"She crashed approximately 25 klicks north-east of your current position.  Relaying coordinates now," crackled the orders from Alpha post over the comm. 
            "Roger that, Alpha post, Charlie One-Twelve out."
            Staff Sergeant Rob Baker punched the throttle to full, sending the warthog careering over a hill, almost due northwards, to land with a sickening crunch of suspension. 
            "We'll be lucky to make it to Tango 546's crash site in one piece, at this rate," jeered the passenger of the all-terrain vehicle, Private Jason Glassbrook.
            "Yeah, Sarge, enemy's still 40 klicks away.  No need to hurry," shouted the Marine manning the three-barreled 50 caliber machine-gun mounted on the rear of the warthog, Private First Class Eric Williams.
            "Now, you both know full well the speed those Cov'nant bastards can travel.  Any second we save gives us another second to set up a perimeter.  Now shut up and keep your eyes out for bogeys," was the stern reply of the Sergeant. 
            The Marines did as commanded.  They scanned the trees as they approached along the seldom-used trail, checking for movements of what could be enemies in ambush.
            Suddenly two large red blips appeared on the Marines' optical viewscreens.  The blips matched perfectly a signature created by a pair of Hunters.  These fearsome 12-foot-tall monsters were covered in impenetrable armor made of an unknown substance, and were armed with shields of the same alloy, making them effectively invincible.  Squads had emptied clips upon clips into the creatures, only to have their rounds deflected harmlessly into the ground or air.  Hunters were heavily armed, as well.  Their shields were capable of rending a warthog in two and casting it carelessly 5 feet away from the Hunter.  A Marine could be trampled underfoot as his squad members were thrown aside.  But the most fearsome weapon they possessed, beside their sheer brute strength, was the fuel rod cannons mounted on their arms.  When fired, these weapons would discharge a bolt of green plasma, which exploded on impact.  Also, by some odd rule of the Covenant caste system, Hunters always traveled in pairs.  A fuel rod shot would leave a warthog as shrapnel, and leave a Marine a bloody mess upon the wall.  And one of these monsters was about to fire at Baker's squad. 
            Through the magnifiers on the Marines' optical viewscreens, they could see the beasts step from behind a knot of trees one Hunter on each side of the path, with 6 or 8 of the small Grunts behind them.  Baker shouted, "Glassbrook!  Rockets!"  This was enough to convey his orders.  Glassbrook reached to his left and unlatched a compartment in between the two front seats containing weaponry.  From the back of the compartment he drew a SPNKr rocket launcher, loaded already with two tubes.  He slammed the compartment shut, set his MA5B assault rifle on the floor, and leveled the rocket launcher on the top of the warthog's windshield.  "Sir!  Can you get us in range?!" he asked. 
            The sergeant replied, "If we don't get vaporized first!"
            The fuel rod cannon on one of the Hunters' arms could be seen charging.  At this long range, though, the warthog would be a difficult target.  When a green flash emanated from where the Hunter was, Baker pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, all four wheels turning in unison.  He then turned back to the left, and with a small fishtail straightened out and was back on a suicidal run towards the Hunter in time to see a flash of green light, accompanied by a wave of heat and a dull explosion. 
            The 50 caliber Light Anti-Aircraft Gun came to life, sending a spray of thousands of bullets per minute towards the grouping of Covenant with a deafening sound and an utter lack of precision as it rotated.  Several of the Grunts fell over, though it wasn't certain whether they fell from the bullets or fear of them.  Sparks flashed as rounds impacted the first Hunter's armor and ricocheted.  Spent shell casings fell to the ground, silent compared to the gun firing.  After seeing that the bullets weren't making even a dent, Williams stopped and removed his earplugs.  The sound still rung in the ears of Baker and Glassbrook. 
            The second Hunter fired, as its comrade fended off machine-gun rounds, only to be narrowly avoided by some quick maneuvering.  Finally the Marines were close enough to fire off a rocket accurately.  Baker pulled the handbrake and sent the warthog into a slide that ended up with it 20 feet from the aliens.  "Glassbrook!  Out!" yelled Baker.  The two marines in the front seats jumped out of the vehicle and grabbed their weapons.  Williams opened fire again, the half-inch bullets ripping through the meager armor of the five-foot-tall Grunts.  Gouts of blue blood sprayed everywhere as they were tossed about by the machine-gun fire meant to take down aircraft.  The methane tanks on the Grunts' backs ignited, setting them aflame.  As soon as the Grunts were taken care of, Williams turned his attention to the major threats: the Hunters.  It was futile, though; the rounds simply weren't penetrating.  If he continued firing, though, he thought he may be able to get a lucky shot, or at least keep the Hunter pinned down while the other Marines took down the first one. 
            Meanwhile, Glassbrook was lying prone, trying to find the time to fire at one of the Hunters, with Williams spewing bullets carelessly overhead.  Through the sight on the launcher, he could see the Sergeant trying to draw the Hunter's attention away from the virtually defenseless warthog.  He was spraying rounds from his rifle at it, yet failed to attract its attention.  Baker unclipped a fragmentation grenade from his belt and tossed it in front of the Hunter lumbering slowly towards Williams and the warthog.  After bouncing three times on the hardened dirt, the grenade exploded, stunning the Hunter.  He looked around to see who had thrown the explosive, and finally saw Baker. 
            This was Glassbrook's opportunity to fire.  The unarmored orange flesh on the Hunter's back was the weakest spot.  Glassbrook aimed the crosshairs of the rocket launcher's scope squarely on the monster's exposed back and squeezed the trigger. 
            A rocket exploded from the disposable tube on the launcher with a roar and a stream of exhaust, impacting the center of the Hunter's back.  The rocket exploded, leaving a gaping orange wound in the tough beast's unarmored backside.  He stumbled a few feet, and then collapsed in front of Sergeant Baker.
            As soon as loosing the rocket, Glassbrook turned on his side and aimed at the second Hunter.  His shielded arm was covering his face and neck from gunfire; he was blind.  Taking time to get off a clear shot, Glassbrook aimed for the Hunter's foot, where the rocket's force wouldn't be deflected by armored plating. 
            At the same time, Baker was clambering into the Warthog to get a sniper rifle.  He pulled it from its clamp and rested it against his shoulder and the hood of the vehicle, and aimed for the orange flesh of the Hunter's neck, currently covered by his shield.  He waited for Glassbrook's rocket and for the blinding flash and cloud of dirt from the explosion to settle, and squeezed the trigger.  The contrail of the discarding sabot round traced a path straight through the Hunter's neck.           
            "Yeah, stay down," said Glassbrook, as he emptied a burst of ammunition into the fallen Hunter's skull.  "Let's police these weapons."
            The Marines went about collecting the plasma pistols wielded by the Grunts; their orders were to collect Covenant weaponry for research purposes.  They even made an attempt at prizing off the Hunters' fuel rod cannons, but gave up.  The weapon seemed grafted to the Hunter's arm, and they didn't want to risk setting it off.  These plasma pistols were dumped in the back near where the machine-gun was mounted, and the Marines were off again along the path, hoping the downed ship could hold off the enemy until they arrived.