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The Mission From SATU by Chuckles
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Daddy Knows Best
Date: 29 July 2004, 11:28 PM
What's the worst lie you ever told? Come on, just between you, me and the walls here. Uh huh. Oh my God. Oh my . . .
Mission From SATU part 1: Daddy Knows Best
What if they all knew, really knew why they were here? What if they knew why they used live rounds to play what was really only a game? What if they knew why they were fighting other Spartans? What if they knew what they were being trained to do? What if they knew that he had known it all along, at least some of it, and had never told them?
What if . . .
Lexicus hated having this much time to think. Thoughts can be dangerous, Lexicus. They are often the soldier's enemy; brash in the face of authority, and fearless in disobeying superiors. Let your thoughts be occupied by the fulfillment of your orders, is that clear? Sir, yes sir. Clear sir. No problem.
Yeah, right.
He and Chuckles had been the first. They had been abandoned by ONI after their operations against Turpolev in Old Afghanistan [NOTE: See story entitled Bedtime Stories for more info on Turpolev and operations against him]. It seems they had done their job too well, and nobody was waiting to pick them up when school was out. Not immediately, that is. As orphans go, rogue Spartans are a hot item. Considering who these two Spartans were it didn't take long for prospective "parents" to apply. Soon, they were scooped up by "Dad". Turpertrator and Simjanes, two others disavowed by ONI in the same operation, were also adopted. If you wanted to start something that packed an ugly punch, these were the four to build around.
The Spartan program was more expansive and less orderly than they had been led to believe. Together, and under the supervision of "Dad", they had set up Sidewinder Advanced Training Unit. Through one means or another, talented young Spartans were recruited into SATU. After all, who could resist? Advanced training in an exclusive unit, using the latest vehicles and weapons to play a game?! It was like selling money. But like most good things, there was a catch: they would be playing with live ammo, and fighting fellow Spartans.
Lexicus would never forget the first Spartan he saw slaughtered just to capture a flag for blue team. None of them had ever seen the effect an eight-gauge shotgun blast could have on a MJOLNIR helmet. If it hadn't seemed "real" to anyone before Lexicus blew Jack's head off, it certainly was afterward. Lex could still see it: him leaving with the flag; Jack's team kneeling down by him in disbelief, not even returning fire. Him capping the flag, and then taking off his helmet to throw up, while his team stood by silently. Red team losing half it's soldiers in a reckless counter-attack that had nothing to do with the flag. It came easier with each kill, but the first one felt like murder.
That night a cocky blue team member with a wide toothy grin had asked Lex how it felt to "Frag that red dog".
"How did it feel?" Lex replied, grabbing his shotgun and shoving it into the Spartan's face. "You'd have to ask Jack. Oh, Jack's dead isn't he? In that case—"
BOOM!
"That's how it felt." Lex remembered how easy it was to pull the trigger. How he had felt nothing then, and had felt nothing ever since. If you were good, real good, you would survive. If you weren't, then you had no business joining SATU in the first place. That first incident was just what they needed, anyway. Never again did he have to urge a Spartan to kill a fellow Spartan: and that was important. But what if they knew why? Thinking was dangerous.
You will be doing the Earth a great service, a service that only you can do. Don't ever forget that, soldier. Sir, yes sir. I won't sir. Dismissed. But he had lost faith. He was too intelligent not to add things up. Problem was, he was too dead inside to respond. Faith had nothing to do with it: orders were orders. Part of the training.
For years now Spartan blood had been spilled at SATU. For years the brightest and best had cycled through; most to die, some to stay. For years they had been told that they were not yet ready, for whatever it was they were training for. So it continued, with only the toughest and deadliest Spartans left alive. And what did they learn? How to kill highly trained, well armed Spartans without feeling or remorse. Indeed, they were the only unit outside of the Covenant forces themselves who were trained to fight Spartans. This fact was not lost on the four captains, although the others seemed oblivious.
It had been several years since they had all sat peacefully in the same room. Lexicus, Chuckles, Turpertrator and Simjanes sat around a table in the back of blue base; all without their armor, all deep in thought. They had been a part of the initial Spartan program, and all had been betrayed by it. Their crime? They were too good, had worked too hard, and had won too decisively against overwhelming odds. And, most of all, they used their own heads instead of following bad orders. Everyone else at SATU thought they were still in the Spartan program. Everyone else thought that they were training to kill the Covenant.
What's the worst lie you ever told? What if they knew? Lexicus was rescued from his thoughts by a knock on the door. Daddy had come to visit his kids. Walking in, he sat across the table from the four of them without his usual marine escort: if things went south, they would be useless against four highly trained Spartans.
"Good morning, gentlemen" Dad spoke as he flipped through some files. "I believe that we finally have the team we need. I want to cease live-fire training as of now. I can't risk losing anyone at this point. It is time for you all to know what this is about. You can tell the others whatever it takes to bring them along." A data sheet in front of each of them showed them a few specifics. Two teams of six Spartans would be needed, and the captains could choose the remaining eight soldiers from the following names: Ydnar, Hogg, Xraf, Freedomman, KrustyKlown, Rhinox, XrayJ, Darkboones, Thorn, and Blondsniper. Those not chosen and those not on the list were to be eliminated.
Chuckles looked up at Dad. "Eliminated? You know, that rank of yours might have clouded your brain a bit, so let me remind you of something: this is the kind of crap that turned us against ONI in the first place so if you want these guys dead," Chuckles slid a shotgun across the table, "I suggest you do it, you gutless jackass." If the one they called "Dad" was scared, he didn't show it. He didn't even flinch. For the first time in his life Chuckles saw someone returning his powerful gaze, unmoved.
"What happens or doesn't happen to the remaining Spartans is none of your concern. And soldier, if you ever speak in that manner to me again you will be executed. Is that clear?" Silence. "Did you lose your hearing, soldier? IS THAT CLEAR?"
"Yes sir." Chuckles answered, but his icy stare said something else.
"You have one day to choose your teams." Standing up and gathering his things, he said "I will be back tomorrow at this time."Lexicus had waited as long as he was going to wait.
"Sir, what is our mission?"
Colonel Ackerson, also known as 'Dad', replied as if he was telling them the time. "Your target is Spartan-117, the Masterchief."
Mission From SATU part 2: Fish in a Barrel
Date: 1 August 2004, 6:57 AM
The Mission From SATU part 2: Fish in a Barrel
Lexicus stepped back slowly to avoid the growing puddle of blood. His trainer lay dead at his feet, with a chest wound that looked as if it had been made with a jackhammer. Having recently recovered from the augmentation treatment that had killed many of his fellow Spartans and had almost killed him, Lex was yet to realize his own strength.
John, Spartan-117, was instantly at his side making sure that he was okay. "Lex, it was not your fault. Same as what happened to me in the gym with those ODST's. It will take time to adjust to the augmentations. Don't give it another thought." With that, John hurried over to CPO Mendez to explain the situation.
Two more trainers would die at the hands of Spartans before the day was out, so nobody thought much of what Lexicus had done. The old adage says that it is better to be lucky than good. Lexicus was both.
Twenty-seven years later . . .
Choosing the teams had been hard. All ten Spartans on the list were qualified, and the captains did not want to leave any behind. In the end, Darkboones and Thorn had to be cut. They would remain at SATU, along with the four who had not made the initial list: Cujo, Wally, Daryl and Mark.
Speaking to the captains, Lexicus went over team assignments for the last time. Colonel Ackerson would arrive soon, and he wanted to make sure that they were ready.
"Blue team is as follows: I will be B-1, Chuckles is B-2, Hogg is B-3, Krusty is B-4, Blondsniper is B-5 and Freedomman is B-6. Red team: Turpertrator is R-1, Simjanes is R-2, Ydnar is R-3, XrayJ is R-4, Xraf is R-5 and Rhinox is R-6. I will have tactical authority over both groups and nobody fires a shot without my say-so. I can't say much more until Ackerson tells us where 117 is."
A Pelican drop ship came to rest outside and "Dad" entered the base. Once again, he was without escort. Lexicus handed him a data pad listing the teams, which the Colonel glanced at and then nodded.
