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Survivalism by The Militant Poet
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Survivalism: Part 1
Date: 11 October 2007, 4:05 am
Part 1 – The Haven
0632 hours – August 30th, 2552
Forward Recon outpost Delta – Codename: Haven
The air was still and smooth as dawn approached. Complete silence overcame all other noise in the jungle except for the occasional interruption from passing birds. It was an almost disturbing calm. This morning was a rare occasion for the men occupying The Haven; they almost never felt at peace in this place. Thick walls of overgrowth and tree trunks seemed to claw at them every day – constantly trying to consume them in their meager establishment. They were completely cut off from the outside world, save one radio and an old, beaten path leading through the foliage.
Only a few tents dotted the small grotto where their camp was laid out. The smallest of the three, the armory, rested near the eastern tree line right next to the exit path. Another small tent sat opposite the armory nearly engulfed in overgrowth and tree limbs – The communications "center". The third, and larger tent, was established dead north in the camp. It had multiple "rooms" and even a make-shift garage. Unfortunately for its occupants, the garage hadn't had any inhabitants for a long time; if anybody had to make a break for it, they did it on foot. To the south end of the grotto, a small guard tower peeked its tall perch out of the canopy that covered the sky above the outpost. The endless layer of tree canopies was like a rolling ocean of green in front of the tower. From there, any amateur sniper could pick off a target from over a mile away.
In between the tents, the trap doors leading to the tunnel system that housed, fed, and hid the soldiers living there, rested shut. In the middle of all these structures and doors a small open grassy area freckled with ferns and moss-covered tree stumps sat in waiting for her tenants to emerge from the shadows and leaves. Every building, every sign of human life, was covered in camouflage netting, and erased from the face of Reach. A man could walk right into this place and not even know that ten highly trained killers were waiting all around him, stalking his every move.
A rustling in the grass cut the eerie quiet almost as soon as it started. A trap door in between the tower and the com station perked up ever so slightly, and the dim white of human eyes darted back and forth from within – scanning the area. Suddenly a whistle blared across the grotto; the "all clear" sign. All of the trap doors flung open in unison and no sooner than they hit the ground did almost a dozen men trot out from the depths of the tunnels. They were clad in black and dark grey baggy camouflage under clothes. On top of their fatigues several plates of matte-black armor were fastened securely on their legs, upper arms, fore arms, and thighs. The plates were layered and tied together so intricately that there cumbersome weight seemed nothing more than an extra layer of clothes. Their chest plate reached all the way from the lower part of their abdomen up to the middle of their neck, and over to the top of their shoulder-guards. It was protracted and bulged slightly from their natural chest to allow for extra armor, as well as few extra custom variations to fit each soldier. The sides of the chest plate circled around and under their arms to meet their back armor; a thick synthetic Kevlar – elastic compound that allowed for incredible flexibility without sacrificing protection to their spinal chord. Two smaller armored plates that rested on their upper backs just above their shoulder blades also accompanied the Kevlar for added fortification. The last and most intriguing part of their uniform was the helmet – a small dome with extensions that went along the jaw line and joined together at the mouth. Over the face a black reflective visor shielded any notion of facial expression; the very sight of this black abyss staring back at you would strike fear into the heart of any enemy.
The men poured out of the ground and quickly raised their weapons into the surrounding jungle. They swept their barrels back and forth for nearly a minute before they were sure nobody was watching.
"All right marines!" barked a soldier with a red band that stricken through his right shoulder plate, "boots on the line; move it!"
The other nine men gathered promptly in a straight line and faced the red-banded soldier at attention. The officer inspected the men and gave a nod of approval. Ducking his head down, he clasped the sides of his helmet and pulled it off. He shook his hair free of dust and dirt and took a deep breath of the humid jungle air.
"Alright," he said, "Here's the situation. The Covenant is on its way with a fleet that's bigger than anything we've ever seen before. They want this place, and they want it bad. The fleet is pulling together every ship it can to defend the planet from orbit, but they won't have a chance without the MAC's we have planet-side." He wiped his brow clear of sweat and started to slowly pace back and forth in front of the line, "Our job is to support the 5th infantry division in defense and fortification of the generators that power the guns west of the valley. The spooks in ONI think that the Covenant is going to jump in to space right over the heads of the 5th, so those generators are going to be taking landing parties early and often. Expect a lot of heat, but don't expect it to stop. A Pelican will pick us up at 0800 hours to take us to the generators. Until then, pack all the gear, ammo, weapons, and supplies that you can - we're going in heavy. Let's show those poor Covenant bastards what Hell jumpers are all about." A smirk started to form on the side of his lips.
He paused abruptly at the end of the line and spun sharply – facing down the row of soldiers. He looked at every one of their helmets one after another. He couldn't see their faces, but he knew who each one of them was. He had lived, trained, fought, and bled with all of them for the last five years, and he had been looking forward to this moment ever since day one. He was looking forward to the day he could die for them. "May God have mercy on their souls, for we will show them none."
As if on cue, all nine of the soldiers snapped a crisp salute accompanied by the loudest "Hoorah" that part of the jungle had ever seen. The officer fought back the smile that was trying to overcome the cold image he was trained to portray and returned the salute, "Dismissed!"
Survivalism: Part 2
Date: 13 October 2007, 10:24 pm
Part 2 - The wake up call
The men dispersed and scattered to various positions around the camp. The entire outpost was bustling from anxiety for the upcoming mission, more so than the usual pre-mission jitters. Some sat around fine tuning their weapons. Others grabbed some extra MRE's from down in the tunnels. And a couple went to the armory to start loading up what was left of their C-12 supplies.
"Waldo!" Barked the officer, "get up in the nest and see if you can get a good heading on that landing zone - a rough map would be nice too."
"Yes sir!" replied a slender, medium height soldier sitting on a hollowed out stump. He dropped the screw driver he was holding and smirked as he hefted his modified S2 AM. Various parts and were completely retooled and tweaked. The barrel was almost fifteen centimeters longer; the butt of the rifle now had spring loaded shocks and a gel pad on the end to support his shoulder; the optical scope was modified and another lens was added to increase the maximum magnification to 15X. Most importantly, however, high powered ring shaped magnets were slid in place along the barrel intervals of ten centimeters. They were all joined by thin parallel bars that ran down the length of the barrel, and joined the stock of the rifle just over the magazine slot. The magnets acted as accelerators for the bullets that literally grabbed the round in mid-flight down the barrel and sling-shotted through the different polarities and propelled it out of the gun with a force that nearly doubled that of a normal, conventional shot. On occasion the men played games of who can pierce the most trees with one bullet – The record is fifteen.
Private Mark "Waldo" Hodges struggled to carry the enormous firearm. It was nearly as long as he was. After finding a comfortable position on his back for the rifle, he climbed the long and arduous ladder up to the perch of the tower, and let his gun rest against the railing. The view was absolutely stunning – birds danced in the air over tree tops, faint stars could be seen in the deep blue dawn sky, and golden rays echoed from under the horizon telling of the Sun's coming arrival. This was one of the first and the last chances in a long time he would be able to enjoy this view, and he knew it. He slowly pulled off his helmet and stared longingly into the views beyond wishing that one day he would again be able to see something as beautiful as Reach. Reluctantly, he pulled his stare away from the scenery to check the time – 6:41.
Suddenly a flare of light caught the corner of his eye. The strong beam of illumination peeked over the mountains in the distance and brought its full glow down on the valley – sunrise at last. Dew drops sparkled and created a dazzling display as the shifting rays of light danced passed them – chasing the darkness from the jungle. All at once the symphony of the jungle erupted and greeted the approaching sun after a long night's sleep. Animals could be heard from miles around waking up with the land below them – birds – bugs – predators – prey; all of them played their role in the morning opus.
