The Bridge

[Durant, M.]

1300 Hours, June 16, 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \
Fifty-First Street Bridge, Tallusa City, Phoenix III,
Alpha Phoenicis System

Music poured through Durant's speakers over the platoon net. Corporal Davis had taken a few liberties with his RTO's radio, and while most officers would have probably been perturbed by that fact, he actually enjoyed the music. Davis had excellent taste.

The pneumatic hiss of the Pelican's rear hatch shutting echoed through the hold. Mike watched the crew chief inspect the hatch before turning on his heel to make his way over to his station beside the cockpit hatch. Inside the cockpit, Captain James "Crawdad" Lafonte completed the last of the pre-flight checks.

Seated beside him was First Lieutenant Christina Morales, his co-pilot and in charge of the twenty millimeter nose cannon. She glanced at him and gave him a thumbs up. "Gun, check. Feed, check. Weapons systems in the green."

Lafonte nodded. "ECM?" he asked. ECM stood for electronic Countermeasures. The Pelican's onboard electronics were equipped with a sophisticated suite of equipment, including radar jamming tech to mask its approach from enemy air patrols. It also had shielding from EMPs, or electromagnetic pulse.

"Check," Morales responded. "It's good to go."

Lafonte nodded again, satisfied. Everything seemed to be in working order, and his crew chief had reported over the ICS - Internal Communications System - that the blood tray was secure and all personnel were aboard. He punched in a command into the onboard computer and his radio squelched to life. "Mother Hen, this is Whiskey Five-Two-Zero, board is green and we have full chalk. Request clearance to launch in tube Charlie Five-Three-Delta. Over."

The disembodied voice of a terse Air Traffic Controller from Flight Command replied, "Whiskey Five-Two-Zero, roger. You're cleared for launch. Gladiator flight will clear you a path down once you've cleared the tube. Contact Gladiator One-Zero on TAD Three. Over."

"Five-Two-Zero copies. Out."

Lafonte raised his hand and signaled one of the members of the flight crew outside to man the controls to lower the bird into the tube. The crewman, a PFC, marched over to the controls and pulled the lever down towards him. Suddenly, the ground shook beneath the aircraft for a brief second, and then it slowly descended - the Pelican along with it.

The launch tube came into view. It spanned ahead of the Pelican for a few dozen meters before abruptly ending in a rectangular opening. Beyond its threshold was the star streaked obsidian void of outerspace. The pilots could see brief, colorful twinkles of explosions and specks of floating debris. Beyond the tube, just outside the Vengeance, a battle raged.

James paused for a moment, almost as if he were hesitant to launch his bird into the midst of the chaos occurring outside the tube. He took a deep breath and keyed the ship's intercom. "I hope you're strapped in tight, Marines," he said, his voice eerily calm. "We're in for a bumpy ride."

With that, he cycled power to the engines and activated the afterburners. The Pelican quaked as it started to slowly inch forward. Lafonte glanced at Morales, whom nodded resolutely towards her friend and superior officer. He smiled, and pushed the afterburners to full throttle. Whiskey Five-Two-Zero rocketed out of the tube.

Instantly, the Pelican's sensors shrieked as Covenant Seraph fighters approached from above, strafing along the surface of the human ship as point defense weapons turned to engage them. James wrenched the control yoke to the left in an evasive maneuver. Two of the three Seraphs flew past, the third detonating into a miniature sun as its shields failed and titanium slugs punched through its hull.

Voices screamed in his ear, their words lost on him as they talked over each other, and Lafonte switched channels. He set his radio to TAD Three and keyed his mic. "Gladiator One-Zero, this is Whiskey Five-Two-Zero, requesting guardian angel down to the surface. Over."

He heard nothing but static over the radio. Several blips appeared on the radar, a few of them registered as Lafonte's squadron mates forming up around him, the remainder hostile. Adrenaline shot through his veins and nervous tension loomed in the pilot's cabin. "Seraphs on an intercept course. I count six of them," Morales announced, her tone laced with nervous apprehension.

Lafonte tried again. "Gladiator One-Zero, this is Whiskey Five-Two-Zero, come in! Over."

The Seraphs were closing in fast. Six red blips darted across the radar screen at a dizzying pace, dispersing to engage the formation of human drop-ships. Suddenly, James noticed one of the bogies disappeared from the scope. Then another. And another, and another. Seconds later, the coast was clear.

"Whiskey Five-Two-Zero, Gladiator One-Zero, keep your pants on," came the Longsword pilot's voice over the radio. Eight green blips appeared on the scope, heading towards the mass of drop-ships. "Business is good today."

Lafonte sighed in relief and grinned slightly. Lieutenant Morales chuckled, the kind of nervous laugh that one has when they narrowly avoided the clutches of death by the skin of their teeth. Like when you step out onto a street and nearly get run over. She knew as well as him that that could have ended grimly had the Longswords not shown up.

With the escort picket moving into position to protect the flight of Pelicans, James could focus solely on flying. He tilted the nose down towards Phoenix III, and within minutes the ship was scraping through the outer layers of the planet's atmosphere. Crimson fire engulfed the Pelican's nose, and soon stretched across the entire windshield. The internal temperature of the aircraft skyrocketed to nearly the high nineties, and sweat trickled down his face as he kept the bird steady.

He had to be very careful. The tricky part with atmospheric entry was in the angle of descent. If it was too steep, and too fast, they would enter into a dive that he couldn't recover from. The Pelican would come down like a meteor. If the angle was too high, they'd overshoot their landing zone by miles.

It had to be just right.

---

Captain Vladimir Tetofsky knelt behind the sandbag barrier. Plasma zipped by inches above his head, the heat dispensed felt upon the exposed flesh of his neck. Assault rifles and machine guns roared mightily in reply. Beside him, a soldier collapsed in a heap, his face a steaming pile of burned flesh.

