04:13 Hours 23 August, 2550 Marine Operations Staging Area Private April just looked on in awe as Sergeant Jameson and Commander Aldridge almost had it out in front of the whole unit; and though they restrained themselves, the disdain they held for each other was clear even to him. He’d thought about voicing his observation to Truman and Crawley, but Corporal McCoy beat him to the punch. April was intimidated by the mohawked support man, and kept quiet as he dished the gossip concerning their ONI liaison; but felt somewhat more at ease as he dropped the subject, and the conversation got serious.
Private Truman nodded as he listened to the man who apparently bore the nickname ‘Gatling’, and he paid close attention. Truman was green, like his new teammates Crawley, April, and even the jokester Wiley. But Truman felt confident in himself, and his abilities. All twenty-five years of his life, he was confident in himself, and he’d always measured up. That confidence in himself was a big reason why Jameson had personally requested his assignment to Ghost, or so the Master Gunnery Sergeant had explained. He’d learned that of the six new members of Ghost, he was the only one Jameson had actually requested; the others had been forced on the Gunny. This only added to Truman’s confidence in himself, but he was smart enough to know not to boast about it.
Crawley on the other hand, though green like her fellows, felt like she had something to prove, not just to herself, but to others. She’d grown up in the lap of luxury, and when her parents had expressed their intent for her to follow in their footsteps, Crawley rebelled. To her, that rebellion meant enlisting with the UNSC Marine Corps. She took to it immediately, knowing she had to fight hard to prove that she wasn’t just some rich kid; it’s why she brokered a deal with one of her previous COs to be assigned to Ghost, despite the concern that she didn’t have the credentials.
“Thank you, sir!” replied April in an all too formal manner when McCoy offered the newbies a pseudo-welcoming to the Detachment. Both Truman and Crawley didn’t bother with a formal show of appreciation, simply nodding in acknowledgement to the Corporal.
“…and besides, if the big man here can’t look after ya, you’ve always got me .” Chimed in Private Wiley as he walked by McCoy and the three other Privates, a shit-eating grin clear across his face as he reveled in his smug confidence. Truman rolled his eyes at Wiley’s comment before slipping his ODST helmet over his head, and polarized his VISR, concealing his face underneath.
- - -
Nearby, Lance Corporal Croft took the last few drags of a cigarette before extinguishing it into a nearby ash-tray. He exhaled deeply as a puff of the tobacco smoke blew out from his lungs, gradually rising to the metal grated deck above. Croft, like Jameson was lucky to have been assigned to the Wanderer, as the old ship was one of a few that offered a non-pure oxygen atmosphere, meaning it was possible to smoke aboard; though it was really at the expressed permission of Captain Ramsey that he wasn’t still forbidden from lighting up. After slipping a fresh pack of Marlboro into one of his leg pouches, he grabbed his helmet and made for the drop pods.
- - -
Still to the aft of the staging area was Sergeant Leonid, who was recording a holo-message for his seven children. “…and I want you all to listen to your mothers, regardless of which ones they are, and uhh… remember that I love you all… mmh? Okay…” he stopped the recording, and set it to auto-send in three days. Immediately afterward, he sneezed loudly again, turning his head to the side just in time to avoid spraying the intercom.
Sergeant Danforth however, wasn’t so lucky as he caught the ejectant in his right leg as he went to walk by the mad Russian. Stopping in his tracks, he looked down at his thigh armor, and then to Leonid, who simply stared at him. “…you seriously need to stop doing that.” He explained in a clearly aggravated tone, which sounded as though this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.
“What? I explain already; to keep inside, is to keep sick…eh?” he replied before reaching for his nearby helmet, which bore the ancient symbol of a crossed hammer and sickle. Danforth gritted his teeth as he fought his instinct to try and hammer some sense into his friend, and instead kept moving right on by, slipping his own helmet over his head. A moment later Leonid followed suit, slipping his helmet over his head.
- - -
Jameson checked the action of his Battle Rifle as few times as he stood facing his locker, then turned his rifle over in his hands to check that his holo-sight, laser sight, and foregrip were still tightly attached to the picatinny railing. Once satisfied, he reached into one of his ammo pouches and pulled free a magazine, then rammed it up into the stock. Pulling the charging lever to chamber a round, he heard Mullan’s steps as she approached, and looked over his shoulder to her.
He chuckled slightly as he listened to her speak the concerns she had regarding the limited details their ONI liaison was willing to share. “She’s a spook… what’s to trust?” he admitted as he slung his rifle, and reached for his helmet, then closed shut his locker and faced her. Over her shoulder the rest of the team was gradually filing out of the staging area, headed for their drop pods.
