Chapter Seven: Nuclear Launch Detected
"Never know what hit 'em."
Terran Ghost, Starcraft
Inside Nydus Canal
What the hell did I get myself into? McAllen thought, almost out loud. Covered in a Hydralisk's thick carapace and almost doused in a meter of orange colored liquid, he wondered if this mad plan of his would work. Holding fiercely to a cold of stringy, organic rope, he loaded his gun. Just in case.
Once he was in the canal, the thing, like a suction cup, sucked him in rapidly, pushing him down with an unnatural inhaling noise, like the structure was respirating. He had barely been able to hold onto his gun and ragged costume. The canal sucked him down underground, and the only way he stopped was clutching that ropy cord. The view was startling, something that no other human alive had been able to see: a Zerg sewer, flooded in waist deep organic liquid that was moving in different currents. For something organic, it had better lighting, bioluminescence, than most city sewer systems. The Ghost stood there for several moments, astounded. The currents of liquid changed directions at intervals, moving a random Zergling or two every which way. This was how the Zerg were able to transport troops so quickly, to every sector. The Zerg were propelled, like boats, being pushed by the currents and sucks in or out by the respirating openings.
How ingenious, he thought. Ingenious, but soon to be extinct, as McAllen would help kill the thing that was directing the movement of these structures.
Carefully, McAllen marked the canal opening he had come in, so he could find his way back to the companies after he was done. Awkwardly, he adjusted his costume, glad that he would only have to wear it halfway for the trip because he could use his cloaking mechanism the way back.
It was odd that Y and Z companies went along with his plan so quickly. The marines and firebats were a bunch of backcountry rednecks, with no planet to go back to, but still...that man, Nacdle of Zulu. He was another mystery.
McAllen shook off the questions. None of it mattered if he succeeded or failed. Embracing his psionic power, he located the direction of the Cerebrate. Taking a deep breathe, he let go of the cord, allowing the liquid to push him on his psionic trail.
Three kilometers from dropship crash site
Pfc. Kit Ashley aimed his specially designed sniper C-14 rifle, and fired. A Zergling, running, suddenly tripped on its own feet and fell, a bullet implanted in its brain, unnoticed by other Zerg. One.
Another Zergling, sprinting at top speed, made its final jump as Ashley drilled a three centimeter, hypersonic "spike" through the soft skin on the Zergling's head. It fell, head then crushed by a lashing tail of a Hydralisk. Two.
Nacdle had been right in sending out a recon unit to the dead trees that they initially were in: a mass of thousands of purple Jormungand Zerg were coming from the east, streaming to destroy any Terran or Protoss existence on their territory. Their counteroffensive had begun.
Ashley's night vision visor showed him the massive horde sprinting towards the dropship: thousands of galloping Zerglings, with Hydralisks, taller and leaner than the wolf-sized Zerglings. The Hydras were sparse and few, their long bodies bobbling up and down in a current of Zerglings, like cavalry commanders leading men into battle. Overhead, Overlords watched the troops as they headed east, ready to direct the battle.
Hopefully they'll leave these snipers and firebats alone. ALPHA recon was almost a kilometer south of the horde, with firebats hidden under the brush of dead vegetation and trees, ready to kill any Zerg that came in their direction. The eight snipers fired continually, picking off Zerglings, but hardly denting the mass of Zerg.
Ashley looked through the scope of his gun, aimed, fired, and winced as the recoil of the rifle hit his shoulder. He zoomed in with his built-in binocular in his visor, and saw a dead Zergling, head completely gone, slump as its companions walked over it. Three.
"How many Zerg?" Nacdle's voice was filled with static as Overlords tried to jammed the communications.
Ashley's reply came back in a whisper: "Thousands."
At T-34's crash site
Pfc. Shumaker wasn't feeling particularly well as he squat in the interior of the dropship, waiting for the attack, cradling his gun. The other men weren't doing too good either, as they sat on the sides, waiting for that dreadful order to come up and man a heavy gun that a marine had been killed doing.
Eight other men were laying flat on their back, rifles at the ready, looking through small holes made by corrosive blood-acid, watching for the enemy as in a bunker, except with crudely made holes just enough to fit the nozzle of the Impalers in.
Shumaker's and other marines orders had been to wait inside the ship until one of the eight marines manning the heavy guns on top of the ship was wounded or dead, then climb up on the ship and start firing the heavy weapon again. Nacdle had given the order, making none of the Sarians who scorned mercs like Nacdle too happy. But Nacdle looked straight at Shumaker and seemingly sensing the maddeningly fear of terror fill the private.
