The Great Journey
A/N: One cycle equals sixty units equals 120 minutes equals two hours (FFN doesn't take equals signs anymore). Also, I know my setting of Zanzibar doesn't match up exactly with the map in the game, but I felt that the boundaries set by the map were way too confining. And in case you were wondering, obviously the UNSC Military Calendar does not take into account any time zones of Earth, as the sun set on Zanzibar well past midnight. Name of the Elite, Grunt, and Hunter faction changed to "Separatist," in favor of increased formality. Three dashes (- - -) indicate a passage of time or minor setting/section change, in place of asterisks which FFN also no longer accepts. They seem to accept very few symbols nowadays, but I can't do anything about it.
Reviews:
I've recently heard of FFN punishing writers for responding to reviews, and although I haven't confirmed this, until it is disproved or if the ban exists and is lifted, I can no longer respond to reviews. Sorry.
Chapter 10: Fire From The Sky
0242 hours, February 22, 2553 (UNSC Military Calendar) ♦ EAP Wind Power Station 7, Zanzibar Island, Tanzania, Africa.
Captain Summers was taking a short breather in Dog Company's command bunker after helping to shore up the beach defenses when the Marine manning the radar station called him over. Sighing in tired frustration, he hauled himself up and asked, "What is it, Private Hunter?"
Private Hunter stabbed at the radar display with his finger. "Three bogeys, sir, coming in just under Mach 1 from the east. No word from Ace HQ about any inbound air support, and no friendly tags either, so it's safe to assume that they are Covenant aircraft."
Summers, exasperated, was about to order the AA gunners to knock out the aircraft when the COM system on the far side of the bunker beeped. A Marine leapt up to examine it.
"Incoming transmission, Captain, but it's on a Covenant band, sir." It took a moment for the meaning to sink into the soldier's fatigued mind. "Those Covenant aircraft – they must be trying to contact us."
"Put it on now. Tell the 88 gunners to hold their fire but stay on the alert. No telling what these tricky bastards might be up to," said the Captain.
"Yes, sir."
The COM system crackled and then came to life. "This is Elite Field Master Fura 'Folamee," growled a faint and tired voice, characteristic of those weary from days of ceaseless battle. "If you humans are receiving this message…I beg you not to destroy us. We Elites, Grunts, and Hunters are no longer members of the Covenant, and are now your honorable allies. If you choose not to believe us…then ask your own Admiral before you open fire."
So Admiral Hood wasn't kidding, noted Captain Summers dryly. The Admiral had sent a transmission on all UNSC channels regarding the alliance, but Summers hadn't quite believed the story until now. He shot a look to Captain Allen, who was poring over charts of Zanzibar Island on a foldout table. Allen, who was visiting D Company's CP to coordinate the defense plan with Summers, returned the glance with a slight smile. Any type of reinforcements – whether Separatist or human – would be greatly appreciated by the two Captains.
The Captain quickly returned the transmission, keeping any scorn or suspicion out of his voice. "Field Master Fura 'Folamee, this is human Captain Elliot Summers, co-commander of this post. I know of this alliance, and give you permission to land on the pads to the rear of this power station." However, he didn't allow the 88 gunners to relax, in case the entire thing was a ruse.
"Thank the Gods," said the listless voice on the other end. The Phantoms floated in closer to the human positions and began to descend as their pilots spotted the landing pads, floodlight in anticipation of their arrival. 88mm AA cannons and 12.7mm heavy machine guns tracked the dropships until they landed. It never hurt to be cautious, and besides, most of the Marines had spent lifetimes battling the Covenant. They were bound to be suspicious of their old adversaries.
Summers cut the transmission and stepped out into the night. It was pitch-black momentarily, then the full moon appeared through a bank of clouds, casting an eerie glow upon Zanzibar Island. He glanced down at his soldiers on the beach and could dimly make out the defensive line. The moonlight glinted off the human weapons' barrels, creating the illusion that there was a row of mirrors planted in the ground below. The Captain looked to the pads, where the Phantoms had just landed.
A troop of approximately forty Elites and Grunts descended from the three Phantoms. The majority of the Separatist soldiers were covered in filth, soot, and most of all, blood. The Elites seemed too exhausted to even make an attempt at cleaning off their armor, which they usually kept in pristine condition as a sign of their superiority. Numerous Separatists sported wounds, both slight and major. Though fatigued, all of the Separatists still seemed to be able to fight.
The single Elite that wore the gold-plated armor indicative of Elite commanders separated himself from the Separatist ranks and approached Captain Summers. The Marine had left his command bunker and strolled out to greet the Field Master. To all the humans' surprise, the gold-armored Field Master offered a four-fingered hand to Summers, which was taken by the Captain after he got over his initial shock. The Covenant had extensive knowledge of all aspects of human life, despite the fact that they were trying to exterminate the humans. Of course, most of the UNSC forces didn't know that, and were continually shocked by the aliens' knowledge of their mannerisms.
"Greetings, Captain. I, as you already know, am Field Master 'Folamee. I am the commander of the all the remaining Separatists from the Covenant carrier Prophet's Flame. Nearly all of us were eliminated by the treacherous Covenant. We barely managed to board the Phantoms with our lives. I believe that we carry some divine luck with us, for we were not disintegrated by the carrier's weaponry. Perhaps they are even more frightened of damaging the Ark than I initially expected."
Summers didn't understand the last statement, but decided that there would be time for explanations later. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, 'Folamee, but it seems like you and your Separatists have walked straight into another battle. A large Covenant assault force is currently headed straight for this location, and intend to take it by force. My orders are to hold this station by any means possible, and I have no intention of disobeying those orders. You can stay and assist us if you wish, and that would be greatly appreciated. However, there is no clear chain of command between Separatists and humans, so I cannot order you to stay. The decision is yours."
'Folamee twisted his mandibles into a grim smile. "Even if I wished to depart from this wretched place, our Phantoms were not refueled before we departed the Prophet's Flame. I doubt that they even have enough power to lift off again."
Inwardly, Captain Summers was relieved that the Separatists would remain on Zanzibar to help the human forces. "Very well, then. I'll give you a short assessment on our current situation, which you can relay to your soldiers as you please.
Not counting your forces, we have two companies of Marines in total – that is to say, approximately 320 – available for defense. We've entrenched ourselves firmly on the island, with three lines of defense, as you can probably see from up here in the moonlight. In addition to the standard small-arms weaponry, we have forty mortar tubes set up, for we were unable to obtain heavier artillery pieces. An aircraft carrier stationed nearby will provide us with periodic air support, but this will become unavailable if we are forced to engage the Covenant in hand-to-hand combat because friendly fire will become a serious concern. Finally, we needn't have much fear of enemy artillery as an air strike disabled or destroyed most of the Covenant Wraiths over an hour ago. We are heavily outnumbered, unlikely to be reinforced, but we hold the strong point. I aim to keep it."
