Marcus sat in stunned silence, watching the mushroom cloud rise. The cloud itself was gargantuan, rising above the sandstorms, up into the atmosphere. The shockwave from the detonation had forced back the sandstorm in a several kilometer-wide radius around the cloud, giving the expedition members a perfect view of the cloud, and even of the sky above. There are clouds, thought Marcus. He had never seen clouds before. The rad counter in the Hrungnir suit screamed. The radio crackled for awhile, before coming to life. Marcus heard a string of curses, until Locke's voice rang through.

"Roll call: everyone alive?" he asked. Grumbling and swearing, the crew all clambered to their feet. Nobody was injured, aside from Locke, who was still in serious condition, and had been thrown from the sled. Marcus got to his feet, the servos in his knee joints protesting. The Hrungnir suit would need many repairs and checks back on the Enoch to pass Penske's expectations. He walked over to the sled, righting it. The impeller was still attached, and seemed to be undamaged by the shockwave. After he put the slad back on its correct side, Deknost picked up Locke, who groaned audibly. In the brief interlude where the sandstorm was blown away, it was earily calm, and aside from the movement of the crew, completely silent. But on Marcus' instruments, he saw that the shockwave had lost its power a kilometer or two away from them, and the sandstorm would soon come rushing back.

"What the fuck was a nuke doing on the Methuselah?" Brogers asked aloud, asking what they were all thinking.

"And more importantly, who or what set it off?" groaned Locke as Deknost placed him down on the sled, with the pack of coilguns behind him. The crew was silent at the question. "Did one of you set it off?" asked Locke. More silence. Locke turned to Marcus.

"Rhyne, you should know about these things, was a 'self destruct' feature implemented in the Methuselah?" he asked the young engineer. Marcus shook his head.

"It's been my understanding that no tank has possessed nukes of any variety since the Nuclear Armistice, some eighty years ago or so. So no, it definitely wasn't a standard 'self destruct' feature. If it had a nuke, it had one through some shady means." he responded. Locke cursed.

"Something's not adding up here. The Methuselah had Hrungnir suits, coilguns, and a godsdamned fucking nuke. This whole thing reeks of Intelligence." Locke looked up at the other crew members. "Which means we'll report to Commander Wyatt, and do well to remember this expedition even happened. Understand?" The other crew members nodded, Marcus included. "Good, then. Let's get back underway. We'll need to move double-time to get to the meet-up point in time." He sat quietly for a moment, and Marcus felt he would say something more, but he remained silent, and the team became ready to leave.

Marcus walked back to the front of the sled, and Deknost hooked him to it via the cargo hooks on the suit's back. The crew got back in line, as they had been, and began trudging through the sand. Marcus looked to see the sandstorm approaching rapidly, a veritable wall of sand that stretched to the sky. It rushed towards them, almost looking like water in the way that it billowed and tumbled over itself. When the sandstorm was within thirty seconds of hitting them, Locke called for a halt, and they braced. One second, Marcus stood drenched in sunlight, the next he was assaulted by a tumultuous wave of airborne grit and small rocks that berated him. The world became dark again. Marcus turned on his shoulder-mounted lights, illuminating the world again. It's amazing how bright the world is, he mused sadly, without these fucking sandstorms. After the crew had acclimated to the harsh winds, Locke called for the march to continue again, and they continued on their way.

This time, no creature attacked them. They marched in silence for an hour with no complications or discussions. As they walked further away from the Methuselah, the rad counter in Marcus' suit slowly lowered, until it returned to levels typical of Harmattan. So the nuke wasn't designed for spreading radiation, Marcus thought, but simply for detonation. This made him wonder if the nuke had been specifically designed to destroy the dead remains of tanks, rather than as a weapon. He knew that years prior, when nuclear weapons fell like rain on Harmattan, each side opted for maximum detonation, maximum radiation with their weaponry. It reduced many portions of the planet to irradiated hellscapes that even the armored shielded tanks hesitated to go into. But for a weapon of its size, the nuke that had reduced the Methuselah to atoms had given off a relatively small amount of radiation.

But Marcus said none of this aloud. He got the sense that the crew happened somehow onto something they shouldn't know about, and the thought genuinely scared him. Naval Intelligence was infamous for ruthless tactics. He'd heard people had been silenced, families had gone missing, bodies had been found. If someone discovered something they weren't something to know about, Intelligence often had no problems simply removing the individual from the equation. It was ruthless and brutal, but Marcus imagined it was effective. Because of this, life as a tanker often fell into a "stay in your lane" kind of lifestyle. Do your job, shut up, don't raise your eyes, don't ask questions. You never know what you may stumble upon that will force Intelligence's hand.