"Gentlemen, I will be brief. Our window of opportunity has gotten smaller, so I need you ready to leave within the hour. The location for this mission is a classified Spartan training facility, so we will be flying you in blind. What I can tell you is that it is heavily wooded and covered with hills, and you will be furnished with a detailed map en route. The target will have two other Spartans with him: Fred and Linda. I don't need to tell you how skilled they are, and you will most likely have to eliminate them to get at the Masterchief. That's about it. Get it done, and we'll pick you up. Questions?"
"Yeah," Lexicus said, "I would like to know why the remaining six Spartans are to be eliminated. It doesn't sit right with any of us."
Ackerson was annoyed by the question, and answered coldly, "I can't tell you how sorry I am that if this doesn't work for you guys, but I really don't care how it sits with you. If any of you attempts to warn them I will find out about it, and use a HAVOK instead of Marines." Chuckles quietly pulled out his pistol as the Colonel continued. "It will destroy a nice facility, but it will get the job done just the same. Now get your teams ready." The Clown began to raise the weapon, but a hand closed around his wrist and held it firm as Ackerson left the room.
"You should have let me shoot that filth" Chuckles hissed as he yanked his arm away from Lexicus and re-holstered his pistol. "Now what are we going to do? Poison him? Or are you hoping his conscience kicks in and he commits suicide? Well," he said as he grabbed his shotgun, "I'm not waiting. He's mine."
Lex knew he had to act fast. "No! You are not to make any attempt on the Colonel, is that clear? He is not to be touched." Chuckles ignored him and headed for the door but stopped cold when he heard a shotgun cocked behind his head. Lexicus spoke calmly. "We can either work together on this, or I can work alone; it's up to you. I will not allow you to kill him, but I do plan to save the Spartans we're leaving behind and I will need your help. You saw the look on Ackerson's face when he warned us about interfering."
"Yeah, I did," Chuckles replied, "He has someone on the inside. He wasn't even trying to hide it." Finally relaxed, he put his shotgun on the table. Lexicus followed suit. "Any idea who?"
"No, but I don't think it will matter. I thought of a way around it. Cujo is the one guy staying behind I know I can trust. I need you to go talk to him." Lexicus laid out his plan to Chuckles, and the Clown left.
It was almost midnight, and Cujo sat a hundred yards outside of blue base, just like Chuckles had told him to. "They will attack at night" the Clown had said, "The bases will be hit with high explosives and anyone caught in them will be killed, so wait outside and watch the exits. Ackerson's man is certain to leave the base a few minutes before the attack. Kill him, and then get everyone through the warp."
Lexicus' plan was nearly perfect. He had accurately predicted the time and manner of the attack, and had drawn up an effective response. But as the drop ships descended and the marines prepared their weapons, no warning had went out, no one was awake, and there was no exodus through the warp. As the soldiers left the Pelicans and began to turn blue base into a stone oven, Cujo, Ackerson's informant, merely watched. I told the Colonel he couldn't trust Lex, he thought to himself. Maybe now he'll believe me. Maybe now, I'll be a captain. He knows he can trust me. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound he had never heard before; Spartans screaming.
Near the bottom of the Pelican's exit ramp a solitary figure stood straight as a post. His young crew didn't know his real name, and none dared ask. They just called the legendary ODST "Helljumper". A soldier approached. "Sir, the targets inside are neutralized." Familiar as he was with the targets, the Captain was pleased. He almost smiled.
"Good, Sergeant. And the informant?"
"Located, sir. Snipers are in place, awaiting your order."
Helljumper nodded. "Kill him."
C.T. Clown
Mission From SATU part 3: Clowns Can't Draw
Date: 8 August 2004, 8:46 AM
Mission From SATU part 3: Clowns Can't Draw
Warm blood flowed from the ruptured helmet, pumped by the beating heart of a dead man. A thick red puddle surrounded the Spartan's head like a halo; melting the snow and cracking the ice beneath. The Pelican was gone, the screaming had stopped, and the fires had died out; showing little interest in the bare stone barracks. Silence alone stood vigil as the ice began to get the better of the blood, and the last warmth of a trusting traitor was sucked away. He betrayed Spartans. He trusted Ackerson.
Ackerson. Monster? No. Madman. Hardly. Murderer? Perhaps. Out of his mind? Never: at least, it all seemed perfectly sane to him. The monsters were the Spartans: winning token victories that had worth only in boosting the morale of the ignorant. Meanwhile in the last two decades ONI spent more money upgrading the MJOLNIR armor than it spent on all other SpecOps projects combined. This madness had ignored the needs of millions—millions who could have made an actual difference—to service the needs of a handful.
If he had murdered, he had not murdered enough. The few left who outweighed him in Naval Intelligence seemed ready to ride the doomed Spartan bandwagon straight into the grave. They were out of their minds—he knew better. It was clearer now than it had ever been: to get the winning pony into the race he had to put down the pretender. The Spartans must go. Five burned alive and a traitor betrayed was no tragedy; it was a good start. Only a start.
It took two Pelicans to transport the teams, and even then it was a fight to maintain proper altitude. Six heavy Spartans rode in each ship, along with a "normal" pilot. Blue team was accompanied by a SpecOps soldier who was to act as a liaison between the teams and Ackerson—a last minute detail that thrilled Lexicus no end. He had to work with Ackerson, but he would never trust him. He knew all too well that trust could kill, and he was nobody's fool. He hoped that it would stay that way, but he didn't trust hope either.
Lex guessed that the soldier was ODST, but his dark fatigues bore no mark designating service or rank. He was older, probably early forties, and Lex could tell that he was in excellent shape. More importantly, if Ackerson had picked him to come along, he would be extremely intelligent. Good: he might be smart enough to stay out of his way. Even other Spartans gave Lexicus a wide berth.
While their counterparts were winning fame and respect fighting the covenant all over the galaxy, Lexicus and Chuckles were busy with something far different. Sure, they were following orders and killing the enemy by the thousands just like the other Spartans, but their fame came with dread, rather than respect. Their comrades in space were killing ugly, bug-eyed aliens: Lex and Chuck were killing fathers, brothers, sons and uncles. They had almost single-handedly prevented worldwide civil war, but some things—even things done in the cause of good—cannot be forgotten, dismissed or applauded. Nobody seemed to care how brutally you slaughtered the enemy, as long as that enemy didn't look like the man in the mirror.
So they lived a life apart, even among their fellow Spartans. After all, the rumors were true. Entire divisions had refused to enter territory where the "Clowns" were known to be operating. They had gotten their nickname from the signature left by Chuckles at each victory. He had tried to draw a Grim Reaper, but wasn't much of an artist. He was amused to learn later that the enemy thought it was a drawing of a clown.
But nobody thought it was funny.
For the eight years the war lasted, nobody knew the truth. Nobody who laid eyes on them lived long enough to report what they saw. As the body count rose, fear of the Clowns infected the morale of the rebel troops. An officer who ordered his soldiers into an area where the Clowns had been was as likely fragged as obeyed. After all, the rumors were true. Thousands had been killed, and nobody knew by who or by what. They only knew a name—a name that meant death. Who can fight death? It is best avoided.
Lexicus was no clown, much less the Grim Reaper, but death followed him and Chuckles as sure as night follows day.
Night was falling.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon when the Pelicans reached the LZ. Departing the ramp, the Spartans found themselves in a clearing between two small hills. Moments later, after they had unloaded their weapons and supplies, a much lighter Pelican flew away. As promised, Lex had received a detailed map during the flight, and he was not happy with what he saw.
The training area covered nine-hundred square miles. What's more, according to their meager intel, the Masterchief could be anywhere on the map, save where they were standing now. This presented quite a problem, seeing as Ackerson had just radioed to inform them that they had only thirty-six hours to complete their mission. They were expected to track down and kill at least one, and possibly three, of the most deadly and cunning warriors in the history of combat over an area of nearly a thousand square miles, and do so within thirty-six hours?! How in the world did Ackerson expect them to do that?