"Medic!" the Captain exclaimed at the top of his lungs, struggling to be heard over the cocaphony of battle.

Specialist Xavier Hemsworth bolted over to the wounded soldier, a medical kit clinched in his grasp. He scrutinized the soldier for a moment and then shook his head. "He's dead, sir."

Those words was like a bucket of ice water being poured on top of his head. He felt numb. Private Jackson Samuels was the latest casualty of Bravo Company, and the eighth of First Platoon's since he'd ordered them to hold the bridge roughly sixteen hours ago. In sixteen hours, the platoon had suffered heavy casualties and were now close to running dry on ammo.

The last three days had been hell. The Covenant had landed en masse on the western outskirts of the city. Thousands of Covenant troops pushed into the city, slaughtering anything in their path. The Army had mustered quickly, but they were grossly outnumbered and outgunned. The majority of the soldiers under his command had never dealt with the Covenant before - himself included - and they had underestimated the aliens' capabilities and tenacity.

Half the city was under enemy control. The only thing stopping the enemy from conquering Tallusa were the five bridges under human control that separated the western half of the city from the eastern half. Tetofsky realized, grimly, that even that would not hold true for long.

"Hold the line!" he shouted, poking up from behind cover to engage the nearest aliens from his position.

"We're running low on ammo, sir!" one of his soldiers cried, the raw-edged fear apparent in his voice.

Tetofsky sighed, and shook his head. He knew that the Army's only chance of success was tantamount on holding the bridges until reinforcements arrived. There was no way he could allow the Covenant to take the bridge. However, there was only so much they could do. If his men ran out of ammunition, they would have to retreat.

No. There was one other option. But it was almost certainly suicide.

However, at the moment, they had no choice.

"Then get ready for close combat!" he bellowed, trying to sound confident.

They would fight the Covenant up-close. Hand-to-hand combat against Covenant troops was virtually universally discouraged. The reason for that being the case was simple. Most Covenant troops were physically stronger and more agile than an average human. The Elites were especially more powerful; capable of killing a human in a single blow.

However, if given the choice to run or die with his dignity, he would choose to fight every time. He could only hope his men were willing to do the same should it come down to that.

---

Whiskey Five-Two-Zero punched through the thick layer of dull grey clouds, Phoenix's capitol coming into focus in front of the cockpit. To his surprise, the airspace looked to be clear. He'd expected to find Banshees zooming through the air in swarms, all of them headed straight for him and the line of drop-ships headed towards the city's center.

His elation was soon stomped out when the radio crackled to life with the voice of the leader of the Pelicans' escort. "I'm picking up multiple contacts on scope," he said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. "They're BVR, but not for long. I think they're headed this way."

Lafonte checked the sensors and saw over a dozen blips on the edge of the screen. They were steadily getting closer to them, and he guessed they were roughly three thousand meters out. "Whiskey Five-Two-Zero, this is where we part ways. We're gonna keep the welcoming committee busy while you drop off your hitchhikers."

"Copy that. Good luck," the pilot said.

Six Longswords kicked in their afterburners and flew by, headed straight for the approaching Banshees. The Banshees would be little match for the Longswords, but that didn't mean they weren't a threat. After all, they did have the advantage of greater numbers. That alone would make things dicey, even for the most seasoned fighter pilot.

Captain Lafonte angled the Pelican towards the Marines' designated LZ near the Fifty-First Street bridge and informed them over the intercom that they were three minutes out from it. Back in the blood tray, Lieutenant Durant heard the announcement and grabbed the handset from Wilkas's radio pack. The music that Davis had recorded had long since ended on the way down.

"Omen Two to Platoon, we're three mikes out. Go REDCON One and prepare to touch dirt. Over." With that he set the handset down and signaled the Marines of Second Squad to lock and load.

Unslinging his rifle, he ejected the magazine to make sure it was fully loaded before slamming it home. He pulled back on the slide to chamber the first round and flicked the safety off. In just a couple minutes, Second Platoon would be in the fight.

"Mason, two of your fire teams are to offload the ammo," Durant said, meeting the Staff Sergeant's eyes. "The odd team out will be on perimeter security of the LZ. Let's show these heathens who they've messed with, Staff Sergeant!"

A minute later, Durant felt the sudden jarring shift of gravity as the Pelican rapidly reduced speed and then plummeted towards the ground. The pilot slowed the bird's descent at the last second, the undercarriage an inch away from slamming into the ground. The rear hatch hissed open and the Lieutenant stepped forward. "Go, go, go!" he yelled.

Lieutenant Durant stepped off the Pelican and rushed forward about a dozen meters from the aircraft before collapsing onto his stomach. He scanned the area ahead of him with his rifle as the rest of Second Platoon exited their transports and sprung into action.

Operation: FROST DRAGON had officially begun.

[Stone, T.]

Despite the bumpiness of the ride down to the surface of Phoenix III, Sergeant Thomas Jeremiah Stone managed to maintain his grip of the overhead cargo netting. He stood resolute, patiently waiting for the moment in which he could spring into action. He ignored the music that blared over the platoon net.

It wasn't that he didn't like the music (though he preferred something a bit more modern and, well, country). He just wasn't interested in listening to it, and was surprised that the Lieutenant hadn't verbally berated the young man over the radio. Perhaps the Lieutenant didn't mind it.

He didn't know.

Those thoughts were brushed aside when the rear hatch opened in flight. The Pelican jounced from turbulence, and Stone happened to look over at Private Ward and notice the look of repressed terror on his face. Corporal Skip, whom sat across from him and Davis, looked sick. The slightest hint of a grin splayed across the old man's features.

"Ward, don't shit yer britches just yet," Stone shouted to be heard over the mighty whine of the Pelican's engines, "wait 'til ya see her first Covie. Then ya will have a reason."