"I know it's hard to do something like this," Shumaker recalled Nacdle saying, almost reading the private's mind, "but we have to work as a company, a group, a gathering, a band, rather than as individual men wanting only to survive. If we work as a whole like the Zerg do, each man doing his job to benefit the group, we will survive."
Shumaker smiled as he remembered the commander's words, stroking his gun as if ready to kill. A new surge of adrenaline took him. Nacdle had been rumored for making short but good speeches.
"No fear?" A nervous merc marine looked at Shumaker intently, his visor down, but his voice filled with fear.
Shumaker clasped his hand into a fist and slammed it onto his left breastplate. "No fear."
Spc. Maxwell looked through his helmet, visor up, at the darkness in front of him. He could not see the Zerg approaching from his position, manning a heavy, black, insidious heavy gun, on top of the dropship. He could feel the Zerg coming though, as the earth shook. He plopped his visor down, muttered 'night vision,' followed by a profanity.
Green outlines of Zerg appeared, as they sprinted. Hundreds of them, Zerglings followed by Hydralisks. He moved his hand to the trigger on the SHW-5 gun, mounted on a tripod.
"Wait," Nacdle said. "Ten seconds. Then start killing."
The other seven men held their fire too, five of them, (including Maxwell), on the main frame of the ship, while another laid by the tail, and two more by the cockpit. Nacdle stood up, his imposing standard 2.75 meter exosuit looking straight toward the Zerg, as he hoisted his C-14. He fired once in the air, signaling to all the troops, more than two hundred men, to get ready and stay sharp.
The Zerglings suddenly organized themselves, from a disorganized mass of killers to lines of vee wing, five on each side. The first line of Zerglings practically threw themselves towards the top of the ship. Eight men inside fired, and Zerg carapace was shredded by Gauss rifles.
Maxwell and the gunners opened up. The next line of Zerglings sprinted, jumping up again, towards them, and Maxwell lifted his gun up at an angle, blasting a Zergling to pieces, hot bullets piercing carapace. It shrieked and fell to the ground with its other brothers, the sound magnified by the screams of dozens of dying Zerg.
The marines opened up with everything they had. Spent cartridges went clack, clack, on the frame of the dropship, sliding down the angular hull and falling on the ground. Hundreds of rounds were being expelled as line after v-shaped line of Zerglings crashed into the dropship, trying to get to the men inside, while others launched themselves against the ship's top. The bore of the heavy weapon was heating up, Maxwell noticed, almost too hot to touch. Nacdle opened up with his rifle, shooting down everything his gunners couldn't get. Bursts of three 'spikes' erupted from his gun, expertly slicing Zerglings' brains open, green masses of tissue spilling out. Spent shells showered the gunners.
"Reload!" Nacdle cried, and instinctively, almost like machines themselves, without emotion, without feeling, all eight gunners reached into their suits, grabbed an ammo casing with two hundred and fifty-five bullets, pulled out the old box, and clipped on the new one on the side. They resumed firing.
Marines, from the opening the troops had made on the top of the ship, opened fire with their guns; only the Gauss weaponry and armored hands were sticking up to unload a long tirade of bullets at the slowly advancing Zerg. They didn't aim, knowing anything they would hit would be a solid mass of the Horde.
Hawkins, a marine lying flat on his armored belly inside the ship, fired his rifle through the slit made by the engineers. Outside, he could see a growing pile of dead Zerglings piled on the ground. Each new wave of dead was piled closer to the ship. They're advancing...
Other Zerg continued to spring like grasshoppers on the top, trying to get into the interior. Hundreds of other Zerglings move to attack the band of troops stationed at the Canal. Within seconds, the dropship was surrounded by Zerg.
A clever Zergling saw a chance to ease its unending thirst to kill when a gunner, intent on mowing down Zerg on the east side of the ship, had his back exposed to the Zerg. It hopped on him, four feral claws digging past, through armor, to the spine of the marine, crushing it. The man screamed as his vertebrae broke, letting go of the trigger of his gun. Nacdle calmly blasted the Zerg, bullets slashing the underbelly, as the marine died.
"Man down!" Nacdle shouted. Two pair of hands popped out of the ship's interior and dragged the man into the ship, while another marine climbed up to the dead marine's gun, and resumed firing.
Surrounding Nydus Canal Structure
Hancock watched as men holed up inside the ship were holding up against a deluge of Zerg. They were only a few hundred meters off, and visible through the visor's night vision. Some of the Zerg though, ignored the ship completely and started rushing towards Hancock's group. Marine gunners tried to stop them but were too busy trying to kill the plethora of Zerglings from getting on top. They were surrounded.