As Lexicus was about to set up patrols the SpecOps soldier, Ackerson's liaison, walked over. "Chief, I have some fresh intel that might help us out." Fresh intel? Lexicus knew when he was being spoon-fed information, and it was time to rip off the bib.
"Soldier, I don't know why the Colonel has told you to withhold vital information from me until the last minute, but you had better keep something in mind: you work for me now, not Ackerson. Withhold intel from me again, and ODST or not, I'll send you feet first into Hell. Got it?" Without waiting for an answer Lexicus grabbed the data pad out of the soldier's hands, looked at the screen and froze.
The liaison was dead before he had time to scream.
C.T. Clown
Mission From SATU part 4: A Vow of Grief
Date: 13 August 2004, 9:10 AM
Mission From SATU part 4: A Vow of Grief
Walking to school . . . men grabbing him . . . deep sleep . . . waking up to a new world . . . being herded into a transport . . . trying to think . . . thinking hurts . . . where's dad?
Someone was pushing him into an auditorium. Other kids were there wiping sleep from their eyes, and like him accompanied by a stern adult. A pretty lady was standing in front of everyone, and she looked sad. She began to speak, but the words didn't seem to make sense. Then she said words that were as clear as they were horrifying. She said that they could never return to their parents. He tried to stand up, but his trainer's large hands forced him down.
His family had been close. Him and his father did everything together and Lexicus hadn't thought life could go on without him. He looked around; was his father waiting for him outside? It became harder to breathe. He needed his dad. His trainer leaned forward and whispered, "I'm gonna be your daddy now, trainee."
Six years old, and Lexicus had already lost everything.
As he grew he learned to mask his grief, and in his grief he found purpose. He became one of the best and most trusted of the Spartans, but he never forgot that they were all kidnapped. He never forgot the friends who died before they could be mankind's greatest hope. And he never, ever forgot what his trainer had said to him when he was a weak, frightened six-year old who woke up an orphan.
He did forget some things. By the time he was ten, he could no longer remember what his mother looked like. But he had vowed nothing concerning his mother. It hurt, but he buried it, used it, and worked harder. He had, however, made vows concerning his father. Not the vows one makes in passing, to be forgotten or left unfulfilled when anger subsides. No. His vows found their substance and origin in his grief—and once his memories had faded, grief was all he had.
Grief. It is spoken of easily enough, but seldom with any understanding. Those who have never grieved deeply don't know, and those who have don't tell, so grief's true nature is to all either a mystery or a secret.
Grief is a horrible, ugly thing that is pain to look at, and agony to touch. But nobody merely looks or touches: they embrace it with a violence. The healthy eventually accept and move on: the rest hold on harder, and the worse it hurts, the harder they hold. Though the pain and torment may be horrible, it is the only continuing affectation of the loved one they lost. To lose it is to lose the loved one; finally and completely. Lexicus held tightly to his vows. Holding them caused pain, and in the pain he touched his father.
Memories fade, and the day came when Lexicus could no longer remember his father's face. That day he vowed that the SPARTAN program would not outlive him. That day, starting with his smart-mouthed trainer, he began to fulfill his vows. As the blood pumped out of the hole Lex had punched in his trainer's chest, he leaned forward and whispered, "Sorry daddy, your little man doesn't know his own strength."
He was fourteen years old.
Lexicus had backhanded the SpecOps liaison, shattering his helmet and killing him instantly.
"Lex! What are you—" Chuckles stopped short as he looked at the picture on the data pad. In a rare fit of rage, the Clown kicked the dead liaison, sending the body thirty yards. As a soldier, Chuckles knew that every now and then you had to make a deal with Devil. Fine, but he had made his last deal with Ackerson.
The picture on the data pad was of young Spartans, fresh from augmentation treatment, and thus not yet in their armor. They were all dead; probably slaughtered minutes before the team had arrived. The text under the picture said: "IF YOU WANT THE DOE, THREATEN HER FAWNS. THEY ARE SEVEN KLICKS STRAIGHT NORTH."
Chuckles spoke, his voice barely controlled. "You sure pick good partners, old friend. I ought to kill you for saving his life." Lexicus didn't reply. What could he say?
Lex marveled at Ackerson's atrocity. It was not only cruel, something the Colonel was known for, it was stupid, something he was not known for. The Masterchief was not a docile animal that could be flushed out by maternal instinct. No, he would see this clumsy tactic for exactly what it was—and turn the tables: they were now the prey, and he was the hunter.
Ackerson must have left at least one of the young Spartans alive to contact the Masterchief. They would have to assume that, at the very least, John, Linda and Fred would be coming after them. They would also have to assume that they had seen the Pelicans arrive. They'll start looking around here, and we won't be hard to follow. Crap.
"Red team, this is Lexicus. Consider our locations compromised. Repeat: consider our locations compromised. Gather your gear and rendezvous with us immediately at—"
A mist of blood sprayed his helmet and two meters away Hogg hit the ground dead.
"Get low and head for the tree-line!" Lexicus grabbed a box of Jackhammer rockets and ran. They all ran. The tree-line wasn't far, a mere half-mile, but this sniper was good. Before he had taken two steps Freedomman's head exploded, and a second later a shot ripped through Krusty's shoulder. Lexicus got to the trees first.
He was the only one who made it.
"Free is dead," Chuckles told Lex through the com, "and Krusty is wounded. We're gonna lose more if we try to move." Lexicus looked east across the clearing and up to the hill where the shots had come from. He knew of only three snipers that could score kills from that distance, and two of them were on his team. It had to be Linda, and Lex had no chance of hitting her from where he was. As he was about to contact Red team he heard a noise, spun around and found himself staring directly into the barrel of a shotgun.
"Hounds to the hunter, Lexicus" Fred said without malice or humor. "I really didn't think you would fall for it."
C.T. Clown
Mission From SATU part 5: Eyes of Death
Date: 15 August 2004, 8:24 AM
Mission From SATU part 5: Eyes of Death
Bones cracked loudly as a powerful hand squeezed the ODST's forearm. Looking up into the helmet of his Spartan judge, the soldier saw only his own reflection; and that reflection was screaming.
"I've told you everything, everything!" Slowly the hand opened, and the ODST fell to the ground. Not wanting to chance the sound of gunfire, the Spartan finished the soldier with a combat knife: besides, a shot to the head would have been a mercy, and mercy was not on the menu. Linda looked down at the fresh corpse with no sympathy. What he had done was inexcusable. What he had told her was beyond belief.
She had been close enough to hear the first screams, but by the time she arrived only three of the young Spartans were still alive. It was their first training since augmentation treatment, and since they were not yet used to their quicker reflexes they moved in jerky, awkward motions. She would never forget their horrified, grotesque movements as they tried to flee Ackerson's firing squad. They were all unarmed: but she wasn't.
Linda had lifted her sniper rifle and dropped the Pelican pilot with a single shot. The ODST's turned and looked at her with surprise, as the young Spartans ran to safety. Twelve hardened soldiers. One Spartan. Linda dropped her sniper rifle, and with a pistol in one hand and combat knife in the other, she waded in.
They were game, they were good, and they were willing: but she was too skilled and too fast. Linda dashed at them in a blur of slashing and firing and within seconds only one soldier was left. Tossing his weapon down, he raised his hands in surrender. Linda towered over him like a god of war; and this god was angry. Surrender? Surrender?!
No.
Grabbing him by the neck and lifting him to her helmeted face she spoke in a voice that expressed more than even her words. "You are going to answer some questions."
Less than half an hour later she sat overlooking a large clearing. Linda was not given to emotion, but this day was too much. Moments earlier she had killed two Spartans. Spartans.
One of them had been Hogg.
They had served on a team together for almost two years, and no matter what happened, he always had something nice to say. If she had just blown the head off of her own brother it could not have been any harder. Stop thinking. Cover your ground, and report.
"Fred, you are clear to the east. How are we doing?"
"I've got Lexicus here. He's under control. Are all six accounted for?"
"Yes. Three are either dead or wounded, and the rest are pinned. I can't raise the Masterchief. He's training near the base with the other half of the group, and might not have his helmet on. I'll stay put."
"Roger. Good work Linda."
Good work? Inside her helmet, tears streamed down Linda's face.