He knew how Ward must have been feeling, and yet for some reason it bothered him that it was so obvious. Ward's father, Michael, had been a hard man. A hard read. Stone had always had trouble figuring him out, and if the man had ever been scared a day in his life, he sure didn't show it. For some reason, Thomas felt that any spawn of the Gunny should have been the same way.

Maybe he'd set his expectations too high? Maybe Ward was nothing like his father? Only time would be able to tell him that. He only hoped that Ward had time. It was an all too real possibility that this mission, his first mission, could be his last. Of course, that was true for anyone aboard.

Hell, even he could end up kicking the bucket on this one.

Unlikely, at least in his mind, but possible.

"Three minutes out!" the pilot announced over the intercom just moments before the Lieutenant came in over the radio to announce the same thing.

Stone turned around to face his Marines and gave the signal to ready up. "Ya heard 'im, ladies! Condition One, get tactical!" With that he worked the slide on his MA5 and thumbed the safety lever over to AUTO. He turned around and saw Lance Corporal Harker standing by the edge, apparently eager to hop off the bird.

Harker glanced back at Ward and smiled at him. "Don't worry, boot," he began, his expression smug, "nobody dies on their first drop. That's not how karma works."

The Pelican decreased speed at a jarring rate and spun around, the back of the bird now facing the bridge and the river. On the bridge, Stone saw tracers and blue and green plasma spitting back and forth. Whoever was on the bridge was in the midst of a tense firefight, and the grizzled Sergeant couldn't tell who was winning. The Pelican lowered quickly, and Stone felt his stomach in his throat for a moment.

The drop-ship touched down... hard. Stone felt a bit disoriented for a moment, but quickly recovered and started barking orders as he stepped off the bird. "Alrigh' First Squad, let's git ta business!" he shouted. "Bravo, Charlie, secure the perimeter! Alpha, ammo! Move it!"

[Davis, E.]

Davis just kept that smile plastered on his face as they hit atmo. It turned a little grim as the G's built, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He'd done it before and while it was never pleasant, the familiarity had gotten him past the fear long ago. He looked across to see Chip starting to look a little green. He couldn't help it, even with the music playing in his ear, and tapped the fellow team leader's shin with his toe. Chip glanced up to see who was breaking his concentration.

"Don't be the first to blow chunks, Corporal," Davis said, his grin starting to widen. "It would make all the NCO's look bad. Especially when Fox No Go here looks like he's having the ride of his life."

The lurch/twist of hitting the LZ actually made Davis have to swallow his stomach back down, wishing they could have skipped that part. He could only hope that Skip kept his lunch inside until he cleared the bird. The music had cut long before Stone started barking orders and Davis was clear on his job. He had his team channel open, and when the sound of the hatch hitting dirt was heard, Davis was already in motion. He had a job to do if they were to get everyone clear quickly.

Jumping to the end of the stretcher, he grabbed his end and heaved with everything he had. The whole pile of ammunition, fabric, and metal poles slid out of the Pelican, clearing a path for the Marines preparing to exit the bird. He wasn't going to have them try and fight over the pile in full kit. Not when he could fix it.

"Fox," he called over the radio, "You're in front with me. Avery, Furby, you have the tail. We take fire, set the whole thing and engage. We'll figure out how to move from there. That bridge looks hot and we can't leave all the fun to the Army. Let's move!"

Reaching down with one beefy hand, Davis secured his post on the stretcher. Once his men were in place, they would be on the move. He was tired of waiting and hoofing it. They needed to fight, and soon.

[Mason, I.]

Mason sat amongst his squad, gazing down at the floor and mentally preparing himself. He wasn’t doing any such thing as amping himself up or gathering his courage; he had no need for that considering he hadn’t felt much fear in battle for years. Instead, he was playing scenarios through his head - visualizing both hypothetical situations and experienced situations. Being a long time veteran of this war, he had a good idea what to expect.

Like Mason, Corporal Rio sat motionless. He however, was taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly; it was an all too common mistake for rookies to burn up their adrenaline before they even got on the ground. Rio used to take naps on his rides into battle, but since being a fire team leader he had to remain awake and aware of his own marines. Despite partaking in several missions since he had joined the UNSC, he still found himself resisting pre-op jitters.

Corporal Kateb and a few of the other marines sat amongst themselves talking about whatever crossed their minds - using it as a way to keep themselves calm. Adkins, who was amongst them, burst out laughing. His fellow marines gave him a puzzled look. Adkins repressed his laughter long enough to blurt out, “Bravo Tango, only the best.” Immediately an uproar of laughter followed. Even Kateb laughed momentarily, before muffling it with a cough. “Lock it up,” he said as he attempted to compose himself.

Mason looked up and glanced at the group, he was unaware of whatever inside joke they going on but one look at Rio’s shaking head told him that it probably wasn’t something they should be joking about in front of others. “I like laughing,” Mason said looking directly at PFC Adkins. The private’s mouth opened but nothing came out other than a long drawn, “uhhhh.” Mason tilted his head slightly, “what?”

“I um,” Adkins said attempting to come up with a response.

“Are you even aware of what you were laughing about, or are you an imbecile?”

“It was simply something we were talking about earlier, Sergeant.”

Rio began shaking his head again.

“Wow,” Mason said with sigh, “You’re the third marine to forget that I have a fucking rocker today. We can all get together after this mission and talk about rank structure. For now, I want to know what you were laughing about."

“I was just referencing..” Adkins paused while he thought of what to say next.

“Just shutup, Private. I’m no longer interested in it.” Mason said, “I wouldn’t want you to hurt your brain while you try to come up with something unintelligible.”

Mason looked around at his squad, his eyes momentarily paused as they passed over Corporal Stringer. Stringer seemed to be meshing well with his team and he also seemed to take the promotion to Corporal quite effortlessly. Now Mason would see how the new FTL handled leading third team while in the heat of battle.

"Mason, two of your fire teams are to offload the ammo," Durant said, meeting the Staff Sergeant's eyes. "The odd team out will be on perimeter security of the LZ. Let's show these heathens who they've messed with, Staff Sergeant!"