'Folamee nodded agreeably. "An Elite could not think of a better plan. Though one thing troubles me. Do you know why you are even defending this position, Captain? Is it an important location to you humans? I see no great purpose for the Covenant to send such a large strike force to capture this post."
Captain Summers scratched the stubble of his unhelmeted head. "I'm just as clueless about it as you are, 'Folamee. I'm just here to do my job."
"I see." The Field Master stroked his armored mandibles thoughtfully. "I doubt even those mindless Prophet-slave Brutes know. It is in that damned Prophet's nature to hide things from those who serve him. Who can analyze the workings of such a twisted mind?"
Summers again restrained himself from asking about the Elite's curious statements, and changed the topic as a distraction. "Er, Field Master, if you or your soldiers require weaponry, we have enough extras to provide you with some," he said, noticing that quite a few of 'Folamee's followers were unarmed. He pointed towards a bunker at the far end of the cliff. "Our temporary armory is located over there."
"I am thankful to be placed alongside such a capable commander," remarked 'Folamee gratefully as he headed off to re-equip himself, motioning for the Separatists to follow.
Several more minutes slipped by, in which the Elite Field Master placed nearly all of his troops alongside the humans in the beach trenches. He selected a few expert snipers to join their human counterparts on the seawall, and retreated to D Company's CP to do some final planning with the two human commanders. With each passing moment, the Covenant armada drew ever closer to their mysterious goal of Zanzibar Island.
- - -
Veteran Elite Ako 'Onomee stretched his muscular arms out in anticipation of the coming battle. Like most of the Separatists and Marines that surrounded him in the slit trenches, he preferred engaging the enemy to sitting in a slit trench and playing the waiting game. 'Onomee ran his left hand over alien contours of the Battle Rifle that he had selected. He had seen humans cut down many Covenant soldiers with this type of weapon and hoped that the rifle would do the same in his hands.
He glanced to his right, taking in his environment as any good soldier would do. A Marine was there, holding a long-barreled projectile weapon with a box attached to its side. From the box ran a belt of large, wickedly sharp projectiles that fed into the Marine's gun. 'Onomee remembered the weapon's name now; it was "gun machine" or something of the sort. "Machine gun", that was it. His former squad had the bad luck to run straight into a machine gun's line of fire. He knew from firsthand experience that was capable of spewing deadly projectiles at a fast face, but that was a bonus for him in this case.
As for the Marine himself, the Elite saw a cold, hard look in his eyes. 'Onomee instantly recognized that look; it belonged to only the steel-hearted soldiers that were revered so much in Elite culture.
'Onomee couldn't say the same for the human to his left, however. This Marine was shaking slightly and had a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, even though a cool breeze was blowing constantly through the trench. Nervously, he clicked the safety of his Battle Rifle on and off repeatedly. 'Onomee had seen many apprehensive Elites who were entering their first battle, and they had behaved similarly to this human. Though the Elite felt no great love towards his new allies, he decided that it would be for his benefit to enter battle with cool-headed soldiers at his side.
"Don't worry, human. It's not as bad as some say." Surprised, the Marine nearly dropped his Battle Rifle, and glanced at the Elite in a half-shocked state.
"I…uh, well…" he stammered, not knowing how to respond.
The Elite growled impatiently. "This is your first battle, isn't it, human?"
He nodded dumbly. "Yes, it is." He stopped, still searching for words. "I'm completely green…I mean, I don't have any experience, unlike most of the other Marines here. I'm only nineteen years old."
Having studied the human lifespan, 'Onomee knew that this was a very young age for a human to be in the military. He nodded in understanding; Elites had often joined the Covenant military as soon as they came of age. Some found the initial experience to be somewhat alarming.
"Worry will only make your first battle your last. Try to focus on aiming your weapon and stay on the alert. Remember: there is no time for worry, human. If the battle tips in the enemy's favor, stay close to me. No Brute scum will ever defeat Ako 'Onomee in single combat," the Elite boasted, though he actually had slain a considerable amount of Brutes on board the Prophet's Flame.
The Marine gulped, then shook his head and replied, "You're right, 'Onomee. Thanks." He paused yet again, then saluted the Elite in a bizarre move of respect. "And you can call me Taylor, sir. Private Ryan Taylor. Not 'human.'"
'Onomee gave a low chuckle. "'Sir?' I thought you humans reserved that term for your commanders."
"Yeah, we do," said Taylor, who let the implications of what he had just said sink in.
"I am no commander, merely a Veteran," 'Onomee said, bemused at how quickly the human assumed that his rank of "Private" was lower than 'Onomee's "Veteran." Unfortunately, the Elite had not been able to research the human military ranking system, so he would have to take Taylor's word for it. 'Onomee noted with some satisfaction that the human Marine was less jittery before. The Private gazed out to sea calmly, watching the shadow on the already darkened horizon grow steadily larger.
The three COs decided that it was best to pound the incoming Covenant vehicles with the human mortars to soften them up, and then coordinate their beach forces to open fire at the same time. This would hopefully decimate the first few ranks of Covenant vehicles and troops, after which the snipers would open up as well, cutting down any exposed enemies. The Separatists and humans on the beach would reload under the cover of sniper fire and suppress the Covenant when the snipers ceased fire. It was a simple, tried-and-true method of continuous fire, further supplemented by the mortar teams that would have an easy time hitting the stationary landing forces. Between these three groups, the Covenant would be slowly pounded to dust.
Captain Summers stood on the edge of the cliff where the command posts and anti-aircraft cannons were perched, slapping a helmet onto his close-shaven head. He flipped down the helmet's transparent information display over his right eye, switched it to a night-vision setting, and saw that the range between the Covenant armada and his position had closed dramatically.
In fact, they were within 7,000 meters, the maximum range of the M353 mortar that was used by UNSC Marines.
As soon as the statement "Shooting gallery's open, boys!" came down to the Marines manning the M353s, forty rounds were dropped into the tubes and were sent whistling towards the enemy. The mortar teams made minute adjustments to their weapons in order to compensate for the Covenant vehicles' forward velocities, then fired off a second volley, which was closely followed by a third. Two Pelicans had airlifted in twelve of the UNSC's multipurpose weapons / ammunition capsules filled with mortar rounds, so there was no shortage of shells for the Marines to fire.
Captain Summers, Allen, and Field Master 'Folamee watched the results through high-magnification sniper scopes and binoculars. Some rounds splashed harmlessly into the ocean, either overshooting or falling short of their targets. Conversely, with so many Shadows and Spectres clustered together, the majority of the mortar rounds found something to strike. Gouts of flame marked mortar detonations, which were usually followed by the explosion of the vehicle that a round had struck. In fact, the mortar teams needn't even destroy the Covenant transports; damaging an antigravity pod would send a Shadow or Spectre straight into the ocean.
After the fourth volley struck, some bright light in the Covenant ranks had the sense to order the vehicles to separate, greatly diminishing the usefulness of the mortars. The Marines chose to cease fire until the Brutes and Jackals landed and greet their unwelcome visitors with 81mm high-explosive surprises.
