5 km Outside Pawas
Afghanistan
Sol III (Terra)
15:15 Local (10:45 Zulu)
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Murphy ducked as six-inch-long, red-hot tungsten spikes suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision, stuck into the ferrocrete wall to his right. He pivoted on his knee, bringing the BR55 to bear and squeezing off a three-round burst. The four riflemen left in his squad joined in after a moment, dropping the three hundred kilo form of the Brute to the ground. More rifle fire barked in the distance, followed by the distinctive roaring of another enemy soldier.

"Scratch one grizzly," came Lance Corporal Julian's baritone over the COM. "Staff, a suggestion?"

"Go," replied Murphy, as his eyes swept the blasted, ruined walls—all that was left of what had been an idyllic suburban area after several weeks of fighting—around him.

A little over a month before, he'd been recovering from the hairiest mission he'd ever had the bad luck to be involved in. Diego Garcia had been like paradise, despite the lack of facilities on the base; there, nobody had been shooting at him. Like all good things, though, it hadn't lasted. The damned Covvies had decided to invade Earth, and it was up to Murphy—and those like him—to stop them from taking over the whole damned planet.

"Those grizzlies seem to be coming from the northeast. If we move two streets over, we should be able to occupy the remains of these buildings here, and here," the L/Cpl continued, bringing up a topographic/satellite composite map in his HUD and highlighting the areas he was talking about. "It should give us clean lines of fire down over these cleared areas to the north and east while still allowing us to E&E out, if we have to, via these two sets of ruins."

"Good job, Julian. We won't be doing the Mogadishu Mile if I can help it, though. Top promised some reinforcements soon," Murphy replied.

First Sergeant Wilson had been with Murphy since his first drop with Bravo of the One-Twenty-Ninth. She'd, personally, saved his ass more times than he could count; he'd returned the favor many times over. They were buddies, as much as two different-ranking noncoms could be, and he trusted her implicitly. Even so, he was not willing to divulge the nature of their "reinforcements" to his men just yet. His memory flashed back to the conversation that he'd had with Top the night before…



"According to FLEETCOM, the squidheads have broken off from the main covvie military, over some sort of philosophical differences, and decided that the human race is worth fighting for. Therefore, we're supposed to get reinforced by a short company of the fuckers some time tomorrow," First Sergeant Wilson explained. "The exact timing is uncertain, but FLEETCOM is definite that they are friendlies. So, no blue on blue 'accidents'. That's an order. Any questions?"

Murphy sighed and then keyed his COM, "Not so much a question, Top, but rather an observation."

"Go ahead," she replied.

"Well, from the Seven Habits of Highly Effective Pirates: 'The enemy of my enemy is my enemy's enemy. No more. No less," Murphy quoted. "Top, how do we know that these guys aren't just going to wait for us to let our guard down and then betray us to their former 'friends'?"

Her answer was not one likely to inspire confidence, "We don't, Staff Sergeant. That's why I want you to keep an eye on them. Besides, I'm familiar with the Seven Habits myself…"


He shook his head to clear it of the memory and continued, "By the numbers, people. Evens, cover. Odds, move. You know the drill."

The squad made it a whole half a kilck down the road before running into another Covvie patrol. Two squeakies—grunts in the "official" ONI designation nomenclature—stumbled out into the middle of the street, apparently arguing with each other in their high-pitched voices. As none of the troopers in Murphy's squad had translation programs, they couldn't follow the conversation. It was obvious, though, that the two of them were not getting along well when one hit the other on the head with the butt of a plasma pistol.

That, however, didn't worry the squad; the veteran ODSTs simply melted silently back into the shadow-cloaked doorway of what appeared to have once been a grocery store. What worried them was the massive form of a power-armored grizzly who roared at the pair and even kicked the squeaky who had kicked the other. The grizzly stopped for a moment, his nostrils flaring and turned to look directly at the five Helljumpers' hiding place.

Shit, Murphy thought, we're upwind. He can smell us from that far away?

He ordered Julian to unlimber a frag grenade and the rest of his marines into firing positions at each of the windows on the ground floor with hand signals. Seeing the grizzly and his retinue of squeakies getting closer and closer, he snapped into the COM, "Now!"

Julian tossed the grenade overhand through the busted-out window and went flat to avoid the backblast. The grenade went off with a massive "CRACK!", shredding the grunts and wounding the brute. Four rifles spoke as one, riddling the massive creature's form with 9.5mm rounds and dropping it, lifelessly, to the dusty roadbed.

Such had been the marines' life for the past month and a half, fighting hopeless holding actions against a massively superior foe, hoping against hope to stop the invasion of that last bastion of humanity, Earth...