Lambda Serpentis System, Goldarch Plateau, planet Craft.
"Contacts, I repeat, enemy contacts, two o' clock south of my position."
Sergeant Davis Brewman and his six-man unit concealed themselves within the surrounding forests of a long strip of clearing. The strip traveled all the way to Stronghold Alpha. The UNSC had planned to utilize this clearing, and launch a hidden assault against the base's northwestern corner. Brewman's unit's objective was to prevent the UNSC troops from exiting the clearing, and approaching the base.
The UNSC troops began to march down the clearing. A squad of twenty took point, guns at their sides. They still had a full kilometer to go before they would arrive at the stronghold. Breman would take quick advantage of their opened and exposed flanks. Quietly, over his radio, Brewman whispered, "Open fire."
MA5B Assault Rifle reports echoed throughout the clearing, forests, and northern canyons. The UNSC soldiers, in a box-formation march, began to drop to the dirt on all sides. But as the center and front soldiers began to break off in a sprint, Brewman removed a fragmentation grenade from his shoulder belt, pulled the pin, counted to three, and hurled the small explosive device into the very epicenter of the confusion. The explosion added to the ruckus that the rifles began, but Brewman ordered, "Fire short, controlled bursts of three, and conserve ammunition. Exit the forest slowly." Brewman stood behind his cover as he watched his troops slowly pull out, and finish off the stragglers. Four wounded lay groaning on the grass. They would make excellent prisoners of war.
Brewman quickly contacted his commanding corporal, Jim Stange. "Our forces have neutralized a UNSC strike team. How are things on your end, sir?"
Stange returned, "Everything is running good. Our defenses are looking ready for a war. Pull out of there."
Brewman, grinning, stepped out of his hiding place, and praised his squad. "Excellent work, boys. Grab those wounded soldiers, and we'll haul on back to the base. Corporal Stange is going to need all the help he can get with—"
As Brewman had spoken that last word, the report of a distant S2 Sniper Rifle was heard echoing of the rocks. A split-second later, Brewman's crimson blood began to gush out of a bullet sized hole exit wound in his neck, mizing in the with the dirt, turning it into queer maroon mud.
The other five members of Brewman's unit quickly scattered, and dashed for cover, but the hidden sniper claimed two more victims in this massacre. Had they gotten out of this sticky situation, they would need a new sergeant.
A kilometer south, Corporal Stange watched as his massive 200-man unit, Gemini Squad, quickly set up a daunting defense line. A smile crossed his lips as he trotted down an imaginary boundary line that separated the resistance land from the vast unclaimed territory of Craft. Humourously, a soldier had planted a wooden sign along the line. Scrawled in white paint and bad handwriting read, "Point of no UNSC return."
Static from an incoming transmission had shattered Stange's peaceful indulgence of pride in his oversized squad. Instinctively, he slapped the comm., and greeted properly, "This is Corporal Stange, go ahead"
A panicked, terrified voice had come back. "This is Brewman's squad," he cried with genuine fear. "The sergeant is down, and we got two others dead from sniper fire! We need reinforcements, now!"
Stange frowned. He had known that this event was going to happen, he just didn't figure it would be so soon. Field Commander Joel Hansen had placed Brewman's six-man crew so far from the stronghold and so close to the UNSC invasion landing point to serve as an observation/sacrificial unit. Their only real objective was to stand position a kilometer north of the stronghold in the hidden pass, and see just how long it would take them to get wasted. Lives of perfectly good soldiers were being spent uselessly, and now that they were under attack, the UNSC would undoubtedly finish them off in seconds, and hurry to attack Stronghold Alpha. Stange's squad would have to work double-fast to prepare for the UNSC battalion to arrive.
"Negative, soldier," Stange muttered with a pang of regret and sorrow. He desperately wanted to send a reconnaissance force over there, and pull the troops out, but Hansen would bust him down to Private Third Class for insubordination. Stange sputtered out a lame-assed excuse as to why his understandable request had to be denied. And Stange hated excuses, especially from himself.
