Chapter 27: A Shift In Objective

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                                                           PART THREE
                                                           –Necrology

Greg was having a very difficult time believing his eyes.

As he stared up at the mountain path that would ultimately take them up past several switchbacks to a pair of huge titanium walls, he had genuinely thought that something would go wrong on their journey to the Regional Headquarters of the UNSC. Not just one thing, but a dozen somethings. He thought the Warthog would break down, that a huge blizzard would roll in, immobilizing them, that they would be attacked by the Flood, or the wildlife, or a horrific combination of both. Or one of several other potential setbacks, hazards, or emergencies would assail them. And while the trip was far from perfect, here they were.

The local forces had indeed finally organized and mobilized, he had seen. There were several checkpoints along the main road, built into abandoned gas stations, small settlements, and other buildings that served as bastions against the cold and the Flood. And they had passed dozens of vehicles, moving vehicles, not derelict ones, on the way. Four times they'd stopped to assist someone, once when a vehicle had flipped due to ice, twice to help combat the Flood, and once to help with a search and rescue.

But nothing had really gone seriously wrong. No one was injured, they still had a good stock of supplies, the Carrier Warthog was still in good condition. Honestly, Greg was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He half expected to roll up to the base and find it on fire and overrun by hostiles. But he'd already confirmed his approach over the radio, and they told him someone would meet him at the front gate, and that he and his squad were expected. Whoever it was sounded competent and sure of themselves, at least.

All in all, the trip had taken about four hours. It had given him some time to reflect. Or, at least, that's what he liked to think it was. Really, he was swishing his insecurities around in his head like blood in his mouth if he had nowhere to spit it out. Was he crazy for seeking a relationship with Izzy? How sustainable was this? Were they right for each other? Obviously in some ways, but maybe not so much in others. How was she handling this? She was clearly reluctant to even call this a relationship, and he still respected that, but...

Things would, in some ways, be easier when they were out of this situation. They would have more time to actually confront and sort out their feelings. Or maybe that would actually be a lot harder. Maybe now was the easy part, because there was no time to think about things. This was part of the reason he was so bad at relationships. He was prone to overthinking things. In a way, this was why he preferred survival situations and combat and objectives more. His mind could make sense of them in a way it could make sense of nothing else.

He could actually do this stuff. Even if it was life-threatening and insane.

Izzy shifted in the passenger's seat beside him. He thought she'd fallen asleep there near the end, and he didn't blame her. The past hour and a half had just been driving. But now they were here. He drove them up the switchbacks, passing by a few more Warthogs on the way up, and finally came to a stop before the big gates that served as entryway into the Headquarters. There were heavily fortified guard posts on top of the huge titanium walls and to either side of the gates, with full-on LAAG turrets attached with huge stores of ammo and lots of guards.

He imagined they were taking no chances.

"Identify yourself," a Marine said as he walked up to the side of the Warthog after Greg had rolled to a stop.

"Corporal Greg Walker," Greg said, and the others provided their name and rank in turn. The man consulted a datapad, then told them to wait and turned away. He was decked out in white snow camo, his face hidden behind a dark visor. He talked quietly into a radio, then turned back towards them. "Okay, go inside, find a parking spot and park, then head inside the main base. Someone will meet you by the front entrance."

"Understood," Greg replied, and drove in.

The Regional HQ was as impressive as he'd hoped it would be. Beyond those huge, fifty foot walls that were built into the mountainside itself was a massive opens space that held a quartet of landing pads, a pair of motorpools, some training and exercise yards, and a pair of parking lots. The HQ itself was an immense five-story structure that was also built right into the rock of the mountain. They'd probably blasted out and shifted hundreds of tons of raw material to make room. It did present a rather impressive view.

He parked at the nearest open slot and the four of them got out. None of them spoke as they began making their way across the pavement. There was a tremendous amount of activity going on. Men and women, mostly Marines, were coming and going, shifting crates, working on vehicles, trading out guarding positions, running to and fro. He saw four Pelicans on the landing pads, though only one of them had any activity around it. That piqued his interest. He remembered the good Sergeant informing him that they couldn't fly because there was a residual charge still hanging around in the atmosphere that was screwing with equipment.

Had they found a way around that? Or was the charge fading?

He supposed he'd find out. They walked up to the front entrance, shifting between people coming and going, and found a lone Private standing just inside the door. Greg walked up to him and his eyes lit up as he came over.

"Corporal Walker? Lance Corporal Serrano?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes," Greg confirmed. "With a few friends. What's the situation?"

"Master Sergeant Gibson asked that you all be brought to him immediately," the Private replied, already walking deeper into the main entryway and beckoning for them to follow. They hurried after him, moving into a chromed corridor and down it at a brisk pace.

"Any idea what he wants us for?" Izzy asked.

"No. I know he's up to something, but there's so much going on right now that I honestly couldn't give you even a faint idea. All I know is that we'd have been pretty screwed without him. He took control when the solar storm hit us, and then the Flood. He saved a lot of lives. He's very driven. But now he's passed the general command onto others, or that's what I've heard. So I guess he's up to something else."

Greg considered that as they tracked down an elevator and rode it up all four stories. When they got back out, the hallway was empty, and he heard almost nothing. This place seemed much less dirty and gritty. Probably where the Brass hung their hats and took their meetings. The unnamed Private took them all the way to the end of the corridor they were in and left them before a closed door, then hurried off, saying he had duties to attend to.

There was lettering across the top of the door.

MASTER SERGEANT GIBSON, W.

Greg knocked on the door.

"Enter!" came the immediate response.

He opened the door and the four of them filed in. A stark office awaited them. One wall was home to some shelves that were sparsely populated with a few old hardback novels, some framed pictures, and a handful of other seemingly random objects. Another wall held some framed paintings. Besides that, there was just a desk and four chairs.