"Guess I won't be needing those," the young private muttered to himself glancing at a pair of night vision goggles hanging on the railing next to him.
Hodges scanned the jungle around him for a long while, staring due north where the pick up zone was supposed to be. He strained his eyes even harder, trying to inspect a little spec in the sky just above the horizon. He held the gaze longer and grew increasingly nervous as the spec grew larger. From his view, the distant craft had a wide middle with two out-stretched, flat appendages – probably wings. His head cocked as his ears plucked a faint rumble out of the air. It grew louder and louder as the unknown spec grew larger. There was mistaking that roar, no matter how far away it was, it was a Pelican. The now somewhat visible air craft stopped, turned, and gently lowered itself into a cleared patch in the middle of the all-to-welcoming canopy.
That must be the landing zone, thought Hodges. He leaned over the railing and hollered through the tangle of tree limbs and foliage, "Lieutenant Travers!"
A long pause resonated through the wall of flora between the private and the outpost below. Finally a response, "Yeah Waldo, what is it?"
"I think the bird came a little early; it just touched down about two clicks north of here."
A flock of birds stormed out of the trees and briefly caught Hodges's attention. He glanced over and saw a trail of dust racing its way through the jungle, seemingly on a direct line to the camp - Some one, or some thing, was coming.
"And I've picked up one bogey, maybe two, heading towards the Haven coming from the North East; Hostility not yet known. I think they're on the trail."
"Can you give me an E.T.A.?" replied the voice from under the canopy.
Hodges took a long look at the dust pillar rising from the tops of the trees; it was moving fast and hard – faster than any covenant could run. He promptly turned back to the ground below, "Ninety seconds!"
The outpost was alive with movement. Every man on the grounds was loading and preparing weapons for whatever was coming their way. Near the outpost headquarters, a tall, and heavily built soldier shouldered two M41 Rocket Launchers – one for each arm. The man was built like a tank; his entire set of armor bulged with the suit of solid muscle underneath. His torso was thick and toned, and his thighs alone seemed like they could crush any normal man. His helmet was removed and sat on the ground next to him. He had charcoal skin and a rough, battle weary face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and a large scar ran vertically from just under his shaved hairline and over his eye, stopping at the bottom of his cheekbone.
"Darian, set up shop just across the trail entrance to give a welcome gift to whatever comes through those trees," Barked the officer with the red band on his shoulder – Lieutenant Travers.
"Yes sir," responded the tall, muscular soldier hefting the pair of M41's jogging across the grassy jungle floor of the camp.
Darian crouched and aimed the two launchers right down the throat of the trail, waiting in anticipation. The rest of the men formed up on the flanks with whatever weapons they could find and took various positions around the camp, all ready to face the new threat. Lieutenant Travers shouldered his assault rifle and crouched right next to another marine holding two sub machine guns.
"Thirty Seconds," Shouted a voice from above the trees.
Travers looked around, "All right boys, nobody fires until I say so. We don't know who or what is coming, so I don't want any trigger happy bullshit. Got it?"
"Yes sir!" responded all eight men steadily leveling their weapons at the trail. They all held their positions silently and clicked the safeties off.
"Twenty Seconds!"
They maintained the silence and gripped their weapons tighter in anticipation.
"Ten Seconds!"
A low rumble vibrated through the tree line and the wall of undergrowth crawling across the jungle floor. A soldier that was crouched right next to the mouth of the trail got up, and staring down the path, he took off his helmet and turned towards the rest of the men, "No threat."
As his words rolled off his tongue, two warthogs screamed around the corner and broke through the tree line surrounding the trail in a tremendous rush. They skidded to a halt and rested in the middle of outpost completely still. They didn't look like normal hogs; instead of the normal bed in the back, accompanied by a chain gun, they had a long compartment with a roll cage. The rails of the rear compartment were padded, like seats, and there were large openings in the roll cage to allow for soldiers inside to fire out of them, or even make a quick escape if things got bad. The improvised troop transports were like Christmas presents to the marines that gathered around the unexpected site; so full of excitement, so full of possibility.
Travers let out a low whistle of amazement, "Nice ride."
A short, thin marine in a standard issue uniform stepped out of the lead vehicle and looked around the camp, smirking, "Damn, you guys are sure hard to find. It took us close to an hour to find that freakin' trail, and our radio isn't even working."
His attempts at conversation were met with cold stares from the rest of the circling marines, "Who are you? What is your purpose here?" said a marine making his way from the back of the crowd of soldiers. He had a BR-55 hanging off his back, and his helmet under his left arm. He had a small layer of stubble growing from his slightly protruded jaw and chin, and short, messy, dirty-blonde hair. His deep blue eyes stood out in his slightly tanned skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his stare intensified on the unexpected arrival.
The young driver faced the ODST, "HQ at firebase Alpha just got word from FLEETCOM – The covenant came early." The Marines exchanged worried glances back and forth, "I was sent hear to pick you guys up and shuttle you to the pick up zone immediately for extraction. The Pelican is already waiting," He glanced at his watch, "And we have to go now. I was supposed to be here at Oh-six-thirty."
Private Hodges came trotting over from the base of the tower, "Sarge, the MAC's just started firing, we better move."
The blonde marine turned towards Hodges and nodded, and exchanged stressed glances with Travers. He looked back at the Warthog driver, "Give us a minute to pack up and we'll be on our way."
Travers looked around at his men, and back at the two warthogs, "You heard the man, time to mount up marines! Load all weapons, ammo, and supplies you can find into the hogs. Tires roll in two minutes – move!"
0709 hours – August 30th, 2552
Landing Zone X-ray – Two kilometers north of the Haven
The warthogs bounced and jumped through the jungle. The young driver pushed the hog to its limits, nearly rolling the vehicle on every rogue root and rock they encountered. Ever since they broke off the trail and into the jungle itself, every turn and jump was a horror story in itself. Tree limbs scarred and battered the side panels of the Hog, and tires through by standing rocks into the troop compartment, pelting them with projectiles at every turn. Any ODST would by happy to die with his comrades, but not when he couldn't do anything about it – not when it was at the hands of something beyond his control. A fatal car crash into a tree definitely fell into that category. The marines rolling and tumbling in the rear compartment barely held on for their lives; they ducked down and held together there for nearly fifteen minutes until by, what seemed like the grace of God himself, pure rays of light filled the air, and blue sky prevailed over tree canopies. The ground below them became smooth and less turbulent, and they could feel the vehicle slow down and stop. They lifted their heads woozily out of the warthogs and saw a wide open clearing, with a Pelican waiting in the middle. A clear cut tree line sat in the distance on the other side of the clearing, and various naval personnel gathered around the Pelican tweaking and inspecting the hull.
"There's your ride gentleman," said the marine in the driver's seat.
"I hope it's a little less bumpy than this one was," muttered the blonde sergeant as he stumbled dizzily out of the back of the warthog.
All of the black armor clad marines gathered up the almost two dozen duffel bags full of weapons and supplies that were piled on top of each other in the backs of the warthogs, and hauled them over to the rear of the cargo bay of the Pelican. The small contingent of marines joined the rest of the naval personell in staring in astonishment at the sky overhead. Massive ships in low orbit were exchanging fire in the epic space battle. The sight in itself was disturbing, yet so very beautiful. Every explosion that dotted the hulls of the ships overhead pained the small planet-side audience. The deaths of so many comrades inspired them with anger and hate. Darian kneeled to the ground and began to pray. The ramp behind them cracked open and lowered with a long hiss, and they calmly marched two by two into the drop ship. They stowed their gear, strapped in, and patiently waited for take off – eager for the coming fight. Sergeant Hall and Lieutenant Travers were the last ones on the ship. Hall walked to the front of the cargo hold, slid his helmet over his blonde hair, and fastened it in to place. He took his seat right next to Darian and gave a smooth nod.