Before the soldier even had the chance to respond, his screams of pain had mixed in with assault rifle sprays. Brewman's unit was as good as gone.
Stange wiped the guilty sweat awayfrom his forehead with his sleeve. He knew that he was going to burn in hell for that, but at least Hansen would be doing the same right alongside him.
"Listen up, kiddies," Stange addressed his entire 200-man unit over a bullhorn. "Those UNSC S.O.B's will be here in fifteen minutes, so you had better get your asses in gear, and get this sorry excuse of a boundary defense line up and ready for action, lickety-split!" Stange had always been notoriously tough with his soldiers, but that was the reason why they were possibly the best in the entire resistance army. Those UNSC troops had better be ready for one helluva bash, he thought with glee as he placed a cigar in his mouth and lit it, readying himself for the upcoming battle.
Inside a small four-man trenched defense post, Field Commander Joel Hansen watched as Gemini Squad had put the finishing touches on their defense. They were two-thirds of a kilometer away from the bunker-post, but Hansen was very cautious when it came to his own personal safety. Manning the forward LAAG M41 chain gun mounted outside the tall window was Single Lieutenant (First Class) Sylvain Reno. His duty for the day was to guard the Field Commander. In the event that the UNSC had broken through the boundary line, it was his job to hold the enemy off, and even escort the Field Commander to safety if need be.
Sylvain had generally been green to combat, but he was a natural fighter, having taken a Spartan with his team on the field. Already having been involved if three consecutive and decisive victories over the UNSC had earned him his higher rank, and, at only 24 years of age, he wanted to see more combat action. As a Single Lieutenant, he had devised and carried out many successful strategies, and high command officials opted to promote him to Primary Lead Strategist. However, Sylvain had turned it down. He didn't want a desk job. He wanted to fight, and, more importantly to all, he wanted to win.
"Did you hear that, sir?" Sylvain asked as he turned to Hansen. The Field Commander could see blue fire burn from the young man's eyes. "The UNSC is about to engage our forces at the boundary defense line. Do you think Stange and Gemini can force them into retreat?"
Old Hansen let out a sigh. "I sure hope so, Reno. If his team is broken up, I'm counting on you to give those UNSC bastards a run for their money."
Sylvain gave off a reassuring grin as his palms wrapped around the LAAG's handles tightly. "That's why I'm here, sir."
Hansen ran a hand through his silvery hair, grinned back, and asked, "Do you think you will be having to use that gun today, Lieutenant?"
"Well, sir," Sylvain said as his fiery eyes glanced out onto the soon-to-be battlefield. "I hope not." He gave his beret a tug, and it had a slight tilt to the left side of his head. "I really hope not."
With the UNSC now only 500 meters away from the stronghold's walls, Stange had retreated to the safety of his command bunker, and watched everything through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The UNSC troops were just beginning to pop up over the hills that littered the Goldarch Plateau. He keyed his communicator to all frequencies, and shouted, "Showtime, boys and girls! Give 'em hell!" The sounds of automatic gunfire rumbled through the plateau as rebellion soldiers hosed the UNSC squads with lead. Many of the front brigades had dropped, and the units behind them quickly returned fire. Soldiers chatted and hollered over the radio as the battle raged into a fierce and frenzied start-off. Stange remained in his bunker, giving out commands. He had been their above eyes, and told them to watch for strange enemy unit movement. But his attention would be turned to another direction as he listened to a transmission over the louder emergency frequency. "Watch out, enemy troops at two o' clock of the front gates! Someone take care of them!"
Stange's hardened expression transformed into a menacing grin as he quickly ordered, "Fireteam Bravo, get over there, and shove a firecracker in their ass!" A private responded back with a cheerful, Roger, Corporal!"