The crew marched through the dunes of Harmattan. Rarely, Marcus saw them pass rocks or boulders, though the vast majority of the topography consisted of gently rolling dunes. Eventually, his sensors picked up a large mass half a kilometer ahead of them. Is it the Enoch? he wondered. He wasn't privy to the knowledge of exactly where the rendevous point was, but they had marched straight ahead for an extended period of time; surely the Enoch was somewhere ahead. As they neared the object though, Marcus saw his hopes were unfounded. The looming shape of a massive pillar of rock appeared slowly out of the sandstorm ahead of them. It was gargantuan, and almost completely vertically straight. Judging from the size, at least two or three tanks the size of the Enoch could hide comfortably behind it. And during duels, tanks often did. Dueling tanks usually tried to fire from some sort of cover, to avoid giving their profile away to the enemy's targeting computations.

The expedition team walked into the shadow of the massive pillar, on the leeward side where the sand and biting winds were obstructed by the stone. Some cavitation of the winds had carved out a decently-sized indentation out of the pillar on that side, and the crew took refuge in what could generously be referred to as a cave. Deknost walked over to the sled to check up on Locke.

"This is the right pillar," Brogers said, "though the Enoch was supposed to be here already. We're technically on time. I'm going circle the pillar, to make sure she's not waiting on the other side. Marine McCullagh, would you accompany me?" McCullagh nodded silently, and the two walked back out into the storm.

"How are we doing, Locke?" asked Deknost as he knelt by the sled. Locke didn't respond. Marcus disembarked from the Hrungnir suit, finding no need to stay in it if they were holding their position for now. He too knelt by Locke on the sled. Deknost plugged his suit's wrist computer into Locke's suit, and sat silently for a moment.

"He's just sleeping," said Deknost, "his vitals are good, considering his injury. We should still get him to Thaler soon." Marcus nodded, and knelt quietly for a moment, before speaking up.

"How does a workman know what good vitals look like?" Marcus chuckled. The giant disconnected his wrist computer and chuckled as well.

"The beeping line is what you want, yes? You don't want a flat line that goes 'eeeeeeeeeee,'" he said, mimicing a flat line audio tone. Marcus chuckled again, and stood up, stretching. His joints and back popped, grateful that he was free from the Hrungnir suit for awhile. He walked around on his own two legs, feeling almost naked out of the suit. He walked around to the front of the suit to visually inspect it. The chuma had done a number on it, to be sure. A solid steel bracket on one arm had snapped, and Marcus wouldn't be surprised if it had a burnt-out elbow servo from the strain. The suit, which was painted in matte gray, was also drenched in dried blood. The ripper saw itself was also coated in a thick level of gore, curtesy of the chuma's guts. Marcus shook his head. He knew that Penske would make him do a complete rebuild of the arms, and clean every drop of blood from the suit before she would let him do anything else. Not that he would mind that; if anything, he was eager to rip into the suit to see what sort of internals it had compared to the Ringlefinches. Deknost walked up to the suit, putting a huge hand on one of the arms. He looked down.

"I am sorry about Mason," he said quietly. Marcus stiffened. He hadn't thought about Mason since the nuke had gone off. "I don't know if you two were close, but I saw you helping him with things and talking to him a couple of times," the big man said through his thick accent. Marcus lowered his head.

"In truth, I wasn't that close to him," Marcus said. "But he was a good guy, and he helped me any time I needed it. He didn't deserve to lose his brother like that, and he didn't deserve to die like that." Marcus was quiet for a moment. Deknost said nothing, but just looked at him. Marcus couldn't see his face through the helmets they wore. "I've never seen someone die like that, up close." Deknost nodded slowly.

"It gets easier," the big man said quietly. Marcus looked up at him, aghast.

"Does it?" Marcus said, leery of the thought. Should it get easier? Marcus thought to himself. Deknost just nodded slowly again.

"Yes, it does get easier. Remember, young Marcus, that you do not need to feel for these people." He raised a gloved finger and poked Marcus roughly twice in his forehead. "But you would do well to remember them." The big man stood up straighter. "That makes it easier." Marcus nodded, not sure he understood completely, but he appreciated the thought. Deknost nodded once, and walked back to the sled and sat behind it. He spread a cloth on the ground and slowly began taking apart his weapon to clean it. Marcus continued visually inspecting the Hrungnir suit, looking for signs of further damage, of which he found plenty, though there was nothing that would hinder movement or combat int he short term. After a brief period of time, Brogers and McCullagh returned.

"She's not here," said Brogers aloud, dropping her slung rifle from her shoulder to lean on the sled. Marcus raised his hands in a "wtf" gesture.

"Ok, what do we do know?" he asked. Brogers shrugged.

"We were supposed to be here at this time, at this place. We have the part, so that half of our mission was a success. We didn't find any valuable intel about what happened to the Methuselah, but that's just how it is. That's the extent of my briefing. If there's a backup meeting location, Locke is the only one that would know about it." she said. McCullagh knelt next to Locke, who still layed on the sled, apparently asleep. She checked his vitals as Deknost did, and apparently found them acceptable. From one of her pouches, she procured a combat syringe, and jabbed it into Locke's neck. The plunger depressed, and Locke jolted awake.