Consulting his one-eye information display again, Summers notified his troops that the Covenant were within 3,000 meters of the power station. Behind the assault force was a trail of sinking wrecks and floating bodies, evidence of the usefulness of weaponry that the Covenant had deemed as archaic and worthless.
Not a single Marine or Elite twitched in the trenches on the beach. The only sources of light coming from the sea were the flames of the damaged craft, which were soon extinguished by the restless sea. Complete darkness fell like a curtain once more.
All of Marines and Elites chose one of the dark approaching shapes and trained their weapons on to them, after which the only movement they made was the blinking of their eyes. Most Grunts were not present; they never had the stomach for war, anyway, being the relatively docile race they were. Still, there were some Grunts that had weathered many battles and were not fazed by the prospect of entering another. Anxiousness buzzed through the air, but no Elite or human wanted to be seen as a coward, so any observer who looked upon them with a flashlight would've noted that a wall of seasoned, hard-eyed warriors were on the beach that night.
Summers watched the range decrease steadily in his eye display. Beside him, he knew that Allen and 'Folamee were focused on the same thing with their own equipment. He clicked on the customized COM channel that encompassed Charlie Company, Dog Company, and the Separatist platoon, waiting for the inevitable moment to arrive.
"200 meters! Beach team, let 'em have it!" the Captain roared as the first bolts of plasma appeared from the Covenant attack vehicles.
A deafening roar broke the stillness that had settled over Zanzibar Island. Swarms of yellow-orange tracers filled the night air, slashing through the front row of Shadows instantly. Rockets erupted from the trenches, smashing into any object that they came into contact with and swallowing it in a ball of fire. Plasma spewed from the various vehicles that the Covenant employed, dissipating harmlessly on the beach fortifications. The return fire from the shocked Covenant troops was sparse; for now, the defenders' plan was working. Confusion reigned supreme among the Brutes and Jackals as their vehicles were jammed up behind the wrecks of the front ranks.
Sharp cracks replaced the full-automatic barrage as the snipers, with their night-vision scopes, began to pick off the disorganized Covenant soldiers on the open-air vehicles. Mortars sailed through the air once more to sow discord among the already-disoriented Brutes and Jackals. It was a full two minutes before the Covenant closed the final 200 meters and landed their first troops on the beach, which were promptly killed by a mix of Battle Rifle, sniper, and machine gun fire.
Although the Covenant had lost a sixth of their strength in the opening minutes of the battle, their vast reserves of troops slowly began to turn the tide. Piles of bodies and wrecked transports served as cover for the middle and rear ranks of the Covenant battalion. Mortars were able to bypass these obstacles, but they were too few to kill many of the enemy. As if this weren't enough, the sandbag/instacrete barrier in front of the beach trenches was quickly being eaten away by constant plasma fire. Four and a half minutes into the battle, the Separatist and human coalition finally took their first casualties – two Grunts killed by plasma and a Marine decapitated by a Carbine bullet.
Shell casings formed huge piles in the trenches while bullets and plasma continued to form reciprocal lines of fire between the Covenant and human/Separatist positions. 'Onomee shot three Brutes in their unprotected heads and slaughtered a squad of Jackals with a fragmentation grenade. He ducked down to reload his Battle Rifle while the Marine to his right mowed down any Covenant caught out in the open with his M297.
Private Taylor was caught up in the intensity of the battle and in his own adrenaline rush, his fear shoved away to a distant past as he ran through eight Battle Rifle clips in a matter of minutes.
"Captain Summers, sir, casualties are mounting and we're running low on all types of ammunition! There's too many of the bastards – we'll be overwhelmed in a few minutes unless we're resupplied!" shouted a Marine Lieutenant desperately over the command channel.
The Captain swiftly ran through his options. If he tried to resupply the beach forces, the exposed ammunition runners would undoubtedly be killed by Covenant fire. He glanced at the massive lines of Covenant corpses and yelled, "Negative, Lieutenant! I'm ordering a full retreat of the beach! Wait for my command!"
He switched to the all-hands channel. "Snipers and mortar teams, switch to thermal sights, keep those Covenant pinned! Beach team, smoke grenades, up and over those barriers, then fall back! Fall back now!"
Separatists and Marines tossed blinding smoke grenades into the Covenant positions and abandoned their trenches. Mortar shells and sniper rounds streaked into the smoky cloud, pinning down the Covenant while the beach team retreated. The enemy rounds appearing through the smoke and striking with deadly, thermal-sight-guided accuracy had an impact on the Covenant morale. For a while they cowered behind cover, as the first soul who looked out would have his head blown off by three or more snipers.
The Marines, Grunts, and Elites reached the barricade that had been erected across the seawall entrance, leapt over it, hastily resupplied themselves, and rushed to find firing positions on the wall. As Captain Summers watched the Marines, Elites, and Grunts retreat, he knew that the defenders' plan was beginning to fall apart. He had not counted on having to retreat so quickly, and it was now too late and too dangerous to call in artillery support from UNSC surface ships that he had initially been planning on. Friendly fire was an extreme concern at this point.
Captain Allen decided that C Company's rocketeers needed a better vantage point, and made that opinion clear to his Marines. "Mitchell, Saxon! Take two squads of rocket jockeys and bring them up to this bluff! Get to the beachside cliff, set up floodlights to illuminate the beach, and pound the Covenant with rockets from above!"
"Yes, sir," replied the two Marines as they picked out twenty rocket-wielding soldiers and led them up to the bluff. They reached the beachside cliff in thirty seconds, where they had a clear view of the Brutes and Jackals who were behind the cover of bodies and destroyed vehicles. Nearly two dozen rockets flashed down to the Covenant, who were not expecting an attack from an elevated position to their flank. A second wave of twenty-two rockets followed, throwing fountains of bloody sand and body parts in all directions. Floodlights were switched on, blinding the already-confused Covenant even further and making them easy targets for the walltop defenders.
One Marine had leaned out too far over the cliff and was shot through the chest by a keen-eyed Jackal sniper. His buddies quickly hauled him back and brought him to the infirmary, yelling for him to hang on. The Marine was lucky; had he been shot ten centimeters up the vertical, he would've been a goner.
The same could not be said for many of his comrades who had died on the beach. A hundred humans and Separatists had been killed trying to prevent the Covenant from landing, but those deaths were not on anyone's mind as an enraged Brute commander ordered a charge on the seawall. Animal roars rang out from the beaches as the Brutes and Jackals readied themselves for the charge, and shot out the floodlights.
The surviving Marines and Separatists did two things. They steeled themselves to meet the charge. And they prepared to meet whatever fate awaited them. Victory or death.
0357 hours, February 22, 2553 (UNSC Military Calendar) ♦ Covenant carrier Prophet's Flame, holding position in Earth's stratosphere.
Karkatus leaned back in his Leader's chair and allowed himself a small smile of victory. From the combat reports that had been streaming in from the Brute ground commander, it was the island would be taken within half a cycle.