Sighing a moment, he looked at the image of Solace City on the briefing holo-monitor, and then back to his second in command. “There’s no guarantee that any of us will drop anywhere even close to each other; hell, for all you and I know, we might not even make the drop… as if either of us are that fortunate.” He mused her a moment, laughing at the dark humor.
“Objectives are pretty simple once we’re planet side, fend of the Covenant, and make it to the rallying point. Once we’ve made it into the sewers, we’ll split up into two groups as we make for the ONI facility. You’ll take your usual Second Squaders, with the addition of Sanders, Donovan, and Wiley. I’ll take First Squad with Crawley, Truman, and April.” He stepped away from the wall of lockers, and motioned for her to walk with him as they made their way.
“I’m sure there’s more we’re not being told, but that’s just one of those undisclosed hazards of our job, hidden in the fine print when we sign on.” Stopping just before the hatchway leading out of the staging area, Jameson turned to look Mullan in the eyes. “You know your job, and you know how to go about getting your job done. Just keep your men focused, keep your head on straight, and keep at least one eye on our ONI friend.”
“I’ll meet up with you at City Hall.” He said simply as he slipped on his helmet, polarized his VISR, and headed for his drop pod.
- - - - -
04:18 Hours 23 August, 2550 Drop Bay of the UNSC Wayward Wanderer Setting his M41 down into its locking position aboard his SOEIV Class Drop Pod, Lance Corporal unslung his M45D Tactical Shotgun, and gripped it tightly. He knew they were hot dropping, so he’d better be ready to fight when, or rather, if he landed. As he checked the weapon a moment, he overheard the chatter of Corporals Ross and Anders to his right, and listened in a moment before commenting.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s some AI, a grunt, jackal, or an elite. If Navy Intelligence wants someone or something dead, then we’re the ones they call on. We specialize in making things dead.” Looking at his drop pod a moment, then stepping inside and turning around to face out, Croft then addresses Corporal Tenjer. “…and all do respect Corporal, Spartans might be bigger, faster, and smarter; but they’re not Ghosts.”
Croft’s drop pod door closed tight, sealing the big demolitions man inside, and he waited.
“Bridge to Drop Bay, we are three mikes to drop zone. Stand by!” came the call from Captain Ramsey through the overhead comm, announcing that the Wayward Wanderer would be in position to being dropping Ghost in just under three minutes.
- - - - -
04:20 Hours 23 August, 2550 Bridge of the UNSC Wayward Wanderer “Now entering high orbit around Omega Titanius III! Drop window in three mikes!” called out Ensign Andrews, the chief helm officer aboard the UNSC Wayward Wanderer.
“Understood. Steady as she goes Andrews.” Ordered Captain Ramsey as he brought a cup of coffee to his lips, taking a sip of the frothing hot black liquid, stinging his tongue and lips. “Bridge to Drop Bay, we are three mikes to drop zone. Stand by!”
“Ensign Alonso, any movement from the Covenant planet side? Have they detected us?” asked Commander Campbell as she strode away from the Captain’s side, and approached the sensor station at the port side of the bridge.
“No ma’am! Zero movement from the Covenant, they haven’t seen us yet!” called out Alonso, who looked over his shoulder to his executive officer.
- - - - -
04:22 Hours 23 August, 2550 Drop Bay of the UNSC Wayward Wanderer Filing into the drop bay, Sergeant Danforth spots Corporal Davis, and nods to him. He might have criticized the man for his comments made to the newbies, but Danforth trusted the Corporal, and knew he meant nothing malicious by it. He knew the man was a good Marine, and genuinely hoped he’d make it through to the end of this nasty business that was their operation. Turning away, Sergeant Danforth stowed his own M41 Rocket Launcher, readied his MA5B, and closed his drop pod hatch.
One by one, the remaining members of the Detachment made their way to their SOEIV class drop pods, and one by one they entered, secured themselves, then locked the hatch tight. The last man to enter was Jameson as he checked the status’ of all his Ghost’s drop pods, ensuring they were all properly sealed, and read as green to go. Only one drop pod was still empty, that of the ONI Field Operative.
But before he could comm the Commander, she stepped into the drop bay, and without so much as a look to the Sergeant, she entered, stowed, secured, and locked her own drop pod. They were all green to go now. Jameson then turned away from the status board, and climbed into what he’d affectionately called his would-be coffin.
“Bridge to Drop Bay, Thirty Second count begins now!” came Ramsey’s warning.
After the hatch had sealed, Jameson checked the time read-out on his VISR, and activated the comm system in his helmet. He patched into the comms of the Ghosts. “Listen up.” He waited a moment until he had their attention, then continued. “Good luck Ghosts.” With that, the first chords of the ODST anthem began to play over their comm systems; a tradition that had been observed by every ODST unit for years; the music was strong in it’s tone, and conveyed the bravery of the helljumpers.