The firebats were arranged in a circle, and within it were marine gunners. It was very much like a phanlax Hancock had learned about in Earth History class: shieldmen, (the firebats), holding shields and pikes, (the flamethrowers), were up front, while archers, (the marines), were in the back.
Hancock and his men watched as some of the Zerglings coming at them claw at the marine armor purposely left on the ground. The armor exploded, showering the area with flesh.
Damly, one of those nerdy geniuses, had asked Nacdle for permission to rig the armor the snipers had left behind with explosives and scatter them on the ground leading to Hancock's position. The engineer had heard about the Zerg seeing with heat sources rather than colors and visible light like humans do. He had wanted to rig the unused armor with sticky grenades, knowing that the Zerg would attack anything that wasn't emitting a strong heat signature, knowing they would be inorganic. Nacdle complied.
Hancock watched another Zergling fiercely stab an armored helmet with its feral claws. The helmet exploded. The Zergling did too, organs and blood spilling out of it like a basketball that was too pumped up. He grinned. They're seeing heat signatures now, aren't they?
"Flames!" Hancock yelled, and two of the flamethrowers obediently sprayed flames on the ground, igniting fuel that was dumped on the ground, making a massive semi-circle of deadly, blossoming fire.
"Rifles up!" Jones' voice cracked through the intercom in each man's helmet.
"Flamethrowers up!" Hancock watched as the men lifted their flamethrowers to a parallel line to the ground, their armored fingers on the trigger.
Like beasts from hell, the first line of ten Zerglings almost catapulted from the flames, jumping through them before being scorched by a massive wall of napalm based fuel from the infantry. The next line was far longer, Hancock estimated. Almost fifty of the buggers jumped through, some blasted and shredded like lettuce by marines, others scorched and incinerated by 'bats. If they could hold up like this for another thirty minutes so that the Ghost could get in position, they were good to go.
Then needles came raining down on the men.
At T-34's crash site
Jonson, a marine that was manning a big gun on top of the ship, heard an all-too peaceful sigh from his fellow gunner on his left. Jonson turned around while holding down the trigger of his Squad Heavy Weapon. The marine had two spikes protruding out of his left breastplate, as the man slumped on his gun, trigger still held down by the dead man's fingers.
"Medic!"
A pair of hands grabbed the lifeless marine, as the horrifying click sound in the gun echoing through screams of men and Zerg. A marine popped out of the dropship. Jonson saw it was his buddy Shumaker. His edgy, nervous face was replaced by the cold, robotic form of his visor, as he sat down at the gun without ammo. His nervous fingers, shaking as he got a clip from his armored pocket, suddenly dropped the ammo clip, as another Hydralisk spine penetrated straight into his chest. He slumped on the top of the ship.
"Noooo!" Jonson put a hand on his friend's shoulder, hoping he survived. His neck slumped downward, unmoving.
"Get down!" Another voice, Nacdle's shouted through the din of the battle, and the other gunners curled themselves into a tight ball as they streamed ammunition out. Jonson heard a wet squishing noise, louder than anything he heard: hundreds of spines were being launched at them. He screamed as one hit his leg.
"Medic! Medic!" Another line of Zerg fell, this time almost touching the hull of the dropship. Dead were piled around the ship, flamboyantly colored forms of purple Zerglings with metallic human-shaped forms, of men who fell to the Zerg onslaught. Zerglings were tripping their dead in their effort to get on the ship.
"Drink this." Nacdle handed Jonson a flask of blue liquid, as the private felt a rush of blood coming out of his mouth. The first symptoms of Hydra's spine poison. He swallowed back up. He thought he was going to die from the poison.
"Sir, you know I don't drink."
"It's not fucking alcohol, it's an antidote!"
Jonson grabbed the flask and forced the liquid down his throat after he lifted his visor. It was acidic, more so than lemon juice or vinegar.
"Sir, what was that?"
"Diluted Hydra's urine. Only known antidote for their poison. Continue firing, private. Medic! We've got a pincushion here." Nacdle did not mean it as a joke.
Jonson didn't know what he was more shocked by: the sight of Shumaker, spread-eagled on the ship, with spines protruding from neck armor to his shins guards, or the fact that he had just drank urine. He continued to fire. Zerglings were very, very, close to the ship now.
Surrounding Nydus Canal Structure
Almost half of the firebats that were spread out defending the Nydus canal from Zerg were killed or wounded. Shouts of men, stricken by volleys of needles, poking out of their armored vests at every angle, were deluging Staff Sergeant Bob Zyner's ICD. They were followed by disgusting gurgles of men drowning in their own blood.