The holographic image of the Prophet of Truth appeared over his chair's armrest. "How goes the conquest, Ship Leader? I know that you lied to me before. The Prophets can discern the truth from a whisper, and you were a fool if you thought you could outsmart me. Will you tell me the truth this time, or do you wish to be branded as a heretic?" questioned the Prophet in a soft but deadly voice.
Karkatus was caught completely by surprise. He had heard rumors of Prophets pulling truth from thin air, but this was the first time he had witnessed it firsthand.
Of course, Karkatus had no way of knowing that the Prophet had jumped into Earth's atmosphere and seen everything for himself. Truth had purposely cut his new cruiser's engines and jammed all Covenant scanning systems directed at his craft, so that it would really seem as if he had known all along that the Brute was lying.
Karkatus bowed his head feverishly before replying. "Noble Prophet, the Island will be in our grasp in thirty units! I lied merely to buy myself more time; my Shadows and Spectres were not yet filled with soldiers when your last communication came in. The result will be the same either way, I swear it! Your Excellency, the island will still be ours!"
Truth stroked his bearded chin pensively. "Very well, Karkatus. You are lucky that I am so generous and forgiving, even though I am in a terrible mood at the moment. Fail me this time and I will be forced to dispose of you for good." The hologram winked out.
The hefty Brute stared at his chair's armrest. "Yes, Holy One," he muttered, though the communications channel had already been terminated.
He sat motionless for a moment and opened a channel with the Brute commander on the beaches. "Ground Leader Spartacus! I want those humans wiped out within the next half-cycle!"
"Ship Leader, that may not be possible. The humans are offering stiff resistance, and there are a few Elites scattered amongst their ranks. The fight has been difficult," replied Spartacus apologetically.
"Damn! I should have personally slain those wretched Elites by myself!" thundered Karkatus in a fit of rage. A murderous look crossed his face as he grated out his reply. "I don't care what you are facing, just have the island by my set time or I will have your head on a silver platter for my next meal!"
"But Leader–"
"No excuses!" roared Karkatus. "I told you – do it or die!"
"Yes Leader," said the Ground Leader meekly, and closed the connection.
Karkatus exhaled and smashed his meaty fist down on the chair's armrest, breaking the rather fragile equipment that it contained. Those incompetents under my command will get me killed, he thought, then returned to sitting and waiting. Suddenly, like another inspiration from the Gods, he remembered something – a group of things, rather – that could tip the scales in his favor.
"Send in the Ghosts!" he ordered his communications officer. With any luck, the single-seat attack vehicles would help to cleanse the humans from the land before the Brute's own time limit ran out on him.
Yes, he thought, the victorious feeling returning once more. The Island will be taken in time. And I will be the rewarded and honored beyond my dreams.
0400 hours, February 22, 2553 (UNSC Military Calendar) ♦ EAP Wind Power Station 7, Zanzibar Island, Tanzania, Africa.
A vicious war cry rang out from the Covenant Brute ranks, reverberating throughout the power station. The first Covenant soldiers were beginning to emerge from cover. As before, the initial attackers were shredded by sniper, Battle Rifle, and SAW fire. When the defenders on the seawall began to reload, the rest of the Covenant made their move, only to be cut down by a volley of rockets from above.
The Brute commander decided that attacking in waves would only result in more futile deaths. Brutes and Jackals streamed out from behind their cover, covering the beach in a seething mess of flesh and weapons, still yelling their battle cries. 7.62mm, 9.5mm, and 14.5mm rounds cut through the charging aliens. Jackals attempted to form a shield wall but were cut short by a series of mortar detonations just behind their wall.
Bodies were trampled underfoot as the alien horde stampeded onwards, regardless of casualties. The Covenant force had been considerably diminished by the thousands of rounds that they had absorbed, but the Brutes and Jackals still smashed into the wall with fanatic vigor. Primitive Brute tethers and grappling hooks were tossed upwards and impromptu stairs were made from the piles of multi-purpose bodies that carpeted the beach. From Captain Summer's standpoint, it looked for all the world like a medieval storming of a castle, which was ironic considering the supposed "technological superiority" and "intelligence" of the Covenant. Apparently, that so-called "intelligence" did not apply to Brutes.
Climbing was no easy task, as the Covenant assault troops quickly discovered. Marines attached "archaic" titanium-composite bayonets to their Battle Rifles, using the wickedly sharp blades to slice through the climbing ropes. Others fired their weapons straight down, killing those attempting to scale the wall. Grenades fell from the wall like a rainstorm from hell, tearing great chunks out of the packed Covenant below. In the rare occasion that a Brute or Jackal made it to the walltop, the Marines and Separatists were ready. Shotguns and SMGs, as always, were deadly at close range. Bodies tumbled off of the wall, further obstructing the efforts of the Covenant attackers.
'Onomee tossed away his empty Battle Rifle and grabbed a Shotgun. He enjoyed the kick of the weapon against his shoulder as it discharged a 3.5" shell into a Brute's head. The Elite fought close to the Marine Taylor – the two had formed a slight bond during the action on the beach, as comrades in battle will invariably do. 'Onomee's shield caught several Carbine rounds, and he put his back to the wall to let the protective field recharge while taking the time to reload his Shotgun. He glanced at the Private next to him, who was loading a pair of submachine guns.
"Well, Taylor, is the battle not an exhilarating experience?" he questioned the human, noticing that the human showed no trace of fear whatsoever, having changed from the nervous and half-hearted soldier he had been.
Private Taylor grinned and said, "Duck." He raised his SMGs and took aim at an ambitious Jackal that had just popped its head up over the seawall. The alien leapt onto the rampart, not even bothering to reactivate the shield that it had shut down to climb up the seawall. The Jackal managed to shoot 'Onomee once with its Plasma Pistol when its unprotected torso twisted sickeningly from thirty bullet impacts. Taylor kicked the corpse off the wall with his armored boot. "You're right, 'Onomee. Once you're in it, there's no time to be afraid. The only thing to do is kill."
A philosophy all warriors should adopt, thought the Elite as he slipped the final shell into his Shotgun, pointing it over the wall in time to foil the plans of a Brute and three Jackals. Their buckshot-riddled bodies, by pure chance, hit the ground and rolled to a stop at the feet of Ground Leader Spartacus. The Leader himself, however, was protected by a screen of Jackal shields as he surveyed the battle at its heart. He kicked the bodies away and felt hot rage rising up inside him as the defenders on the wall continued to make fools out of his troops.
"You, take a hundred Brutes and two hundred Jackals, and attack that wall's entrance! Show no mercy to the infidels, crush them with our might. Casualties are of no concern, for a sacrifice for the Great Journey will bring holy transcendence!" he commanded a nearby Brute.
The lower officer growled assent and pushed his way back through the Covenant horde to select a group of fresh soldiers. The three hundred Brutes and Jackals detached themselves from the mob attempting to scale the seawall and dashed towards the wall's entrance.