Fred stood just inside the tree line, his shotgun leveled at Lexicus' head. "This can end one of two ways, and you know it. Either you'll call off this insane operation, or you'll end up dead." Silence. "Linda has your remaining two or three covered—don't make her kill them."
Two or three? They don't know about red team. Lexicus spoke over his com to Chuckles. "Fred caught me with my pants down, but thankfully he wants to chit-chat. I don't think they've spotted red team. Contact them and give them my location."
"Roger."
"Fred, you don't know what you're dealing with here. We had nothing to do with what happened to those kids."
"I already know that, old friend." Lex's blood ran cold. "And we do know what we're dealing with. You are here to kill John and I'm not going to let you do it. It doesn't matter to me who gave the order. You fight John, you fight me."
Chuckles' voice crackled over his com, "Simjanes has Fred in his sights, awaiting your order."
"Roger that." A moment before he had wanted nothing more than the ability to give that order. But Fred could have blown Lex's head off instead of trying to talk. Lexicus would give him the same chance. Besides, the thought of it made him sick.
"Fred, I've got a sniper on you right now and he is well out of Linda's range." He let that sink in, and then added, "Put down your shotgun." Fred looked around nervously. "You know I'm not lying Fred, drop the weapon."
Fred held the shotgun steady and then stated matter-of-factly, "You have two teams. I should have known. Who . . . who has me in his sights?"
"Simjanes." Lexicus saw Fred deflate. In the old west, Simjanes would have been a gun for hire: and would have done well. If Linda was unbelievable with a sniper rifle, he was just as good. If Linda showed little emotion, he showed none. Lexicus spoke softy. "Put it down, Fred."
All choices this day seemed evil. If Fred put down his weapon, he was out of the fight—the fight to save John. If he didn't, he was dead. He made his choice.
Falling flat, Fred made the first shot miss, fired his shotgun and sent Lexicus slamming back into a tree. The second sniper bullet smacked into his shoulder, dropping his shields. Leaping to his feet, Fred leveled his shotgun at Lex for the kill shot—but this time Simjanes found his mark, and a bullet tore through Fred's side. He dropped to the ground in a heap.
Lex had suffered only minor damage. Walking over, he was relieved to see that Fred was still alive. If he lived long enough, he wanted to try and explain. He had to explain.
"Fred, easy now. Here, let me ease that off—" He looked at Fred for the first time in over ten years. My God.
Fred's once handsome face was covered with old plasma scars. Years ago, that face had smiled and laughed more readily than most of the other Spartans—but he wasn't smiling now. He was coughing up thick red blood and mechanically repeating "Linda, get out! Linda get out!" Forgetting about the mission, his wounded, and even Linda, Lex held Fred's head until he quieted down. It wouldn't be long now.
"I'm sorry, Fred."
"I see it Lex. I mean, I see it." He coughed up more blood. "I never thought I would see it again." Raising his head to meet Lexicus' eyes, he said. "I remember now, and I thought I never would."
"Remember what, Fred?"
Fred coughed up more blood, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His voice was barely audible. "I remember what my parents looked like. I thought I would never remember. I thought . . . " And with that, Fred died. As his muscles relaxed and his lungs released his last breath, that breath escaped through a smile.
Linda was numb. Numb and angry. Fred had told her that he was mortally shot, and then given his last orders. It was almost more than she could take, and she could take a lot.
"Linda, there are six more than we had thought and Simjanes is among them. Ease in and take as many out as you can" he coughed, and then gurgling blood, he continued with great difficulty, "and keep trying to contact John. Ignore whatever else I say . . . get out Linda! Get out! Get out Linda! Get—" and the com went dead.
Goodbye, old friend.
Emotion fought to get the better of her, but tonight it didn't stand a chance. Her eyes were dry, her hands were steady and she had fresh orders. Angry? Oh, yes. But she wouldn't be controlled by it: she would use it.
If Linda was right, there were ten of them still alive. She checked her ammo—eleven sniper rounds. She dropped one of the rounds and mashed it into the ground with her foot.
She had to travel light. No use carrying extra ammo.
C.T. Clown
Mission From SATU part 6: Death Rattle
Date: 21 August 2004, 5:42 PM
Mission From SATU part 6: Death Rattle
Mistakes. Some are benign, some are painful, and some pause only to measure us for grave-clothes and a pine box. Helljumper's mistake was the latter. Children would dance to the sing-song rhythm of the coffin maker's hammer, and the gravedigger would pocket a little overtime. Such are the joys of death: small and dearly bought.
For the first time in his career Ackerson considered killing a subordinate in anger. Had the officer standing before him been anything less than an ODST Captain, he might have. Lifting his eyes from the damning report on his desk, he glared at Helljumper with contempt.
"My orders specifically stated that none of the young Spartans were to be killed. Your orders allowed at the most for you to wound one—and that was only if firing rounds over their heads didn't get the desired results." Getting up from his desk, the Colonel stood within inches of Helljumper's face. "And who is the idiot who wrote this note to the liaison? 'IF YOU WANT THE DOE THREATEN HER FAWNS'?" Ackerson, fists clenched and face red, took a moment to compose himself.
"You have over twenty years experience in SpecOps, yet you picked an officer who was capable of this" he waved the picture in the Captain's face, "to lead an operation this important?"
Silence.
"That was a question soldier!"
"Yes sir."
"The men that carried out this lunacy—they are all dead?"
"Yes sir" Helljumper replied in a voice slightly above a whisper.
"Good." The Colonel sat back on his desk and crossed his arms. "This is on your head Captain. An officer that cannot control his men is worthless. If you can't fix this, God help you. God help us both. How much do you really know about Lexicus?"
"Sir, he was a Spartan from the original group, and considered one of the best to ever come out of the program. He, along with Chuckles, made up the Clowns: the most successful SpecOps group in the war."
"Probably the most successful in history, Captain. Did you know that we have thousands of hours of satellite video documenting their operations during those eight years? I witnessed a battle two years before the end of the war that convinced me to recruit them. After I saw it, I arranged for ONI disavow them as soon as the fighting ended. After I saw it, I knew that I had found the Spartan I needed."
"Lexicus was ambushed while he was alone. Keep in mind that this was years before ONI managed to integrate Covenant shield technology into the MJOLNIR armor. Eighty-three soldiers attacked him at once. Within seconds, he had depleted his pistol ammunition, and we thought we were going to lose him. We thought wrong."
A video screen next to Ackerson's desk came to life, and Helljumper watched in shocked stupor. As a hardened ODST Captain, he had seen just about everything, including Spartans fighting the Covenant. But this . . . this defied description. Lexicus slaughtered scores of well armed soldiers with little more than his bare hands. He moved so fast that he seemed to just appear here and there, until the last they were all dead. The video ended, and the screen clicked off.
"I had an agreement with the man on that video. None, not one of those young Spartans was to be killed. You broke that agreement. I can promise you that if Lexicus finds the Masterchief he will kill him—and then come kill us." Had Ackerson made that statement ten minutes earlier, Helljumper would have shrugged it off. Not now.
"Since you made this mess, I am going to send you in to clean it up. Take three of your best snipers and make sure that when the job is done, Lexicus is dead." Ackerson did not want to give the next order, and yet it was all too easy to justify.
"As a result of your stupidity a dozen dead ODST's litter the ground at that training site. News of UNSC forces being sent there to kill would blow the operation to hell and back, regardless of the outcome. You are therefore ordered to eliminate every Spartan," he took a deep breath and lowered his eyes, "even the children."
Eyes are windows to the soul. Looking at them we discern thoughts and emotions. Looking at them, we read each other like books. It is impossible to see the eyes of an armored Spartan, but there are other windows into the soul, and Lexicus was peering through them with concern. A lowered head, a slumped shoulder, a hesitant walk. He was losing his team—in more ways than one.
Another patrol had to be sent to the rear, and with Linda continuing to hunt them he might as well be giving out cigarettes and blindfolds. Three Spartans had gone out during the night, and all three had died. Blondsniper, the youngest of their group, was the first. Her death angered the teams, and Ydnar had volunteered for patrol immediately. When his body was carried back two hours later, shoulders shrugged, heads lowered, and nobody volunteered.