Zyner, a Sarian, had quickly been promoted to his current status after his brilliant defense on the space platforms where the Doomsday weapon, the Ion Cannon, had been located. He had been a corporal then, when the Raiders were first formed. During the consolidation of the Dominion by Mengsk, the Emperor planned to eliminate Raynor and his rag-tag band with an Ion Cannon, a development the Feds had been working on until the turncoat Edmund Duke had allied with the Korhalian and handed over the key to the weapon. Zyner remembered very well when the first blasts of the M-25A2 Arclite Siege tank had pounded his bunker, killing his commander. With nothing but an instinct to survive, Zyner lobbed a grenade into the tank's massive, twin-bore cannon, mutilating the gun in a splash of metal. He had then led a charge to kill the tank's crew. It had been pure luck, pure, dumb luck that he blew up the tank's gun, but that luck had gotten him promoted to Staff Sergeant and a squadron to command.
The position he was now defending wasn't so easy. There was no easy way to defend an area with thousands of Zerg encroaching upon it from all sides. What we need now are siege tanks, bunkers, and turrets to kill those damn Overlords. But all we got is guns and our hands.
He fired nimbly over the shoulder of a hulking firebat, his flamethrowers spouting red-orange flames at the Zerglings, bursting carapace into burnt armor, making a nasty smell that came up into Zyner's opened receptors.
"Off," he said, and the receptors on either side of his helmet closed. Now he couldn't hear the sounds of the battle, only through his ICD.
A Zergling jumped too close towards the firebat's helmet, and Zyner lifted his gun, and fired. Three bullets shredded the Zerglings tail, but did nothing to stop the opened jaws of the monster. It landed on the firebat, claws digging into through the armor, opening jaws biting down to crack the firebat's helmet, as a great spurt of blood flooded out of its mouth. Zyner was glad he had shut the receptor's off. He could only imagine the sound of bones crunching under the impact of the jaws. The firebat's arms suddenly fell down to his sides, flamethrowers still on, as he fell to the ground. Yelling, Zyner blasted another twenty bullets out of his gun, trying to make sure the thing was dead.
"Medic!"
It wasn't any use, to call a medic even though the sergeant knew he was dead. Then, he saw another thing out of his eyes. Zerglings. Coming from behind his back. Streaming out of the Canal. The last image Zyner saw was the flames incinerating everything.
At T-34's crash site
They suddenly stopped. Zerg, after one massive wave of Zerglings mixed with Hydralisks, suddenly stopped their assault. The ship was in imminent danger of being destroyed, and the Zerg suddenly stopped. What's their next goddamn tactic! Jast thought. He poked his head out of the opening on top of the ship, looking at the barren landscape. Medics were rushing out and recovering dead bodies, as Nacdle ordered. No one wanted to see dead men's flesh being feasted on by Zerg.
Inside the dropship, dead and wounded men were everywhere. Jast had never seen so many casualties, most of them dead: heaps of men, piled on top of each other, filling the dropship with a stench that was unforgettable. There was no room to store them, and no one wanted to throw their dead comrades back on the field, unless they were out of room. Zerg were man-eaters.
There was a saying that all medics had when treating Zerg-inflicted casualties: You either died or survived fighting the Zerg. Wounded men are scarce. Jast didn't want that to be so true at that moment, staring at the men that had wounds: five in all, out of twenty-six casualties. One man was barely holding on to life, as he vomited blood from his mouth. His only wound was being pricked lightly by an incoming spine. It showed how deadly Hydra's poison was.
The ICD of every man crackled again, lit up by a man's voice: "Everyone, look sharp, flying bogies are coming in to the west of you. Guardians. Several of them."
Oh shit. We are so, so, dead. Jast thought.
Three kilometers from dropship crash site
Kit watched from the trees as he saw three flying shapes of Guardians hover towards the dropship. The Overlords had suddenly disappeared after the wave of Zerg, and brought Ashley's comms. device back. He contacted Nacdle immediately, not that it mattered. Guardians were harder to kill than the famed Arclite siege tanks, had more armor, had more range, fired with more deadly accuracy than the tanks, and worst of all, they flew. Giant, lumbering, crab-like shapes, with heavy, almost impenetrable carapace with arms protruding from its sides, hovered in the air. As the backs of the giants crabs were turned toward Kit, he had an idea. Suicidal, but an idea. He loaded his gun.