Blinding clouds of sand arose as their feet pounded on the loose material. Corpses of Brutes and Jackals dug furrows in the sandy dunes as the 4th Platoon, D Company opened fire on the charging Covenant. Brutes fired Carbines and Brute Plasma Rifles in an attempt to suppress the Marines, but the humans had the defensive advantage of the barricades and hunkered down with heavy weapons. 4th Platoon had several M297 SAWs along the barrier as well; their high fire rates gave ample discouragement to the Covenant attackers.
Two dozen Brutes wielding Brute Shots sprinted up to the front of the assault team. The grenade launchers threw shrapnel into the Marines' exposed, unvisored faces, leaving six dead and thirteen wounded. Therefore, by the next salvo of grenades, most of 4th Platoon had their heads down. This gave the Covenant the opportunity they needed to cover as much distance as possible without any opposition.
Captain Summers saw the first Brutes thunder towards the seawall entrance in the periphery of his eye. He turned to size up the attack and also noticed that many Marine wounded and dead were being dragged away from the barricade, back towards the infirmary deeper inside the power station. Hastily, the Captain ordered a squad of walltop troops to reinforce the entrance position, for if that opening fell, then so would the chances of the Marines surviving this assault. They would be forced to abandon the wall and retreat to the final defensive line – the bunker-and-trench system that had been erected earlier as a last resort. After that was breached, perhaps the survivors could pull back to the cliffs and inside the power facility, where they could continue to harass the Covenant…assuming there were any survivors.
The situation was beginning to look bleak for the humans and the Separatists. A group of Brutes had gained a small foothold on the seawall and the breach was growling larger as more Covenant swarmed into that area. Marines and Elites fought fiercely and managed to hold the Covenant back at small choke points with explosives and heavy gunfire. Despite this, they were repeatedly overwhelmed within minutes, and before long the Covenant held a quarter of the entire seawall.
To matters even worse, 4th Platoon was forced to abandon the entrance as Covenant literally took the position by force of bodies. They left behind antipersonnel mines for the Covenant, but the explosions were swallowed up as Brutes and Jackals flooded in, plasma flying wildly in all directions.
The two Captains and 'Folamee agreed that it was time to pull their troops back to the last defensive line. "Retreat! All troops, retreat to the bunker line! Get off that wall – it's coming down!" shouted Allen, desperation creeping into his normally solid voice and his orders becoming increasingly less formal and more frantic. The humans and Separatists did not hesitate to obey. Marines carried wounded buddies on their shoulders, Elites threw grenades to cover the retreat, and Grunts did what they did best – panic.
A small contingent of Marines and Elites were surrounded and trapped on the walltop. They fought doggedly on as the enemy closed in around them, many with blood flowing from ragged wounds. Grimly, they depleted the ammunition in their Shotguns and SMGs, picked up their fallen enemies' weapons, and continued the fight. It was a brave but ultimately vain effort. The last Elite fell just as Captain Summers pulled a detonator, flipped off its safety cover, and hit the trigger.
There were several amber flashes at the base of the seawall, and a deep, rumbling shockwave ripped through the area. The seawall crumbled and fell, bringing hundreds of Jackals and Brutes to their doom with it. Screams of the wounded and dying filled the air along with the dust and smoke of the detonation.
Captain Summers stared at the line of rubble without remorse, and thought of a classic Marine line that applied to this situation – One down, fifty billion to go.
It was true. Already the Covenant survivors were battering away at the third line of defense, and the weary defenders struggled to hold them at bay.
Private Taylor's ears were ringing from the nonstop sound of gunfire and his hands were numb from the recoil of constant firing. He quickly exchanged Battle Rifle and Shotgun for a M297 that had been dug into the side of the trench and surrounded by sandbags. The air crackled as a 12.7mm heavy machine gun mounted in a nearby bunker opened up. It was behind these machine gun positions that the Marines and Separatists rallied, driving the Covenant back for a time.
Taylor's teeth rattled as he fired off a sustained burst into a cluster of Jackals. The aliens didn't have the strength to hold their shields steady against the 7.62mm rounds hammering against them, and were quickly cut to pieces. The Marine fired a full hundred rounds of full-automatic into another unsuspecting group of the vulture-like aliens, then allowed the M297's barrel to cool for a moment before resuming fire. 'Onomee, who had just arrived next to the Private, tossed a fragmentation grenade just to the rear of a berserking Brute. The resulting explosion tossed the Brute forwards towards the trench, and 'Onomee fired a Shotgun into it to make sure it stayed down.
The mortarmen abandoned their posts and grabbed conventional infantry weapons. Their mortars had been rendered useless by the fact that the Covenant were in too close of a proximity for the M353s to operate effectively.
Meanwhile, Captain Summers armed himself with a typical infantry combat load-out of a SMG and a Battle Rifle, while Allen slung his sniper over his soldier. Though commanders, he, Captain Allen, and 'Folamee were soldiers through and through. Therefore, they were not content with merely watching the battle, especially in dire circumstances such as these. The Marines and Separatists on the ground below would need all the help they could get. Granted, the three COs would not expose themselves to extreme danger, as they were important to coordinating the defense efforts, but they would still support their troops as much as possible. Allen yelled for his rocket jockeys to fall in as well, for there were too many Covenant soldiers with clear shots at the Marines on the bluff.
Summers quickly descended from the rocky bluff, firing off several bursts from his BR55 as he did so. He felt a blast of hot air from above as 'Folamee launched a rocket. Once at ground level, Allen's Marines sprinted to join the defenders in the trenches while the three leaders climbed up to a heavy machine gun post slightly behind the front line. The machine gun was mounted on a platform next to the primary windmill, and unmanned due to the fact that the Marines and Separatists were already severely strapped for personnel.
'Folamee launched the other rocket in his launcher, dropped the empty weapon and proceeded to man the 12.7mm machine gun. He growled in approval as a formation of Brutes was torn to shreds by the heavy-caliber slugs, having no problem targeting them in the darkness – Elites naturally had better vision than the typical human. The platform shook slightly from the recoil, forcing Captain Allen to abandon it in favor of a more stable sniper position.
The third line was taking a severe beating but it seemed to be holding. 'Onomee, Taylor, and the others were keeping up steady streams of fire from their automatic weapons positions that were effective in holding back the Covenant horde.
'Onomee saw a green bolt streak through his peripheral vision and felt blood spray against his helmet. He jerked his head left to see Private Taylor slump down out of the M297 he had been manning. The Elite was about to yell for a human medic when he saw that the human had been shot through the head and that Taylor was beyond help. He bowed his head momentarily in sorrow and mourning for a fellow warrior, resting the Private's Battle Rifle across his chest as a mark of respect.
The Elite wasn't quite sure why the human's death affected him, even though he just felt momentary grief. Three days ago he would've killed the Marine without remorse and moved on. Even with the alliance in effect, he felt no great love for the humans. Still, 'Onomee was sorry to lose any allies at the present moment, given their predicament. That was the reason, that was it – right? He couldn't possibly have befriended a human.