Mason nodded, “you got it, sir!”

Mason turned looked at his Corporals, “second and third are on ammo! First is on perimeter!”

[Furby, J.]

The ride down to Phoenix III was hell from the start. PFC Furby was jostled in his seat by the snap maneuvers of the pilot, and the turbulence from entering atmo not too long after didn't make the ride any smoother. Jay happened to look over at Ward, and he noticed his friend seemed to be trying hard not to show fear.

Furby vividly recalled his first combat drop, and remembered he kept thinking the ride on the Pelican would never end. It was a ride of terror he'd never forget, even if it was something that no longer bothered him. Since that experience, he'd learned what to expect from a combat drop. The fear of never making it down was still there, to be sure. But he didn't let him consume him like he had before.

"You know, if I had to choose between this and another mission in space, I'd choose this over that any day of the week," Avery suddenly said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

Jay turned his head and regarded the Lance Corporal with curiosity. That had come out from seemingly no where. "Why's that?" he asked.

"'Cuz I don't have to wear those shitty EVA suits and we worry about suffocating to death, for one," Avery answered bluntly. "Two, I hate close quarters scenarios. Drop me into a hot LZ and I'll slay any asshole that steps in front of my weapon. But put me on a ship? I dunno. I get all uncomfortable and shit."

Furby found himself more confused by his friend's answer than before. "You realize that we're about to land in a city, right? We'll be fighting in close quarters."

Avery nodded. "Yeah, but it's more open than a ship, bro."

The PFC shrugged, deciding that Avery made a good point. Personally, he didn't like fighting aboard ships either. There weren't many places to hunker down and take cover when being shot at on a ship. Not to mention flanking maneuvers were virtually impossible if you happened to get caught in a firefight in a passageway. At least in an urban environment, there was plenty of cover and opportunities to circumvent the enemy.

He set those thoughts aside as he felt the drop-ships begin to decelerate. The voice of Sergeant Stone boomed within the blood tray, and Furby unfastened himself from his seat and gripped his rifle tightly. He pulled back on the slide until he heard the metallic click of a round being chambered, and then flipped the safety off, setting the BR to semiautomatic.

The ammo counter in his Heads Up Display read that there were thirty-six rounds loaded into the weapon; a full magazine. He turned, satisfied, and prepare to disgorge from the aircraft upon landing. The sudden shift in gravity as the Pelican descended to the ground was jarring, but with a quick grab for the cargo netting, Furby managed to keep himself standing.

The rear hatch opened and Sergeant Stone dished out orders for First Team to offload the ammunition aboard. Corporal Davis was right behind him, giving out instructions to his team. "Roger, Corporal!" Furby exclaimed, moving to grab the end of the pole on the left side of the stretcher. Avery took the right side and groaned as he hefted it up.

"What's the matter, man? Took weak to lift it?"

Avery shot him a glare that could've sunk a cruiser. "Weak?" he repeated incredulously.

What he did next Furby hadn't seen coming. He let go of the rod on his end, causing all the weight on the back end of the stretcher to lean to the right. To compensate, he had to quickly grab the other rod and balance the stretcher in his grasp. "Asshole!" Furby bellowed angrily.

"Did you learn your lesson?" Avery asked with an amused grin.

"Yes," Jay shouted, "now take the fucking thing!"

The Lance Corporal laughed and took hold of the rod. Furby let go and sighed in relief, and then shook his head. Leave it to Avery to be in the middle of a war zone and still somehow manage to be a jackass. "Sorry, Corporal," he apologized, knowing that their team leader was probably less than pleased at their antics. "We're ready to go."

[Stringer, K.]

Stringer stood there, as the pelican leaned and rocked back and forth. He could hear very faint thundering sounds of the space-born combat going on. He knew more than likely they had an escort flight, like most missions, which would protect them till they got to the surface. It was common, but he knew there was times when they didn't have an escort, so he could only hope. Hope that not only that they had a flight, but that they also made it. For now though, all he could do, was hope. If a Covenant fighter did try to take the pelican out, there wasn't anything he could do about it. That's what made Stringer nervous about hot-drops.

He decided to turn and look back at his fireteam. He then noticed Mason looking at him. He could only wonder what the Sergeant was thinking, but more than likely Stringer would find out after the mission. It was the one thing Marines had a lot of time to do after combat ops, and that's talk about either the op, or the flight in. He then looked over at Gray, then Silva, and lastly Lawrence. He made sure every one of them was not acting too nervous. He did think of the fact that this might be the first time Silva had rode in on a hot-drop.

"Hey Janet first time dropping in with one of these badass birds? The Covenant might have plasma, but these pelicans can whoop some ass by themselves, let alone with an escort flight of either longsword or shortsword bombers. So relax, breathe, and save the excitement for when we hit the ground." Stringer gave the new marine a reassuring smile and nodded once. When Stringer heard her response and made sure she was fine, he looked to Sergeant Mason, who was beginning to speak.

"Second and third are on ammo! First is on perimeter!”

"Roger that Sergeant! Third, you heard the man. When we hit the surface, I want that stretcher of ammo off this bird in less than five seconds! Gray, I want you on the front left handle, I'll take front right. Silva, back right, and Lawrence, back left. Keep you weapons at the ready, but fingers off of the triggers unless you see a target. If you keep your fingers on those triggers and we all fall, a loose round is likely to be let off, so make sure you do so. Watch your sectors when we touch dirt, and call out anything you see that doesn't look human, got it?" Stringer waited for his fireteam to respond, then turned to face the back hatch of the pelican once more. He was waiting, as he felt the pelican lurch and turn more than usual, knowing that meant they hit atmo, and they were getting close.

Stringer finally heard someone call they were three minutes out. He remembered he told his fireteam not until they were thirty seconds out, but he knew plans changed on the fly all the time, so he looked back at them for a moment, yelling over the sound of the engines now as they could hear them better being in atmosphere.