"Adrenaline?" he asked, gasping for breath. McCullagh nodded.

"You need to keep awake, Locke, I'm sorry. If your heart rate dips too low with your wound being what it is, we could lose you." Locke nodded at this. McCullagh removed the syringe and stepped back.

"Are we at the rendevous point?" he asked with his hand to his neck, where the syringe was placed. Brogers knelt next to him, nodding.

"Yes, we're at the rendevous point. But the Enoch isn't. The rendevous time was supposed to be thirty minutes ago." she said to him. Locke sat quietly for a moment, thinking.

"We heard rumbling before, remember? We all know what that sound most likely was. The Enoch could have been dueling with whatever tank killed the Methuselah." he said. The group was quiet. Deknost continued to clean his weapon. Brogers spoke up.

"Do you think the Methuselah was used as bait to pull a friendly tank in?" she asked aloud to nobody in particular. Locke thought for a moment.

"It wouldn't be the first time," he said, "I'm pretty sure the Enoch has used the same tactic multiple times back in the day. It's why tanks on fhe frontlines usually fight in groups or pairs, to avoid such an issue." The group was quiet for a moment.

"So, what do we do?" asked Marcus. Nobody responded to him for awhile.

"We were instructed to meet up here with the Enoch, so we're going to wait. We have enough oxygen for two days at least, and enough food and water to last twice as long. So if we sit here and avoid exertion, we can extend our oxygen supply further." Locke said. Brogers shook her head.

"We can't just sit here and wait for someone to rescue us, Locke. We need to be proactive." she said.

"Proactive how?" Locke asked her, "We don't know where the Enoch is. You know how unlikely we are to survive if we just wander aimlessly around on the surface. We can't look for the Enoch, and since she was on patrol, we have no idea where she could be. If she's alive and functional, they'll come for us. If not, there's no tank within several hundreds of kilometers of us, to my knowledge, so we're boned anyway." Brogers was silent, and walked off, apparently having no counter argument.

"I'll take first watch," she said as she walked to the edge of the cave. Marcus looked at his feet. He wasn't sure if waiting was the best option they had, but he couldn't come up with a better option. Slowly, time crept on, and the already-dark days on Harmattan gave way to night. There wasn't enough oxygen on Harmattan to maintain a typical fire via conventional means, so the expedition members used a special camp stove used by the marines to warm themselves and cook food.

They unpacked food rations, and after setting up the camp stove, which used a method Marcus wasn't familiar with, they began boiling water with which they would warm their food rations. Eating on the surface of Harmattan was tricky: it involved removing one's helmet, but maintaining one's oxygen supply by means of a nose line. So one could eat with one's mouth, but breath the oxygen through their nose. It was a tricky prospect, but one that apparently every member of the team was familiar with except him. He had a bag of rice and beef substitute, and after it was piping hot and coated in sauce, it looked delicious. Marcus' stomach was empty, and he hadn't known he was this hungry. He wasn't sure if he had been this hungry in his life, actually.

The issue is that Marcus struggled to get down the rhythm of eating with a nose line. It snaked over his right ear, so the line wasn't in the way, but there was a specific method of taking a bit, chewing, breathing through one's nose, and swallowing that the young engineer just couldn't get down. He choked on his food multiple times, much to the entertainment of his fellow expedition members, all of whom were apparently old hands at eating on the surface. Even Deknost, whom Marcus had previously thought was just a workman, gulped down his food without an issue.

Locke also was able to eat, despite himself. Marcus was worried at how pale Locke was, though the friendly marine laughed and joked with his companions, regardless of what must be a painful wound. After finishing her meal, McCullagh swapped out with Brogers, who came to join them for the meal. Marcus wasn't surprised that she, too, was talented at eating with the nose line, apparently having no issues with it. She, on the other hand, guffawed heartily each and every time Marcus struggled to eat, though it was all in good fun. When the food was consumed, the garbage was packed up, but the campstove remained on, albeit on a lowered setting to avoid consuming too much fuel. The crew members sat in silence after dinner, enjoying the warmth of the stove, in no rush to put their helmets back on. Marcus felt the same. The thought of putting his helmet back on suddenly felt claustrophobic. After a couple of hours of sitting in the warmth of the stove, Locke called for sleep, and the stove was put out. Emergency blankets were pulled out, which greatly helped the sand and rock from sucking up one's body heat. The members bedded down, and Marcus was informed that he would be awoken in four hours for his turn keeping watch. He nodded, and the second his head hit his arm, he was asleep.

Marcus was shaken awake from what had been a pleasant rest by rough shaking.

"Rhyne, get in the Hrungnir," a voice said, "we have movement."