In Slipspace approaching 111 Tauri System, May 25, 2545. 0930 local, UNSC Hercules Hangar Deck.
Whiskey Zero-Seven-Seven lurched as the vertical thrusters on the wing nacelles and the high tail extending over the crew ramp, roared to life. The sound was music to his ears. An ear splitting rumble that was more like a warm blanket of comfort to him, than the vectorable VTOL hellfire that it really was. As he hit the controls to close the crew ramp and seal the Pelican against the noise and the vacuum of space, he watched the ODSTs shift uncomfortably, strapped tightly into their jump-seats. All but one of them. Crew Chief Steven ‘Sparky’ Mitchell watched the squad’s Lieutenant casually fiddling with his helmet as if nothing else was happening, while his squad collectively gripped what they could just a little tighter.
“We have a hard seal Captain. Troopers are secure. Board is Green” Sparky squawked into his helmet intercom.
“Copy that Sparky. C’mon up and grab the back seat. I want you strapped in for this run. It’s going to get hairy.”