Inside Zerg Structure
Ghost Espionage Agent McAllen was deep inside Zerg territory. No pun intended, McAllen thought. He was "deep," probably twenty or so feet deep in the slimy insides of a Nydus Canal. It felt like one giant intestine, as he moved slowly in his costume, one hand grasping the stringy cord of flesh on the side of the structure, moving slowly. When the deluge of Zerglings, traveling in the liquid had came, he had stopped his activities, lowering his hands into his sick masquer and cradling his 9mm "Zerg Popper" pistol, ready to pop one of them dead if it came hurling at him. The Zerglings continued to race along the Canal system, not bothering to help (or eat) the apparently wounded Hydralisk on the side.
After the wave of Zerglings had cleared, the Ghost wondered if it would be safe enough to call in the men stationed at the ship. Hopefully, they were smart enough to station troops to check if the Zerg were launching an attack from the Canal. If they didn't...McAllen didn't want to see men get slaughtered. He had reached in his suit to get his ICD, but the Overlords were jamming the signals. Damn.
He could now definitely feel the presence of the Cerebrate, Araq. It was a powerful, radiating energy that felt vibrant, as if every man that died strengthened the Cerebrate's wormy, sickly body. McAllen planned to crawl another five hundred meters before he figured he was in range of the Cerebrate. You'll never know what hit you, he thought, repeating the slogan that Ghosts shared everywhere.
At T-34's crash site
Each marine was equipped with a disposable SAML (Surface to Air Missile Launcher), strapped to his back, with two thirty centimeter long missiles that were used for shooting down air targets five hundred meters or lower. Nacdle, miraculously still alive, ordered five men of his squadron, Z-1B, to get on top of the ship and start firing away at the approaching Overlords. The gunners that manned the SHWs were severely depleted, two guns were utterly destroyed; a Zergling had completely chewed away the bore of the gun before another gunner blasted it.
"Load!"
Five marines, crouching on top of the ship, grabbed one of the two missiles they had and pushed it inside the SAML, and put it on their shoulders. Nacdle could clearly see the dark, crabby shapes of the Guardians, even without the electronic binoculars implanted in his visor. Oh shit, we forgot about range...The first ball hit the side of the ship, blasting a massive crater and spewing acid all over the side, corroding it to a dangerously thin state. The second ball, a green, massive ball of toxic slime, blew a hole in the side of the ship, as the marines gunners inside were thrown from their positions, killed or wounded.
"Start firing!"
Fire missiles arced upwards, straight for the Guardians. Just then, Nacdle could see dark shapes moving below the Guardians. Robotic like forms.
The missiles went short, falling only a few hundred meters from their targets. But a new halo of missiles came, from the silhouettes of the marines, in their robotic armor. Nacdle watched as a Guardian exploded, from the back, as several missiles arced into it and made the Guardian into a furious flaming body. It started to fall. The other two Guardians turned around, firing acidic balls, one after another, from their mouths, at the infantry. Nacdle watched as they were suddenly overwhelmed by another wave of Zerg.
At T-34's crash site
Pfc. Kit Ashley had never felt so much adrenaline pumping through his body. It felt like a stim, but he knew it wasn't. It came because he knew he was going to die, and his body was rushing its last reserves to fight death a little longer.
Knowing that the Guardians were incinerate the troops by the Canal and in the ship, Ashley and his seven ALPHA Recon members and the firebats that were helping them had crawled out after the Guardians when their backs were exposed to them. They still had their SAMLs and missiles, and they would simply kill the Guardians once they stopped to fire on the ship. Kit had no idea how hard Guardians took to take down. He figured that six or so missiles each should kill it, but as his men and him launched their first volley, the missiles exploded almost harmlessly into the Guardians, like they were only pricking them. And then he heard rumblings. Rumblings of thousands of Zerglings running towards him.
Cursing, he launched another volley of missiles at the middle Guardian, one missile coming up right in the ass of the creature. Ashley would have laughed if he didn't knew he was about to die. The firebats were screaming as the other Guardians were blowing them up with the acid. A firebat squadron commander besides him exploded, chunks of armor and flesh spreading out in a wide vicinity as the Guardian launched ball after ball of acid.
The Zerglings reached the men. Ashley almost felt confident. The bullet left his gun and he felt that he could almost control its course, as it shattered the skull of an advancing Zergling. A Hydralisk looked at him, opening its chest cavity and launching a volley of spines. One struck in his left arm, another two in his leg. The sniper felt no pain. He took out the eyes of the Hydralisk with two shots, watching as it thrashed around, as he fell, blood draining from his legs into his mouth. Red covered him, and it was over.
At T-34's crash site
Nacdle was pissed and shocked at the same time. He had not ordered Ashley to lead those men out- they still needed them for reconnaissance. Why the hell did he just move out of position?
