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Apocalypse Halo [Chapter Two]
Posted By: elpolloguapo<tom_leith@bbns.org>
Date: 26 November 2008, 3:14 am
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Chapter II
Pate Island, East African Protectorate, October 22, 2552
For most of its history, Pate Island was a small, relatively insignificant island. However, when the New Mombasa Orbital Elevator was built, this changed dramatically. Its location near the elevator but in an easily defensible position came to the attention of the UNSCDF, and within months of the elevator's completion the first base there was commissioned. In the next century, businesses moved in to thrive off the military commerce, and one of the biggest cities on the East African coast arose surrounding the biggest military base on the continent.
Due to the shortage of available pilots in the confusion following New Mombasa's destruction our Pelican was one of dozens being sent off on an instant's notice to such strategic sites. The first things I saw as we approached the island were columns of fire and smoke, uncomfortably reminiscent of a scene a day before and a world apart. Then the radio buzzed and a voice came through.
"Incoming aircraft, this is UNSC-Pate Island Air Traffic Control. Your flightpath takes you over a compromised sector. Redirect via these coordinates," at this point the air traffic controller read off a series of numbers, "and proceed to your objective from there. Over."
The pilot swore and responded "Air Traffic Control, this is Tango-Lima three-one-five. We are bingo fuel and must proceed directly to our objective or utilize an alternative landing site. Over."
"Bingo fuel?" came back over the radio. Then there was a pause, followed by the air traffic controller's voice once again. "Jesus, I've got nothing for you guys, you're either going to have to make an emergency landing wherever you are and hope we can get someone to you before you get torn apart on the ground, or you can risk the direct route. It's your call. Over"
The pilot grimaced, then conferred quickly over the comm with the other Pelican. After a few seconds, he replied; "Roger that, Air Traffic Control. I'm going to try for the direct route in, my wing is going to land as close to here as possible. Over and out."
"All right, Tango-Lima, good luck. You'll need it. Over and out." The radio spat white noise and went silent.
The pilot turned to me. "You might want to check your straps, Sergeant. I have a feeling things are going to get very, very ugly here. Tell your men to do the same." I secured my straps and relayed his advice to the men in the back of the pelican over the PA as the pilot, who had until then been slowing the Pelican in preparation for a landing, eased the throttle forward.
I was pressed back into my seat, slightly at first, then more, as we gained speed. All of a sudden, tracers arced through the air in front of us, barely missing us. The pilot, a seasoned veteran if the mission tally on the Pelican's nose were to be believed, was now calm and almost businesslike, remaining silent as he banked the aircraft heavily to the left, then rolled back upright and brought the nose up. We climbed for several seconds, each of which seemed to last an hour, then started to level out. Our trajectory was nearly even when there was a screaming sound and something exploded under our tail.
A rocket had hit us under the aft port thruster. The force had thrown the Pelican's tail above the nose and sent us into a spinning dive. Only as he struggled to regain control did the pilot break his stony silence, swearing loudly as he adjusted thrusters and flaps. The ground, directly ahead of me out the canopy, seemed only a few feet away when it suddenly swung down and we were once again flying straight. I exhaled, realizing that I had been holding my breath since we began our mad climb, but we weren't out of the woods yet. The hangar, which was straight ahead of us, was only a couple klicks away, and I didn't see any way we could get our airspeed down enough to avoid plunging head-on into the far wall on landing.
I still can hardly believe that the pilot pulled it off. I was sure we were going to die, hurtling into the concrete at hundreds of KPH. My memory of it is a blur, and I don't remember much, but I found out later what the pilot had done. In the few seconds of time he had to maneuver, he had managed to brake with the forward thrusters as he elevated the aft ones, a feat someone with three hands should have been proud of. As the tail flew over us, he barrel rolled and extended the landing gear, sending us into the hangar backwards. At the last instant, he expended every drop of fuel we had left on the afterburners. The thrust brought our airspeed plummeting down. When we hit the tarmac, it was a fraction of what it had been before, but it was still enough to send us skidding across the hangar and snap of the landing gear. We came to a halt mere centimeters from the far wall.