Travers took a long look at his men; all nine of them stared back with respectful looks. After a long pause, he cocked his head and took a deep breath, "I do not expect anything different out of any of you. I do not expect anything other than perfection. I do not expect anything other than the fact that you will make it out of here alive. And as God as my witness, I will make sure that happens. If there is anything that I taught you that I want you to remember, it's that you should be fighting for one more day with the man next to you, not one less day with the man opposite to you. Remember those words men – remember them, and live by them."
There was a deathly silence among them. No words needed to be said to show their respect to the Lieutenant - looks said it all. Travers eyes wandered slowly to the grating on the floor of the troop bay, and he began to slowly walk into the depths of the Pelican. He slid on his helmet, and the loading door into the ship slowly lifted and closed off the morning light outside. The mission had started.
Survivalism: Part 1 (revised)
Date: 24 November 2007, 7:53 pm
Chapter 1 – The Haven
0530 hours – August 30th, 2552
Forward Recon outpost Delta – Codename: Haven
The air was still and smooth as dawn approached. Complete silence overcame all other noise in the jungle except for the occasional interruption from passing birds. It was an almost disturbing calm. This morning was a rare occasion for the men occupying The Haven; they almost never felt at peace in this place. Thick walls of overgrowth and tree trunks seemed to claw at them every day – constantly trying to consume them in their meager establishment. They were completely cut off from the outside world, save one radio and an old, beaten path leading through the foliage.
Only a few tents dotted the small grotto where their camp was laid out. The smallest of the three, the armory, rested near the eastern tree line right next to the exit path. Another small tent sat opposite the armory nearly engulfed in overgrowth and tree limbs – The communications "center". The third, and larger tent, was established dead north in the camp. It had multiple "rooms" and even a make-shift garage. Unfortunately for its occupants, the garage hadn't had any inhabitants for a long time; if anybody had to make a break for it, they did it on foot. To the south end of the grotto, a small guard tower peeked its tall perch out of the canopy that covered the sky above the outpost. The endless layer of tree tops was like a rolling ocean of green in front of the tower. From there, you could see the surrounding landscape for miles around.
In between the tents, the trap doors leading to the tunnel system that housed, fed, and hid the soldiers living there, rested shut. In the middle of all these structures and doors a small open grassy area freckled with ferns and moss-covered tree stumps sat in waiting for her tenants to emerge from the shadows and leaves. Every building, every sign of human life, was covered in camouflage netting, and erased from the face of Reach. A man could walk right into this place and not even know that ten highly trained killers were waiting all around him, stalking his every move.
A rustling in the grass cut the eerie quiet almost as soon as it started. A trap door in between the tower and the com station perked up ever so slightly, and the dim white of human eyes darted back and forth from within – scanning the area. Suddenly a whistle blared across the grotto; the "all clear" sign. All of the trap doors flung open in unison and no sooner than they hit the ground did almost a dozen men trot out from the depths of the tunnels. They were clad in black and dark grey baggy camouflage under clothes. On top of their fatigues several plates of matte-black armor were fastened securely on their legs, upper arms, fore arms, and thighs. The plates were layered and tied together so intricately that there cumbersome weight seemed nothing more than an extra layer of clothes. Their chest plate reached all the way from the lower part of their abdomen up to the middle of their neck, and over to the top of their shoulder-guards. It was protracted and bulged slightly from their natural chest, and seemed to be more like a flexible shell than body armor. The sides of the chest plate circled around and under their arms to meet their back armor; a thick synthetic Kevlar – elastic compound that allowed for incredible flexibility without sacrificing protection to their spinal chord. Two smaller armored plates that rested on their upper backs just above their shoulder blades also accompanied the Kevlar for added fortification. The last and most intriguing part of their uniform was the helmet – a small dome with extensions that went along the jaw line and joined together at the mouth. Over the face a black reflective visor shielded any notion of facial expression; the very sight of this black abyss staring back at you would strike fear into the heart of any enemy.
The men poured out of the ground and quickly raised their weapons into the surrounding jungle. They swept their barrels back and forth for nearly a minute before they were sure nobody was watching.
"Let's go marines!" barked a soldier with a red band that stricken through his right shoulder plate, "boots on the line; move it!"
The other nine men gathered promptly in a straight line and faced the red-banded soldier at attention. The officer inspected the men and gave a nod of approval. Ducking his head down, he clasped the sides of his helmet and pulled it off. He shook his hair free of dust and dirt and took a deep breath of the humid jungle air.
"Alright," he said, "Here's the situation. The Covenant is on its way with a fleet that's bigger than anything we've ever seen before. They want this place glassed, and judging by what's on its way, they want it done badly. The fleet is pulling together every ship it can to defend the planet from orbit, but they won't have a chance without the MAC's we have planet-side." He wiped his brow clear of sweat and started to slowly pace back and forth in front of the line, "Our job is to support the 5th infantry division in defense and fortification of the generators that power the guns west of the valley. The spooks in ONI think that the Covenant is going to jump in to space right over the heads of the 5th, so those generators are going to be taking landing parties early and often. More than likely the generators are going to be a primary target, so we have to hold them at all costs. Expect a lot of heat, but don't expect it to stop. A Pelican will pick us up at 0800 hours to take us to the generators," He darted his eyes from soldier to soldier, "Until then, pack all the gear, ammo, weapons, and supplies that you can - we're going in heavy. Let's show those poor Covenant bastards what Hell jumpers are all about." A smirk started to form on the side of his lips.
He paused abruptly at the end of the line and spun sharply – facing down the row of soldiers. He looked at every one of their helmets one after another. He couldn't see their faces, but he knew who each one of them was. He had lived, trained, fought, and bled with all of them for the last five years in this war, and he had been looking forward to this moment ever since day one - to the day he could die for them. "May God have mercy on their souls, for we will show them none."
As if on cue, all nine of the soldiers snapped a crisp salute accompanied by the loudest "Hoorah" that part of the jungle had ever seen. The officer fought back the smile that was trying to overcome the cold image he was trained to portray and returned the salute, "Dismissed!"
The men dispersed and scattered to various positions around the camp. The entire outpost was bustling from anxiety for the upcoming mission, more so than the usual pre-mission jitters. Some sat around fine tuning their weapons. Others grabbed some extra MRE's from down in the tunnels. A couple went to the armory to start loading up what was left of their C-12 supplies.
"Hodges!" Barked the officer, "get up in the nest and see if you can get a good heading on that landing zone - a rough map would be nice too."
"Yes sir!" replied a slender, medium height soldier sitting on a hollowed out stump. He dropped the screw driver he was holding and smirked as he hefted his S2 AM. The newly cleaned and adjusted weapon was a thing of beauty. Each individual part was meticulously maintained to perfection. Its barrel shone with a glassy smooth glaze. The scope was perfectly clear and accurate. The stock was as stable as ever. It was the perfect gun.
Private Mark Hodges didn't even struggle to carry the enormous firearm. He treated it as his child – smooth, graceful, and cautious. After finding a comfortable position on his back for the rifle, he climbed the long and arduous ladder up to the perch of the tower, and let his gun rest against the railing. The view was absolutely stunning – birds danced in the air over tree tops, faint stars could be seen in the deep blue dawn sky, and golden rays echoed from under the horizon telling of the Sun's coming arrival. This was one of the first and the last chances in a long time he would be able to enjoy this view, and he knew it. He slowly pulled off his helmet and stared longingly into the views beyond wishing that one day he would again be able to see something as beautiful as Reach. Reluctantly he pulled his stare away from the scenery to check the time – 5:34.
