[A-Deck] Nothing Ventured...

[Harrison, D.]

1100 Hours, May 17, 2543 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Aboard UNSC Vengeance, somewhere in slipspace
en route to the Atlas Moons

Lieutenant Colonel Harrison had ventured to the Command Deck of the UNSC Vengeance more times than he could count in the last couple of weeks since the ship's departure from Reach. It was never something he looked forward to, as the ratio of Marines to naval crewmen was considerably smaller here than anywhere else on the ship. Technicians and an assortment of other naval rates marched to and fro from one end of the ship to the other, performing tasks that were unknown to him, and generally under the watchful eye of officers that had never seen a real combat deployment. Perhaps he was biased. After all, in his mind, being aboard a ship in relative safety from the enemy was a whole helluva lot different than staring the enemy in face as they fire red-hot molten plasma at you. One took a bit more guts than the other, he believed. 

In truth, he never liked coming up here. There was always this sense that he didn't belong up here among the crew that kept the ship combat-ready. Unlike other parts of the ship that were, to some extent, designed specifically with Marines in mind, the Command Deck was not one of those areas. This was their domain. The Navy owned this portion of the ship and, judging by the looks he received from some of the crew when he'd make the journey up here, it was evident that he was trespassing on their turf. Unfortunately for them, however, this was where he had to be. And many more Marines were on their way up to the Command Deck. 

Despite all of that, the atmosphere on the Command Deck seemed different. He could read it in the faces of the crew as he passed them by on the way to the bridge. Something was off, and he knew it had to do with their upcoming mission. A mission that they were en route to, and drew closer to arriving to by the passing minute. Rear Admiral Danforth Whitcomb, someone whom he figured was hoping to get into the good graces of the upper echelons of UNSC High Command, had put together a considerable fleet of warships in what would likely be one of the largest campaigns against the Covenant Empire since the campaign to retake Harvest at the beginning of the war eighteen long years ago. The looks on the faces of the crew varied. Some of the crewmen appeared defiantly optimistic, but the vast majority seemed uncertain; perhaps even quietly afraid. 

Everyone knew, whether they liked to admit it or not, that humanity was slowly losing the war. Defeat after defeat at the hands the Covenant onslaught had taught them that. Sure, the UNSC would generally win on the ground, but none of that mattered in the grand scheme of it all. If the naval battle in space was lost, the whole mission was lost. After all, once the Covenant owned the stars, all they had to do was swoop down and glass whatever planets were nearby that were occupied by humanity. And glass them they did. Every time. 

What was unique about this mission, though, was that the Covenant had already won. The UNSC wasn't on their way to the Atlas Moons to reinforce a besieged colonial defense force or attempt a rescue of a civilian populace before the Covenant could instigate their demise. No. The Covenant had already seized control of the Atlas Moons. This was not a rescue op, nor was it a concerted effort to defend human turf. This, this was an offensive. 

Colonel Harrison's musings came to a halt as he reached the door to the bridge. He found it odd that he was to conduct a briefing here, and not in one of the many ready rooms that had been left available to the Marines aboard ship. Perhaps it was just another indication of how unorthodox this whole thing was. Stepping forward, the sensor above the door seemed to detect his presence, as the metal double doors parted way with a singsong chime to admit him into the bridge. He found himself after walking through a narrow corridor that acted as the antechamber to the ship's command center, in the Combat Information Center positioned just behind the helm. Naval officers and senior enlisted crew moved back and forth from one station to the next, seemingly oblivious to the fact that an outsider had just entered their domain. Everyone seemed absorbed in whatever tasks they had set out to perform, and Harrison resigned to stay off to the side and out of their way until properly addressed by someone of appropriate rank to make himself known. 

It didn't take long. Rear Admiral MacArthur was quick to notice his arrival. "Good morning, Colonel Harrison," the flag officer greeted, though his tone seemed to indicate the morning had been anything but good. "I trust your Marines are on the way."

The Colonel nodded. "My XO and Sergeant Major are rounding up the company staff of each one of my companies, sir."

Admiral MacArthur nodded and then stepped aside as another man, whom Harrison recognized from the division brief on Reach as Rear Admiral Danforth Whitcomb, made his way over to him. Harrison stiffened slightly. He was used to MacArthur, but Whitcomb was a different beast entirely. Whitcomb extended a fat, meaty hand towards him. The man was built like an ox and boasted a salt-and-pepper goatee that was more light than it was dark at this point. His hair was cut short and fashioned similarly to a high-and-tight, only adding to what Harrison considered to be an overall intimidating appearance. Harrison extended his hand and accepted the shake, and immediately regretted it. The man had the grip of a vice, and he felt something pop in his hand that probably shouldn't have. 

"Good seein' you again, son," Whitcomb greeted with that thick Texas drawl. "I know this may all seem kind of unorthodox, what with what you're used to doin', but I wanted to personally brief your Marines on the op."

"Sir?"

Whitcomb's lips curled into a half-smirk. "You read the WARNO that was sent down from the MEU Commander, right, son?"

"Yes, sir," he replied succinctly.

"Then you know that there's a lot of moving parts to this plan," the Admiral stated, matter-of-factly. "I want to personally run over the plan with your boys and let 'em know that the Navy's gonna have their back as best as we can. A lot is going to be riding on this, son, and there's gonna be some times that it's gonna feel like you've been left out to dry. I want your men to know that is far from the case. How long 'til they get here?"

