"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.
