own," Johnson said with a 'is what it is' expression. "Would be a bad idea to have both leading officers in the same transport. So I am riding in the third Owl."
Wallace felt like banging his head into a wall, but he just sighed. This was the typical treatment for new guys; that's why they were called FNGs or spelled out:
Fucking New Guy
Since the dawn of combat and organized warfare, no one wanted to be paired with the new guy, and since the dawn of humanity nobody ever wanted to be the new guy.
"Cheer up," Johnson put on his helmet before similarly jabbing a thumb in the direction of the Spartans, "You get to see the big boss over there in action. And trust me, it's something you're gonna want to see."
"I guess," Wally said unsurely before walking toward the first Night Owl, feeling as if he was walking toward his execution.
Across the hangar, David's crew began to stand up. David himself made his way to Johnson and the corporal, the leaders of the other two transports. "Alpha Two and Alpha Three will be in Screecher-2. Four and Five will be in Screecher-3; I'll be in one."
"Gotcha," Johnson said.
"Whatever, just make sure they stay out of our way," the corporal said dismissively.
David caught the distaste in the ODST's voice but said nothing. Since John had beaten four ODSTs to near death and to death for one after his augmentations, almost every ODST they'd come across had a chip on their shoulder when it came to Spartans. It was some form of strange one-sided rivalry.
To put it bluntly, it was beneath Spartans… Ironic seeing as they were still in their late teens.
David approached his dropship, stepping onto the bay door before finding a seat right by the opening. The other ODSTs were already inside, staying away from him, all except one, Wallace Jenkins, who sat closer than others but still gave the super soldier space.
"This is Screecher-1, ready to depart for Operation: LAST RESPECTS. Do I hear Alakazam?" the pilot of the first stealth dropship asked as he fired the engines, dumping fuel into their lines.
"From the admiral himself: Abra Kadabra. You are clear to launch Screecher-1," one of the command staff gave the answer phrase, "Good luck, Eagles."
The bay door slowly came up as the craft gained lift. Its landing gear retracted and it lerched forward, floating forward through the air lock. The other two transports followed in formation behind.
…..
….
…
..
.
"Sir Task Force: Eagle is away en route to Harvest's surface,"
Aboard the bridge of the Everest, a communications officer called out, informing Preston Cole of the operation's commencement.
'They didn't blow up in the hangar,' he thought stoically, 'That's one miracle secured, now let's see if I can get us another,'
He looked out the viewport at little more than odd color dots in the distance away from his ship. A soft glance from side to side showed the rest of Task Force: X-RAY moving in sync with his command ship.
Out there in space, it was clear that it was the Covenant's territory. So much so that even the previous battles made the hair on the back of Cole's neck stand up. Each moment of battle in general was a dance of death, and right now he was about to do a waltz right in front of the grim reaper himself.
"Good," he spoke up, steeling his resolve, "All stations prepare the MAC cannons. I want our guests to be reminded who's planet this is."
The spinal cannons on each ship in range for the task force glowed as their magnetic coils absorbed electricity. And in an instant, the cannons were fired; no ships were destroyed, but a few had their shields heavily impacted.
'This is going to be a bloody fight,' Cole was once again reminded before his eyes traveled down to the approach vector for the Eagles.
'Good luck,'
…..
….
…
..
.
The Night Owl seemed to creak as it broke into the atmosphere, and it creaked once again as the pilot leveled out at a cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.
Taking a glance out the rear view port only led to a view of white mixed with grey swirls courtesy of the clouds they were flying through.
"ETA 2 mikes till drop, ready up Alpha One," the pilot queued up the comm as he flipped the switch to begin lowering the rear bay door.
Wind stirred the inner hull of the Night Owl, whipping around and pulling any unfastened object toward the rear.
David stood up, and the rest followed, forming a single-file line. Jenkins was behind him followed by every other ODST.
"So tell me again why we can't just use our jet packs? The admiral does know that we are supposed to be a special tactics unit, right?" Jenkins asked the ODST behind him, cupping his hand to his helmet microphone, trying to be heard clearly without screaming.
"Thruster packs will light up Covie thermals and sensors like damn Christmas trees even in blizzards like the one we are jumping into," the ODST responded, similarly cupping his hand. "Hell, the blizzard is the only reason we are jumping in safe. You better thank Jack Frost,"
"I'll thank him after I leave out cookies for Santa," Jenkins responded before turning forward. He gripped his parachute pack tightly. He felt an array of emotions, anxious to get the mission underway, eager to prove himself, and more than wanting to get back at the enemy who killed his parents.
"Thirty secs till DZ," the pilot chimed.
Moments passed as the special forces members were silently waiting. One of them decided to give a final reminder.
"MAKE SURE YOU ARE AT THE RALLY POINT BY 0900!" he yelled through his helmet, "IF NOT WE ARE LEAVING YOUR ASS BEHIND!
"Four," the pilot began to count down.
"Three,"
"Two,"
"One…JUMP,"
Without hesitation, David took one step onto the open bay door and lept out into the white. Air ripped around him, and the Night Owl disappeared into the clouds.
All that was left was white and empty air.