Harrison glanced back at the door that led back out of the bridge before passing off a shrug in the Admiral's direction. "Knowing my XO and Sergeant Major, not long, sir," Harrison replied. "No one wants to make the Sergeant Major late."

[Flannigan, S.]

Shay sat slumped over his private desk, putting the last touches on the Oscar Company Operations Order. It was as fully prepped as it could be until the official order was handed down from Brigade. He then pulled up his personnel roster and started looking over the names and faces of his marines. It was a long standing practice at this point of his career. If a marine was to be sent to their death, it was only fitting that the one giving the order knew who they were. There were far too many new faces after their time in garrison. His NCO ranks had been picked to fill out new companies and share the experience with the whole of the UNSCMC. He hated losing marines in battle, but he hated losing them to garrison life even more.

A small buzz alerted him to company at his door. He stood, quickly clearing the screen of his datapad, before opening the door. Waiting on the other side of the door was a sight that would normally scare anyone, but Flannigan just grinned at the Sergeant Major and his First Sergeant. Thankfully, away from prying eyes, all pretense was dropped and both men just stood with their datapads in hand.

"My two favorite NCO's," Flannigan said with a smile. "Collecting us personally this time Sergeant Major?"

"Aye, Sir. We're needed on the bridge. Admiral wanted to put a personal touch on this invitation."

"I didn't think you cared Sergeant Major," Flannigan said, grabbing his cover and datepad from the desk. "I have the warm fuzzies now."

"Don't let that shit spread," Sergeant Major Carson grumbled back. "I'm going to collect the others. See you boys up top."

Flannigan put his cover on and strode out in the direction of the Bridge, First Sergeant Zieed falling in to his left. The halls were far more quiet than he expected in this area of the ship, but it was just the calm before the store. He would bring back the orders needed to kickstart that, and he was looking forward to it.

"This one is going to be a hell of a trip Sir," Zieed said. "I think we're going to come back a lot lighter."

"We always do, Top. This is going to be a big one though."

They quieted down as they made their way through A-Deck. They were the first ones to make the bridge from the MEU, but they both entered quietly, doing their best to not make a splash. Flanningan had made plenty of news in his life. If they didn't know who he was on sight, he didn't need to make a splash.

[Durant, M.]

There was something unnerving about filling a new billet. He had grown accustomed to his position as a platoon commander. Technically, he still was, as currently there wasn't anyone to his knowledge set to replace him as Second Platoon's commanding officer. However, now he was saddled with the responsibility of filling the shoes of Lieutenant Matheson. Now Captain Matheson, he reminded himself. He supposed it shouldn't have come as much surprise that Captain Flannigan offered him the billet of Oscar Company's Executive Officer. Second Platoon had garnered itself a reputation within the company as being exceptional. Of course, when the entire company was exceptional, it added greater meaning to that badge of honor.

Durant had, naturally, accepted the position. Currently, he was merely acting as the XO until a suitable replacement could be brought on to take the reigns of Second Platoon. Captain Flannigan had assured him, however, that once a replacement was found, he would be managing the position full-time, as the permanent XO. The added responsibility was a daunting prospect, though a welcomed one. He was now the day-to-day manager of operations for the company, and responsible for the beans, bullets, and bandages that kept the unit in the fight. It had definitely given him perspective. One doesn't normally question where the equipment comes from, so long as it is there and readily available. Now he had to work with the various S-Shops in the battalion to ensure the company received its due resources. There had been a shortage in functional radios for the company that he'd had to resolve with the assistance of Gunnery Sergeant Cruz. Apparently, the jungles of Melfa played hell with the Marines' equipment, and a good portion of it was rendered useless by the end of the mission. Matheson had transferred out before the situation could be resolved, and that left it Durant's responsibility once Flannigan brought him on as his replacement.

Funnily enough, logistics was exactly what he was focused on at the moment. He'd been given a sneak peek at the Company OPORD, and was trying to figure out if all of the company's equipment was in order. It would be a bad day for Oscar Company if they deployed without the necessary supplies. A shortage of any the needed items would adversely affect the unit's ability to complete their mission, and considering the scuttlebutt he'd heard about their objective, that could potentially cost them victory -- and worse, lives. Casualties in war are inevitable; but, some are preventable.

Michael scrolled through the lists, organized by type of equipment and logistical class, on his datapad. He ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, feeling the stress of sifting through what amounted to hundreds of items on the lists. The knock on the door to his quarters that rang through the room was an unexpected, but welcome, distraction from the monotony. He stood up, setting the datapad down on his bed, and made his way to the door. It opened at the click of a button, and as it slid into the wall, he was met with the chiseled visage of Sergeant Major Carson. He stood a little straighter at the sight of the old warrior. He wasn't used to visits from the battalion's senior enlisted man.

"Sergeant Major," he said, and realized that his voice was hoarse. He needed water. "Good morning. What do you need?"

The Sergeant Major paused, taking a moment to size him up, before gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "Yer skipper's on the way to the bridge. Leader meetin' is bein' conducted there, an' you're to report with 'im."

Durant nodded. He was almost thankful, as a briefing was a change of pace. It was unusual that it was to be held on the ship's bridge, but he wasn't about to pester the Sergeant Major with questions. If the man told you to jump, you jumped. There was no questioning his word. "I'm on my way," he replied.