Suddenly a flare of light caught the corner of his eye. The strong beam of illumination peeked over the mountains in the distance and brought its full glow down on the valley – sunrise at last. Dew drops sparkled and created a dazzling display as the shifting rays of light danced passed them – chasing the darkness from the jungle. All at once the symphony of the jungle erupted and greeted the approaching sun after a long night's sleep. Animals could be heard from miles around waking up with the land below them – birds – bugs – predators – prey; all of them played their role in the morning opus.
"Guess I won't be needing those," the young private muttered to himself glancing at a pair of night vision goggles hanging on the railing next to him.
Hodges scanned the jungle around him for a long while, staring due north where the pick up zone was supposed to be. He strained his eyes even harder, trying to inspect a little spec in the sky just above the horizon. He held the gaze longer and grew increasingly nervous as the spec grew larger. From his view, the distant craft had a wide middle with two out-stretched, flat appendages – probably wings. His head cocked as his ears plucked a faint rumble out of the air. It grew louder and louder as the unknown craft grew larger. There was mistaking that roar, no matter how far away it was, it was a Pelican. The now somewhat visible air craft stopped, turned, and gently lowered itself into a cleared patch in the middle of the all-to-welcoming canopy.
That must be the landing zone, thought Hodges. He leaned over the railing and hollered through the tangle of tree limbs and foliage, "Lieutenant Travers!"
A long pause resonated through the wall of flora between the private and the outpost below. Finally a response, "Yeah Hodges, what is it?"
"I think our ride came a little early; it just touched down about ten clicks north of here."
A flock of birds stormed out of the trees and briefly caught Hodges's attention. He glanced over in its direction and saw a trail of dust racing its way through the jungle, seemingly on a direct line to the camp. Some one, or some thing, was coming.
"And I've picked up one bogey, maybe two, heading towards the Haven coming from the North West; Hostility not yet known. I think they're on the trail."
"Can you give me an E.T.A.?" replied the voice from under the canopy.
Hodges took a long look at the dust pillar rising from the tops of the trees; it was moving fast and hard – faster than any covenant could run. He promptly turned back to the ground below, "Ninety seconds!"
The outpost was alive with movement. Every man on the grounds was loading and preparing weapons for whatever was coming their way. Near the outpost head quarters a tall, and heavily built soldier shouldered two M41 Rocket Launchers – one for each arm. The man was built like a tank; his entire set of armor bulged with the suit of solid muscle underneath. His torso was thick and toned, and his thighs alone seemed like they could crush any normal man. His helmet was removed and sat on the ground next to him. He had dark skin and a rough, battle weary face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and a large scar ran vertically from just under his shaved hairline, over his eye, and stopped at the bottom of his cheekbone.
"Darian, set up shop just across the trail entrance to give a welcome gift to whatever comes through those trees," Barked the officer with the red band on his shoulder – Lieutenant Travers.
"Yes sir," responded the rocket wielding soldier jogging across the grassy jungle floor of the camp.
Darian crouched and aimed the two launchers right down the throat of the trail, waiting in anticipation. The rest of the men formed up on the flanks with whatever weapons they could find and took various positions around the camp, all ready to face the new threat. Lieutenant Travers shouldered his assault rifle and crouched right next to another marine holding two sub machine guns.
"Thirty Seconds," Shouted a voice from above the trees.
Travers looked around, "All right boys, nobody fires until I say so. We don't know who or what is coming, so I don't want any trigger happy bullshit. Got it?"
"Yes sir!" responded all eight men steadily leveling their weapons at the trail. They all held their positions silently and clicked the safeties off.
"Twenty Seconds!"
They maintained the silence and gripped their weapons tighter in anticipation.
"Ten Seconds!"
A low rumble vibrated through the tree line and the wall of undergrowth crawling across the jungle floor. A soldier crouched right next to the mouth of the trail slowly got up, and stared down the path. His shoulders dropped in what seemed like relief and the barrel of his gun trailed off to the ground. He took off his helmet and turned towards the rest of the men, "No threat."
As his words rolled off his tongue, two warthogs screamed around the corner and broke through the tree line surrounding the trail in a tremendous rush. They skidded to a halt and rested in the middle of outpost completely still. They didn't look like normal hogs; instead of the normal bed in the back, accompanied by a chain gun, they had a long compartment with a roll cage. There was a double row of seats running along the middle of the bed. The rails of the rear compartment were padded, like seats, and there were large openings in the roll cage to allow for soldiers inside to fire out of them, or even make a quick escape if things got bad. The improvised troop transports were like Christmas presents to the marines that gathered around the unexpected site; so full of excitement, so full of possibility.
Travers let out a low whistle of amazement, "Nice ride." His gesture of hospitality was not shared by the rest of the anxious soldiers.
A short, thin marine in a standard issue uniform stepped out of the lead vehicle and looked around the camp, smirking, "Damn, you guys are sure hard to find. It took us close to an hour to find that freakin' trail, and our radio isn't even working."
His attempts at conversation were met with cold stares from the rest of the circling marines, "Who are you? What is your purpose here?" said a marine making his way from the back of the crowd of soldiers. A standard BR-55 hung off his back, and his helmet rested comfortably under his left arm. He had a small layer of stubble growing from his slightly protruded jaw and chin, and short, messy, dirty-blonde hair. His deep blue eyes stood out in his slightly tanned skin and pierced through the stare of the intruding driver. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and started to drip on to the mossy ground below. His stare intensified on the unexpected arrival.
The young driver faced the ODST, "HQ at firebase Alpha just got word from FLEETCOM – The covenant came early." The Marines exchanged worried glances back and forth, "I was sent hear to pick you guys up and shuttle you to the pick up zone immediately for extraction. The Pelican is already waiting," He glanced at his watch, "And we have to go now. I was supposed to be here at Oh-five-twenty."
Private Hodges came trotting over from the base of the tower, "Sarge, the MAC's just started firing, we better move."
The blonde marine turned towards Hodges and nodded, and exchanged stressed glances with Travers. He looked back at the Warthog driver, "Give us a minute to pack up and we'll be on our way."
Travers looked around at his men, and back at the two warthogs, "You heard the man, time to mount up marines! Load all weapons, ammo, and supplies you can find into the hogs. Tires roll in two minutes – move!"
0547 hours – August 30th, 2552
Just outside of Landing Zone X-ray – eight kilometers north of the Haven
The warthogs bounced and jumped through the jungle. The young driver pushed the hog to its limits, nearly rolling the vehicle on every rogue root and rock they encountered. Ever since they broke off the trail and into the jungle itself, every turn and jump was a horror story in itself. Tree limbs scarred and battered the side panels of the transport, and tires threw by standing rocks into the troop compartment, pelting the marines with projectiles at every turn. Any ODST would by happy to die with his comrades, but not when he couldn't do anything about it – not when it was at the hands of something beyond his control. A fatal car crash into a tree definitely fell into that category. The marines rolling and tumbling in the rear compartment barely held on for their lives; they ducked down and held together there completely still for the entire trip.
Lieutenant Travers sat in the passenger seat in the lead warthog. The young wheelman leaned over to him, "So…Hell Jumpers eh? Aren't you guys supposed to be in space?"
Travers turned back at the driver, surprised by the question, "Let me answer your question with another question. What happens when there are no ships, or no landing zones?" The driver stared straight ahead, perplexed by the response. Travers continued, "Hell Jumpers aren't very useful to a ground engagement if they can't even show up to the party. Our job is to be a fast action response unit when orbital insertions are not an option. Get in, get out, get gone. If possible, we lay out the welcome mat for reinforcements, but most of the time there's really nothing left for back up to kill once they get here – if you get what I mean." Travers sat there contently pondering his explanation, reflecting back on all of his unit's accomplishments.