Any soldier who has seen sustained combat knows that death is more than the end of life: death is. You can hear it walk, feel it's touch and smell it's hideous stench. When Lexicus finally ordered XrayJ to go on the patrol, the soldier walked out as one expecting to be carried back. An hour later, he was. Death followed Lexicus and Chuckles as surely as day followed night.
Day was breaking.
One bright spot remained: Linda was still tracking them, and she was their best chance to get at John. Lexicus called Chuckles and Simjanes. Contrary to all appearances, his pieces were finally in place. It was time to act.
He didn't waste words. "Find Linda and kill her. It's that simple."
Moving like ghosts, the two Spartans searched the wooded hills. Both of them were experienced snipers, and this terrain was child's play compared to Old Afghanistan. It didn't take long. After a mere forty minutes Chuckles' voice crackled in Simjanes' helmet.
"I've got a twenty on her, Sim. Top of that hill, northeast. She's lying flat next to the rock."
Simjanes searched the area with his scope. "I don't see her. How sure are you?"
"Hundred percent. The rock must be blocking your view. I've got a shot, and I'm taking it."
"Roger that."
Chuckles sighted in. It had to be perfect. Slowly he squeezed the trigger . . . squeezed . . . the rifle jerked backwards and the sniper round found it's mark.
Simjanes collapsed to the ground, grabbing his side in agony. "Chuck! I'm shot! I'm shot—" he choked on his blood. "I'm . . . I'm . . . " he choked again. Thick, hot blood filled his mouth, and the sickening taste caused him to vomit.
Chuckles walked over slowly, his rifle slung behind his back. Bending down and removing Simjanes' helmet he said, "I got a question for you Sim: why did you shoot Fred in the side?" Simjanes stared up at the Clown, his eyes wide with horror. "I mean, you're a witch with that rifle. You could've scored a headshot from twice that distance. Getting shot through the lungs, slowly suffocating on your own blood—that's a horrible, slow way to die. Fred deserved better, don't you think?" Simjanes tried to respond, but only spit up more blood.
Linda emerged from the woods and stood beside Chuckles. Simjanes' eyes were now wide with confusion. "Why? Is that what you want to know? Well, I'll tell you why I shot you: because Linda would have had the decency to shoot you in the head."
Through slowly dimming sight, Simjanes watched them walk away together. I've got to warn Lex. Desperately, he reached for his helmet, and pulled it over his head. "Lex—" he couldn't take a breath. "L—" He choked again, and this time blood flowed from his mouth.
"Sim, this is Lex, are you there?" Choking, gurgling and splashing sounds filled Lex's ears; and finally, one long, wet, rattling sigh.
C.T. Clown
Mission From SATU part 7: A Knife, a Clip and a Shotgun
Date: 29 August 2004, 11:50 AM
Mission From SATU part 7: A Knife, a Clip and a Shotgun
Krusty barely removed his helmet before he vomited: panic crawled through Xraf's mind for the first time in his life: Rhinox walked around dazed: Lexicus turned away. Nobody looked: nobody but Turpertrator.
Can the dead speak? Staring, can we discern the language of a face? Can horror and betrayal be twisted into expressions once a mouth is silenced? Can the dead speak?
Turpertrator stared: Simjanes spoke. Turpertrator stared: Lexicus held his breath.
They had seen the dead before many times—but nothing like this. Death's nimble fingers formed skin, bone and blood into something truly horrible. Contorted face, gaping mouth and wide eyes leered forever, frozen into an unblinking nightmare. It wasn't that he looked dead: it was that he didn't look dead. Like a corpse well tended by a mortician, he looked as if he could get up and walk away. But Turpertrator knew he wouldn't. Staring his last upon Simjanes, he knew something else too.
From the beginning he had been quiet, even for a Spartan. His chosen name, Turpertrator, was derived from the ancient Latin word for evil: turpis. To those who knew him, it seemed strange that he would take such a name. To those who fought him, however, it seemed very appropriate. Caring nothing for glory or fame, he had one goal: accomplish the mission. Over the years he had quietly become one of the most skilled and deadly of the Spartans. His fighting was unorthodox, his weapon was subtlety, and his results were lethal.
If Turpertrator was quiet, Simjanes was all but mute. If Turper was contemplative, Sim was cold. None who knew him, even when he was a child, could remember him crying, smiling, laughing, or showing any other sign of emotion. As he held his sniper rifle in his hand, steady as a rock and aimed with inhuman precision, nothing short of fresh orders would keep him from pulling the trigger. Compassion was lost on him and friendships led to betrayals.
Spartans like these get attention, no matter how quiet they are. It didn't take long for ONI to tap them for something special.
Three years before the rebellion ended, ONI sent them into northwestern Asia. Operation ROCKSALT was intended to replicate the success enjoyed by the "Clowns" in Old Afghanistan. They more than delivered. Turpertrator had been the tactician and the heavy weapons specialist. Simjanes did what he did better than anyone except Linda: he sniped. ROCKSALT was the last nail in the rebellion's coffin. Morale, already low thanks in large part to the Clowns, plummeted even further. When it was finally over they were not friends, but they respected each other. That respect went deep.
Now his partner was dead. Dead, but not silent. Turpertrator stared: Simjanes spoke. It was time to act.
It was a full six minutes before Turpertrator turned his head away. Slowly, he stood and faced Lexicus. Speaking quietly he said, "Seems to me that this operation was off-line yesterday Lex. You still taking orders from Ackerson, or not?"
Lexicus shook his head.
"Then who's orders are you following? Who's next Lexicus? Is there a certain order we're supposed to die in, or are you making it up as you go along?" The other Spartans backed away: nobody spoke to Lex like that.
"Careful, Turp. Keep running your mouth and you'll likely say something that you can't take back. If that happens and we fight . . . I don't want to kill you."
Turpertrator slowly pulled out his combat knife. "I'm a warrior, Lexicus. I don't mind dying in a fight. But," he looked down at Simjanes, "I'm not going like that. I won't be led to the slaughter by somebody bent on personal vengeance. I won't be a pawn."
Turpertrator walked over to the body, examining the ground.
"Where's Chuckles? Two sets of footprints lead away, and what do you want to bet the larger ones belong to Chuckles? What do you want to bet that bullet in Sim's side does too? He died trying to contact you, the one who had him killed." The others took another step away. "Those young Spartans the ODST's slaughtered, did it bother you that they got to them first? Did you kill the liaison because they beat you to the punch, or was that just another ruse," he motioned to Simjanes, "like this one?"
Without warning Lexicus palmed his knife and lunged. Turper fell flat, grabbed Lexicus by the legs and hurled him against a tree. Lexicus was the superior fighter, but Turper's unorthodox style threw him off. What's more, of all the Spartans at SATU nobody, not even Chuckles, was Turper's equal with a knife. Neither dared risk the use of guns: Linda was still out there.
Lexicus got to his feet and they circled, jabbed, and finally locked together like prize fighters. In a surprise move, Turp dropped to his knees and, as Lex fell forward, thrust his arms up violently, knocking him into the tree again. In a blur of movement, Turper was on top of him, knife raised for the kill. Desperate, Lexicus reached behind him, grabbed the tree, lifted his legs and torso like a gymnast, and threw Turper fifteen feet into the air.
Turpertrator hit the ground, jumped up just before Lex got to him, and jabbed with astonishing speed—but missed as Lexicus somersaulted over his head. Turper felt a powerful tug, and then the cool morning air as Lexicus landed behind him—holding his helmet.
The last thing that went through Turpertrator's mind was a standard-issue Spartan combat knife.
He fell to the ground dead, eyes wide, inches from Simjanes. Lexicus walked over to him, bent down and pulled out his knife. It was covered in blood, the blood of a Spartan he respected. The others watched silently as Lexicus, legendary fighter, and Spartan captain, walked around like an awkward child, looking for something to wipe the bloody blade.