Carson nodded and abruptly turned on his heel, making his way elsewhere. Durant retreated back into his room and retrieved his blouse, tossing it on and buttoning it up quickly. He straightened out the wrinkles in the fabric and donned his cover before promptly making for the door. It didn't take long for him to navigate the maze of corridors and ladderwells to the Command Deck. The benefit of having been aboard the Vengeance as long and as frequently as he had was that he was able to learn the many cut-throughs and shortcuts to get to where he needed to be. When he entered the bridge, he did so quietly, and was able to locate First Sergeant Zieed and Captain Flannigan with relative ease. He stepped over to them and quietly stated, "Reporting as ordered, sir."

[Killinger, J.]

Killinger knew he had been summoned to the bridge, likely expected to arrive before everyone else and vividly aware he should have been dressed already... In truth, however, he was still sprawled out on his bunk with nothing more than undergarments and a pair of socks on. Mentally he wasn't in his quarters, he was back on Reach with his wife and children, back on Earth with his parents and siblings. He could smell the pine trees off his parents cottage, could hear his kids laughing at the park: he was anywhere but the present.

In reality the idle officer was staring at the ceiling above his surprisingly comfortable mattress, deep in thought about his family now that he was participating in one of the few offensives the UNSC could manage, especially considering the circumstances. It wasn't often they could commit enough manpower, warships and other military assets into a strategic effort to repel the Covenant through means of an assault -- on the Covenant, no less -- while there were still insurrectionists around, too. When the resources were there you had to toss the dice, though; you could certainly win defensive wars against much stronger opposition, the UNSC wasn't winning this defensive war, it was a battle of attrition and they were loosing.

John wondered if this offensive was an attempt to boost morale across the UNSC; Admiral Cole had been presumably killed in action against the Covenant during the battle of Psi Serpentis, now known as 'Admiral Cole's last stand'; the outer colonies were essentially gone, from what he understood only a few major worlds still existed; and the entire UNSCDF -- every branch under that rather large umbrella -- were tired of suffering defeat after defeat, lives lost to stop an entire civilization from the very real threat of extinction. Was this 'offensive' a wise use of raw materials and military assets, were they being deployed efficiently?

I already know the answer, he thought. An offensive came with a partially predictable outcome, they'd either win or lose but the fight was picked by humanity, not the Covenant, and that was more than enough reason to justify any offensive operation. When you're trying to predict where the Covenant will attack next? That was a daunting task for every intelligence branch, including the mostly hated yet somewhat competent Office of Naval Intelligence. It certainly made shoring up any meaningful defense -- one where the UNSC had the Covenant outnumbered for once -- extremely difficult to achieve, and it all relied upon the Navy actually winning an orbital contest. When they won, the Marines usually mopped up on the ground. It was hard to win a ground battle when an entire MEU was being recalled to orbit because the Covenant were about to glass the god damn planet.

Get up. Beth muttered, it had sounded so real the Marine cocked his head to the side and tried looking for his wife. No, there was no beautiful woman standing next to him, of course there wasn't. A depressing metallic grey bulkhead slowly fading with age was all that greeted him, so with a grunt he pushed himself off his rack and donned his worn fatigues. His appearance wasn't sloppy by any means, but under careful examination nothing about Killinger was tip top either: he looked rough and was probably late, but for once the Major didn't care about his outward appearance, professionalism or perceived duty. They were still in slip space, his unofficial orders were essentially 'hurry up and wait' until the heavy cruiser arrived near Atlas.

The commissioned officer lumbered his way through the winding corridors, stretching halls and tall decks. He eventually made it to the bridge, noticed he was in fact not the first person from the Battalion present and quietly approached those who had made their appearance. Then it dawned on him, he was supposed to be collecting Harrison's company commanders, senior leaders and what not with the Battalion's Sergeant Major. He stopped in his tracks, FUCK! he thought, and turned one-eighty before hustling towards the bridge blast door.

With any luck... maybe no one saw him.

[Harrison, D.]

The first few faces to filter into the bridge were none other than the staff of Oscar Company. Captain Flannigan and First Sergeant Zieed were the first to arrive, strolling in rather quietly. Harrison had always known the officer to be boisterous, and was genuinely shocked to see him attempting to stay under the radar. Perhaps it was because of where they found themselves, in the beating heart of the ship. The bridge was full of mostly officers and a handful of supporting NCOs; some moved to and fro while others manned stations, monitoring whatever it was that their station was responsible for. It was a rather uncomfortable environment to find oneself in when you were a Marine. This was not the place for Marines. 

However, the Admiral wanted to personally speak to the men and women that would be instrumental in leading the mission to come, and there wasn't a Marine in his unit that would tell the man he couldn't have that meeting just because some people felt out of their element. No, everyone would show, and hopefully it would be soon. First Lieutenant Durant was the next one to step into bridge, quickly regrouping with his Company Commander. The man seemed a bit nervous. Derrick remembered the days of being the new right-hand to the company leadership. It took some adjustment. An officer's first job right out of training is leading a platoon of Marines. After a Marine does that for too long, it becomes difficult to imagine doing anything else. However, the day always came that an officer had to move on with their career, and Durant's day had come. 

Of course, according to Flannigan's table of organization, Durant was still acting as a platoon commander. He wondered how long that would last. The unit was due for a replacement officer, but given the fact that they were in the midst of slipspace, that transfer wouldn't happen any time soon. Perhaps after their upcoming mission he could facilitate the transition, when they were in a better position to pick up new blood for the battalion. Harrison sidelined the thought as took note of another body entering the room. His brow furrowed and his lips curled into a deep frown as he realized who had just joined them on the bridge. 