Suddenly pure rays of light filled the air, and blue sky prevailed over tree canopies. The ground below them became smooth and less turbulent, and they could feel the vehicle slow down and stop. The marines in the back compartment lifted their heads woozily out of the warthogs and saw a wide open clearing, with a Pelican waiting in the middle. A clear cut tree line sat in the distance on the other side of the clearing, and various naval personnel gathered around the Pelican tweaking and inspecting the hull.
"There's your ride gentleman," said the marine in the driver's seat.
"I hope it's a little less bumpy than this one was," muttered the blonde sergeant as he stumbled dizzily out of the back of the warthog.
All of the black armor clad marines gathered up the almost two dozen duffel bags full of weapons and supplies that were piled on top of each other in the backs of the warthogs, and hauled them over to the rear of the cargo bay of the Pelican. The ramp lowered with a long hiss, and they calmly marched two by two into the drop ship. They stowed their gear, strapped in, and patiently waited for take off – anxious for the coming fight. Travers started to walk up the loading ramp, and saw the blonde haired marine staring straight up in to space.
"You coming Del?" quipped the lieutenant.
"Yeah, I'm just taking in the sights," the gruff soldier murmured as he walked past his superior officer to the front of the cargo hold," just one last time." The blonde Seargeant slid his helmet over his head, and fastened it in to place. He took his seat right next to Darian and gave a smooth nod to across the ship.
Travers stepped up to top of the ramp and stared inside, taking a long look at his men; all nine of them stared back with intense, respectful looks. After a long, reflective moment of silence, he cocked his head and took a deep breath, "I do not expect anything different out of any of you today. I do not expect anything other than perfection. I do not expect anything other than the fact that you will make it out of here alive. And as God as my witness, I will make sure that happens." The other marines nodded in agreement, "If there is anything that I taught you that I want you to remember, it's that you should be fighting for one more day with the man next to you, not one less day with the man opposite to you. Remember those words men – remember them, and live by them."
Travers' eyes wandered lazily to the grating on the floor of the troop bay, and he began to slowly walk into the depths of the Pelican. He slid on his helmet, and the loading door behind him gently raised and hissed shut, closing off the morning light outside. The mission had finally begun.
Survivalism Part 2 - Leap of Faith
Date: 30 November 2007, 12:04 am
Chapter 2 – Leap of Faith
0602 Hours – August 30th, 2552
Onboard Pelican Saber Three-Six en route to the fortified Generators
"This is Saber 3-6 – repeat: Saber 3-6," Called the pilot over the radio, "Requesting permission for immediate touchdown at LZ delta, Over."
Sergeant Delano Craig peered past his fellow soldier and into the cockpit in the nose of the ship, listening intently to the aviation jargon – it had a somewhat calming effect on him. The strange language that usually unfolded between pilots during a pre-mission flight always put his mind in another place – a place without war or suffering, a place where he could just sit back and listen. The short, stocky pilot sat at the controls as calm as ever. The ship rocked back and forth, conforming to the rolls and dips of the terrain below. Pilots like him were always nice to have around; taking their careful time to ensure each movement of their precious bird was as fluid as possible. That meant they had experience; that they could be counted on.
The pilot took a break from concentrating on the hills ahead to turn around to his passengers, "Things are starting to get nasty upstairs. The Brass needs you at the generators ASAP," he said, his voice ragged and war-weary. "I'm taking her fast and low, so hold on!"
"Not another bumpy ride!" jibed a soldier sitting in the middle of the row of crash-seats. The marines shared a short chuckle before being rudely interrupted by a sudden burst of acceleration. The Pelican leapt forward like a predator on its prey and descended to just above the layer of canopies below. Delano regained his balance in the seat and turned towards the cockpit again. In front and below the ship was a nauseating blur of greens, browns, and grays. Every once and a while a tall tree that poked above the rest threw the ship into a tight maneuver that jostled and whipped everyone around the cargo hold. Turn after turn, the Pelican winded through the terrain of Reach, creating an endless supply of obstacles in the way of such a bulky transport. In a desperate attempt to regain control of the ship after a nearly out of control bank, Delano felt the pilot crank the belly of the Pelican end over end in a rapid roll. The shoulder restraints in his crash seat tightened and dug in between his armor plating. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision. The gee forces were getting stronger by the second. He couldn't let them get the best of him – he had to fight to stay conscious with all of his might. His eyes grew heavy, and his muscles started to loose feeling. Physics were winning the battle. Suddenly his whole body was jerked into the armored interior wall behind him. His head snapped against the neck brace of the seat as the Pelican pulled out of the barrel roll and sharply arced up to a safer distance from the planet below. As the ship hit the apex of the ascent, huge streaks of light shot from the planet ahead and into space, followed by a tremendous roar that defied all not cower in fear. The blinding light seemed to drive the dizzying black out of his eyes. He pulled his head up and got a better look of the spectacle – it was the MAC's.
"That's your destination, boys," said the pilot, "ETA to touchdown in sixty seconds." The small band of marines unstrapped themselves from their seats and stood in two single file lines in front of the loading ramp. The floor panels underneath the sergeant jerked with a heavy thud as the Pelican touched down near the base of the generator complex, the hatch in the rear of the craft hissing open and lowering itself to the ground.. All ten of the ODST's marched out in an orderly fashion, hefting all of their gear in duffel bags and rucksacks. The site they walked into was a familiar one indeed – Warthogs of various configurations carted marines and supplies around the camp, while a few Scorpion crews readied their tanks for the upcoming engagement. Squads and platoons of engineers worked to place mine fields, bunkers, gun emplacements, and razor wire around the perimeter of the complex. Demolition crews could be heard in the distance clearing the surrounding tree line to give the defenders a better line of site as officers surveyed their progress with brutal scrutiny. Suddenly a full squadron of Longsword heavy fighters screamed over head and arced up into the orbital brawl above. It was an absolutely awe-inspiring situation. It almost pained the newly arrived marines to know that such hard work would be beaten and bashed soon enough.
The camp itself was large enough to fit a small town inside. The base of the complex was a web of make-shift trailers and one story concrete structures. The open ground outside the buildings spilled into an innumerable amount of small alleyways that ducked through the ground floor and led into the darkness of the inner structure. Around and above the ground level, a honeycomb superstructure of metal scaffolding danced around dozens of fifty meter high turbines, coolant towers, and venting structures. The labyrinth of structures and scaffolds built slowly up to the central generator tower that stood high above the rest of the complex. The giant smooth metal cylinder reverberated violently and shook everything around it for five hundred meters in every direction, and cast an ominous humming din over the camp. Del wondered what was more intimidating: The Covenant, or the complex they were now entering.
Craig fell in behind his superior officer and tried to keep pace as Lieutenant Travers led his men through the crowds of marines and chains of supplies moving about the camp. He walked quickly, and with purpose. His presence of authority and experience was not questioned as he weaved through the system of bunkers and trenches. Marines saluted as he strode by, surprised by the late arrival. They kept their form as the rest of the line of black-clad killers walked by, giving their respect to each and every one of them.
This place is huge. How can he possibly know where he's going? Delano thought.
They marched right up intertwined metal-grated staircases to a Bunker sitting on near the top of the complex on a high platform. The marines dropped their gear outside of the entrance and followed the Lieutenant inside. Sitting at a make-shift desk and smoking a fresh cigar was a tall, middle-aged man. His receding hair was nearly pure silver. Years of war had taken a huge toll on this weary soldier. Del corrected his assessment – officer. The blazer he wore was adorned with a rainbow of combat ribbons, and two meticulously polished silver stars were pinned to his collar. His face was rough and sorrowful. It was easy to tell the kind of hell this man had seen. His eyes drooped low, and the very skin on his face seemed to mourn with every injury it had to endure. Wrinkles and scars dotted his body, it was a wonder he was even able to stand up. He slowly walked towards his visitors and gave them a cordial nod. Upon spying the daunting insignia, all ten of them snapped a crisp salute and stood at attention.