"Third fireteam, weapons check!" Stringer heard Gray, Silva, and Lawrence call out that they checked there weapons, and heard each time the charging of their rifles to load a round. When Lawrence did so, Stringer looked down at his weapon, hitting the magazine once to make sure it was secured in the battle rifle, then he yanked back the charging handle and let go when it hit as far back as it would go, hearing the satisfying clicking of the mechanics load a round into the chamber, and the weapon now being hot as he flicked off the saftey.

"Check! Third fireteam, let's send these alien sons-of-bitches back home crying! Oo-rah!" As Stringer finished, he felt the pelican lurch once more, suddenly and hard, as they came to a stop, and the back ramp opened. He leaned down quickly and hefted up his corner of the stretcher, feeling his fireteam lift the other three corners.

"Move it ladies! Go go go!"

[Silva, J.]

Now if there was one thing Janet Silva would say she hated, it would be air travel. Space was fine, no bumps, no rattling, no being shook around. Air travel, however... Had all that and then some as soon as the Pelican hit atmo, Silva had to focus on not emptying her stomach contents. Now it beat being mad at her fellow marines who thought her to be completely green. Perhaps such thoughts would come to an end after she mowed down a few platoons of aliens. She looked at the worn picture, clearly she had taken it out many times before to look at. When Stringer started to talk to her she folded the picture back up and placed it into her pocket. 

"Second actually sir. I drop once during the New Paris Uprising." That drop hadn't gone exactly as planned, with Innie launchers taking out many pelicans. For them it had been a turkey shoot. "I hate air travel." She informed in, under no desire to be sick in the middle of the crowded Pelican. She double checked her weapon, ready to play some machine gun blues. With a machine gun a girl could play what music she bloody well liked, few would be able to complain less they owned a tank. 
"Solid copy." Silva replied her voice tense.

By some miracle, Janet actually managed to hold onto her stomach contents through out the whole trip down to the surface of the planet. Though she did look a little green, not the rookie green or marine green, actually green, the green I might be sick in a minute green. She help to heft the stretcher down off the Pelican, it was difficult to hold one corner of it in one hand and a light machine gun in the other. 
The bastard who called them light clearly never actually lifted one up before. They were still heavy mother fuckers to carry, especially one handed. 

The planet was much colder than Silva could have possibly imagined. Nothing like New Paris at all, which was save for the planet where she underwent the brief training period as a marine the only plant she'd been on. This place was a frigid nightmare, sure New Paris got winters but this... This was not winter, this was probably what happened in hell when Satan's heating broke down. 
Poor bastard, must be freezing in there at the moment. 

[Flannigan, S.]

Flannigan listened to the radio chatter on the flight down. It was the normal fare, with the normal losses of aircraft. None of his boys had been shot out of the sky, and that made him feel a little better. Pulling up a map of the city on his HUD, Flannigan tracked the drop ships. All three birds from Third Platoon were setting down to help set up the Battalion CP. Zied would be with them and likely calling in an update soon. The other six birds heading to the front were still in formation. 

A mental command brought up the aerial overlay, and he tracked all of their birds for a moment. It was mostly something to do to pass time, but it gave him a good view of the coming battlefield. The Longswords were doing their job, sweeping the airspace clean. It looked like they would have a relatively simple flight in. He closed the HUD and started to look around the cargo bay. Totino was sitting next to him, eyes closed and looking relaxed. The rest of the Marines of First Platoon didn't look nearly so calm, but Totino had always been cool, and following the Captain around made it even more apparent.

His musings were broken when the entire Pelican shuddered and threw itself hard to the left. Totino's eyes shot open and Flannigan heard someone grunt as the G's climbed through the hard bank. Flannigan opened his mouth to pop his ears as a blue glow flashed out of the cockpit, followed by bright yellow flash. They were still in the air though, and falling back into formation. Flannigan flipped over to listen to the flight channel.

"...still green across the board Gladiator," he heard the tense voice of the female captain from his Pelican. "Looks like they just grazed us. Those last shots missed the nose."

"Cargo still in tact Whiskey," the Longsword pilot called back. 

"All green. Starting final approach for the LZ. Whiskey out."

"We dead yet," Totino's voice called across their team band. 

"Not yet," Flannigan said, offering his RTO a smile. "You don't get off that easy."

"Good. I'm kinda fond of living sir."

Flannigan prepared to give a smart retort when the Pelican lurched and twisted as it set down in the LZ. Orders were starting to go out and Flannigan sat back and let First Platoon do their work. He wasn't there to micromanage, just get a ride planet side. He followed the Marines out as First and Second platoon started setting up a perimeter around the LZ.

"Omen actual, this is Omen 7, over."

"7, this is actual. Over."

"Actual, sit-rep to follow, break. All Omen 3 elements down and mission ready, over."

"Good copy 7. Actual out."

Leave it to Zieed to have perfect timing. Flannigan took a look around at the organization that was laying out in front of him. His marines were tactically sound, and he was happy to see their leadership had them in place as quickly as they did. He didn't expect a Covenant assault back here, but always better to be ready to fight than get caught with your pants down.

"Omen One six, Omen two six, this is Omen actual. First is with me to conduct CP handover from the boyscouts. Second, get to the bridge. I'm sure they could use a hand. How copy, over?"

Things started moving, and Captain Flannigan stood in the middle of it, watching his men perform. It didn't get much better than this.

[Wilkas, G.]

Grace disliked the music being played from her radio. The one she had been two steps away from fighting someone for, the radio was her baby and she had been greatly irked by the fact that Davis decided to play some awful music from it. She wanted to get to the planet as soon as possible, maybe there the Covenant would kill her so she would not have to tolerate this crap playing from her baby. Mercifully, Davis' terrible music finally ended, if she had to put up with it the whole way down she would have been forced to whip her pistol out and blow her brains out. 
Maybe in death they didn't allow such terrible music to exist. 