Major Killinger. 

The man that was supposed to be with the Sergeant Major rounding up the rest of the battalion's leaders and support staff. He watched the epiphany wash over his subordinate like the crashing wave of a tsunami, and then the man's sudden course correction towards the exit. He shook his head and said, "Too late for a smooth getaway, Major." Derrick hoped that Sergeant Major Carson was able to manage on his own, because he wasn't about to let his XO off quite that easy. 

[Killinger, J.]

"Too late for a smooth getaway, Major."

He was caught, but if Harrison hadn't known him personally -- including the personality that came with the name -- then he hadn't been the most open executive officer he could have been, it was important to be true to yourself when you could. Technically there was no command to remain, so John smirked slightly as he turned around, suddenly his mood changed as he made the conscious decision to be the smart ass some of his previous superiors had loved, others reasonably loathed. "Right, sir, but I'm a smooth criminal." The Major replied, sliding his feet further backwards in a reverse walk -- the moonwalk -- and began mouthing the truly classical tune.

"Da, daa-daa-da, da-daa-da, da!"

In that moment he felt his depression partially melt away, the instant happiness was justified as a naval crewmen snickered softly to himself as John expedited his exit from the bridge. He would have kept the act up all the way out, but he was getting older and his body wasn't as youthful as it once was. When the joke had run its course he returned to a normal stride, flipped around and hastily exited the intimidating atmosphere solidified by the presence of not one but two naval flag officers, and proceeded onwards to his task; he'd return to the bridge with the Sergeant Major later, but for now he had a few company commanders to disturb.

He wasn't sure how his CO would react, or any of the other officers present, and he simply didn't care.

[Harrison, D.]

Colonel Harrison's frown deepened as he watched Major Killinger moonwalk his way out of the bridge, humming the tune to some long forgotten melody. He was unimpressed by the stunt. Of all the things he'd expected his executive officer to do, that had been nowhere near close to it. His eyes trailed to Captain Flannigan, the frown still plastered to his face as he spoke. "Captain," he began, exhaling a heavy sigh, "I'm beginning to think you're rubbing off on the officers in my battalion." Derrick looked over towards the helm and saw a handful of people risking glances in their direction. They instantly averted their eyes when they noticed he was looking their way. 

In a more private setting, he might have allowed that to go unpunished. However, in the midst of the bridge? With enlisted men and women there to witness it? Not to mention fellow officers, some of whom were a grade or two his senior. No, this would be addressed upon the Major's return. He had half a mind to let the Sergeant Major handle the issue, as his ideas for punishment would be far more creative than what regulation allowed. However, there was a right way to do things, and a wrong way. Letting the Sergeant Major handle the issue would be the most entertaining option, but it would be wildly inappropriate. Especially given the fact that he would be going after one of his direct superiors. 

Thinking over it for a moment, he decided to handle it with an official letter of reprimand. Hopefully that would be sufficient to correct the issue. If not, he would recommend non-judicial punishment via an Article 15, and hopefully not have to take it any further than that. There was a time and a place for such antics, and the bridge of the Vengeance was not one of them. 

Harrison turned as he heard a grunt behind him. Admiral Whitcomb stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, fingers strumming the whiskers of his goatee in thought. "... that was unexpected," he commented quietly. He did not sound amused. Derrick sighed quietly with a curt shake of his head. "Yes, sir. Very," he replied. Whitcomb's steely gaze shifted to Captain Flannigan and his staff. "Glad y'all could make it. Once the rest of your colleagues arrive, so long as they don't moonwalk their way back out, we'll get this show started. I trust you've all read the WARNO?"

[Flannigan, S.]

"I would love to take credit for that sir," Flannigan said with a wide grin. "But I've never danced anything that wasn't a jig."

Flannigan started sorting through the notes on his datapad, pulling up a direct line to Major Killinger. That man needed to be congratulated on having a sense of humor. Poor timing perhaps, but that only mattered if you needed to play the game, and Flannigan had given up on that years ago.

"If they were taking after me they would be much better fighters," he muttered as an aside to Zieed.

"Your humility knows no bounds sir," Zieed muttered back. Flannigan grinned as he heard the Admiral address them. He tried to put a business face back on, but when the Admiral mentioned other staff moonwalking out, Flannigan bowed his head to hide a grin. He managed to put a serious face back on before looking at the Admiral.

"Yes sir. I've got a few questions, but I'm sure your briefing will clear them up."

Multiple tabs were now open on Flannigan's datapad, covering the WARNO, his mostly completed OP-ORD, the line to Killinger, his constant line to Zieed, and a running inventory of the Platoon's assets. Lieutenant Durant was doing an excellent job at his new job as XO, and the inventory had been completed just the day before. Glancing between all the tabs, he pulled up Killinger again.

Best exit ever, sir.

[Durant, M.]

Durant scratched the uncovered part of the back of his head as he witnessed Major Killinger make his grand exit. That hadn't been what he'd been expecting when the man sauntered into the room so proudly. It appeared that he had forgotten that he needed to assist Sergeant Major Carson with rounding up the remainder of the battalion's headquarters staff and company officers. He glanced over at Captain Flannigan, whom he knew well enough to recognize the look of amusement written over his face at the display, and inwardly sighed. If any of his subordinates in Second Platoon had seen such a display... well, they'd have gotten ideas.