"Major General Ramsey – Lieutenant Isaiah Travers. 105th Orbital Drop Shock Trooper division, 3rd recon Battalion, Squad Echo, Sir!" Travers exclaimed as he let down his salute. The old officer returned his salute and nodded in approval. Travers continued to stare straight ahead, "Requesting orders for the preparation of perimeter defense, and awaiting combat instructions."
"At ease…all of you," General Ramsey retorted in a low sigh, "I'm glad you showed up on time. I have an important task for you and your team. The Covenant by now probably have a landing site all picked out, and I'm willing to bet my pension it's going to be just over that ridge," he pointed out toward the direction of the neighboring valley – the location of the Haven, "That is the only point where it is possible to make an approach vector from orbit without getting blown to pieces. That means they will be coming right through the eastern tree line for the main assault. We can't take them head on, not if the reports from space are accurate. Your job is to lead Charlie Company from 8th Battalion through the northern tree line, and give updated reconnaissance reports on enemy positions. By the time they cross the tree line we'll be able to use your intel to position ourselves accordingly. Once the Covenant lines engage the complex defenses, you are to flank their rear lines and engage in sporadic guerrilla assaults in the forest to soften up the attack. Hopefully a two-sided front will be enough to stave off the main offensive until our reinforcements arrive."
"Sir," Delano broke in, "With all due respect, why can't the covenant just hit the generators form orbit?"
The aged officer turned sharply to the interruption, half surprised by the question, "Has all that time in jungle made you stupid, boy? If that was possible without getting shredded by the MAC defense web, don't you think they would have tried that by now?" The general snapped in a condescending tone, "The only way they can get close enough to disable the generators is to take it in a ground fight. That, my boy, is why we're all sitting here today."
"Yes, sir," The sergeant responded, still pondering the new orders, "And who – or what – are we getting for reinforcements? There's not another free infantry detachment for fifty clicks in each direction, and the 4th Armored was still tied up in the Highlands last time I checked, sir."
The General, again surprised and annoyed by the question, turned back out to window in the bunker. He faced the bustling camp below, inspecting the fortification process with eagle eyes. Beyond the perimeter, the Eastern tree line waited for the coming battle, and stared back at the trenches full of nervous marines. Ramsey cocked his head back to Delano, Travers, and the rest of the small ODST detachment, "We're not getting a division, son," he paused for a few seconds and a little smirk perked up the corner of his lip, "We're getting Spartans."
0622 Hours, August 30th, 2552
UNSC Vessel Pillar of Autumn, Epsilon Eridani system near Reach Station Gamma
SPARTAN–064, Jonas, marched around the deck, weaving through the various naval personnel and his fellow Spartans. He was busy amassing his combat gear for the upcoming battle. He packed an entire rucksack full of ammunition clips, an MA5B assault rifle, a magnum pistol, medical gear, grenades, and even some captured Covenant weaponry. Usually the spooks at ONI confiscated foreign weaponry after mission debriefings, but they made a special exception for Spartans – any weapons they needed, they got. He picked up a few Jackal arm shields and tested them. The small bands emitted an almost hypnotic glowing disk of shimmering energy that extended about a half meter on all sides. Satisfied that they were in working order he dropped them into the bag. Next he picked up two captured energy swords – his personal favorite tool of destruction. Jonas loved hand to hand combat. Any opportunity to get up close and personal with an enemy was one he always exploited. Whenever he faced his fellow Spartans in close quarters combat drills, he always won. When he faced Kelly, however, that was a different story. Most of the Spartans never even count sparring matches with her, they always ended in humility. Damn her, she was just too fast. The only other Spartan to ever beat him was his team leader, SPARTAN -117. Then again, being beaten only by the Master Chief himself is an accomplishment all its own. Jonas tossed them in as well and closed the bag. His last piece of equipment rested on the table – his knife. The twenty centimeter blade was flawlessly polished to its natural matte-black sheen and the high carbon steel handle was perfectly balanced for throwing. He picked it up, twirled the hilt to the correct position, and sheathed it in one reflex-like movement. With his personal arsenal complete, he stowed his gear away in the Pelican on the far side of the deck and jogged back to his team mates.
Just as he arrived the ship leaned subtly and slowly listed back on to a new course. That was never a good sign. He looked over to his left and saw Frederick sheathing his combat knife in front of a terrified crowd of deck workers. Jonas and the rest of the Spartans then turned their attention to their leader, SPARTAN 117. The Master Chief was having a short briefing with Captain Keyes on a private com screen, another nerve racking complication. Jonas concentrated hard on the conversation trying to gain whatever information he could.
"Master Chief," the captain said, "I believe the Covenant will use a pinpoint Slipspace jump to position just off the space dock. They may try to get their troops on the station before the Super MAC Guns can take out their ships. This will be a difficult mission, Chief. I'm…Open to suggestions."
"We can take care of it," the Chief replied confidently.
The Captain titled his head and leaned forward to the screen in intrigue, "How exactly, Master Chief?"
SPARTAN – 117 stood firm, "With all due respect, sir, Spartans are trained to handle difficult missions. I'll split my squad. Three will board the space dock and make sure that NAV data does not fall into the Covenant's hands. The remainder of the Spartans will go groundside and repel the invasion forces."
Captain Keyes Frowned in disapproval, "No, Master Chief. It's too risky – we've got to make sure the Covenant don't get that NAV data. We'll use a nuclear mine, set it close to the docking ring, and detonate it."
"Sir," The Chief responded with a slight hint of frustration, "the EMP will burn out the superconductive coils of the orbital guns. And if you use the Pillar of Autumn's conventional weapons, the NAV database may still survive. If the Covenant search the wreckage – they may obtain the data."
"True," Keyes said, tapping the butt of his pipe to his chin, "Very well, Master chief. We'll go with your suggestion. I'll plot a course over to the docking Station. Ready your Spartans and prep two drop ships. We'll launch you – "He looked to his left and consulted with Cortana."– in five minutes."
"Aye, Captain. We'll be ready."
"Good luck," Captain Keyes said, and the view screen went black.
Jonas stood in line with the rest of the team. As the Chief turned around to face them, Kelly shot forward, "Master Chief," she said, "permission to lead the space op."
"Denied," The chief responded promptly, "I'll be leading that one. Linda and James, you're with me." He turned towards SPARTAN -104, "Fred, you're red team leader. You'll have tactical command of the ground operation."
"Sir!" Fred shouted, hesitating slightly, "Yes, sir!"
"Now make ready," The Master Chief ordered. "We don't have much time left."
All of them stood a moment in silence, contemplating the new mission. Kelly broke the silence, "Attention!" she shouted. The Spartans snapped to attention and gave a sharp salute to the Chief, which he returned instantly.
Fred came over Red Team's all-hands frequency, "Let's move, Spartans! I want gear stowed in ninety seconds, and final prep in five minutes. Joshua: Liaise with Cortana and get me current Intel on the drop area – I don't care if it's just weather Satellite imagery, but I want pictures, and I want them ninety seconds ago."
RED TEAM broke out and quickly stowed the rest of the gear and made final preparations. The deck was almost completely silent as the Spartans worked in their systematic peace. Nervousness and slacking were nowhere to be found. There was a mission to complete, and nothing was going to stand in their way.
0628 hours, August 30th, 2552
On board Pelican Bravo – One en route to surface of Reach
"Better hang on," the pilot shouted to Jonas and the rest of Red team in the back of the Pelican, "Company's coming."
In the troop bay of the ship, twenty seven Spartans were crammed together, holding on for dear life as the stripped down transport plummeted towards Reach's Atmosphere. The inside of the Pelican had been completely gutted. The crash seats that usually seated marines were discarded to make room, along with the life support generators that lined the dividing wall between the pilots and passengers, increasing free space. Usually these modifications could be lethal to those who rode in such a warhorse, but it was the only way to fit so many Spartans in one ship. If anybody could handle an uncomfortable trip it was them.
