The entire craft shuddered as the bay doors opened, the cramped interior suffocating to any who dared the journey to the surface. Its harness bound the pilot down, denying any semblance of comfort to Jackson who sat within. His eyes scanned the numerous screens and panels affixed before him, a constant relay of intelligence and data scrawling across them. Their gentle blue light illuminating the otherwise pitch-black interior of the pod.
Jackson's breathing was intense, a cold sweat running down his neck.
"Marines, listen up! Naval Intelligence tells me you're needed on the surface, so you are strictly prohibited from burning up! I don't know what these spooks have planned but you sure as hell ain't gonna dirty my record by getting your sorry asses killed! Once we make touch down, regroup and hold out! Oorah, Marines?!"
The voice was deep and rough, that of an older man who spoke with the authority of experience. One who believed his orders were no different from divine will. If all the Gunnery Sergeants in the corps were fighting to see who had the biggest stick, the one Faulkner had up his ass would win with ease... Though even Jackson couldn't deny the man had a skill for stomping innies.
"Oorah!"
Half a dozen voices, including Jackson's, cried out at once—each fighting to overpower the others. The symphony resulting in a satisfied grunt from Faulkner.
"Damn right!"
The radio fell silent, the final adjustments to the pod having been made. A sudden drop flung Jackson up into his harness, for a moment his body felt weightless. Then, the entire craft began to shake violently. The dim blue light became overpowered by the illuminating grey hue of New Caledonia's horizon. His visor polarized, the eyes beneath strained—struggling to adjust to the sudden change.
Soon the entire pod would be engulfed in scorching plasma, Jackson thrashing violently against his seat as the planet fought to melt through the titanium plating below. He was never one for religion but, in moments like this, prayer had a way of creeping in. If the heat shielding were to fail, if the pod were to crash into unfavorable terrain or suffer a malfunction... That would mean a fate so horrific there'd be no body left behind to find.
Soon the pod would break through the clouds, slowing itself down as it prepared for impact with the ground. Heavy rain hammered against the super-heated titanium hull, hissing violently as it evaporated near instantly. The creaking sounds of warping metal twisted Jackson's stomach, the sinking feeling soon replaced by anticipation as the forest beneath inched closer and closer.
He braced for impact.
Branches and trees shattered beneath the pods mass, an explosion echoing through its interior as the crumple zone buckled. The sudden stop threw Jackson's head back against the seat frame, a sharp pain working its way through his injured leg. An uneasy quiet fell over the pod, the violent collision fading into the gentle pattering of rainfall. Jackson was given no time to enjoy the ambiance.
He desperately pulled himself from the harness as the hatch charges detonated, the panel flying directly into a tree—The sounds of bark crushing beneath its weight like bones snapping. He grabbed his rifle, falling from the pod into the moist dirt of the forest floor, the rain like rocks against the back of his armour.
He scuttled to his feet, quickly shouldering a weapon which aimed towards the treeline. The motion sensor showed stillness all around, all that was visible to him was the rain, the trees and the mud which clung to his equipment like napalm.
"Victor-One-One-Alpha this is Victor-One-One-Foxtrot, radio check, over."
Jackson's voice called out across the net, the initial silence nerve wracking. If nobody responded he'd be on his own, in the middle of nowhere, with no way to reach command... He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, hoping for the soothing crackle of a radio buzzing to life. A moment passed, then another and then...
"Victor-One-One-Foxtrot this is Victor-One-One-Alpha, you are five by five. Stand by."
The weight fell off his shoulders as the unmistakable roar of the Gunnery Sergeant's voice flared within his helmet's communication system. Looks like they hadn't gotten sick of him yet.
Taking the opportunity, Jackson would sit down behind one of the trees—looking up through the branches. The water began building up on his visor as the torrential downpour continued. New Caledonia was known for a few things, dry and comfortable weather wasn't one of them. It's vast mountain ranges, forests and bitter cold days were nothing like home...
Harvest, it's beautiful, almost picturesque, rolling hills, temperate climate and bountiful agrarian lands were the epicenter of outer colony productivity. Being so far away from the other worlds he'd not had the opportunity to visit in quite some time... He wondered how his parents were doing. He wrote to them often, though he hadn't heard back from them in a long time now. Maybe, when he got back to the ship, he'd put in a request for leave.
Before he could dwell on the thought for too long, his radio burst to life once more.
"Foxtrot this is Alpha, re-group at transmitted grid. How copy? Over."
Jackson's helmet display would be updated as the tactical data was transmitted. It was certainly further than expected, though not an unreasonable distance to walk, coming to about a click east. The state of his leg could make the hike more difficult, especially with a full combat load, but there was no use complaining... Especially not to Faulkner...
"Alpha this is Foxtrot, Wilco, Out."
Pulling himself onto his feet, Jackson would begin the journey eastward. The mission objective, and any information surrounding it, had been kept from himself and the rest of the team. Perhaps even Faulkner wasn't privy to their actual goal... It certainly didn't help that he had little experience working with O.N.I. himself, only knowing what he'd heard in the stories.
They were the UNSC's bogeyman, everything they touched getting doused in a bucket load of black ink... Bad luck, that's how Alya use to describe them to him. For now things seemed calm but Jackson couldn't help but feel a pit in his stomach, like he knew what he was doing was dangerous but couldn't explain why.
Maybe Alya was right.
After about fifteen minutes of walking east through the woods, a voice bellowed out from the treeline ahead—Catching Jackson off guard, causing him to jump slightly in response. It was that of a young woman, bright and chipper, though the words that left her lips were anything but welcoming.
"Halt! Advance one to be recognized!"
At this range their IFF tags resolved clearly on each of their helmet displays.
"It's me! What, your helmet fried or something?"
Jackson called out.
"That's not the password!"
Alya spoke with a content smugness to her words.
The two stared at each other for a few moments in silence, both their faces concealed by the polarized visors on their helmets. It wasn't hard to gauge their conditions, Alya almost certainly smirking like a child while Jackson looked on unimpressed by her attempt at hazing. After a few moments, Jackson continued forward to join the rest of the unit who were surely waiting up ahead.
Shockingly, he wasn't shot.