It was interesting to the fresh First Lieutenant to see how things were as part of the Company Staff. He hadn't really had the opportunity to be a part of leadership meetings such as these, and had several preconceptions as to what they would look like. He'd always envisioned extremely boring briefs about this and that while everyone maintained a stiff professionalism that stifled any real sense of self. He was beginning to realize that his superiors weren't all that much different than any other Marine. The only difference was they tended to keep the bafoonery away from the prying eyes of the enlisted. After all, officers and senior NCOs were supposed to maintain an air of professionalism and discipline when in the presence of their subordinates.

He couldn't imagine any one of his Marines moonwalking their way out of a meeting with him and the platoon sergeant. Especially not out of Stone's batch of Marines. That man would have them strung up from a clothesline on the exterior of the Vengeance in their skivves with a half-empty oxygen tank with breath with. He was genuinely shocked to see that the Colonel had very little to say about the Major's conduct.

The Lieutenant's train of thought was abruptly derailed by the chirp of his datapad announcing that he'd received a message. He retrieved the datapad from his pocket and unlocked the screen to find a message from First Sergeant Zieed. It read: "Don't look so surprised, kid. You haven't seen anything yet." Durant looked away from the screen to glance at Zieed, who glanced back at him and smirked at him. The datapad chirped again and he looked down again to find another message from the Company First Sergeant. "Welcome to the big leagues," is all it said.

There were some questions that were best never to be asked, and he got the sense that this was one of those particular situations. This was still all new to him -- and, to be honest, quite the adjustment -- so he resigned himself to remain quietly at the Skipper's side. He took a moment to think over the inventory of supplies he'd taken over the last couple of days, wondering if there had been anything he'd missed. It was a frightening thought that appeared in his head from out of the deepest, darkest wretches of his mind. That small but anxious part of him that timidly questioned whether or not he had somehow made a mistake somewhere. He did not want to appear incompetent in front of the likes of Captain Flannigan, and the argument that he was still as green as the grass of Earthly pastures was not sufficient enough to assuage his fears. If he had missed something, there was no excuse for it.

Durant shook his head and beat back the anxious thoughts to the shadows of the darkest recesses of his mind. He hadn't missed anything. Gunnery Sergeant Cruz had helped him run through the unit's equipment stores and he had individually counted every single last piece of ammunition, weapons, food and equipment they'd had. He had made sure to be thorough, and the Gunny had looked over his list with a copy of his own to ensure he had listed and accounted for everything. No stone had been left unturned. Michael was sure of it.

[Killinger, J.]

It had been north of fifty minutes before John allowed himself a break to check the unread message from Captain Flannigan, although had it been from Harrison he would have immediately acknowledged the notification before continuing with his task. The Major was already likely in deep shit and certainly late, he didn't need to ignore his superior officer on top of it. Flannigan's message wasn't a priority for John when it came through, assembling the Battalion was; however, after fifty minutes spent rounding up the remaining Battalion staff with Sergeant Major Carson and whomever else that periodically joined from one location to another, he finally had a moment of respite as the duo departed for the bridge.

Best exit ever, sir. Flannigan wrote in a short message, John must have been outwardly smiling as he quickly recalled his attempt to be light hearted in an atmosphere that still felt crushing, defeating even.

"With respect, sir, let's git moving." Carson suggested, and of course he was right. Killinger hadn't noticed he stopped to read the message.

"Right," Killinger nodded, "I need to stop at my quarters quickly, go on ahead without me." The Major added, breaking off from the Sergeant Major after he acknowledged the half assed order.

John quickened his pace, reached his quarters, and straightened his appearance now that he knew two naval flag officers were on the bridge. He grabbed his cover, hustled out of his private quarters and practically scrambled towards the bridge. He moved as fast as he could, but carefully set a pace that wouldn't turn his uniform into an uncaged mess drenched in sweat and regret. It worked, though, Killinger arrived at the tram moments after the car carrying Carson departed. He'd have to wait for the second car to arrive, although thankfully he wasn't left waiting long. You'd think a one kilometer warship would have more cars, Killinger thought, but he knew elevators and tram rails were structural weaknesses and had been for centuries in warship design.

John glided over the deck plating as he exited the tram, moving like he was a six foot five revenant; a ghost that had returned to the living, quick and supposedly quiet. He reached the bridge in no time, knew that about an hour and change had passed since he left, and carefully examined his figure from the reflection on the wall panels. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, donned his cover and straightened it to absolute perfection.

The Major spent a minute catching his breath, then entered the bridge. No grand entrance, no grand departure, but hopefully a proper arrival of the Battalion XO with his head now firmly in the game.

[Harrison, D.]

Harrison nodded to Sergeant Major Carson as he appeared around the corner with an entire entourage behind him. Admiral Whitcomb stood by the holo-table at the center of the Combat Information Center, his hands clasped in front of him. If it weren't for the tell-tale tapping of his feet, nobody would have been able to tell that he was growing impatient. When a man of his status told people to be at a certain place at a certain time, he expected it to happen. The Colonel looked back at the group and took stock of who was among them. Captain Marret of Mike Company stood off to the left with his XO and First Sergeant, quietly conversing with them. Captain Alexander stood to the far right, giving himself a wide berth from the likes of Captain Flannigan. 

