Our Warthog screamed around the corner, Team 2 riding our tail. Really, it was Teams 2 and 3 on theirs, and Team 1 and the remnants of Team 4 on ours. Our vehicles could take the load, but the city couldn't. The Covenant mortar fire detonating around us took a toll on the high rise and dropped additional projectiles our way. Concrete slabs hammered down in the midst of our retreating column, and occasional explosions reported that some had found their mark.
I was hanging on the back off the 'Hog, my Assault Rifle taking potshots at low-flying Banshees. Darrin, dodging a fuel rod blast, scraped us against a blown chunk of concrete, through a Scorpion-sized pot hole, and over an overturned 'Hog. My grip loosened, and I flailed to grab back on; Mira grabbed my wrist, with the rest of the squad taking hold of her waist to keep us both onboard. I pulled my head in to avoid decapitation, but I noticed that there was semi-auto fire coming from the 'Hog, which meant survivors.
"Darrin, hold it up!" I called to our driver, and he brought the jeep to a screeching halt: Harvest might have been a typo for Hell, but Marines still didn't leave each other behind, last I checked. I motioned for Mira to release me, and took off at a sprint to the fallen squad. Cal stayed on the .50 cal turret of the 'Hog, covering our backs…"our" backs being myself, Mira, Alan, and Jet.
I dumped the remainder of my clip down the highway's hot side, and slammed down behind a burning husk that was once a civilian truck, just beside the downed crew. "Corporal O'Reilly, 8th Platoon! Who's in charge here?"
A young-looking Marine with a terrified glint in his eyes looked up at me after pushing his helmet out of his eyes and practically sobbed out a "You are, sir!"
I pulled the scarf down from my mouth, partially to warm my half-frozen neck, but to show the rookie that the human touch still had meaning. "Is your ride functional?" I shouted over the gunfire and explosions.
He nodded hurriedly, squeezing in against his cover as tightly as a mollusk to its shell. I signaled for my squad to follow me, and darted across the lane to the steadily weakening team: they had to be running low on ammo. We immediately grabbed the Warthog from various angles, and heaved it over its side until it was upright. The Marines jumped on, and Darrin drove up beside us. We clambered aboard, and I took one last look, to reassure myself of the safety of the rookie's team…instead, I saw Death's wiseass smile as a Wraith's plasma fire detonated the LRV. Two survivors managed to crawl away from the wreck, but a passing Banshee strafed them.
Jet grabbed me by the collar and hauled me on the bed of our own 'Hog, with a cry of "We can't help 'em, man, we have to go!", slapped Darrin on the shoulder, and we took off. I held my head in my hands, and when the tell-tale wail pierced my thoughts, I grabbed a plasma grenade I salvaged during our ground retreat and chucked it up without a second thought. By luck, by karma, or by the pity of some deity, the grenade stuck the Banshee on its port stabilizer and blew half of it to space; the other half, cockpit included, careened into an apartment building. Darrin floored it, and Cal rained flaming death on the horde attacking us. We were gaining on the remainder of the column, but for every Wraith whose range we escaped, another flight of Banshees swept down on us.
"Cal!" I roared, turning to face my gun-happy comrade, "how're we doin' on ammo?"
The shake of his head was all I needed: without ammo, we'd lose the turret, and without the turret, we were screwed.
Darrin threw our over-loaded vehicle down an access tunnel on the right of the highway, following the fading silhouette of another Warthog. Fuel rod cannon fire sealed the exit, but at least there wasn't any Covenant air cover underground.
At least, that was my expectation.
"Spirit, twelve o'clock high!" Karen shrieked from the passenger seat, opening fire on the drop ship. Our weapons wouldn't have much of an effect, but we could perhaps dissuade it from landing. Unfortunately, the pilot decided to tear us apart with the belly-mounted turret; Alan took a plasma bolt to the chest.
I'm not an expert on military tactics, but it struck me as slightly odd that, despite the fact that we met up with another three Warthogs, the Spirit's pilot continued to dog us. I would certainly have liked to ask him if he wasn't so hostile.
My last clip of ammo went dry just as a Pelican rounded the corner, the missile pods on its wings blowing its Covenant rival in half. Every Marine in the street let out a roar of delight at our salvation while the Pelican came down in a small clearing…and by "clearing" I mean an exceptionally large and flat chunk of debris. We disembarked before the other teams, and hustled into the troop bay. Even beneath the engines of our angel, the vibrations shook us all. As one, all sixteen Marines rotated, and the sight did not disappoint: a Scarab blew through an apartment building and began its lumbering path towards us.
I did my best to hide my fear, but considering that a Scarab cannon can vaporize Scorpion tanks, I didn't do a very good job. "Mount up, Marines!" I commanded, snatching their attention back to the objective. Cal and Jet hauled Alan off the Warthog, and, after Karen and I clambered into the Pelican, heaved him to us.
Mira dragged Alan towards the cabin, calling "Is anybody here a medic?" Two troopers stepped forward, and accepted Alan's charge.
The ragtag survivors stuffed the transport, and somebody signaled the pilots to take off. Fate, never generous, compelled the Scarab to turn towards us…and discharge.
While the blast was not a direct hit, it destabilized our flight, and nearly sent us into a building. Our fearless fliers saved us, but the Scarab gunners were relentless. We managed to escape amidst a hail of plasma fire.
Alan died on the way out.