When I unstrapped from my seat I was barely able to stand. Shaking the pilot's hand and muttering what few words of praise my stupefied brain could summon up. I pulled myself together as much as I could before walking out through the back of the Pelican, and noted with mild satisfaction that, for the most part, the crew had fared even less well than myself-there were splashes of vomit in several places on the walls and floor.
After assembling the squad on the tarmac I contacted the Captain via a private commlink he had set up during the flight. "Sir, we've made it to the hanger. The squad's all right, more or less. What's your situation? Over."
For a moment there was only static, then the Captain's voice cut through it. "We're in a square about a klick from the hangar, Sergeant. We've set up a perimeter and are holding position. I'm sending you the coordinates now. Get some transport and get here ASAP. Over."
"Yessir. Should we bring additional transport for your squad? Over."
"Negative, Sergeant. We'll proceed on foot from here and hand off the vehicles to other ground troops. Make sure you bring some firepower, though. We're getting reports of well-armed hostiles in the area."
"Acknowledged, sir. Over and out." I motioned for the squad to hold still, then went up to a flight officer nearby. "Sir, I need to rendezvous with my CO at these coordinates." I read off the figures to him, then continued. "Where can I get some intel and ground transport?"
"Head down to the motorpool, three floors directly below here. Report to a vehicle requisitions officer, he'll give you what you need, if he can."
"Thank you sir." I called the men, and had them follow me. We trotted over to a service elevator and rode it down to the motorpool. Marines were frantically running back and forth, warthogs of all varieties pulling in and out through massive blast doors, but I was able to maneuver the squad through the mob to a harried-looking reqs officer.
He turned wearily towards me. "All right, Sergeant, what do you need?"
"Sir, I need to rendezvous with my CO out in the city, and am requesting whatever ground transport is available to get there."
He sighed. "So is everyone else out there, Sergeant. Every vehicle in the base has been either deployed or reserved."
I stood for a moment, unsure what to do, when the Captain contacted me again. "Sergeant, do you have transportation yet? Over."
I jumped, then replied, "negative, Captain, there's nothing to be had. Over."
"All right, Sergeant, don't worry about it. Patch me through to a reqs officer. Over."
Confused, but not knowing what else to do, I followed his order. The officer was silent for a moment, then started to interject, but was suddenly silent again. After a few seconds, he stepped over to a wall terminal and entered something, then looked surprised. He again turned to me. "All right, Sergeant, take what you need," he said in a soft voice.
I contacted the Captain again to ask what had happened, but he shut me down, signing off by repeating; "get here ASAP, Sergeant."
I stood still for a moment, then shouted to the men. "All right, marines, let's go. We're taking three hogs, two LRVs and a TT. I want three of you taking rocket launchers and riding shotgun, the rest of you pile in. Now move!" My assistant squad leader, Corporal Gordon, tapped three privates, who ran off to a weapons locker, while the rest of us headed over to a group of parked warthogs.
I climbed into the driver's seat of an M12. The others followed suit, and within seconds the three privates were back, each with a double-tubed SPNKr rocket launchers and several rectangular cases of rockets. Once they had clambered into the vehicles and stowed the extra ammo at their feet, myself and the other two drivers started up our hogs and slowly maneuvered towards the blast doors.
"We need to go, open the doors!" I called out to the marine manning the door controls, yelling over the roar of engines.
"I'm sorry sir, I'm not authorized to. There's a group of rebels making a push at the base, and I can't open the doors until they've been cleared out." He called back.
"Goddammit, I need to get out there, right now!" I shouted back at him.
"Sir, I can't, I-" he was cut off by the requisitions officer, who had come over when he saw that we were being held up. He muttered something to the Private, whose eyebrows shot up. Then, as the requisitions officer and I stared impatiently at him, he glanced nervously back and forth, then dropped his shoulders and turned to a switch. There was a howl of machinery, and wind, smoke, and the sounds of not-too-distant gunfire flooded over us as one of the doors inched somberly open.
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