November Company and Oscar Company had some bad blood between them. That bad blood had come to a head on their last deployment, thanks especially to one of Oscar's younger NCOs. Davis had been his name. The NCO had somehow managed to commandeer one of the Vengeance's training simulation chambers so that he could host an illegal gathering of Marines from the battalion. How that had managed to remain off of his radar, he hadn't the faintest idea. It seemed that the entire battalion's enlisted personnel had known about the gathering, save for a few of the NCOs, and had attended it without anyone raising an alarm. Unfortunately, an alarm was eventually raised when a brawl broke out in the simulator between Marines of Oscar Company and November Company. It was the Marines of Mike Company that spilled the beans and alerted the MAs to what was happening. 

By the time the MAs got there, the party had mostly broken up. All that was left was a handful of Oscar Company Marines and several beaten and unconscious ones from November Company. Corporal Davis and his fire team managed to hold off the MAs in hand-to-hand for a few minutes before they busted out riot gear. Stun batons and TTR stun rounds were sufficient to put an end to the chaos once and for all, and Davis's team had the distinct pleasure of spending an extended tour in the brig. Captain Alexander had been fuming when he'd heard the news, and had petitioned the Colonel to have the Marines court-martialed for their actions. He'd had the authority to do so under UNSC regulations and the UCMJ. However, after a long conversation with Captain Flannigan about the conduct of his Marines and the expectations that Harrison held for them, he decided against it. Non-judicial punishment was what they received, and though Davis managed to be promoted, it was only to get him the hell out of his battalion. There was no room for Marines like that under his command. Now, Davis was somebody else's problem. Hopefully they would whip him into shape. 

Alexander's men behind him. The November Company leader seemed to have a thing about always "leading from the front." His staff never stood at his side, but behind him. Harrison had been privy to the snide remarks of Captain Flannigan towards the man for that fact, as Flannigan's own personnel seemed to stand with him as equals, despite the clear disparity in rank between them. Putting that thought aside, the Colonel spotted Captain Monroe of Headquarters & Service Company with the rest of the battalion staff near the holo-table. The only person missing was...

Killinger. 

Just as that epiphany came to him, the officer made his entry onto the bridge. The Major's return was distinctly normal compared to his choice in departure just a few minutes earlier. Perhaps he'd realized that such conduct was not appropriate given the current setting in which they found themselves. He still intended to have a healthy discussion on the topic later, but, for right now, they needed to get the show on the road. Lieutenant Colonel Harrison turned to Admiral Whitcomb and nodded to him. "All personnel presented and accounted for, sir," he informed him. 

Whitcomb nodded and tapped a button on the console built into the holo-table. The lights dimmed as the table came alive with a holographic projection of a star map, bathing the room's occupants in a blue hue. The map was of a particular star system, one easily identified as the Atlas System, as by now everyone knew that was their intended destination. Scuttlebutt traveled fast. How? Harrison had no clue. 

"This is the Atlas System," Admiral Whitcomb began, gesturing with his meaty thumb at the projection that lay suspended in the air before them. "The system is named after the largest planet in the system, a gas giant that orbits roughly three million kilometers from the system's star. Atlas was the site of a medium-sized shipyard that has been building UNSC frigates and destroyers for the past ten years. Before that, it was used by the Crusader Corporation to build their civilian line of luxury starships for the elite of the Inner Colonies. The UNSC bought it out once the war started to turn against our favor, and the shipyard has churned out thousands of ships to keep our Navy in the fight."

The Admiral paused for just a moment to clear his throat. "You might wonder why in the hell this system matters at all. I'm here to tell you. Besides the fact that a major UNSC shipyard was located in the system, of particular interest to the UNSC is the trio of moons that orbit the gas giant. 

Admiral Whitcomb's fingers danced across the keyboard of the console. The holographic display suddenly zoomed in on the planet, and each of the three moons were highlighted by crimson circles that seemed to rotate around them. "Atlas Minor, Lapetus, and Clymene. These moons contain very rare natural ores and minerals that are used in the shipbuilding process of the shipyards above Atlas. They're used to strengthen the metals of each ship's hull, as well as help form other materials that the UNSC use to this day. I'm not even gonna begin to list the kind of stuff that the resources found on these moons help create. Just know that it's vitally important that we continue to harvest these resources."

"The Atlas System was attacked about a month ago," Whitcomb continued. "A little over a dozen Covenant ships came out of slipspace above the planet. The local defense fleet engaged them, but only managed to hold 'em off for a few hours before the last ship was destroyed. The status of the shipyards above Atlas are unknown, but what is known is that only half of total population of the three moons was evacuated before the Covenant won the battle in space. Each moon was glassed, though not entirely. The Covenant seemed to only target major population centers, leaving the remainder of the surface of the moons untouched. Civilian and military casualties are in the hundreds of thousands, ladies and gentlemen."

There was an uneasy silence that settled over the room at that. The costs of the war were rising steadily every day. Innocent people, many of whom had no stake in the war whatsoever, were caught in the crossfire. This wasn't a war over political or ideological differences. No, this was a war of survival. The survival of the human race as a species. Harrison couldn't help but wish more people in the civilian populace realized that. Too many chose to remain in blissful ignorance to what was the greatest threat that humanity has ever faced, and they were paying for it. Dearly. 

"I want to make something invariably clear here, folks. I don't care what reservations you may have about this mission, because they don't matter. Nothing matters anymore except proving to the rest of humanity that we have a real shot at winning this fight. For too long we've suffered loss after loss, defeat after defeat," the Admiral said, slamming a closed fist down on the holo-table for emphasis. "By God, we need a victory; to inspire hope in our troops and in our families and friends back home. While we do need the resources on these worlds, this ain't about that. This is about sending a message to the Covenant. I intend to send that message with the entire might of the Eighth Fleet and tens of thousands of UNSC Marines behind me. Humanity ain't goin' nowhere. We are gonna win this fight, it starts at the Atlas Moons!" 