Next mission she decided that she would treat them all to some actual music rather than the crap her radio had been forced to play. The poor thing would need to be cleaned after having to put up with that. Worst of all, she couldn't move away from the source as the Pelican was crowded and the radio attached to her as she happened to be the RTO. If war was hell then Davis' taste in music must be in the place were things worse than hell live.
A hell two as it were. 

"Thank god that's over." Wilkas muttered her insightful comment just loud enough to be heard after the song finished. Evidently his taste in music disagreed with the RTO's. Wilkas followed Durant off of the Pelican, her boots pounding down the blood tray before sinking into the snow, she sprinted just shy of a dozen meters, before dropping to one knee, rifle raised scanning for targets. 
This planet was cold, freezing... It was just like home. 
"Bloody hell it's freezing it's just like home." She said out loud before a bark from one of the other marines made her duck her head and stay quiet. 

Now this was a planet she could fight on, no bodies, plenty of atmosphere... No awkward oxygen tanks that pressed painfully into her back. Just the cold cruelty that belonged to General Winter. General Winter didn't care whose side you were on, if you didn't respect winter, he'd kill you or just make you suffer terribly. 
Both options were equally terrible. 

[Ward, J.]

Ward had rode in Pelican only a handful of times before. In those instances, he'd never experienced a flight so rocky and terrifying before. The entire way down he had his hands around the straps that tethered him to the chair, his knuckles white from gripping the harnesses too tightly.

The worst part of the ride was when they hit atmo. The Pelican rocked and jostled back and forth, almost giving him a headache. He wondered if the pilot knew what he was doing, if he had somehow lost control of the aircraft. It sure as hell felt like it.

The voice of Sergeant Stone caused him to momentarily forget his fears. Something about that man put him at ease. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Hard, fair, and always to the point. He spoke from experience and he carried himself like a man whom had done and seen it all. Stone also intimidated Ward... greatly.

He looked strong enough to tear a normal person to shreds, and the attitude of someone whom would do it without batting an eyelash. Plus, over the last few weeks, the Sergeant had been dogging him. Everywhere he went, Stone mysteriously appeared. Every mistake he made, Stone was on him like a fly on shit.

Jon noticed the ride had gotten smoother when the pilot came over the intercom, alerting the drop-ship's occupants were closing in on the LZ. Sergeant Stone sprang to action, giving the order to go Condition One. Ward nodded solemnly to himself, his nerves starting up again, and racked the charging handle. He set his MA5B to fully automatic and nustled the butt of the weapon in the crook of his arm.

Just when he'd unstrapped himself from his seat, the Pelican decelerated and spun around, sending him forward. He stopped himself from flying out the open hatch by snatching hold of the cargo netting above. The Pelican lowered to the ground so fast he was sure they would smack it.

And then go time came. Corporal Davis ordered Ward to join him at the front of the stretcher, to help carry it up to the bridge. "Aye, Corporal!" he said. Jon slung his rifle and moved round the stretcher. He seized the pole not taken and hefted it up with a heavy heave of air. The thing weighed a ton.

At least, that's what he thought. "Ready."

[McMillan, J.]

Jim kept silent on the way down to the planet. He listened to the Marines of Third Squad and the platoon sergeant chat amongst themselves while battling uneasiness from the rocky ride. To his genuine surprise, he wasn't experiencing the usual pre-op jitters he heard so many others had when faced with a dangerous mission ahead. The fact that he had seen combat prior to his enlistment in the Navy, as a civilian, was likely the reason for that.

He perked up when the pilot issued the two minute warning. The fact that the nightmarish flight from hell would soon be coming to an end was comforting to him. Armed with that knowledge, and the relief that followed it, Mac made sure he was ready to step into a combat zone. He checked over his gear, loaded his weapon, and briefly removed his helmet to slide the thermal balaclava over his face.

Satisfied that he was ready for both the weather and combat, he stepped into line behind the Marines and waited for the drop-ship's to make touchdown. He was prepared for the rapid deceleration, keeping himself anchored with a firm grip of the netting overhead. When the Pelican hit the deck, McMillan followed the Marines out. Wind cascaded against his armored figure, and despite the clothes he had on, a chill ran up his spine and the hairs on his neck stood erect.

"I guess it's showtime," Mac mumbled under his breath. He readied his assault rifle and scanned the area for contact, seeing nothing. He could hear the distinctive howl of plasma weapons and the booming report of machine guns. It sounded like it was far away, which comforted him on some level. At least we're not getting shot at right out of the gate, he thought.

[Faust, M.]

The whole drop down Faust had been silent, her eyes holding a murderous gleam. She despised the Covenant, hated them with every fibre of her being. Even on the rare occasions when the aliens did attempt to surrender she had previously been known to fire upon them regardless. The evil creatures slaughtered humans with wild frenzy, she would not lose any sleep over a few more dead aliens. Even though she sat silently, the glare in her eyes seemed to petrify those in her fire team. 
Everyone knew of Faust's temper, she could go from quite happily joking to trying to collect the teeth of some poor sap who had done her wrong. Such a temper happened to be both a burden and a boon in the fires of war.

The Pelican landed with a jolt, her fire time thundered down the ramp before taking up positions to provide covering fire for the rest of the platoon. However, much to her immense disappointment, there were no aliens present to be slaughtered.
She kept a vigilant watch though. "Stay sharp!" She barked knowing that her fire team had some new people in it, who she still saw as rookies. It did not matter to her, if she hadn't seen you fight, you were a rookie till proven otherwise. 

At the moment, she still had doubts about her team's combat effectiveness, if the new faces undermined it... Many marines could die, they could all die if they broke at a vital point in the fight. Never the less, she shrugged these thoughts aside, Faust could not afford to let her doubts plague her mind in the middle of a war zone. For better or for worse, they were stuck together.
Faust fully intended to bring everyone home if possible, no more marines would die under her command.
It would have been a hard task to achieve, especially as the corporal favoured close combat, which happened to be bloody and brutal. Fighting the Covenant invaders in close combat generally resulted in heavy casualties.