John was disturbed. Early the night before three young Spartans had returned to base (which consisted only of a marking on a map, and small amount of supplies) with news of the slaughter by the ODST's. He had been working with the other group of young Spartans, the nine-year olds, and had not been wearing his helmet. He quickly put it back on, and contacted Linda.
Her news wasn't any better.
Fred was dead. Worse, he had died at the hands of other Spartans: a group led by Lexicus? Had she told him Dr. Halsey herself was leading the mission, he could not have been more surprised. Lex had been a friend, a leader and most of all a fellow Spartan. But John had to set that aside.
Lexicus was here to kill him? So be it. He would learn what thousands all over the galaxy already knew: Spartan-117 didn't die easily, and his enemies didn't last long.
She had almost killed him. Linda was about to squeeze the trigger when she saw something; something she hadn't seen since her days as a trainee. Years ago, before they wore helmets, the Spartans had worked out ways of communicating quickly using gestures. As they were fleeing her shots the night before, she saw Chuckles hit the side of his helmet twice, like a swimmer trying to get water out of his ear. It meant "WE NEED TO TALK". Still, it wasn't until he killed Simjanes that she was reasonably sure she could trust him.
His story made sense.
"Lexicus made a vow years ago to end the SPARTAN program" Chuckles explained as they put distance between them and Simjanes' body. "He thinks it's immoral; especially the kidnapping. He was connected to his family stronger than most of us."
"What do you think Chuckles?"
The big Spartan shrugged. "I was an orphan, so the program was the only family I ever had. Only person I miss is CPO Mendez. I could handle seeing him again. But we can chit-chat later. If we are going to save John, we have to act now."
"Lexicus is out of control, and unless we work together, this won't end well. Things have already went south—but it could get much worse. Don't underestimate Lexicus. John may be the best when it comes to fighting the Covenant, but Lex is second-to-none in fighting Spartans. We need to get to John quickly."
Bingo.
Linda spoke to the Masterchief on a private channel. "Okay, he asked."
"Roger that. Do as we planned and we should know in a few minutes if he's legitimate."
"And if he's not?"
"Kill him."
If Helljumper hadn't known how serious this mission was before, he certainly knew now. They were racing to the training grounds in a Pelican flown by Ackerson's personal pilot, Aardvark. The Colonel wasn't in the habit of loaning him out, especially for a mission this dangerous. There were thousands of Pelican pilots, but only one Aardvark.
Born David Sagus, he picked up his nickname when he began flying Pelicans. He was able to fly very low over almost any terrain. He flew so low, that when he returned to base his Pelican was usually covered with thousands of dead insects. He quickly picked up the name "Aardvark". Not terribly appropriate, since nobody flew low enough to get ants on his ship, but it was catchy. Besides, he was thankful they hadn't chosen "Bugeater". Far and away the top pilot in the service, his skills could prove the difference between success or failure.
But in case that wasn't enough, Helljumper had added some insurance of his own.
Told by the Colonel to pick three men, he had picked five instead. And although Ackerson had told him to kill the young Spartans after the Masterchief was dead, Helljumper had decided to do it beforehand. Who knew if they would still be alive after tangling with God-knows-how-many Spartans? Best to get it done while they could. In a stroke of luck they had located their modest base; and the way this pilot hugged the ground, they would be set down close. Real close.
Aardvark dropped them off, and waited at the LZ: if things went bad, the Pelican's guns would be needed. Within minutes the snipers approached the base and spread out in a quarter circle to overlap fields of fire. As they he looked through his scope to pick his first target, Helljumper's blood went cold.
Oh my God. "Stand down. I repeat, Stand down. Aardvark, we'll meet you at the LZ, ETA five minutes."
Killing fourteen year old Spartans was something he could live with: each of them was the equal of at least four of his ODST's. But down at that base, along with three of the older Spartan trainees, were twenty-seven kids who were definitely under ten. Helljumper could shoot just about anything or anybody: but not a kid.
"Belay that order, Aardvark." The voice had come from behind the Captain. He turned around and found himself staring down the barrel of a silenced pistol. Holding it was his second in command, Sgt. Justin Timmer.
"Sergeant?"
Without a word the soldier emptied an entire clip into Helljumper. The legendary ODST never had a chance. Unable to restrain a smirk, the assassin walked over to the Captain's body and began scavenging his gear.
"Ackerson told me to do this after the mission, but since you didn't have the stomach for it, well, I had to improvise. That's what you always taught us; improvise. Hope I made you proud."
He stood up and addressed the team. "By order of Colonel Ackerson, I now have tactical authority over this mission." Still shocked by the shooting, the snipers listened silently. "Sight in. Take out the older one's first. These are not humans, they are Spartans. Wipe them out."
After they had traveled several miles, John contacted Linda. They had been testing Chuckles and the results were in: the Clown failed.
Time to kill another friend.
Linda slowed slightly, fell behind, and pulled out her shotgun. Placing it directly behind his head, she began to squeeze the trigger.
C.T. Clown
Mission From SATU part 8—The Conclusion: Face to Face
Date: 6 September 2004, 2:42 PM
Mission From SATU part 8—The Conclusion: Face to Face
Just a meal
A feast of human flesh. Having no lips, they couldn't smile, but as they looked down they were filled with warmth and expectation: they would feed well tonight. They would eat until their bellies threatened to burst, and then feast again. All human. All dead. All good.
No lips, yes, but they smiled inside. Circling. Waiting.
Can vultures hear Death's approach? Can they smell it's rot before the aroma is released? Perhaps not. But no special powers were needed this day. No, this day Death arrived bold and brash. This was Death's day, and it would be as loud and obnoxious as it wanted.
Death arrived, and the vultures danced in the sky. Carrion was their food, and Death was their caterer. They waited patiently as the table was set, and the meal prepared. Finally, all was ready, and they ate well. By evening, the carrion was picked clean and the wilderness was back to normal. Death had gone home, followed closely by its adoring birds. It was over. A good meal, to be sure, but nothing more.
Just a meal.
Moving the team along was easy: Turpertrator's death face was as bewitched as Simjanes', so nobody was in the mood to stick around. They had traveled swiftly and without hesitation. Did Lexicus know where they were going? The men had their doubts, but after what had just happened to Turper, they kept quiet.
Krusty heard a sound, and looked up. A lot of birds in the sky today. Big ones.
Suddenly the Spartans stopped, as the sound of distant gunfire echoed through the forest. Krusty looked up again: the birds were leaving.
John was within sight of Rhinox before he realized Lex's team was no longer moving. He had been following well behind since a little before dawn.
When Linda called with news that Chuckles had joined her, the Master Chief had his doubts. Of all the Spartans he had ever known, Chuckles was the least predictable. He was capable of cruelty and compassion; of genius and madness. With the Clown, you never knew what you were going to get. The Master Chief would not trust him. Not without proof.
The chance to test his intentions came when Chuckles asked Linda to take him to John. If Lexicus suddenly began to travel in the direction Linda was heading, they would know that the Clown was playing them. After only a few minutes of following Lex's team, it was clear: Chuckles was lying.
Not a minute after he he had informed Linda, he heard gunfire.
Her shotgun was poised mere inches behind Chuckles' head as she slowly squeezed the trigger. Suddenly, the sound of distant gunfire echoed through the forest. As he heard it, Chuckles turned, saw the shotgun and sidestepped as Linda fired. An eight gauge slug slammed into his shoulder, throwing him to the ground and dropping his shields. He quickly rolled towards her, making her next shot miss, but as he jumped to his feet Linda smashed the stock of her rifle savagely into his head. Going limp, he tumbled to the ground.
Could she shoot a helpless Spartan? No time to consider it: the sound of gunfire continued to fill the forest, and it was coming from the direction of their base camp.
NO! Not again!
Leaving Chuckles unconscious, she tore through the forest towards the children.
Sergeant Justin Timmer was annoyed. He and his four snipers watched through their scopes as twenty-seven nine year-olds and three fourteen year-olds played in a field. But these were no ordinary children: these were Spartans. And while the younger ones looked close to their actual age, the older ones looked nothing like normal teenagers.
They didn't act like teens either.