There was a chorus of "Oorah's" as the Colonel stepped away from the console. It was Harrison's turn to address the group, and what an act for him to follow on. He felt that his part of the brief was going to be far less inspiring and more of the business everyone was typically used to. The nuts and bolts of their plan. Harrison stepped forward and took Whitcomb's place at the holo-table. "Alright, Marines," he began, waving his hand dismissively at them. "Let's not get too excited yet. Save some for the enemy." He chuckled, hoping everyone took his cue. "You know the overall scope of the plan, but now it is time for me to break it down on how it applies to us. As you all know, we're deploying under the Fifth Marine Expeditionary Force, and will have our entire division alongside others deploying to the Atlas Moons. So, what does First Battalion's role in this fight look like?"

The Colonel punched in a few commands via the console. Hovering above the holo-table, the projection zoomed in on the second moon. Lapetus, named after the father of Atlas from Greek mythology. Several markers appeared over the planet's surface. "This is Lapetus, the second moon of Atlas, and our target. When the Navy emerges from slipspace, it's first priority is going to be to get us within range of the moons so that we can make our landing. The highest concentration of Covenant forces, according to the last intel we received from an ONI Prowler that has been holding in the system to monitor Covenant activity, is on the northern continent of Phoenicia. The first stage of the operation will have Orbital Drop Shock Troopers from the Seventy-Fifth ODST Division deploy via drop pod to the surface at Marker Alpha. Their job will be to establish a secure landing zone for incoming UNSC forces -- us. Once the LZ is secure, a pair of colony ships will begin dropping prefabricated structures so as to establish a primary base of operations on the surface of Lapetus for us to conduct our operations." 

"Once we have made landfall," Harrison continued, pointing to another marker, "Oscar Company will forward deploy to this AO. You will engage and eliminate any Covenant in the area and move to secure the town of Elium, which is located in the northwest corner of your assigned AO. November Company, you will push twelve klicks south and maintain our southern flank. Mike Company, you will remain at the base in order to ensure it remains secured. Trust and believe, the Covenant will prioritize it as a target. The end state of our mission on Lapetus is to evict the Covenant off-world."

Captain Marret raised his hand. Harrison nodded at him. "Yes, Captain?"

"What happens when we succeed, sir?" Marret asked. "Will there be any follow-on taskings?"

Colonel Harrison gave the man an affirmative nod. "If we successfully manage to seize hold of Lapetus and maintain control of it from the Covenant, it'll be my job to let Higher know that we're Mike Charlie. From there, they'll direct us as necessary. We could remain strongpointed on the moon, or they could have us move to reinforce other units either on Atlas Minor or Clymene. After all, both moons will be invaded by UNSC forces simultaneously."

The Colonel paused to peer at the crowd. "Any questions so far?"

[Killinger, J.]

"My question is why did they stop glassing one of our worlds? What is so intriguing about this marble in space that they've suddenly ceased their glassing operation?" Killinger asked, moving towards the holo-table present company had gathered around.

"If I may, sir -- eh, uh, observation." Killinger continued. He entered a few key combinations and transitioned the device into an interactive mode that allowed users to manipulate the image with physical movement. The Major literally grabbed Lapetus in his right hand, cusped his free hand over the moon and drastically increased the size of the orbital satellite until Phoenicia dominated the holographic display. "Apologies if I'm overstepping here, but this whole thing is eerily similar to something I've experienced before. I do believe Admiral, sir, you've got those reports." Killinger continued, nodding towards Whitcomb.

"A few years back I was on a planet called Zenith, the Covenant had begun glassing major industrial centers and populated cities before they suddenly stopped. Why? I thought that myself, turns out they started digging around the sewers beneath the streets looking for something, some kind of object the Covenant refuse to damage. They found whatever it was they were searching for, then continued glassing the planet. They turned the Army MOB and our Marine FOB into molten goop as soon as the last Covvie dropship was off the surface, left nothing but ghosts where it stood." Killinger stated, now circling around the holo-table. He added his own annotations over the ones ONI had already provided, they had noted towns and population centers, followed by placing a partially transparent circle to represent his idea, and superimposed the combination of notes and shapes over the intel they already had.

It could have been something, or it could be nothing at all, but he was absolutely positive his gut instinct was right. Even in death he'd never be able to live with himself had he kept his mouth shut, he couldn't standby while the UNSC committed to a fight on this moon without discovering what stopped the Covenant from completing their due processes. He couldn't live another Zenith, he couldn't watch those horrors again.

The circle highlighted an area around the destroyed population centers.

"We know the Covenant target population centers first when they're glassing a planet. It's a mass casualty event, kills humans very well, and that's seemingly their ultimate goal... but they don't stop there, they continue to ensure that we'll never be able to colonize it again. They cut swaths through forests, cut holes into the Earth where cities once stood, decimate the world as we knew it.