Jonas was squeezed in on the port wall of the ship near the cockpit. He could feel the heat emanating from the Titanium – A panels as a burst of energy slammed into the side of the Pelican. Things are getting ugly out there, he thought.
"Bravo-One to Knife Two-Six: I could use a little help here." The pilot barked over the COM. He swerved the Pelican to the left and rolled to avoid a massive chunk of debris. The Spartans could tell the situation was getting worse out there. Dull thumps creaked at the hull of the ship every few seconds from all directions– MAC rounds.
The nervous Spartan worried to himself, There must be hundreds of Covenant ships out there to be creating that much chaos.
"Bravo-One to Knife Two-Six, where the hell are you?" the pilot yelled again.
Immediately after the second cry for help, the rumbling of engines vibrated through the ship. Something was just outside. A wedge-shaped fighter dropped into position just in front and above the Pelican. The rumbling must have been from its wing men – at last a good sign. Streams of plasma bolts blurred across the front view port of the ship and caught Jonas's attention. The rumbling left the pelican and broke off towards the direction of the plasma. The forward Long sword fighter, however, stayed to escort the transport. The Pilot kicked the engines into full burn and accelerated towards the Planet at what would be nauseating speeds for normal humans. The Spartans held tight and remained silent.
"Negative," the pilot said responding to unheard radio chatter. "We're getting to the surface fast – or we're not getting there at all. Enemy contacts on my scopes at four by three o' clock."
Jonas didn't like what he was hearing. Their lives being exchanged at the cost of being there thirty seconds early was hardly a good trade off, but he couldn't do anything about it. What he could do, however, was sit back and enjoy the ride and hope that the pilot was smart enough not to hit something on the way down. The Longsword ahead peeled off into a tight roll and engaged a new threat. Something told Jonas that brave fighter pilot would never be coming back. The Pelican continued its death dive towards the surface, faint flames flickering on and off around the nose of the ship as they entered the atmosphere. They changed colors from yellow, to blue, to red, and finally to a painfully bright orange.
"Brace yourselves!" Fred shouted over the COM. The ship lunged to the right and nearly tossed everyone aside. The Spartans slowly settled back down to the metal grating on the floor of the ship as gravity set in. Jonas always enjoyed the feeling. It felt like jumping into a pool, only the other way around. One moment you're free floating and the next you're greeted by an awkward re-introduction to weight and balance. It's a real shock to the senses. Jonas's pleasure was short lived. The Pelican rolled and dived to avoid enemy fire. An explosion rocked the hull form starboard side as plasma fire collided with the Titanium –A plating. Metal sizzled, melted, and peeled back. The cargo hold was blitzed with a cloud of super-heated fumes from the blast, but they were sucked out in a split second by the pressurized air rushing out of the ship. Morning sun beams poked through the gaping hole in the armor and tried to find a way through the maze of MJOLNIR armor inside. The Pelican listed to the left and began to slowly descend.
"Gotta shake 'em," The Pilot screamed to the Spartan passengers. "Hang on!"
The Pelican lurched forward and tried to accelerate from the attackers. The stabilizers were ripped away by the sheer force of the acceleration and the ship rolled uncontrollably towards the surface. The ground and sky flashed one after another at nauseating speeds as the Pelican fell violently through the air. Weapons, supplies, and gear was tossed about the ship and bags full of equipment were thrown out of the laceration in the armor.
"It's going to be a helluva hot drop, Spartans," the pilot yelled over the COM. "Autopilot's programmed to angle. Re-verse thrusters. Gees are takin' me out. I'll –"
The shock-resistant glass window in the viewport exploded and sent an onslaught of glass shards at the pilot. He was immediately skewered a hundred times over as glass spikes tore through flesh and bone. The Pilot was instantly killed – a very undesirable death.
SPARTAN – 029, Joshua was closest to the cockpit. He peered over and saw the bloodied pilot and the crumpled, charred nose of the Pelican. "Plasma blast," he said, "I'll reroute control to the terminal here." Jonas watched him hastily type in commands onto the wall-mounted key board with one hand, while the other dug into the metal bulkhead, trying to support him.
"Fire in the hole!" Jonas heard Kelly shout over the COM. The hatch in the rear of the Pelican exploded outward and spun away through the atmosphere. An intense heat washed over the Spartans as superheated air entered the troop bay. The trailing Covenant craft fired another volley of plasma at the Pelican, but the heat from the wake of the tumbling ship dispersed the plasma before it could make contact.
"Too hot for them," Kelly said. "We're on our own."
"Joshua," Fred called out. "Report."
"The autopilot's gone, and the cockpit controls are offline," the Spartan said. "I can counter our spin with thrusters." He furiously typed in a series of commands. The port engine roared and reverberated through the hull. The ship's roll slowed and it finally leveled out.
"Can we land?" Fred asked.
"Negative," He said. "The computer has no solution for our inbound vector. I'll buy us as much time as I can."
Although not a word was said, every Spartan in that compartment knew exactly what needed to be done. They had no parasails, no drop capsules, no jet packs, and no way to land. That left one option – jump.
"Get ready for a fast drop," Fred shouted. "Grab your gear. Pump your suits' hydrostatic gel to maximum pressure. Suck it up, Spartans – we're landing hard."
Jonas was nervous, a rare occasion for any Spartan. Under normal circumstances, the MJOLNIR armor might be able to withstand a hard fall. Hydrostatic gel combined with super-reinforced bones was a tough combination to break, but supersonic impact into solid ground was never even considered when the armor was designed. This jump would redefine the words "field test."
"Twelve thousand meters to go," Kelly shouted, leaning out the open hatch.
"Ready and aft. Jump on my mark." Fred barked over the team COM.
Jonas didn't even bother trying to carry his duffel. In a jump like this, it was questionable if even he would survive; let alone a bulky heap of weapons. He just reached inside and pulled out his MA5B and a handful of spare clips. After a quick inspection of the weapon, he shouldered the rifle and got in line got in line behind his team mates. He heard the Pelican's engines shriek and whine as Joshua tried to arc the craft into a more level vector. The Spartan reversed the thrusters and decelerated the ship to a dangerous glide. Joshua brought the flaps to bear and angled the nose up, again slowing the ship to below mach one. The Pelican's frame rippled from the force. Bolts and rivets popped under pressure and shot around the cabin like ricocheting bullets.
"Eight kilometers and this brick is still dropping fast," Kelly shouted back to the team.
"Joshua, get aft," Fred ordered.
Jonas turned his eyes to Joshua; he released his death grip on the bulkhead and pulled himself hand over hand to the hatch, "Affirmative."
The port engine finally gave out and exploded under the stress, and the ship was again sent into a downward spiral. The out of control tolls and spins sucked Kelly and the Spartans near the aft hatch out into the wind. Whether they liked it or not, Fred and the remaining soldiers had to jump too. They were out of time.
"Jump," Fred barked. "Spartans: Go, go, go!"
Jonas and the rest of the Spartans pulled themselves aft, defying the wind and gee forces. Ahead of him Fred latched on to Joshua and threw them both out of the ship. Jonas looked to his left where Malcolm stood waiting his turn.
"Well old friend," he said, "See you on the other side." He gave a slight nod and propelled himself out of the back in the world's longest and fastest swan dive. Jonas peered over the edge of the floor panels; Malcolm flew through the air, arms and legs outstretched to catch as much wind resistance as possible.
"You too, my friend...you too," Jonas whispered to himself. He went after Malcolm and followed his friend on the long fall to Reach.
I hope we make it.