The squadron commander knew exactly why: Ashley and the men had just saved their asses. The Guardians would have killed the men inside of the dropship immediately if it hadn't been for ALPHA-recon.
Fifty-three men dead. Nacdle watched as the Zerglings swarmed over ALPHA-recon, killing, slashing, bashing in the brains of men, mutilating them in an orgy of death. And death was coming right to the dropship.
"Rifles up!"
"Get your grenades out!"
Nacdle knew he was going to die.
The time was 32:02:56.
Inside Nydus Canal/On space platform/Fighting in Aiur's atmosphere
At this time, several things happened
Reaching in a place he thought was close enough to kill massive amounts of Zerg, McAllen stopped, clipped on a sensory scope on his C-10, and aimed, flicking the button on the side of his gun. A red, thin line appeared from the scope, marking the space ahead of him where the missile would land. He could feel the Cerebrate's presence up, above the ground very clearly, and he knew that the Zerg were firmly implanted and guarding it, unaware of what was to about happen next.
McAllen had seen tapes of an Atlas-class missile landing on a target. Nothing survived, nothing, in a five hundred meter to one kilometer radius. McAllen hoped that the marines and firebats had their suits fully enclosed around their bodies. Only CMC armor, which had full NBC, (Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical) protection could help stop the radiation from entering the men's bodies.
"Nuclear launch detected." The words, feminine, automatic, and sterile, echoed from the Command Center housing the IMBM, through every man's ICD, every ship, every unit that had a communications device. Time to give back some of the destruction they've been giving us. A timer, a hologram, appeared from the corner of McAllen's robotic eye, marking a ten minute countdown until the missile hit. 9:56 to go.
The Nuclear Missile Tactician Officer stopped reading his nightly paper from the holonews. He looked outside, through the window of the Command Center. The nuclear silo attached to the HQ had suddenly opened up, exposing the tip of a single Atlas missile. It head straight up, into space, and head towards Aiur. Mother of...they've done it! The officer prayed it would get there in time.
The space battle intensified. Above Aiur's atmosphere, the formation of battlecrusiers and carriers was disintegrating at a light-rate speed, as the Zerg had renewed a vigorous attack, an all-out offensive at the allied forces. Monitors on the capital ships simply were overwhelmed by the load of data coming in from their sensors; Zerg were literally taking up every centimeter of space in the battle.
A wraith, damaged with the wings melted off by acid, slammed into a bloated Overlord, spreading chunks of flesh and metal. The jamming aboard the ships Death's Head and Hyperion stopped.
STO Walker only caught the last part of the warning: -launch detected. But he knew it could only mean one thing. He looked at the hologram map in front of him: a space platform holding twelve standard Command Centers, each one with a nuclear silo hooked up to it. One of the missiles, identified by a single, red dot cruising through space, was clearly headed to Aiur. It meant that a mass of Zerg was going to get killed very, very, soon.
"Commander!" Walker called over to Raynor.
"Goddamit Walker! We're fucking going to die here, don't give me this bullshit now! Holy-"
Raynor saw it too.
"Get two squadrons down there, get two wraith squadrons down where the missile is headed," Raynor said, quietly, and almost under his breath. "Whoever's launching needs some air support very fast."
Officer Jackie Andersen relayed the message to two fighter squadrons.
"Stork Leader and Black Prince, troops are requesting assistance on Aiur ASAP. Get your squadrons to positions H-5, H-6 immediately. Over."
"Roger that, Hyperion. We are disengaging and heading over now," said Black Prince.
8:54 to go.
At T-34's crash site
Squadron commander Jones and the men at H-5 and H-6 positions had also heard the warning, since no Overlords ahead to jam communications; they were too busy directing their troops. He wasn't rejoicing. As Jones looked at the surge of Zerglings swallow ALPHA-recon and head over to them, along with two lumbering Guardians, he knew he didn't have very long to live.
Medical Corpsman Jast lifted a wounded marine by the shoulders up, wincing as he heard the cries of the marine.
"Sorry buddy, gotta get you out of the open."
The acid of the Guardian had made huge holes in the side of the ship, essentially melting armor as well as disrupting the eight marines that laid belly down, firing from the "bunker" slits. Most of those men died when the Guardian fired the acid; the metal had made a dent, slamming metal into the visors of the marines. The wounded and unwounded men on top of the ship were getting ready, getting any gun they could as the Zerg rushed towards them. Most of the heavy weaponry was gone, chewed up and destroyed by Zerg. Jast picked up a 9mm pistol that the wounded marine carried on his side, cocked it, and aimed at the approaching horde. We are so, so, dead.