Despite the bleakness of the room, it was a commanding view, as the wall behind the desk was floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out over the mountain, the base, and the way they had driven in. The view was breathtaking.

The man behind the desk was also not what Greg had expected. For some reason he'd thought that this man who had saved so many people, who had taken charge of the situation, who had demanded that he and Izzy come to him, would be tall, imposing, even a bit threatening. But he wasn't. He was lean, middle-aged, was probably a few inches shorter than Greg, and wore rounded glasses beneath a head of short, dark hair.

He was smoking a cigarette. On the desk in front of him, Greg spied a black pack with the word YEHEYUAN stenciled across the front in red, and there was more Japanese text beneath that. The pack was nearly empty.

"Walker. Serrano," he said, sounding pleased. "I was informed you brought friends."

"You requested a medic," Ellis said, a touch defensively.

"I did indeed," he replied. "And who is this enterprising young man?" he asked, focusing very sharp blue eyes on Larsen. They were like chips of ice.

"Private First Class Hank Larsen, Master Sergeant," Larsen replied, snapping to attention.

"Are you now?" he asked. Gibson looked amused. "Why are you here, Larsen?"

"I wanted to be involved with whatever Walker and Serrano are," he replied.

"Hmm." If anything, he looked even more amused. "You may yet live to regret that. Sit. All of you." They all took a seat and he stood up suddenly, walked to the window and turned his back to them. He puffed on his cigarette for a moment, standing stock still, staring out the windows. "You've all had encounters with the Flood now," he said.

It wasn't a question, but he stopped speaking. "Yes, Master Sergeant," Greg replied.

"We still don't know where they've come from. Right now, our current working assumption is that a mining operation or something similar accidentally unearthed a vault that they were in. We're attempting to discern a point of origin, but that solar storm really burned our asses in more ways than one." He puffed on his cigarette a few more times, then sighed softly. Finally, he turned back around and walked over to his desk.

He sat down and set the cigarette down in an ashtray. "We don't have a lot of time and the sooner you get back out there, the better. Since the beginning, we've been scrambling to get our feet back under us, and we have now, finally, begun to do that. I've always been someone who looks beyond the immediate, at the bigger picture, and I didn't stop during the past week. We have a tremendous opportunity here in terms of researching the Flood. Right now, most of humanity barely even knows they exist, as they have only been encountered in deep space under unique circumstances. As far as I know, something like what's happening now has never happened before. So, in short, practically speaking, you four are the beginnings of a task force that I am assembling to help assist with the research of the Flood."

He stared at them, perhaps waiting for their responses. They looked back at him, and then Greg realized that they were all slowly looking at him. He suppressed a sigh. "I understand, Master Sergeant," he replied. "What do you need us to do?"

Gibson positively beamed. "Becker was right about you. You are someone who gets things done. I appreciate that in a Marine. In a person, really. And you, Serrano. You proved yourself quite effectively on Polaris. Both of you did. And now, Ellis, Larsen, you have the opportunity to do the same. Now, again, practically speaking, what I need the four of you to do right now is to take a Warthog and drive out the back of this facility, deeper into the mountain range. There's a small emergency medical center about half an hour's drive from here that was largely abandoned long before this whole unpleasant business. I've decided it would be a perfect site for research to at least begin, and will serve your task force well as a home base. I sent a small recon squad out to investigate it this morning and they have yet to report back, unfortunately, so you'll also need to find out what happened to them. Once you have secured the outpost, contact me, I'll be giving you my personal transponder frequency so that we can stay in touch. I'll update you then...any questions?"

"Just one," Greg said, and Gibson leaned forward slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Why us? I'm sure you have tons of talented, dedicated, hardcore Marines to pick from here. Why did you wait for us?" he asked.

"Well, part of this was timing. But I do have a reason for choosing the two of you." He paused, then leaned back, seeming to consider his words. "I've been a Marine for twenty two years. I've seen so many things. Do anything for that long, and you start to discern patterns. You begin to see beyond the chaos and into the source code, into the invisible patterns that guide us. Something I learned is that some people have something...special. By choice, by birth, by circumstances...or probably all three and something more. This quality, it's an ability to overcome, adapt, and dominate seemingly insurmountable odds. Plenty of people can survive one of the things that have happened to the two of you so far, but you've survived several insane things, based on the reports I've read on you given to me by Becker. The crash, Polaris Island, cleaning out the tunnel, the weather station, everything that happened in between there and Adamant..."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Even if I'm wrong, you're obviously very capable. But if I'm right, if you have that quality, that talent, that unnameable aspect that some people have and most people don't..." He leaned forward and clenched a fist. "I want that. I want to utilize it, because those like you are a force to be reckoned with, and you can get things done on a level that most other people cannot. That is why."

Greg stared at him. He had to admit, he was captivated by the man. There was a gravity to his words, an intensity to his gaze. He glanced at the others. They didn't seem sure of what to make of it. Honestly, he wasn't sure what to make of it himself.

"We'll get it done, Master Sergeant," he said finally, because it was the only thing that came to mind. Greg stood.

"Excellent! That is what I want to hear. Set your radios to frequency Echo November Seven, that's my personal frequency. Make sure you stop by the armory, get a new set of armor, and gear up, take whatever weapons you think you'll need. Any further questions?"

"Yeah," Izzy said, "I got one. What are we called?"

"Your task force? Hmm...what do you want to be called?"

"Task Force Reaper," she said, then looked around. Larsen nodded enthusiastically, and Ellis shrugged. Greg nodded once in assent. It was a good name.

Gibson grinned. "Then you are Task Force Reaper."

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