That someone else wouldn't be Voodoo, either. As the last Combine soldier falls and he sets foot on the landing pad, the only talking he does is engaging his weapon's safety.

He looks over to the beach. Somewhere out there, waaaay out there, is the Sergeant-Major's contingent. Voodoo grins - a real toothy, loopy grin - and waves. Do they see him? Maybe. Not that he cares.

He digs a flare gun out of his combat webbing and turns to Freeman. "Here," he says, tossing him the gun. "You do the honors."