This planet was freezing, her breath made swirling patterns in the air, like she was some dragon from the days of yore breathing fire. If only she could breath fire, she would use it to incinerate the wretched aliens from the galaxy. 
Faust would do her duty for humanity, she would not stop till every last alien of the Covenant was dead, she doubted that she would even let herself die until all the aliens were dead. There was no peace amongst the stars, the aliens deserved to burn in a similar fashion to the way they burned human worlds. Only their deaths would be longer, more drawn out, they would not know death until all they knew happened to be pain and loss.
Only then would death be given.

Yes, Faust truly hated the aliens. 

 

[Gray, L.]

Gray remained quiet throughout the trip down to the planet's surface. The ride down was as bumpy as hell and it took Gray most of her concentration, just to remain standing upright. Like Stringer, she could also hear the faint sounds of battle going on outside the pelican. It sounded like whoever was out there was being kept busy and Gray hoped that herself and her fellow marines could get to their destination safely. The Pelican lurched again and Gray took a deep breath, praying that she wouldn't be sick before they hit the ground.

Soon she heard the intercom crackle into life, telling the marines that they were three minutes out. Then over the engines, she heard Mason yelling that Second and Third Fireteams were on ammo duty and First were taking the perimeter. Turning to look at Stringer when he spoke next, Gray nodded but kept silent. Only her eyes showed the burning passion to wipe this enemy out. She and Lawrence both checked and readied their weapons,and called out that they were ready.

Turning her head to Lawerence, Gray spoke in a soft tone so only Leona could hear her. "Lets do this. Let's get revenge on the bastards that killed our family members and friends." she said. Looking at her, Leona nodded in return. Gray turned back just as the Pelican gave a final lurch and came to a stop. There was a quiet hiss and a click, then slowly the ramp began lowering until it landed with a soft thud on the surface of the planet. As the ramp lowered, a blast of freezing cold air hit Gray, sending a shiver running up her spine. Steeling herself, she quickly got into place and lifted the left front handle of the stretcher, soon feeling the others do the same.

This was it. The time had come.

[Durant, M.]

Lieutenant Durant surveyed his Marines as they sprang into action from the epicenter of it all. Marines from all three squads spread out and moved to secure the perimeter. In truth, Michael didn't expect to receive contact this far behind the proverbial front line, but he'd been trained to play things safe. Better to have people on security on the off chance the enemy may have snuck their way across the river than not to at all.

Static exploded into his headset, followed up by the voice of Captain Flannigan, and the Lieutenant turned to Wilkas whom was knelt down beside him. He studied her for a moment. There was a gleam in her eyes that had not been there before. Her expression did not hold the blunt signs of fear and apprehension that it had before. She was still scared, to be sure, but she looked ready.

After the incident on the Templar, Wilkas now knew what to expect from the enemy. She survived her trial by fire and learned some valuable lessons from it. Fear was normal, but it was an emotion that had to be overcome. Lives depended on her being focused and at the ready with her radio. She was the platoon's nexus for communications with higher echelons of the command chain. Without her, Durant could not establish communications with other units outside of the platoon, the upper command echelons, and with any adjacent supporting elements such as close air support.

Michael was proud of her. He knew she hadn't asked for any of this. The UNSC had swept her away from the life she had been living, giving her absolutely no choice in the matter. She hadn't asked to be a Marine, it had been forced upon her. The only choice she'd had in any of this was becoming a radio operator. And so far she proved to be a damned good one, despite some of her quirks. He was curious to see how she would perform now that she had a taste of combat, and knew what it was like.

Expelling these thoughts from his mind, Mike grabbed the handset from off her pack and pressed it against his face, the receiver to his ear. He paused for a moment to watch the Pelicans that had transported them down begin to take off, and then pressed in the talk button. "Omen Actual, this is Omen Two. Solid copy. Break. We're oscar mike, over."

He set the handset down after listening to the Skipper's reply, and waved his platoon forward. The voice of Staff Sergeant Cruz followed his gesture to move out. "First Squad! On point! Let's MOVE!"

Corporal Faust's team took the lead. The platoon started forward, making their way across the open expanse of terrain towards the on-ramp to the bridge over the Tallusa River. "Platoon, staggered!" Durant shouted. He watched as his squads organized themselves into a staggered column, the intervals between squads standing at ten meters from the last man to the first man of each squad.

When the platoon reached the foot of the ramp, Durant ordered them to halt with a fist in the air. He knelt down on one knee, his rifle tucked against his chest, and he keyed the push-to-talk connected to his radio headset with his free hand. "Ammo bearers, break open your crates and take out boxes of ammo. The Army have been in contact for days and I'm not sure when their last resupply was, so they're probably running low on ammo. Break."

He let off the PTT for a moment as a bone-chilling wind tore into his body. The cold quality to the air was dampened by his cold weather clothing, but he still felt a shiver run up his spine. He looked up at the bridge, the sound of an intense battle raging upon it, and saw stray plasma rounds zip by harmlessly overhead. "Two-Three, you've got the bottom tier. Two-One, Two-Two, you're with me topside. Prepare for contact. Over."

He released the PTT and readied his rifle. On the bird he'd only caught a glimpse of the bridge, and hadn't been able to tell just how many Covenant they were potentially dealing with. He didn't like not knowing, but such was the nature of the fog of war. Mike raised his hand in the air, about to wave his platoon forward, when Staff Sergeant Cruz knelt down beside him.

"Sir, what are we gonna do about wounded?" the platoon sergeant asked. Durant lowered his arm and looked at his second a in a command contemplatively. That had been an issue he hadn't thought of until now, a fact which he kicked himself for.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, but I'm sure the Army have a CCP set up somewhere on the bridge. In the off chance, however, are any of Willowby's Marines CLS qualified?"