"Fire!" Nacdle screamed at the men that were fighting, less than half the original number of marines. A line of advancing Zerglings fell. The Guardians were close now, wanting to get accurate shots on the men below.
By the Nydus Canal, Hancock and his men were dragging their dead and wounded to the back of their formation, while maintaining a perimeter around the Canal. Marines had rigged the few meters in front of the structure with their last remaining grenades, to surprise any Zerg that would be coming out. Hancock and the other firebats were incinerating Zerg as they came out of the Canal. Grenades ripped other Zerg apart, tearing hard carapace from the organs of Zerg. But for every Zergling burst into orange flame, two more followed it from the Canal.
Hopefully that Ghost isn't dead. Or well all be dead soon, Hancock thought, as he looked at the display on the inside of his visor, measuring how much fuel he had left in his tanks. It kept decreasing at an amazing speed.
"We've got company from the other side!" A marine shouted, and then lifted his rifle to Zerglings that were overrunning the dropship.
Squad Commander Jones let his gun rip, pressing the trigger hard, holding his gun to his body, as did other marines. Besides him a soldier with a SAML launched a Hawkeye AA missile at the lumbersome Guardians. It exploded on impact with the carapace, showering bits of flesh on the advancing forces below. Then, all hell broke loose.
The first lines of Zerglings fell, dying from a wave of hypersonic bullets. The Guardians launched balls of acid, igniting organic grenades out of men, making them balls of exploding matter. The Zerglings scrambled over their dead, and met the marines head-on, like two armies of knights crashing into each other. Feral claws supported by spines against armor and lead.
Men gurgled their last dying breaths as they kicked, screamed, and shot Zerg. Nacdle, running out of ammunition for his C-14, pulled out his 9mm "Reaper" Pistol and shot several Zerg dead center, shattering their skulls. With the other hand he pulled out a clip of ammo from his leg pocket, and pushed it into his rifle as he ejected the old clip. With Zerg advancing on him, he threw his pistol at a Zergling's face; it yelped like a dog when it was hit. Then its companions and it were hit by a solid spray of lead.
An acid ball made a crater out of a pile of wounded marines that calmly shot their guns at Zerg, spraying their body parts in a grotesque manner, flipping arms, legs, and heads in the air.
Jast gulped, as he held his standard pistol in one hand, another Reaper pistol in the other. He picked off any Zerg that got too close to him, but he could see it was hopeless. Terran and Zerg forces were mixing together, and Jast could see marines were simply being overwhelmed at the amount of enemy forces thrown at them. Marines were separated into groups, then mauled to death or shot by spines.
He had set his chronometer to a ten minute countdown to detonation of the nuke.
Five minutes left.
Entering Aiur's atmosphere
Pilots called it the "shake and bake," where their crafts would enter a moment of turbulence from the atmosphere, as their ship would bounce around. The Storks and the Black Flight were heading towards the beleaguered marine and firebat positions that were protecting a single man for something they didn't know. All they knew was a nuke had been launched, and a nuke launching meant thousands of Zerg were going to die. Millions of them. For Captain Ander, it was a happy thought, as Aiur's atmosphere bounced his little fighter around.
And then he saw it: thousands, no, millions of Zerg, head every which way, being shot down by marines and firebats, but thousands more came on. Zerg were everywhere, with little metal glints appearing to be marines that were surrounded by Satanic forces.
Ander looked on his monitor, heading towards the positions H-5 and -6, but also trying to fight the feeling of guiltiness. While he had been safe battling Zerg flyers in space, the infantry was being slaughtered in a no man's land. He was supposed to provide air support for these fellows. Damn.
"Alright Storks, here we are; look sharp for any Zerg flyers," Captain Jansen said. Ander looked below at H-5. It's the crashed dropship! Seems like Lieutenant Nacdle did get his men out of there. It also seemed like Nacdle and his men were getting slaughtered. The marines on and by the dropship were desperately fighting their way out of a huge Zerg encirclement, while firebats and marines close to the ship were protecting a Nydus Canal. They flamed everything that came out of it up, but they weren't intent on destroying it. What the hell?
"Sir, uh, look out for any-" Ander was cut short by a hissing of static from his Captain's channel. He looked through his cockpit again. Jansen's wraith was being showered by spines of Hydralisks, and one had hit the engines of the fighter. It struggled to get control of it, was juking wildly out of control, finally smashing into a Guardian. Flesh and metal showered the forces below, as the fighter careened to the group, killing Jansen and taking several Hydralisks with him.