'Onomee was thrown back into reality as another Carbine bullet clipped the top of his helmet shields. He quickly pushed the Marine's body away and took Taylor's place at the M297 position. He jammed down the weapon's trigger with cold anger towards his enemies. Anger at their betrayal of his kind. Anger at the stupidity of those who followed the Prophets, only to be slaughtered in their service and betrayed for all their hardships. Anger at all the principles in which those pigs believed. The SAW spit bullets, growling and roaring as if in agreement with his fury.
The Elite's first victim was a Carbine-wielding Brute directly in his line of fire, who had most fired the shot that killed Taylor. 'Onomee sent far more bullets into the Brute than was necessary, hearing a dry click as the belt ran dry. He lifted a fresh box of 250 7.62mm rounds from the Marine's corpse, locking it into the M297 with a clack and feeding the belt into the receiver.
On a bare windmill service catwalk high above, Captain Allen had chosen his place to set up shop. For a moment he surveyed the chaotic scene below. Gunfire beat a steady drum on his ears and an occasional flash would appear, marking the detonation of a grenade. Muzzle flashes and plasma fire lit up the scene, eerily silhouetting troops on both sides. The fire was thick and fierce from the defense, but as before, they were unable to halt the creeping Covenant advance. It was a recurring nightmare to the C Company officer, but he took his mind off of it by practicing his sharpshooting.
So far, Spartacus's forces had failed to actually reach the trenches, but some of the more bold Brutes had given their lives mere centimeters from the line. He rotated the front ranks out of action, allowing rested soldiers from the rear to continue the fight. The personnel-strapped Marines and Separatists could hardly afford this luxury; with every single one of the defenders in fighting condition engaged in some form of combat. The wounded were patched up to the best of the medics' abilities and kept on battling against the odds.
After a while, however, the Covenant horde had been whittled down significantly, and they were beginning to strategize more and throw themselves mindlessly forward less. Jackal shield walls, though unoriginal and often ineffective when faced with high-caliber rounds and rockets, remained common. Brutes favored the primitive "blow something up in their faces and charge while their heads are down," but after this failed several times with heavy casualties, they began to formulate new plans.
Eventually the Covenant settled on copying their enemies' strategy: dig in behind cover and use precise fire to depopulate the enemy ranks. The bone-weary humans and Separatists took this as a blessing, leaving the snipers to watch for anything suspicious while they eased up on their triggers and slumped down in the trenches to rest.
The period of respite was short-lived, however. One observant sniper saw dark shapes on the ocean and brought up his night-vision scope, revealing a large force of Ghosts approaching to renew the fight. He quickly reported this to the commanders, who relayed it to the troops. Exhausted Marines and Elites lifted Jackhammers and readied machine guns to greet the incoming Ghosts. The stench of gunpowder had barely cleared from the area; now it was to return in full force.
"Hold your positions," said Captain Summers through the all-hands freq, presumably addressing all defenders who felt faint of heart. "Do not, under any circumstances, abandon your positions unless ordered. We are on our last defensive perimeter, and must keep it at all costs – or be completely overwhelmed." He paused, then decided to spit out the thought on his mind, cliché though it was. "If we are to fall, we'll take as many of those Covenant bastards with us. It has been an honor to be your commander, and fight alongside you. Give 'em hell. Good luck, men." He clicked off his COM, then sighed. Fine words, but in reality, what good did they do? He'd rather see a wing of Pelicans light up the night sky with 70mm rounds and drop a whole battalion of veteran Marines to wipe out the Covenant, but it was more likely that they would kiss and make up with the Brutes.
In a burst of insight, Summers realized that it was possible to radio the Apache for some form of close-in air support, but then he realized that anything sent would be far too late to give any assistance, save mortuary detail. If only he'd thought – if only anyone had thought of that an hour previously. Unfortunately, at the moment the carrier was not operating independently; rather, it relied on orders from the Brigadier General, who had placed the air support under the command of the frontline commanders – namely, Summers himself – so that those commanders could call for support when they deemed it was necessary. The Captain cursed loudly. Funny how inspiration always tended to strike too late.
Next to him, 'Folamee opened up with the .50-cal again, sending the massive rounds streaming downrange to rip apart the lead Ghost. This drew return fire – a purple-white streak of a Beam Rifle shot narrowly missed the Elite's elongated forehead. Being more heavily shielded and armored than the humans, not to mention more reckless, 'Folamee stood his ground and returned fire towards the source of the fire. Captain Summers could imagine, without difficulty, a group of hapless Jackals being torn to pieces in the darkness.
Rockets erupted from the trenches, illuminating narrow, snakelike paths before detonating on the Ghosts. Blue intermingled with orange as the single-seat attack craft exploded. They chose to flood their engines with power rather than divert the energy to their weapons; and thrusters flared into cerulean streaks against the black of night. 'Onomee sent a burst of rounds into the bulbous front of a Ghost. Tendrils of flame erupted from the wrecked machine, and the Ghost directly behind it crashed into the burning chassis.
The mechanized assault boosted the morale of the Covenant infantry, prompting them to charge on after their Ghosts. Summers had been dreading this, but expected little else. 'Folamee cursed as his machine spat a last round and the bolt locked open. Hurriedly, he reached down to one of the many ammunition boxes scattered around the weapons post and lifted out another 12.7mm belt. As deadly as the heavy machine guns were, there were too few to make a large physical impact on the battle, but at least had a psychological impact on the Covenant troops. The foot soldiers cast wary eyes on the muzzle flashes from above, which were out of most Covenant weapons' range, fearing that a heavy round would come their way at any second. Therefore, 'Folamee and the Marine .50-gunners stayed at their posts, giving a steady, reassuring thump thump thump to the ears of the Marines and Separatists in the trenches, even as the Ghosts threatened to overwhelm their position.
The battle for the trench quickly became a disorienting mess of plasma and bullets in the darkness, soldiers of all races screaming in pain and range, shrapnel flying everywhere and explosions burning into the combatants' eyes. Marines readied Shotguns as the Covenant foot soldiers neared the trenches. 'Onomee had his own pump-gun propped up against the side of the trench, still resolutely pouring M297 rounds into the Covenant gauntlet closing in around them.
War brings with it particular, defining acts of heroism, and the best in soldiers is often revealed in the worst of situations. The Battle of Zanzibar was no exception. Even as Brutes and Jackals poured into the trenches, Marines and Elites refused to retreat, banding together inside bunkers for their heroic last stands. 'Onomee abandoned the depleted M297, calmly scooped up his Shotgun and dashed to the nearest bunker.
Inside the concrete bunker, thirteen Marines and a Spec-Ops Elite had already gathered. No one spoke for a long while, and the only movement came from soldiers slapping fresh magazines into place. The Marine Sergeant gave his final words to his men, the black-armored Elite drew his Plasma Sword, and all waited nervously with weapons trained on the door. Animal-like snarling and roaring could be heard from the trenches, coupled with yells of pain from the Marines and Separatists who had been trapped and cut down by their merciless foe. Then, a brief and sudden silence fell upon the scene, and 'Onomee prepared himself for his last glorious battle.