Fireteam Bravo was a unit designed by Stange for special tasks. Consisting of three soldiers, who carried Jackhammer Rocket Launchers, and the other held a sidearm along with extra rockets and frag grenades for the other soldiers. AS per orders, the three of them quickly climbed up the eastern gate's ladder. Each soldier quickly darted as fast as they could across the thin catwalk. As the two o' clock reinforcement troop came into view, the lead soldier fell to one knee, aimed his loaded launcher at the foes, and laughed, Only six UNSC regular marines? What kind of trouble could they cook up?" And with that, he squeezed the extended trigger, and the rocket tore through the air, splashing onto the troops, sending flame, dirt, and blood flying into the air. "Nice shot!" The demolitions carrier complimented. The leader keyed his comm., and reported to Stange. "The UNSC sneaks have been put down, sir!"
That one hidden troop was the only worry that had come to Stange. Now that it had been halted, he could relax a little. "Good work Fireteam Bravo. Hold position, and send your rockets against their forward attack brigade," he calmly ordered. The leader acknowledged, "You got it, sir! Engaging UNSC brigades!" Stange knew those Jackhammers would work wonders in slowing down the USNC advancing troop. It looked like the rebellion forces would be claiming victory over the retreating UNSC attack teams, and Stange anticipated it as he puffed on another cigar. He kicked his feet up on his desk, and relaxed. The UNSC would have to think twice before they decided to mess with this rebellion faction on their home turf.
But as his eyes traveled over to the distant skies covering the far-off crags at the end of the plateau, his jaw fell, dropping the cigar to the metal plated floor of the bunker.
Sylvain released his grip from the LAAG a good time ago. The recent successes of Stange's unit had diminished the thought of firing the massive gun. "It's looking good, " he happily exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "It is looking very good, sir!" The old Hansen had also cracked a smile. It was a rarity. Normally, Hansen expressed the view of thousands of rough and tough missions. It was, indeed, looking good. In no time at all, the battle would be ending.
But corporal Stange's stammering echoed in the bunker, and Sylvain's eyes filled with sheer terror. "C-Covenant Battle Armada t-taking positions above! I want tightened defenses all around! Get on those damn AA guns! Do you hear me? Tighten those damn defenses up, triple time!"
Sylvain had never fought the Covenant before in his life, but he had heard horrifying tales from those who had survived their 'holy' onslaught. How they blasted each and every human colonized planet into molted magma with their space bombardment plasma cannons. But the fear would have to be pushed away. No time for that, he thought. Quickly, he turned to a firearms rack, grabbed an MA5B assault rifle, two handfuls of ammunition magazines, and a radio. "I'm going out there to help out! C'mon, sir!" Sylvain shouted to his Field Commander.
Hansen sat motionless; frozen in thought. How could this have happened? Craft was such a remote and secluded planet, a good distance from the Lambda Serpentis System, and he doubted that the Covenant knew it existed. Hell, it took the UNSC a good three decades to discover and register it. It housed a large number of resistance faction members. Its destruction would be a lethal injection for the resistance against UNSC. There hadn't been a trace of Covenant forces since the bases had been established. Why did they suddenly show up now, at the worst of all possible times?
Battle preparations were well underway as the four Covenant cruisers prepared to attack Craft, and destroy every human on it, UNSC or otherwise. The Shipmaster and leader of this operation granted to him by the Prophets, watched as twenty massive U-shaped drop ships blasted out of the bays, carrying a hundred soldiers each. Soma 'Nogalee, the shipmaster, had started to ponder the peculiar objectives and aspects of this mission.
The Prophets had advised him to commence bombardment only after a thorough search of the base had been completed. The hope of discovering a small bit of information was extremely vital to this mission. The human rebels could have the coordinate information of Earth, the humans' home world. If that was discovered, 'Nogalee would be pronounced the hero of the war, and an instrument of the Gods. Failure would not be an option, he vowed.
"Covenant drop ships landing at three o' clock! All defense pull away from the frontal base, and engage the Covenant!" Corporal Stange frantically ordered in a yell over the bullhorn. The UNSC was the least of their worries.
Sylvain was desperate to join the others in battling the Covenant, but Hansen barely moved a muscle as he glared at the concrete flooring. "Sir!" He shouted over and over. The Lieutenant fired a shot into the ceiling, and Hansen snapped out of his silent stupor. His courage was rekindled by Sylvain's blue, burning eyes.
