A boot stomped down onto the gravel, still smoldering from the bombing just moments earlier. Master Sergeant Michael Protich stood with his men. They'd been the first to drop into what was designated Reach City 12. It was a big one; millions of civilians had called it home up until a few hours ago. Now, at least 80 were lying dead in the streets and in their homes. Mike looked at his few men, all that was left of the 209th Infantry. Their orders were simple enough. They had to move into sector 4 and retrieve a lieutenant and whatever men he had, then bring them back to sector 3 where they had more control of the situation.
"P-Roach, are you readin' me?" A voice crackled through his headset. It was an old, familiar voice. It was his good friend Amil Abdallah. Lieutenant Abdallah was a flight coordinator. Whenever a ship launched or landed on his ship, he was the one that ordered it. Right now, Amil was coordinating rescue efforts for the troops. Civilian evacuation was no longer an option. If they hadn't made it out of the cities by now, they weren't.
"Good morning, Lieutenant." Mike laughed back.
"I got good news for you and your men." Amil cheerfully announced, ignoring Mike's ever-present sarcasm. Mike motioned for his men to take cover while he spoke.
"What do you got for me, good buddy?"
"A pilot from my ship just crashed in your sector. Find out if he's alive or dead. If he's alive, bring him back."
"I thought you had good news?"
"He crashed about 200 feet ahead of you." Amil answered matter-of-factly. Mike turned to his men. The twins, Greg and Andrew Hodgdon, were good soldiers. Andrew was a real screw-up, but he had good aim. Greg was the spitting image of the perfect soldier. Strong, fast, smart, and a damned good shot. The only other man he knew was Lance Corporal Greg Horrocks. They called him Hor. He was a friend of theirs since some of the first battles. The other men were either picked up from other units or just greenhorns haphazardly assigned to the 209th. They were nameless, clumsy, and expendable. Every once in a while one of them proved useful and managed to become a real soldier, but many of them became plasma fodder.
"Well? You heard the Lieutenant! We've got a pilot to rescue!" Mike ordered. They began a sprint across the street and against a totally destroyed building. They stopped about 50 feet from the crash site, and they finally saw the wreckage. The Pelican was nearly unidentifiable. It had barreled nose first into the street, bounced into a building, and finally fell off the side of the building and landed on its top in the middle of the street. The bay doors were lodged open. A few bodies lay strewn half in and half out. A warthog seemed to be the only piece of machinery that was relatively alright considering the wreck. It was on its back on top of the wreckage, still anchored to the ship.
"Mike, I'm not gettin' any enemy readings. It looks all clear. I'm picked up one human life form, significantly weakened; possibly the pilot." Hor announced quietly. Mike nodded and made the motion. The twins covered the flanks; a few of the other men covered the rear. The rest ran into the small crater and took cover. A quick whistle sounded, and the other men ran behind them, diving into the crater with them.
Mike surveyed the carnage. There were a few bodies out of the ship. There were a few more inside it. He looked into the ship further and saw that the cockpit door was open. Nobody could be seen inside. Suddenly, a cable snapped and the warthog shifted.
"Heads up!" A shout came. Mike dove as the warthog slid off the ship and crashed onto the ground. He raised his battle rifle up and took aim at the figure emerging on top of the ship. He lowered it when he saw that it was, indeed, a human. The other men stared as this guy dropped the plasma cutter he used to free the warthog.
"Lieutenant Giovanni Scalia?" Mike asked uncertainly. Many officers were notorious for crying for help at the slightest hint of danger or fear. To find an officer that not only wasn't begging for help, but was actually doing something to help his situation was damn near unheard of. Not only that, he'd even shouted a warning to them. This guy was truly something else.
"That's right. You guys the 209th?" He grinned and asked. Mike laughed and extended his hand out to help him down. Jas grabbed his hand and hopped down onto the hood of the warthog.
"Yes, sir, what's left of us at least." Mike replied.
"What? Did you just actually call me sir?" Jas asked, unbelievingly.
"Yes, sir. You are still an officer, even if we are rescuing you." He answered.
"You don't have to; I don't give a damn about formality. I'll be happy with a beer, a woman, or a gun. Right now, I've got one of those three – so I'm a happy guy." The officer laughed. Mike smiled big. This was the first officer he'd met in forever that was minus a stick up his ass.
"Sir, I've got contacts!" Hor shouted. They all snapped back to reality. Jas grabbed the pistol at his side. Mike raised his rifle and dropped down.
"How many?" Mike demanded.
"Eight."
"It's a scout force." Jas mumbled. Mike nodded in agreement.
"Greg, Andrew – I want you to flank from the left and right at the same time. Take out the two jackals. You greenhorns, I want you to just aim for the grunts. Hor, Lieutenant – Let's take out the elite." The Master Sergeant quickly issued his commands. His troops moved as fast as he did and within moments were in position. Soon, they saw the small scout force. These troops usually mopped up any civilians they saw. Sometimes they took prisoners. Most of the time, they did not. Mike looked behind a destroyed car on the road and saw Greg checking his ammo. On the opposite side of the street, he could see through collapsed wall of a building to the sight of Andrew looking down the barrel of his rifle through a window. Within moments, the energy shields of the jackals failed. Gunfire crossed the street from both directions. Soon, the shields were no longer functional and the jackals fell. The twins ducked down to reload. The rest of the troops opened up. The greenhorns were horribly inaccurate. The scout force fired back, their plasma weapons scorching the ground. One greenhorn took a plasma blast to the face, decapitating him immediately. He fell backwards lifelessly. The other greenies looked on in horror.
"FOCUS!" Jas shouted fiercely. The troops quickly regained their composure and resumed their firing. The grunts began falling. Finally, the elite in the rear rushed ahead. Hor and Mike opened fire. The shield protecting the alien began to overheat and disintegrate. Jas leaned forward with his pistol and aimed carefully. He fired three shots. The first shot took out an eye. The second shot missed due to the jerk of the head. The third shot entered its throat. It frantically reached for its neck, and then fell on the ground, flailing and gurgling. The blood gushed out like a geyser. The battle was over. Eight Covenant scouts died. One Human marine died. The odds were good. The twins entered the foxhole, handing Jas the still-gurgling elite's plasma rifle.
"Thanks boys. You all did very well. Don't worry about that one. His death wasn't your fault. Had you not done your job so well, we would have all died." Jas knew the speech. He knew what to tell the enlisted men when their friends died. He knew what to tell the grieving mothers and sisters when their sons and brothers didn't come home. He had a silver tongue, but it frequently got him in more trouble than he could handle.
"He's right. Our job here is done. HQ just sent the word. That other lieutenant and his squad we were looking for are dead. That scout force we just wiped took them all out." Mike nearly whispered. The men looked at their feet. They just weren't fast enough for the Covenant. Jas lifted his head first and spit on the dirt. They looked up at him.
"I'd hate to be the one to interrupt this, but we need to get out of this city pronto. They're firing artillery in a few minutes. It's got a nuclear payload." He reminded. Mike bucked up and nodded in agreement.
"Let's move, boys. If we can get to a safe place, then we can reflect on the day. Now is not the time. Hor!"
"Sir?" Hor snapped to attention.
"Find us an LZ to get us off this planet." Mike ordered. Hor went to work contacting Fleetcom HQ. As they began their march, Jas walked next to Mike.
"I know where we can go." Jas mentioned casually. Mike looked over.
"Where's that, sir?" He asked. Jas pointed to his 1 o'clock.
"About 50 clicks that way. It'll take us all night to get there, but the 25th Tactical has a communications tower held."
"Hopefully they'll still have it." Mike mused.
"They will."