Captain Summers watched Covenant troops flood the trenches, overwhelming all resistance remained. He took aim at one of the dark shapes and pulled his weapon's trigger, but nothing happened. He dropped the Battle Rifle from eye level and leaned back in despair.
"That's it. It's over," he said hoarsely, to no one in particular.
"Not while one of us still draws breath," replied 'Folamee. As if to reinforce his statement, he continued to fire his weapon in defiance, though it had little real effect.
Summers authorized the final retreat, for all the good that did. Only the toughest Marines and Elites managed to break loose and get out of the trenches, and even then most of them would be shot in the back by Covenant sharpshooters.
The Captain left 'Folamee and clambered down from his perch to rally what few soldiers remained. He grabbed a few Battle Rifle clips and stuffed them into his ammunition pouches before turning to watch the survivors coming in. They were like walking corpses pulled fresh out of the graveyard, covered in multicolored blood and soot, dragging their feet in exhaustion, and sporting at least a single plasma burn apiece. He gave a murmured "good job, soldier" to each returning Marine, calling medics from the infirmary to patch up the wounded.
The soldiers gave no visible sign that they had heard Summers. Some wandered to the relocated armory to resupply themselves, others gulped down water from their canteens, but the majority collapsed on the ground, panting, watching the dark shapes on the beach through haunted eyes and mouthing silent prayers.
The Covenant, however, had not taken the three defensive lines without substantial effort and loss of life, and Spartacus was wary of allowing his troops to proceed further without rallying them first and allowing them to rest. He did not know the exact amount of enemy warriors remaining, either, which further justified his decision to halt for a few units. The Brute figured that the short delay would have no ill effect on his timetable and hungrily tore into some raw meat and water brought by aides. It was good to be part of the winning party.
A lone blue-armored Elite also joined the small crowd of Marine survivors, scarred and unarmed, having lost his weapon in the chaotic mess of the battle. Summers tossed him an SMG along with several clips. They landed at the Elite's feet, and he looked slowly from submachine gun to Captain before accepting the weapon with a grateful nod.
The cacophonous din of battle slowly faded as the Covenant crushed the remaining bits of resistance in the trenches. Captain Summers took a head count of the remaining men. All told, there were twenty Marines, eleven of which were from his company, and three Elites. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, shaking his head slowly as he viewed the remnants of his forces.
Yet at the same time, Summers gave a bitter smile. They would all fight to the end, with death an absolute certainty, yet for a purpose completely unknown. It was never a soldier's duty to question orders, merely to carry them out. But Summers found the whole futility and pointlessness of the situation humorous. They would probably manage kill a few more Brutes and Jackals out of the millions in the Covenant army, delaying them for a few minutes from taking a nondescript power station that seemed to have no inherent military value whatsoever.
There was no point in reflecting on that now. It didn't matter, anyway; within the hour none of the Marines or Separatists would have anything to worry or think about anymore.
Field Master 'Folamee and Captain Allen descended from their posts shortly after, both having depleted their ammunition while attempting to pick off a few more Covenant soldiers. They held a debate with Captain Summers as to how the final defense would be organized, but since the end result was already a forgone conclusion the argument was completely halfhearted.
It was finally decided that the last stand should take place inside the narrow confines of the power station's inner hallways, where a series of barricades could be erected. They would be able to balance the overwhelming odds by holding the horde of Covenant Brutes and Jackals off at choke points, where only a few of the enemy could pass through at a time. Even such a tiny number as twenty-two Marines and four Elites, including both Captains and the Field Master, could hold their own in such a situation – that is, until their ammunition ran dry. When that time came, well, there were always bayonets, and afterwards, a free ticket to the realm of death. Heaven or otherwise.
As the pitiful remnants of the defenders stood and began to file into the power station, Summers turned to gaze at the ocean one last time.
"Hold on…" he said slowly. Allen and 'Folamee, the last two still within earshot of Captain Summers, turned and gazed quizzically at him, then followed his eyes to the midnight-blue sea.
The rippling reflection of the moon was there in the water, as it should have been, but there were also a dozen or so bright crimson-gold dots, slightly too large to be stars or celestial bodies of any sort. He looked up to see the flaming objects growing larger by the second as they descended to the surface, aligning themselves into a line apparently parallel to the power station.
For one heart-wrenching moment he though that the Covenant had won the battle in orbit and were beginning to glass Earth. However, the Captain noted that the twelve dots were clustered very tightly and were quite small, and the rest of the night sky was devoid of any disturbances. He managed to calm himself down with this reasoning, and now looked up curiously rather than fearfully.
Summers tapped a helmet control, magnifying the display of his tiny HUD. He squinted up at the objects and identified them as drop pods of some sort, but he couldn't tell whether they were human or Covenant, and they were falling quicker than he had thought. He barely caught a glimpse of a flaming comet insignia stamped on the nearest HEV, the reflective paint gleaming by light of the pod's brake thrusters before all twelve embedded themselves in a neat row, not twenty feet from where Summers, Allen, and 'Folamee stood. He saw that the pods read "Delta T-8" rather than "ODST," but had no idea what that meant. Still, they were obviously human pods – which was a huge relief to Summers – but what good would twelve extra soldiers do, even if they were ODSTs?
The HEVs' hatches hissed and shot off explosively, and Captain Allen had to leap to one side to avoid one stray hatch.
Captain Summers was about to bring his cigarette up to his mouth, but lowered it, mouth slightly agape, at the sight in front of him.
0434 hours, February 22, 2553 (UNSC Military Calendar) ♦ EAP Wind Power Station 7, Zanzibar Island, Tanzania, Africa.
John unbuckled himself from his HEV, scooped up his equipment, and surveyed the scene around him. Technically, that was unnecessary, for he had already had extensive views from aerial reconnaissance drones. The UARCs had been crucial in guiding the drop pods to a specific landing zone. Thankfully, the advanced Delta HEVs were equipped with thrusters capable of maneuvering them to a precise LZ, and therefore saving some of them from dropping straight into the Covenant horde, which John knew covered much of the island by now. So, there was nothing unexpected in the situation – massed numbers of Covenant, few human survivors, or the awed stares of Marines unused to seeing ten Deltas, a Spartan, and an Elite appearing in front of them. It was all typical in a Spartan's day of work.
John saluted the two Captains, who still held higher rank than him, and nodded in recognition of 'Folamee. The Deltas did likewise. Noticing 'Canarmee, the Field Master clicked his mandibles in approval.
The Captains bid the Marines to stand at ease. John could ill afford sparing time for any further formalities; it was time to get down what he, 'Canarmee, and the Deltas did best. First, however, he needed a more detailed situational report than what he had guessed.