"Yes, sir."

Durant nodded. "Go with Third and tell Willowby to let his Marines that are CLS qualified know they might have to treat to any wounded until I can figure something out. Hopefully there's a quick way to negotiate both tiers, but if not, we'll have to make do."

The Staff Sergeant nodded with an "aye, sir," and walked off to join up with Third Squad. Michael paused to make sure everyone was ready, and then issued the signal to move out. The climb up the ramp was done so in silence, the only noise coming from on top of the bridge. The closer the platoon drew to the top of the ramp, the clearer the sounds of combat and the screams of the Army troopers became.

Faust's team crested the rise first, and immediately ducked as a trio of stray plasma bolts zoomed by, narrowly missing them. Her team bolted forward and the rest of the platoon followed after them. When Durant reached the top, the first thing his eyes were set upon was a group of wounded soldiers that were up against a permacrete partition, a medic tending to their wounds. A few feet away, off to the side, were a handful of olive drab body bags.

They were full.

The Lieutenant heard the footsteps of McMillan behind him, and knew what the corpsman was going to ask. "Go," Durant ordered, and the corpsman dashed over to the Army medic's makeshift Casualty Collection Point.

Past the CCP was the platoon the medic and the wounded soldiers belonged to. They were spread out thinly along a line of sandbag positions, approximately four of them in total, and some of the soldiers had taken to using the vehicles left abandoned on the bridge as defilade. Erected directly behind each sandbag position was a machine gun. Two M247T's, an M247H, and an AIE. The AIE appeared to be out of ammo.

"Marines, get on line and engage!" Durant exclaimed, running forward for cover.

A few dozen meters ahead of the line was at least three dozen Covenant troops. Grunts, Jackals, and their Elite overseers, all slowly advancing to overrun the Army's positions. Durant ducked into cover just as a spray of needler fire came at him. The rounds impaled the side of the abandoned Genet and detonated harmlessly.

"Fire! Fire!"

[Stone, T.]

Sergeant Stone dropped to his stomach, his rifle at the ready, positioning himself so that he was in between Bravo and Charlie Teams. If they took contact, he could easily maneuver between the two teams and direct their fire as needed with relative ease. He scanned back and forth through his field of fire, a small patch of woods up ahead roughly fifteen meters away.

The voice of Lieutenant Durant in his headset drew his attention, and he jumped to his feet. The Lieutenant ordered First Squad on point. Thomas turned his head towards Bravo and shouted, "Faust! Yer team's up on point!" He looked over at Skip and gestured for him to take the rear, leaving First Team in the middle to carry the ammo on their stretcher in relative safety.

Stone fell in line behind Second Team, ready to dish out orders to them as needed. "Squad, column!" he barked, and then the platoon moved out, First Squad leading the way towards the bridge. The march was relatively brief, and the Sergeant kept his eyes peeled for any sign that there might be hostiles nearby. Fortunately nothing jumped out at them, and the trek to the bridge's on-ramp proved uneventful.

Lieutenant Durant ordered the platoon to a halt, and Stone told his Marines to stop. He watched in satisfaction as his subordinates spread out in a hasty three-sixty. When the word came down the pipe to crack open the crates, Stone looked over his shoulder at Davis. "Corp'ral, two boxes per man, four fer you. I need Avery's gun up, so yer gonna carry pick up his slack."

He grinned. He knew Davis wouldn't mind carrying the extra weight. Since the Corporal had joined the unit, Stone had seen him haul weight that would have drug a lesser man into the dirt. But Davis? He kept on trucking like he was carrying paperweights. Whatever doubts that Stone had had about the man when he first joined First Squad had been squashed a long time ago. He was glad to have the man in his squad, and he made an outstanding assistant squad leader.

Once the ammo had been taken from the crates and distributed to those whom were to carry it, the platoon started up the ramp. Stone picked up his pace, edging closer to the back of Faust's team. From the sound of it, the doggies were under heavy fire, and he had no idea how many Covenant they'd been feeling with when they got up there.

No sooner had he crested the top did he hit the concrete. Three rounds hissed overhead where he had been standing a moment ago, and his eyes ventured ahead. Beyond the battered lines of the Army unit was Covenant. Lots of Covenant. Adrenaline exploded through the NCO's veins, and his heart increased its tempo. "Spread out! Git on line 'n open up with suppressin' fire! Team leads, lob Three-Oh-Twos 'n force 'em into cover!"

Stone sprinted forward and slid into cover behind one of the sandbag positions. The roar of the machine gun and the sound of spent brass clattering to the deck filled his ears. Thom almost swore he heard one of the soldiers beside him say something about being thankful they had arrived, but it was difficult to be sure he'd actually heard anything over the staccato of gunfire.

Mentally shrugging, Stone took aim with his MA5 and let loose. The assault rifle bucked as it spat round after round of seven-six-two into the advancing Covenant. A pair of Grunts were cut down by the wild spray of bullets, their blood splattering all over the side of an abandoned Genet. He shifted his aim and sighted in on a Jackal with its shield deployed, and he opened up, the rounds ricocheting off its shield.

"Shit! Shit! I'm dry!" a soldier beside him exclaimed.

Stone ducked behind the sandbags and pilfered through his combat webbing for a fresh magazine. He grabbed two and tossed one over to the soldier, and then ejected the half-spent magazine of his rifle and slapped the new one home. The soldier caught the magazine he tossed him and reloaded. "Thanks!"

"Any time," Stone replied with a grin. He took a deep breath and then stood up to fire.

His eyes went wide as he saw a ball of fiery blue energy hissing towards him. He ducked and the ball zoomed over his head, the heat put off felt on the back of his neck. Sergeant Stone cursed and heaved a sigh. That had been close. Far too close for comfort.