"Captain, captain, what the hell do we do?" Jonstone's voice broke through Ander's shock.
"What? I'm not leading this squadron."
"You are now."
Ander felt a rage broiling side of him. They took away my home, my family, and now my commander. Another profanity laced sentence followed.
"Follow me Storks. We're going to live up to our name."
The Black Flight was another crack squadron, led by the "Black Prince," Tommy Alexander. His two wingmates, "Black Spades" and "Black Heart," followed him as he triggered his missiles into the other Guardian. It exploded, giving Alexander a sense of satisfaction. Spades armed his air to surface missiles, triggering two of them at the mass of Zerg below, sending chunks of Hydralisk flesh into the air. The tide was turning.
The eight wraiths, painted black, flew in perfect formation as they provided air support the infantry so desperately needed.
"Black flight, this is lead. Heads up on the nuke explosion; it might tumble your bird around."
A chorus of voices followed. "Roger lead."
Ander was so intent on killing Zerg that he almost didn't hear the familiar voice that crackled through his comms.
"Captain Ander, that you?" It was Nacdle.
"Nacdle! How did you know it was me?"
"Your Wraith looked familiar. Keep us covered, we've got a few minutes before the nuke gets here."
"What's going on? With the firing of this missile and stuff? Has Command changed its plans?"
"You'll find out if we get out of here alive."
In the background, Ander could hear men and Zerg screaming alike.
Near Jormungand Cerebrate Araq
The missile flew up and into the center of the Zerg base. It could have not been a more direct hit.
Plumes of rapidly expanding fireballs of pure oxygen swept into the Zerg base, setting on fire anything that was in its way. Shrieks of Zerglings vanished under a thunderous roar of massive orange fireballs that engulfed the scene. Zerg in burrows melted, liquid flesh pouring and bubbling out of holes, as the skins of Hydralisks melted in the fiery inferno.
Jin watched as the missile detonated, blowing his cloak around, and producing a magnificent explosion that ripped everything into shreds. The towering Hive structure was reduced into a mass of blood and flesh; Zerg Overlords, their psionic signal gone, plummeted in dead balls of gore. Through all this, Jin could still feel the radiating surprise of the Cerebrate, now defenseless. It could only be destroyed by a Dark Templar's blades. Jin and his brethren ran to the Cerebrate before it could act.
With his eyes almost blinded by the explosion, Aragas ran inside the base. Run to shame a Zealot, my brothers.
He could see the massive holes, soaked in blood and flesh, that were covering the deteriorating Creep. Everything was destroyed. Aragas felt the psionic signal Araq gave off, and sent out his own signal to the Cerebrate, along with a message: Your crimes shall be avenged in a few seconds.
Then they saw it: a massive, sickly white worm, a Cerebrate quivering in its own skin. It had no defense, it could not fight, but it had succeeded in killing millions of Protoss. Aragas, Zami, and Jin simultaneously channeled their dark energy into their warp blades, extending them, and slashed at the worm. Again, and again, until the Cerebrate bled red, and died. And with it died millions of its minions. Around them, the few surviving Zerglings stopped, a total brain lock seizing control of them; they stood there, unable to move.
Aragas could feel his other brothers moving in, stealthily, as the Overmind and the remaining Cerebrates were in a comatose state, shocked by the destruction of one Cerebrate. Their servants, too, stopped, surprising any Protoss or Terran locked in combat with the creatures. Aragas could feel them stop, like each Zerg was in lockdown in a particular position while the Templar slipped past them. His fellow Templar slashed and hacked away at the other Cerebrates, leaving their minions helpless and dead under the psi-blades of Aiur's holy warriors. Revenge had come. Now you have felt the fury of the Sons of Aiur!
Zami knew better than to celebrate the hollow victory. He looked up, at the plateau where the Overmind had situated itself. It will cost us many lives before we can kill it. He heard the Overmind's psionic wrath as it called to its flying minions to retreat to the main Hive cluster, as it tried to grapple on to any Zerg warrior that it could, desperately trying to pull back the remaining forces. Terran infantry though, just a minute ago, helpless as they endured wave after wave of unending Zerg, were slaughtering mindless zombies of Zerglings and Hydralisk. But a shadow covered over the victory, as dawn was beginning to open its eyes and yawn.
Jin turned his cold blue eyes to a fiery red when he heard Zami's unprotected psychic thought.
What do you mean, 'it will cost us many lives,' Zami? Cannot you not see? We have won?
Zami shook his head sadly. A hollow victory at best, my friend, for the Overmind awaits our fury. The battle has just begun.