“Bridge to Drop Bay, T-Minus Five… Four… Three… Two…” called out the shipboard AI, Oberon, as he counted down the last few seconds. When the timer hit zero, there was a momentary sound of air depressurizing around the drop pods as the bay doors were opened, and for a split second, nothing but silence was beheld to each of the Ghosts.
“Feet first into hell, Marines! Oooh-rah!” exclaimed Jameson over the comms as that peaceful and calm silence was erased by the unmistakable sound of launch boosters firing. En masse, all twenty-five of the drop pods were jettisoned out from underneath of the UNSC Wayward Wanderer, the blackness of space filling the small transparent aluminum window on each of their pods. The intense G-Force of the launch drove each of the Marines against their harness as they speed downward toward the planet beneath.
It wasn’t long after, that the blackness of space gave way to the ambient light emitted from the planet below, and the negative G-Force that had all but lifted them out of their seats gave way to positive Gs that drove them back down into them. Their drop pods had hit the outer atmosphere, starting at 17,000 MPH, they began decelerating at an incredible rate. Outside of their transparent aluminum viewports the distress of atmospheric entry was evident, as the burning red hot gases outside flared with a fluorescent red glow.
As they descended, the red glow outside faded, and the rumbling strain of atmospheric entry quieted down. Reaching 20,000 feet, the radiant light of the nearby stars gave way to the thick black storm clouds that lingered over the planet. Outside of their viewports, the black clouds were occasionally illuminated by hundreds of flashes of lightning, refracted by the heavy rain droplets that fell from the skies.
At 3,000 feet, the familiar jolt of their drag chute deploying above their pods was followed by an alarm claxon sounding, signifying their imminent touchdown.
As the sounds of rushing air and rain pelting against the exterior of her drop pod intensified, Gunnery Sergeant Mullan could faintly see another drop pod through her viewport. A sudden flash illuminated the sky and the other drop pod just enough for her to see a lance of white lightning surge from the sky, and strike the drop pod directly. The struck drop pod’s chute broke away, and the pod began to tumble erratically.
“Oh god! I got hit by a bolt of lightning! My systems are fried! Mayday! Mayday!” called out Private First Class Truman as he felt his drop pod tumbling through the air, his world spinning about like a top as he plummeted from the sky out of control. “I’m going down! I repeat, I’m going down! Mayday! Mayday! Oh god n-…” his words were cut off, and the world went black for Truman as his pod smashed uncontrollably into the skeletal remains of a Solace City skyscraper.
Static poured into the comm link from Truman’s radio system for a moment, then went silent, and on Jameson’s screen his status indicator went red. A instant later, Jameson and the rest of the Ghost’s drop pods crashed down throughout the city, their locations varied and scattered.
- - - - -
04:27 Hours 23 August, 2550 Surface of Solace Colony A moments disorientation would’ve befallen them as their pods came to a rest amongst the burned and charred remnants of the surface of Solace Colony. All around them were the sounds of the eternal storm that raged over the planet in wake of the great fires that had scorched it’s surface; thunder echoed in the skies above, and a torrential downpour raged without relent.
Jameson groaned a moment as his surgically repaired back ached horribly, but as the momentary daze of pain passed, he sat up and checked his status monitor, and to his dismay, Private Truman’s status was still red. “Damnit! Status check! Now!” he called out over his comm as he reached for his hatch release, which made an awkward mechanical sound as it failed to open. “Fuck!” he exclaimed aloud, not realizing his comm was still open. Reaching for the emergency blow system, he triggered it, and his hatch blew as a set of charges detonated. It launched about ten feet straight up into the air, then crashed back down onto Jameson’s pod before tumbling away.
“Ghosts! Status!” he hollered again, waiting for each of them to acknowledge their still living status by simply pinging their comm, which was the expected protocol when surrounded by enemies. As he clambered out of his drop pod, he realized that he’d landed in the center of a massive mound of burned debris. Looking up he saw a flash of lightning in the sky, and saw that the mound he’d landed on was actually half of a burnt and destroyed skyscraper that had collapsed during the covenant attack.
As he leveled his weapon, he looked about and saw in a small fire burning near the top of a far off building, no doubt where Truman’s pod had crashed uncontrollably. He shook his head, and looked about a moment to see if he’d landed near anyone else, and he saw rising smoke to the northeast, indicating another drop pod nearby.
Carefully he stepped down from his drop pod, and began climbing out of the mound he’d landed in, hoping his team would ping their comms, and confirm their still living status’.