Survivalism - Part III: Broken
Date: 16 December 2007, 9:51 pm
Chapter 3 – Broken
0632 Hours – 30 August, 2552
Unknown Aerial position over Planet Reach
Jonas sliced through the air like a knife through water. The rushing wind pounded his visor as he darted through the smoke and debris trails that followed the rapidly descending Pelican to the ground. Even for a Spartan this was a bad situation. Being trapped in a thousand pounds of armor careening towards the planet at breakneck speeds was as close to an involuntary suicide as one could get. The Spartans had to do everything they could to make sure that assumption was proven false. Thinking quickly back to his many years of survival training, Jonas spread his arms and legs wide and tilted his body from left to right, creating as much drag as possible. No matter how much he tried though, he was still falling fast – too fast.
A sudden hiss on the COM broke the ominous silence in his helmet, "Covenant ground forces could be tracking the Pelican," Fred warned over the team frequency. "Expect AA fire."
A small marker on his heads-up display popped up in the neighboring valley.
"That's our target," Fred continued. "Move toward it but keep your incoming angle flat. Aim for the tree tops. Let them slow you down. If you can't, aim for water…and tuck in your arms and legs before impact."
Jonas reached up to his helmet mid-flight and tapped a small button behind a groove that ran over his right ear. A brief blue acknowledgement signal was sent instantly to his team leader's HUD. In a position like this, radio chatter was kept at a minimum. Leaders have to have COMs to themselves in an emergency, and this was no exception. Twenty six Spartans talking at the same time would only make this bad situation even worse.
Fred gave one last order before preparing for impact, "Over pressurize your hydrostatics just before you hit."
Jonas sent the acknowledgement signal again then turned to the planet below him, scouting out the best angle to hit the forest. A blur of dark, smokey emerald green flashed just thirty meters in front of him. Jonas checked his IFF tags – it was SPARTAN -059, Malcolm. His fellow Spartan glided and banked through the air, positioning himself for the impact. Jonas slid into position behind his comrade, and rode his wake on the way down to the deathtrap below. A flare of light caught the corner of his eye. Jonas looked over just in time to see the exploding chunk of metal barely miss his head as it whipped through the Spartan aerial formation. Behind this rogue slab of titanium was a banquet of debris and flaming metal on a collision course for Malcolm. Jonas' long time team member was on a fatal path, heading right for the flaming wake of their gutted transport. If any of the debris hit Malcolm, the pure force of the impact could throw him off course and doom him to a violent death.
Jonas tried to bring himself to warn his friend, but for some reason he couldn't will himself to open his mouth. He sat there, gliding through the sky, completely silent with shock. He watched in horror as Spartans before him pounded into the ground on all sides, sending dirt and rock high into the air. Trees buckled and splintered as flying armor scarred the jungle below, tearing streaks out of the solid canopy they once knew so well. There was no telling who was dead or who was alive. Jonas' worst nightmare had come true – his family was in grave danger all around him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them. He could do nothing but survive.
Jonas turned back to Malcolm, still choked at the wave of fear that rushed up his spine. He cocked his head and tracked the wall of burning wreckage as it barreled towards his life long comrade. A leading chunk rammed into Malcolm's ribs, crumbling his form and sending him into a violent flat spin. Malcolm flailed his limbs in every direction, desperately trying to regain his balance in flight. The disoriented Spartan flipped and tumbled in the air, rapidly gaining speed as he neared the ground. Jonas saw something that nobody ever expected to see – a Spartan panic. Malcolm viciously clawed at the sky around him, furiously fighting the gravity that pulled him to his impending demise. That battle will always be a futile one. Human instinct had gotten the best if this normally calm and composed soldier. He did not want to die. Not here – not like this.
"Jonas!" Malcolm screamed over a private COM channel. "Help me, Jonas! Plea – "
Malcolm's voice fell silent and turned into the all too familiar hiss of a dead COM. Jonas saw a small patch of trees jet outward, and a swirl of dust and dirt get tossed into the air as he passed over his fallen comrade's crash site. He didn't even have time to offer his thoughts to the tragedy that just unfolded in front of him – the tree tops were approaching Jonas at blinding speed. This was the moment of truth. He pumped the hydrostatic gel in his suit to dangerous levels, and curled into the tightest ball he could. Branches and leaves whizzed by his head as he descended into the canopies.
His augmented, armored body crippled trees and snapped imposing branches as he knifed through the jungle. Blow after blow pounded against his curled physique and his grip slowly began to loosen under the stress. His shields flickered with each impact, and the gel layer that surrounded his body compressed over and over, squeezing him to the point where his blood circulation became dangerously weak. A thick trunk smashed into his arms and ripped them away from his knees, sending him spinning through the maze of tree trunks, boulders, and branches that lay before him. His back collided with another trunk and bore right through its ancient, thick layers. The shielding on his armor failed and his now unprotected plating smashed from tree to tree, battering his body until he finally hit the soft dirt below and slid to a painful stop.
He came to rest flat on his back, with his arms and legs stretched out, just staring at the canopy above him. Little rays of early morning light poked through the thick layer of foliage now and then, illuminating the jungle floor around him. To his right, a large trail of overturned dirt and rock marked his long, one hundred meter slide. Beginning at just a normal grazing, his armor was so heavy it dug nearly a third of a meter into the ground by the end of the skim. Around his resting place, overgrowth crowded the jungle. Ferns and bushes of all shapes and sizes encroached on his armor, and nearly hid him completely from view. The ground was covered with them and went on like an endless sea into the jungle. Trees dotted the overgrowth, providing the jungle floor with perpetual shade and protection, and they gave refuge to the assorted animal species that stared at their new arrival. To his left, a twenty meter high rock ridge, adorned with vines and various fauna kept a vigilant watch over the area.
The vicinity was frighteningly quiet. Not a gunshot or voice to be heard. Jonas wondered if anybody else was even alive, let alone conscious after a crash like that. He tried to get up and survey the area around him, but strangely he couldn't move. He flexed his arms and legs with all his might, but the MJOLNIR armor that encased his body would not budge. He opened the real time diagnostic systems report, and analyzed the data. Streams of information and updates poured across his display as he tried to figure out what was the problem. Finally a small reactor report came into view.
[///AUTOMATED REACTOR SYSTEM REPORT UNSC D-CODE 45760///
/:KGT – FILE ATTAINED 008-030-2552:.
///REACTOR DAMAGE REPORT ALPHA -
COOLANT SYSTEM FAILURE DUE TO COMPRESSION AND/OR HIGH VELOCITY IMPACT. PRIMARY REACTOR FUNCTIONS NO LONGER ACTIVE.
//ARMOR POWER SYSTEMS – FAILURE_0.00%_///
//ARMOR SHIELD SYSTEMS – FAILURE_0.00%_///
//ARMOR SURVELLANCE SYSTEMS – FAILURE_0.00%_///
// ARMOR RADAR SYSTEMS – FAILURE_0.00%_///
//ARMOR COMMUNICATIONS ARRAY – FAILURE_0.00%_///
// ARMOR PLATE INTEGRITY – SUSTAINABLE_85.46%_///
// ARMOR BACK-UP POWER SYSTEMS – UNSUSTAINABLE_7.42%_///
// ARMOR ATMOSPHERIC SYSTEMS – SUSTAINABLE_ 96.78%_///
_UNSC PROTOCOL RESPONSE DELTA: REROUTE ALL POWER TO ATMOSPHERIC SYSTEMS 1-8_ //[ENACTED]//
//END_REPORT//]
No Power, Jonas thought to himself. I'm going to be here for a while.
Jonas relaxed his struggling muscles and tried to conserve as much energy as possible. There was no telling who or what was going to find him, or even when he was going to be found. He was helpless to fight back – Trapped within a dead metal husk that might never let go. The armor that had protected him for all of these years in war had now turned into the one thing that he eluded the most – his coffin.
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