Into The Rift

Mutual Losses (35)

-0452 Military Hours
-Tartarus Base, Landing Pad 03

The night sky instills a calm silence as it looms precariously overhead, covering my fireteam's casual advance as we head toward our assigned helicopter. Above the still frame of the aircraft, is a barely defined line marking the general shape of the mountain ranges, the jagged mixture of smooth hills and sharp summits forming the definitive backbone of our home terrain.

My sleep-deprived eyes situate themselves forward, prying them off the unintentional admiration of the scenery. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, hopefully alleviating some of the stiffness I know is evident in my posture.

Tired but nonetheless determined, I was ready to get on with the new day as well as its accompanying challenges. Sleep lingers within the peripherals of my thoughts, placing a notable dent in my focus.

Eyeing my suit interface mounted on my wrist, I adopt a heated glare to stave off the fatigue as the screen begins to display the status of all major subsystems, searching for any potential faults.

From communications to the micro-hydraulics' fluid levels, a row of green lights pop up on the display with the diagnostic indicating the absence of faults across all spectrums. Operationally ready, the way I like it.

Satisfied with the self check, I focus my attention towards the landing pad seeing three technicians conducting a pre-flight inspection on our aircraft. Given what I've seen so far of the Jaguar's standard maintenance procedures, them inspecting the troop compartment means they are almost done.

Standing to the side are the two squads worth of troopers that are tasked to the mission, waiting near their respective rotor-wing for us passing the time with idle chatter. Like us they carry rucksacks, no doubt filled with the required items to independently operate without external resupply for at least two weeks.

Preparations have already begun in earnest. Equipment, ranging from rations and water to conventional weaponry and their corresponding ammunition types, having been accounted for hours ago are now stowed away on the three Jaguars Helicopters that will be making the long journey south.

By the time we reach Visegrad Island, it will be daytime. With the state of Taskforce Anvil still an unknown, that leaves an uncomfortable amount of variables in the mix. And although there is an undeniable pang of uncertainty welling in my gut at the lack of Intel, it isn't enough dispel the underlying anticipation of heading back to the Island.

Regardless of my opinions, or hesitation, it had to be done. There isn't much in the way of personal thoughts and bias to shift my stance because of how I choose to put together the details. Over forty people unaccounted for, with the outpost failing to respond to any hails.

It was melting down through my head, a burning desire to know what happened to the men and women of Taskforce Anvil, with the existence of that potentially hostile race only adding searing heat to it.

It didn't take long for the technicians to finish, immediately handing over the aircraft to the two pilots already decked in uniform. They climb into the cockpit, getting all systems up and running for the departure.

The reverberating engine is the signal that prompts me to take the initiative. "That's our cue," I say, directing the words to my men as my legs get into motion.

"Tartarus command, this is Desert One pre-flight checks are done on all three Jaguars. Strike Blue is go for take-off. Requesting final mission clearance, over." Cutting off the radio, I account for a small delay before expecting a response, piling the seconds before the silent tension is broken.