All three were much larger than any ODST, and had recently undergone the standard Spartan augmentation treatment. As a result they had supernatural speed, lightning reflexes, incredible strength and nearly unbreakable bones. Yesterday, when most of the fourteen year-olds had been slaughtered, their movements had been awkward and jerky, because they were not yet used to their new bodies.
That was yesterday.
Adapting quickly, they were already moving with precision and grace. The upshot was that although the snipers had been ordered to eliminate the older ones first, it was proving difficult. As they played with the younger ones, they moved fast—too fast to shoot at with any certainty.
Sergeant Timmer was done waiting. Screw this. "Okay boys, fire at anything that moves. I repeat, fire at will."
"Yes sir!"
Shots rang out, and nine year-olds dropped to the ground, either dead or wounded. Vultures circled unnoticed in the morning sky, beating their huge wings lazily. Then, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and swooping down to obstruct their line of sight, was another large bird. But it wasn't a vulture.
It was a Pelican.
Aardvark was no boy-scout, much less a hero, but he would not sit back and let men slaughter children: even his own men. Bringing his Pelican in low, he swerved back and forth across their stunted half-moon formation, making it nearly impossible to aim.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" Sergeant Timmer barked, not wasting the time to reason with the pilot.
"What the—" A sniper round crashed through the windshield and impacted the chair inches from Aardvark's head. Furious, he was about to try and scare them with the Pelican's guns when he heard a wet, smacking sound as lead slammed into his right shoulder, pulverizing muscle and bone. Blocking out the pain, he turned the Pelican away from the snipers, and toward the fleeing Spartans.
Aleesha, the leader of the three older Spartans, watched as the Pelican crossed the clearing. She was not yet sure how many of the young ones were dead, but it would have been a lot worse without the drop ship's intervention. It had bought enough time to get the survivors to safety behind a nearby hill. But she'd had her fill of running: now it was time to fight back.
Setting the ship down next to the three Spartans, Aardvark was starting to feel very sleepy. Touching his shoulder, his hand came away covered in thick, dark blood. Oh Crap. It was worse than he'd thought, and he needed medical attention—sooner, rather than later. Opening the door and rushing in, a female Spartan looked him over, pulled his harness off and lifted him into the back as if he were nothing but a child.
"Sarah," Aleesha barked as she readied the Pelican for take-off, "tend to his wound. David, it's time we did some killing of our own. Grab your rifle and get ready: we're going to send those snipers back to Hell." Hearing the Spartan's orders as if in a dream, Aardvark jumped.
"No . . . no . . . you can't . . . please . . ." As he felt the ship lifting, reality drifted away, the bad dream blurred, and the wounded pilot fell into a deep sleep.
Spartan-117 considered his options. Moments before, Linda had breathlessly informed him that the gunfire, which he continued to hear sporadically, had come from base camp. Stealth had served its purpose; now it was time to act, and act decisively. His mission? Eliminate four Spartans. One was wounded, but the other three were fully combat ready. Three top Spartans against only the Master Chief. A fair fight?
No.
But it wasn't John's fault they had only four men, and he wasn't about to tie an arm behind his back to even things up. They came all this way to find him, and they were about to get their wish.
Rhinox was getting nervous. Three minutes before they had heard distant gunfire, and Lexicus had ordered them to stop. He had tried to wait patiently, but Rhinox had a bad feeling about staying put too long. Better call Lex.
And that was his final thought.
Not very profound, but then, Rhinox didn't expect to die. Creeping up behind him like a spirit of death, John had struck a vicious blow to his head, snapping his neck.
Without pausing the spirit moved on; silent and deadly. A quarter mile away, Xraf too wondered why they had stopped for so long.
"Rhinox, have you talked to Lex?" Dead air. "Rhinox? Hello?"
Oh no.
Grabbing his shotgun, Xraf turned—and saw his reflection in Spartan-117's visor. He tried to raise his weapon, but John grabbed the barrel and tore it out of his hands. In a blur of motion the Master Chief kicked Xraf's chest, slamming him into a tree; cracking it in half, and dropping his enemy's shields to zero. An instant later, flipping end over end and reflecting the sun's brilliance on its gleaming surface, John's combat knife pierced Xraf's thin neck armor, slicing an artery.
Two down
Moving undetected, he neared his next target. But as he crept up behind Krusty, he paused. The young Spartan sat against a tree, with his helmet on the ground next to him. Badly injured, and quickly deteriorating, John knew that the wounded Spartan posed no immediate threat. Almost against his will, the Master Chief began to feel pity.
Kneeling beside him, he said, "Did you have any medical supplies, soldier? Without some immediate attention, you may die."
Krusty only laughed. "Don't worry about me, worry about yourself. I might die from this wound, but Lexicus is after you: you're as good as dead already."
Kicking Krusty's helmet a safe distance away, John replied sadly, "Well, I guess we'll have to wait and see about that."
"Not for long, we won't" Krusty said, his eyes looking beyond the Master Chief.
Crap.
Slowly turning, John found himself face to face with an old friend.
"Hello John."
"Lex."
Standing straight, arms at their sides, they looked like two Greek Gods about to settle a score, old west style. Neither of them reached for a weapon and neither moved. After a long moment, John finally spoke.
"Is it true, Lex? You here to kill me?"
"Afraid so, John. I wish it didn't have to be this way."
John had to find a way to reason with him. "Why does it have to be this way? You were a close friend, Lexicus. I trusted you as much as Fred, Kelly or Linda."
"Your mistake John, not mine" Lexicus replied in a voice that chilled the morning air.
"Fred's mistake too. How could you order the death of a soldier that saved your life twice? You used to represent service and honor. What happened to you?"
Lexicus was unmoved. "What happened to me, John? I was kidnapped from my parents at six, that's what happened to me."
"We were conscripted." John answered in a voice that lacked conviction.
"We were kidnapped! My God, is it that difficult to face? They took everything from us John, everything.We were snatched from our families, and replaced by flawed clones. All of those clones died young, leaving our parents to mourn us; even as we were being trained, maimed and killed by ONI. You think you represent honor? Where is the honor in that?"
John hesitated. "Halsey and Mendez gave us purpose. ONI gave us purpose. Sometimes . . . sometimes the rights of a few must be sacrificed to serve the many."
"So that's it, John? In the interest of self-preservation the elite in our society resort to kidnapping six year-olds, killing off half of them in their youth and destroying their families?"
Again, the Master Chief hesitated before answering. "If it serves the many, yes."
"Then maybe the Covenant are right: maybe they are doing God's will." Lexicus sighed. "You can pretend that the SPARTAN program is good and moral, but not me. I am going to destroy it John, starting with you."
Although the Master Chief had hoped that talking could end this nightmare, he now knew different. He would have to kill Lexicus. He would have to kill a friend. "Very well, but this will sicken me."
Utterly without feeling, Lexicus replied, "Not for long, it won't"
John pulled his pistol and fired as Lexicus charged, hitting him twice in the head, and dropping his shields. But an instant before the Chief could shoot again, Lexicus fired his shotgun, missing the head, but blowing John's pistol out of his hands. Staggering backwards, the Chief spun to the left, averting another eight-gauge blast by mere inches. John reached for a shotgun, but Lexicus stepped into him swinging his weapon like a bat, smashing the side of his head and dropping him to the ground.
Lexicus rushed in for the kill, but moving with incredible speed, the Master Chief jumped to his feet palmed his combat knife, and using Lex's own forward momentum against him, he plunged the blade into his neck. John thought he had won.
But he had never fought an enemy like this.
Spinning so fast that the knife flew out of his neck, Lexicus backhanded the Master Chief's head so hard that he staggered backwards. John rushed back in swinging, and what followed was a brutal toe-to-toe, face to face brawl.
At first the Master Chief had the momentum, attacking with blurring speed and ferocity, until Lexicus was on his heels. But then, dismissing all caution, Lexicus stepped into the attack, and landed a crushing blow to the side of John's head. The hit staggered the Master Chief, and he tried to regain his balance—too late. Swinging as if all of his vows were held inside his fist, Lexicus struck John's chin so hard that it lifted him off the ground.