"So when they invade a planet it could be for a variety of reasons, you know, ah... maybe there are orbital generators, or perhaps the Covenant fleet is occupied in orbit with a defense fleet, I think everyone gets the idea. This time? We're on the offensive, planning on taking back a planet -- moon -- they haven't glassed yet. We're assaulting something we've already lost once, and typically all they have to do is win in orbit the first time and that's it, planets gone. Poof. Again I apologize for overstepping my boundaries, if I have I accept the consequences, but they're looking for something..." Killinger paused, he couldn't quite get the words out but pointed towards the overlapping circles around the area the Covenant stopped glassing.

"We better find what they're looking for before they do, or at least stop them from finding it. I'm all aboard with your plan, sirs, I want to kick the Covenant right back to whatever rock they crawled out of and I understand my reservations don't matter. This? I've seen this before, it ain't pretty." Killinger added, creating half a dozen arrows around the circle he created. "If it were up to me, I'd be wondering what was hiding under our nose, why they spared the moon a fate they've delivered a hundred times." He finished, stepping back and eying Harrison: I won't let Zenith happen again. His glance faded into an emotionless stare through the Lieutenant Colonel.

John could still feel the heat on his back as the Covenant glassed the city he had spent days trying to defend, holding out at a lonely intersection that stood between an open field and the quickest approach towards the Marines' FOB in the desert behind them. Too many good Marines died defending a chokepoint that boiled away, too many gave their lives just to have the Covenant glass their bodies before they could be recovered. John could still feel Travis' warm blood on his hands, remembering how he carried his deceased friend back towards the evac pelican. The Major hadn't known it yet, but his eyes started feeling heavier as he lost his train of thought. He didn't deserve the medal he got that day, those who died did.

[Harrison, D.]

Lieutenant Colonel Harrison remained quiet as his executive officer interjected. He listened intently as the man broke down the Covenant's typical behavior and SOPs, and watched as he began to alter the holographic representation of the Atlas moons with data he seemingly had collected over the years. He raised a fair question, one that had been on his mind since the initial warning order for this operation landed squarely on his desk. It was one he hadn't vocalized for a number of reasons, namely the fact that no additional information could be obtained until the fleet exited slipspace. 

Admiral Whitcomb scratched the scruff beneath his chin thoughtfully while his other arm remained draped across his chest. It seemed that he was deep in thought as he considered the Major's words, and likely came to the same conclusions as Harrison had. "I don't doubt your tactical analysis, son," Whitcomb said. "There very well may be something on those moons of interest to the Covenant. Hell if I know what it is, but it makes sense." 

The Admiral stepped forward and tapped a key on the console, zooming the image out by a few hundred kilometers. Atlas' moons were but specs in the projection now, and a new object blipped into existence. Whitcomb pointed to it. "That's an ONI Prowler," he explained. "It's stealth drives are active and has been conducting surveillance of the system since the defense fleet high-tailed it out of there. The intel you've seen thus far has been gathered directly from the crew of that ship."

He paused for a moment, considering his next words carefully. "For those of you that are ignorant to the intricacies of slipstream travel, communications with vessels in regular space is near impossible while we're mid-jump. All this intel is weeks old, and we won't know more until we exit slipstream. Perhaps the Spooks will have more for us then."

Colonel Harrison stepped forward and examined the display once more. "How many ships were reported before we exited, sir?"

"According to the intel we received, there was approximately three assault carriers, five CCS-class battlecruisers, and six corvettes for a total of fourteen Covenant ships," Whitcomb replied. 

"What were they doing prior to our departure from Reach?"

Whitcomb frowned. "The carriers were in a holding pattern with a couple of the battlecruisers over the moons," he said. "The rest had established patrols of the system and the neighboring planets, presumably searching for any remaining human ships in the system."

That seemed odd to Harrison. Three Covenant assault carriers and a pair of battlecruisers could hold a ground force of significant size and composition. That was a lot of manpower for a trio of conquered human worlds that were no longer occupied. Why would the Covenant commit such a large force to them if they weren't of any importance any longer? Whether he liked to admit it or not, the Major had a very valid point. The Covenant wanted something on the moons. Something valuable enough to keep from turning them into molten slag. If the Covenant were after something, then that made whatever they were after a strategic military target for the UNSC to capture. Or, at the very least, a target that they needed to deny the Covenant from accessing. 

After a moment's consideration, he decided to make some alterations to the battalion OPORD after the meeting was adjourned. It was imperative the UNSC discovered what the Covenant was after. It was, after all, the only thing that was keeping the moons relatively intact. "If I may, sir?"

The Admiral nodded. "Go ahead, Colonel."

"Priority number one needs to be ascertaining what the Covenant's interest in the moons is," he said, the statement directed at his staff and the assembled company leadership for the respective subordinate companies. "If that Prowler hasn't been found and destroyed, we should receive intel within the hour of our arrival. By that time we should have forces on the ground on each respective moon. First Battalion's initial objective will be to make landfall and establish a foothold once the ODSTs have set us up a beachhead in which to land troops and equipment. The situation on the ground will be dynamic, so to my company leaders, expect FRAGOs to follow once you are all settled in groundside."

Harrison issued a curt nod to Whitcomb. "That's all, sir."

"Very well, Colonel," he replied. "I'll turn this over to your S-shops so that you can get the nuts and bolts out of the way. Just know, ladies and gentlemen, what we are about to do is unprecedented. We are about to embark on possibly one of the most daring campaigns of our lives, and I can't think of finer people to be on the frontlines of it all. We're gonna kick the Covenant in the teeth here. Anything less than that is unacceptable. Carry on." With that, the Admiral marched off, disappearing around the corner to the front of the bridge.