"Sir," Sylvain repeated, "Let's get out there, and help our fellow soldiers! We can't do much just sitting here!"
Hansen awoke, and grinned, "You're right, kid. Come on." Hansen grabbed his only weapon, an M9 sidearm, and stood up. "I haven't seen real combat action in twenty years," Hansen sighed. "But I'm gonna do my God-damndest."
Sylvain and Hansen dashed to the eastern section of the base. Crowds of their fellow soldiers, in the midst ofintense combat,were all vying for a top part of the wall. Towers equipped with LAAG chain guns and HE Class 3 rocket launchers provided tremendous support from the UNSC ground units and pesky but deadly Covenant Seraph fighters buzzing around above their heads. Plasma bolts surged through the air, sizzling the outer ceramics of the walls and gates clean off. Shouting of the soldiers could be heard as they taunted the Covenant. A foolish group of soldiers, too brave for their own good, jumped the walls, and fought the Covenant from the outside. Their comms went dead five seconds later.
Before Sylvain and Hansen had even arrived at the attack point, an explosion rang out, knocking troops off their feet. But they quickly jumped back up, and fired into the smoking hole that was once the gate of the base.
Sylvain and Hansen quickly found Stange, blasting his MA5B rifle down at the Covenant approaching his command post. Sylvain cried out to him.
In an instant, he was on the ground, and saluting both higher officers.
"Sir, I don't know where the hell these bastards came out from," he began, "but I know that we can't hold them off forever!" His voice was almost inaudible over the gunfire and explosions.
Hansen knew he had to abandon his base, but there were serious issued that had to be taken care of. The entire base would have to be destroyed, or else, the Covenant would know about Earth. Next, an escape seemed almost impossible, but there had to be some way.
UNSC Longsword fighters began to take flybys of the Stronghold, reducing whole buildings to rubble. Rebellion troops manned the anti-aircraft guns. GA202 Surface-to-Space shells cruised up to the Longswords.
Stange turned to the gunners, and shouted over the comm., "Focus on the Covenant cruisers!"
Hansen stood, thinking about a possible way off of the doomed rock of Craft. But only one way seemed best; asking the UNSC for a ride.
When he had told Sylvain and Stange this plan, both laughed. "What are we gonna do," Stange managed out, "ask, 'pretty please?'"
Hansen gave Stange an angered glare right in the eye. "Let's hear a better idea from you, then, Corporal," he snarled.
It went against everything the resistance had stood for, but they had to do it. Sylvain reluctantly agreed with Hansen. He grabbed his radio from the rig on his belt, and called, "This is Lieutenant Sylvain Reno calling any UNSC Personnel."
The three awaited a response.
Soon, a crackling transmission came through the sound, "Roger. This is Echo 615. What s your position, over."
Sylvain replied with newfound eagerness. "We are on the grounds of the complex under attack. We request immediate extraction. Send in as many Pelicans as you can."
When he ended the transmission, Sylvain kicked himself. He sounded just like a UNSC Marine regular.
Seven minutes later, fifteen UNSC Pelicans landed within the grounds of the besieged base. Longsword fighters ended their attacks for a moment, and flew cover for the human drop ships.
Hansen grabbed Stange's radio, and commanded, "All units, this is Lead Force. Priority orders are to retreat into the Pelican drop ships. The UNSC is getting us out of here."
Almost instantly, the soldiers quit their defense posts, and dashed to the Pelicans, speeding for dear life. One by one, they were loaded up, all that remained of a doomed defense was the bloody corpses of the fallen soldiers, friend or foe.
When each and every breathing soldier was safely on a Pelican, Sylvain, Stange, and Hansen jumped onto their own Pelicans, Echo 615. Inside was a trio of Spartan-II soldiers, and each of them aimed their assault rifles at them. "Drop your weapons," one ordered, his voice thick and powerful. It didn't even sound human.
Hansen and Stange, out of fear, complied with their demands, but Sylvain just stood defiantly, gritting his teeth.
"I said put all of your weapons down, now." The Spartan repeated, his tone growing aggravated.