Stunned by the vicious blow, the Master Chief was unconscious for a moment. Lexicus was on him instantly, grabbing him around the neck in a stranglehold. "I wanted you to know," Lex spoke bitterly, "that I always respected you. Goodbye John." Lexicus heard a grenade drop to the ground beside him.
"Goodbye Lex."
Letting go of the Master Chief, Lexicus dove to avoid the blast, but there wasn't time. It exploded, blowing both of their helmets off, smashing Lexicus into a tree, and hurling John twenty feet through the air.
Lexicus' left arm was twisted grotesquely behind him and would not move. His left eye was badly damaged, and for all he knew, completely destroyed. John hadn't fared much better. He could not move his right hand, and although neither of his eyes were damaged, a deep cut on his forehead was bleeding so bad that he could barely see for the blood.
Standing to inspect their injuries, both saw something strange. laying in the field, placed between them so evenly that it looked like a staged contest, were the two shotguns. A single pistol-shot to the head will kill a Spartan who is not wearing a helmet, but neither had his pistol. They dashed for the shottys, and diving at the same time, they came up, cocked one handed, and leveled it at the other's head. It seemed that they stared into each other's strange, old, scarred faces for minutes, but it was only a moment. Far overhead, large birds were gathering; watching; waiting. Finally, both triggers were pulled.
But only one gun belched flame.
Sergeant Timmer was the only one left: but he wasn't proud of it. He had survived by playing dead while the young Spartans slaughtered his fellow soldiers. On the ground, listening to the screams of his men, he found himself staring into the lifeless eyes of Helljumper: and he was shamed. The legendary ODST Captain would have fought fearlessly to his last breath, rather than hiding like a coward among the dead. Helljumper seemed to be smirking as he stared back at him. Coward.
Hearing gunfire not too far in the distance, Sergeant Timmer suddenly remembered the mission. His mission. Without checking for enemies, he stood, loaded his sniper rifle, and scavenged the bodies for ammunition. It was all clear now. He knew what he needed to do. He would fulfill his mission and in doing so find redemption. He would eliminate his primary target; eliminate him and then wipe the smirk off a dead man's face.
The shotgun blasted him point-blank, killing instantly. John, Spartan-117, the Master Chief, was dead. Lexicus dropped his weapon.
It was finished. He checked his neck, and was surprised to find little bleeding. Suddenly he remembered his wounded friend.
"Krusty?" Lexicus could see him leaning against a tree, but the young Spartan did not respond. He walked over slowly, wiped blood from his eye, and bent down—Krusty was dead; killed by the grenade blast. "Sorry kid."
Laying down on a hill nearly two-hundred yards behind him, a sniper fought to keep his gun steady. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in his hands and he saw the big Spartan jerk, and then fall flat.
Mission Accomplished.
Standing silent, surrounded by the younger Spartans, Linda just stared. John lay dead at her feet; his head nearly blown off. She had shown up late.
Again.
Earlier, she had arrived at base camp only to find that the fight was over, and twelve of the nine year-old trainees lay dead on the field. Now she stared at the body of her dearest friend, cursed with the knowledge she could have easily saved him, had she shown up just a few minutes earlier.
Large, silent birds circled above, closer and closer to the ground. Seeing them, Linda gestured to the three older Spartans. "Help me load him into the Pelican."
Aleesha looked across the way, where Lexicus and Krusty lay dead. "What about them?"
Linda's voice was cold. "Leave them for the vultures."
THREE DAYS LATER
Sitting behind his desk, Ackerson read the report with mixed feelings. Almost beyond hope, both Lexicus and the Master Chief were dead. Years of work had led finally to success. But his joy was dampened by the fact that his trusted pilot had betrayed him. Wherever Aardvark was, the Colonel hoped he was dead, or at least suffering.
Armed with graphic pictures of dead ODST's littering the training grounds, convincing the brass that the Spartans were out of control had proved easy. Reluctantly, they had ordered the arrest of the few that remained alive, making them fugitives.
Lifting his eyes from the report, he addressed the man sitting across from him. "Sergeant Timmer, well done."
"Thank you, sir."
"You said that all of the Spartans at the training grounds were eliminated, except a handful of the young ones, is that correct?
"Yes sir."
"And we have the bodies to confirm?"
"Most of them, sir. Recovery is still in progress."
"Very well, son. I will see that you receive—"
Gunfire erupted in the hallway. Men screamed and the building shook, but as quickly as it had started, the guns fell silent. Heavy footsteps approached and suddenly the office's large metal door was torn from its hinges and thrown across the room, embedding itself in the wall.
The Clown had come; his huge frame filled the doorway.
Moving forward and grabbing the Sergeant, he tossed him against the wall head-first, knocking him unconscious. Throwing the large wooden desk aside like a toy, he grabbed Ackerson by the neck and lifted him until they were face to face. Chuckles removed his helmet. The Colonel tried to stare into his eyes, but after a moment, he turned away in horror.
"Look at me! Look at me!" Chuckles yelled. "Aren't you going to arrest me? I heard that I was a fugitive, so I came to turn myself in."
The Clown's eyes seemed to turn red, and almost involuntarily, Ackerson averted his gaze again.
Chuckles exploded. "I told you—" he said, striking the Colonel viciously across the face, "to look at me!" Ackerson looked, even as he swallowed several of his teeth.
The Clown lifted his shotgun, pressing the barrel painfully into the Colonel's chin. "If I pull this trigger, your jaw will be scattered over three states. But I'm not crazy like some folks say. I hate you. Oh yes. I would like nothing more than to grab you by the ankles, swing you like a club and tear this room apart with your filthy head. But I won't do that. I hate to say it, but Earth will need you in our war against the Covenant. Nothing much else matters now. Not until we've won."
Then pulling the Colonel's face so close to his own that their noses touched, Chuckles said, "I promise you this: if you do live to see the end of the war, you'll wish you hadn't. I'll be waiting for you on the other side, and before I'm through with you, you'll curse your mother for giving birth to you, just like the rest of us."
Without warning, Chuckles threw him against the wall, and disappeared through the doorway.
Ackerson stood to his feet, dizzy from the pain in his head. Walking over to Sergeant Timmer, he slapped him violently across the face; waking him up.
"Did he look dead to you, Sergeant?!" he screamed, causing his teeth and jaw to ache all the more. He needed some fresh air. "Follow me, Timmer."
Walking outside, he stood on the porch, followed closely by the frightened Sergeant. Several huge birds circled in the sky, but neither of them noticed.
"Okay, Sergeant, cut the crap! Which Spartans are dead, and which ones do you only hope are dead? And," he added, his voice pure poison, "I already know about Chuckles."
Timmer fought to keep his voice even. "Sir, we have yet to find the bodies of three fourteen year-old Spartans, and . . ."
"And what, Sergeant?!"
"And we have yet to find . . . Linda."
Forgetting about Chuckles' threats, his throbbing pain and even his lying Sergeant, Ackerson considered what he had just heard. Looking from the porch, he saw the trees and hills that surrounded the small base: seeing them, his blood ran cold.
Startling Timmer with his urgency the Colonel said "Back in the building! Now!"
Turning to enter the doorway, Ackerson was suddenly sprayed with blood and brain fragments. Sergeant Timmer tumbled dead blocking the doorway.
Ackerson desperately tried to move the body out of the way.
The rifle was aimed.
The rifle was fired.
The target was hit.
Slamming into his left side, the bullet tore through blood vessels, shattered ribs and punctured both lungs before finally exiting out his right side.
He fell to the ground, mortally wounded.
But Death was in no hurry. There was plenty of time. Blood gradually filled Ackerson's lungs, and breathing became harder. Slowly oxygen was depleted, and suffocation began. But not too fast. Death would be patient.
A large vulture landed on the porch, looking at him as one would an almost-ready steak. The carrion eating raptor walked lazily over to the Colonel's head, until the two of them were face to face. It stared into his eyes.
To Ackerson, whose death was mere minutes away, this bird was the very image of death. To the bird, however, the Colonel represented something much more useful, and much less profound. To the bird, Ackerson was no more, and no less than a meal. A good meal, to be sure, but nothing more.
Just a meal.
C.T. Clown
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