0800 HOURS, NOVEMBER 6TH, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDER) \ SOL SYSTEM, EARTH \ FMR. COUNTRY OF BRAZIL, SOUTH AMERICA
He woke up. His vision was blurred, and as Corporal Mark Anson rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, he thought about their mission. An easy task, take some heavy weapons and five Fury Tactical Nukes to Gamma Company, who desperately needed them to fend off the massive Covenant army that was assaulting them.
"Damn", he muttered. Mark staggered to his feet, and felt the side of his head; it was slick with blood.
He had no idea what had happened, they were driving in their Warthog M831 Troop Transport. They come around a bend, when suddenly there was a massive explosion and they were flipping end over end. He remembered being thrown from the 'Hog, and had blacked out soon after. He looked towards the wreckage, and saw PFC Mason and Private Watkins lying about 30 feet from the wreckage. He stumbled over, and saw Sergeant Collins slumped in the driver's seat. The windshield was covered in blood and Mark knew he was dead.
"Where's the El-Tee", he thought, and when he rounded the Warthog, saw him. He had been hit by one of the Furys as their 'Hog crashed. His head was caved in, and the Fury, with a large bloodstain, sat nearby. That made him the highest ranking soldier, and the CO.
"Sir, what the hell happened?" Private Watkins said as he staggered over.
"I have no idea, is Mason okay?" Mark replied.
"He's got a concussion and a sprained ankle, but he'll live."
"Help me get these supplies", Mark said as he began to remove the Furys and crates.
Anson and Watkins worked for a half an hour to unload and unpack everything. When they finished, they had three BR55HB "Battle Rifles", four MA5C "Assault Rifles", two M6Ds, one SRS99DD "Sniper Rifle", and two day's rations.
"Gamma's about three kilometers, get Mason up, we need to move."
"Yes sir!" Watkins said as he ran off to help Mason.
Anson was pissed. He had two Privates, lost two officers, no Warthog, no communication, and had to go 3 kilometers through "friendly" territory. He pulled to charging handle on the BR55. It slid back and locked forward with a satisfying clack. "Watkins, let's move!" Anson yelled as he jogged off.