Talking out in the open isn't the best idea, noted John as a hailstorm of plasma bolts cut through the darkness and melted holes in the recently vacated HEVs. Judging by the numbers of the Covenant he had seen from reconnaissance feeds, it would be futile to resist outside of the power facility. With that in mind, he beckoned the others to follow, given orders over his suit's external speakers as he turned.
"Deltas, 'Canarmee, fall in. We're taking this inside the power station. Captain Summers, sir," he said, reading the name off of his HUD's Marine tag reader that scrolled data next to Summers's figure, "my squad and I have orders direct from Fleet Admiral Hood, and we'll be assuming control of this op. I need you to brief me on the situation here – the number of Marine survivors, if any, tendencies of the enemy that you have noticed, your weapons and ammunitions status, and any other relevant information that you would consider important. Lead us to the survivors, and I'll take over."
Summers gulped slightly, then nodded. "Yes, Chief. Two companies of Marines were assigned to defend this installation against Covenant attack. For what purpose, I don't know, but the Covenant did come. They really hammered us – over a thousand Jackals and Brutes, fully mechanized, though our own SeaHawks knocked out their Banshees and Wraiths before we made contact with them. It didn't matter much; they just kept coming until they breached our first two lines of defense. Their commander doesn't seem to have any regard for the amount of casualties that we inflict; we must have killed hundreds, maybe thousands of those bastards, and the only strategy they truly employed was basically a mindless charge. A force of Ghosts arrived as reinforcements not long ago, and the Covenant penetrated our final trench line. That was when most of our forces were slaughtered. Only twenty Marines and three Elites, excluding ourselves, managed to retreat. Also, we have a number of wounded inside the power station, being treated in our makeshift infirmary, but only the severely wounded were brought there, so they are too incapacitated to be of much use. And as for weapons and ammunition, we have a decent amount, but I doubt it will be enough against the numbers we're facing."
The Chief digested this information for a few seconds before delving further.
"You mentioned Elites," noted John. "I know that we've allied with the Separatists, but how did they manage to make it here?"
"Oh. That. Well, Field Master 'Folamee-" he hooked a thumb at the Elite- "and his boys managed to fight their way off of a Covenant-controlled ship and landed their dropships here on Zanzibar since they were running low on fuel. And once they were stuck here, there was nothing left for them to do except keep fighting."
"And air support," mused the Chief. "What about that?"
"The Apache aircraft carrier battlegroup is stationed nearby, and I could've called for support, but…" Summers paused, then decided to spit it out bluntly. "I forgot."
John nodded. It wasn't uncommon for commanders to forget such details in the heat of battle, and at least the Marine Captain hadn't ordered a carpet-bombing of the entire area.
"Well, if that carrier is still on station, we can still put it to good use," said the Chief. "Since the Covenant have control of the entire beach, the pilots won't have to worry about friendly casualties."
"Affirmative, Chief." The Captain led them through a heavy door, into the station's secure power control center. "The survivors are stationed in one of the corridors in this section. We'll regroup with them, and then I'll call in an air strike."
The group rounded a corner, the report of a Battle Rifle rang out, and Captain Summers dropped to the brushed metal floor.
"Friendlies!" yelled the Chief angrily. A nervous sentry at the barricade had shot his own Captain, all because he didn't bother to identify his target, or even notice that the contact on his miniature HUD's motion tracker was yellow. The pure stupidity of some soldiers absolutely appalled the Spartan.
John rolled Summers over to check on his condition. Luckily, the Battle Rifle rounds had been deflected by the Captain's breastplate, where the armor was thickest, though if the sentry had fired off another burst, the 9.5mm bullets might've penetrated the Marine armor. As it was, Summers would only have a bruised chest. The Chief breathed a sigh of relief as Summers got shakily to his feet, coughing, before giving the sentry a serious verbal thrashing.
The Master Chief noted the condition of the surviving Marines and Elites: battle-fatigued, wounded, and so twitchy that they would shoot the first thing that rounded the corner. It didn't help that all three Elites were Minors. John had been hoping that he could add another veteran warrior to his already-formidable team. Instead, he had three more lives to protect; though tougher than Marines, the inexperienced blue-armored types were rarely threatening as enemies, and couldn't be much different as allies. It would've been easier if he, Team Eight, and 'Canarmee were alone and free of baby-sitting duty.
Captain Summers finished his rant at the sentry and attempted to contact the Apache for the air strike, but all he could raise was static.
"Chief, I can't raise the Apache on my helmet COM. Not to worry, I dropped this thing in the water a couple days back and it's been finicky ever since. Just one second."
Summers borrowed another Marine's helmet, accessed the Apache's channel, and wrinkled his brow in frustration.
"Strange. It still isn't working. What in hell is wrong with…hold on. Chief – could you check the status of the COM channels?"
The Spartan nodded and quickly ran a COM diagnostic. An opaque box appeared in the left of his HUD, and data streamed through it. Short-range, squad-level communications were intact, obviously, but strangely, even the MJOLNIR's powerful COM system reported all long-range communications as inoperable. A second later, the suit identified the problem – "Channels Jammed." Curious. The MJOLNIR usually could break through most Covenant jamming, and the Mark VI was the most advanced system yet.
"We have a problem, Captain. It seems that the Covenant are jamming our long-range communications. How, though? So far I've never encountered a ground-based system of theirs that has been capable of doing that."
Captain Summers swore. "That's because it probably isn't ground-based, Chief. There's a Covenant warship parked in the sky not too far from here. That must be the source of the interference."
Of course…a capital ship. I forgot that how the Covenant got in here in the first place, John thought. No air support, then. That's fine – I've managed without it many times before.
He glanced around again. This confined setting was never where his Spartans operated best, and if the Deltas were similar to the Spartans, they wouldn't do much good in these hallways either. Much of their advantages against the Covenant were lost in such an environment.
Since venturing out spelled certain death, there was only one way to go – deeper inside.
John turned to Summers. "Captain, I want you to hold this position with you and your men. I'll leave 'Canarmee and a sack of Lotus mines here to complement your forces. Captain Allen, you'll be our unofficial tour guide. We want to see what kind of attractions this place has."
FYI, there are now two sections for Author's Notes, as you can see (at the top, and right here, if you have difficulties understanding that or are new to here). More important, chapter-related information will go at the top, and info that can be relayed to you later will be placed here.
I had an unexpected 10-day absence after camp (which was awesome, by the way), which added to the time it took to finish this. Also, being away for so long caused me to forget most of what I had written, so forgive any inconsistencies or repetitiveness. My writing has degraded significantly, no doubt.
Holy shit. That's all I have to say. The amount of errors in some of my chapters astounds me, not to mention questionable wording in some places. Rewrites of some chapters will most likely be released some time after Chapter 11.
Well, I guess I really did bring it upon myself…barely anybody reads this anymore. Only a few loyal readers remain; the majority of them have deserted me or forgotten me (most likely the former, and I can't blame them). I'm not going to give up, though. I started this fic with determination to finish it, and I will do so, even if I get no readers at all.