Sylvain slowly did so, and they were seated. Each Spartan soldier sat alongside each resistance member, keeping their firearms poised at the center of mass of their prisoners.
The Pelican took rough air, and its altitude rose drastically as the pilot flew his bird up through the hellish and battle scarred atmosphere.
"Hang on back there," he warned. "This is going to get bumpy for the first few minutes."
Each soldier sat while the Spartans did their best to keep their aim at the prisoners. It was a surprise that they didn't restrain them at all.
The ship rattled, and some loose gear tumbled down before floating. They had made it into space, and were home free.
The pilot activated the artificial gravity systems, and the ballistic vests and ammunition clips fell to the deck with metallic thuds. Sylvain felt his weight suddenly return, and he had coughed a few times, re-catching his breath.
The remainder of the ride started off quietly. The pilot informed over the speaker, "One hour until we dock with the Silver Stallion."
For fifteen minutes, Sylvain watched as the Spartans kept its head pointed at him, along with its rifle. He could tell it was communicating with the others. He checked the identification information on the Spartan's chest. It read SPARTAN-203.
Sylvain didn't care. For years, he had gone through rigorous training to hate the UNSC, and the Covenant. Stange and Hansen had given up, but Sylvain wasn't about to. He would much rather go down fighting his enemies rather than rot in a UNSC jail cell. And he had killed a Spartan before. Of course, he had much more resources at his disposal, and there was only one of them. He locked eyes with the Corporal, and kept staring at him.
Stange could see the fires of rage burning with him. The young Lieutenant Reno was about to do something dreadfully insane. With his eyes, Stange advised against it.
Sylvain sat in wait. He watched the other Spartans sitting, and keeping their guard up. Sylvain knew they wouldn't be using their assault rifles. A single bullet from the gun could thin the hull, decompress the air, and the cabin would pop like a balloon. So what if one of them did try something funny? What would they do? How would they react?
Hansen's eyes closed, and he silently slipped his hand into his pocket, and started to pull out an unknown object out. Sylvain knew what it was: his pipe. Hansen had always smoked out of that thing regularly, and he supposed that he would to rub the edge to calm himself down. Sylvain had caught him doing so at times of stress.
But Stange's Spartan quickly turned, and must have told the leader that Hansen was revealing a hidden firearm. The Spartan, with one hand, grabbed Hansen's head, and snapped his neck in half a second. The pipe fell onto the metal flooring.
Sylvain's rage had completely boiled over. The Spartans had just murdered his commanding officer, one whom he had come to respect.
"You bastard!" Sylvain cried out as he dove down onto the deck, and made a reach for the fallen MA5B that dropped onto the floor during takeoff. He had his palms wrapped around the grips, and had drawn a bead on a Spartan when 203 had quickly chopped his neck with the side of his hand. Sylvain had fallen, and his red beret fell onto the deck, beside Hansen's pipe.
Stange shut his eyes tightly. Both of his officers were now down and dead. It looked like he would have to be taking command of the troops if they would be released. His eyes opened to a squint, and he glanced at the two personal belongings of his fallen compatriots. Hansen's pipe had symbolized wisdom, intelligence, and tranquility. Sylvain's red beret had symbolized courage, heroism, and pride. He would keep those objects with him, as a reminder of two one-in-a-million warriors, willing to pay the ultimate price for their causes had the time come. His view transitioned over to the sprawled body of Sylvain…
…and he noticed a small rise and falling of his chest.
Stange almost jumped. His commanding officer wasn't dead, just knocked unconscious. He almost thanked Spartan for not killing him, but instead, he pointed over to Sylvain, and said jovially, "The Lieutenant is alive!"
The Spartan quickly picked him up and returned him to his seat. Only now, he had restrained Sylvain's arms and legs. There was a chance that he would awaken, and try to attack a second time. Then, he grabbed his assault rifle, and jammed the barrel of the weapon onto his left temple.
Stange sighed. He may be a P.O.W, but he had his squad, and one of his friends. He wouldn't be alone.