They were retreating, they always retreated when the covvies landed insystem, it was always the same, a rear guard holding pattern so all the civilians could escape off the nearest spaceport. But that did not mean they went quietly, oh no, every inch the covenant took was paid for in blood, blue blood, purple blood and red blood. Always red blood. In boot camp they tell you Marines bleed green. But we bleed red, red soaks every planet the covvies ever landed on. Marines may not bleed green, but there hearts and minds are steel, green painted steel with UNSC stamped on it. Marines died, it was what we were born to do, but we took those motherfuckers with us, we died alright but we died with fire in our hearts, our bayonets imbedded in the throats of our enemies, and surrounded by the empty brass cartridges from our rifle. Just like the age old adage, let me die in a pile of empty brass, my finger on the trigger, surrounded by the bodies of my slain enemies and in the arms of my fallen comrades. Words soaked in blood from the days of the United States Marine Corps. Words embedded in Lance Corporal Dawson's heart and mind.
Lance Corporal James Dawson was a UNSC Marine of 2 years and 3 campaigns, he had seen death and destruction on three different planets, but those were outer colonies, already forgotten. Not this one, not Reach. The UNSC stronghold, once thought and untouchable stronghold, now had aliens on it. Dawson was a regular looking man, he had sandy brown hair close cropped in a high and tight, a scar running from left forehead to chin, courtesy of an energy sword. He had the eagle, globe and anchor of the UNSC Marine Corps tattooed on left bicep, anchor inboard toward the heart, a dogtag chain that wrapped around his right shoulder and ended on his forearm with the name PFC John Pearson, his best friend and brother in arms and blood who met his end at the hands of the same elite who gave Dawson his scar, and he had "I am the sheepdog, I hunt the wolf that goes bump in the dark of the night" in two lines on his upper shoulder blades. He was a warrior, a fighter, and above all, a Marine.
Dawson was fire team 3's leader in the 25th Marine Battalion, Whiskey Company, Bravo Platoon, 1st squad. Under him was LCPL Watson, PFC Jones, and PFC Smith. There was two full squads of 13 men each left in Whiskey CO. Everyone else was dead, thanks to an air strike on their barracks. What was left was tasked with defending a small airport that was feeding civilians to one of the main spaceports this side of New Alexandria. He could see Alexandria from his position, burning, as the rest of the world would be soon. They had been fighting for days, haven't slept, survived off combat stims and energy bars. They were exhausted, hungry, but ready. Ready for the covvies to come. And come they did.
"RIGHT FLANK RIGHT FLANK" Sergeant Baily screamed. Dawson pivoted and fired his BR55, once, twice, thrice. Down went three grunt, besides him PFC Jones fired his SAW in a continuous burst and an elite, not letting up until the alien was a pile of shredded armor and flesh. Dawson pressed the magazine release button and dropped to a knee behind the concrete jersey barrier he shared with Jones. He drew a new mag from a pouch on his LBE (load bearing vest) that went over his standard Marine chest plate. 20 feet away across the road Watson and Smith crouched behind a similar barrier, this was the only road leading into the tiny airport. Behind them SGT Baily's 2nd squad held the two outer buildings, Marines dotted the two floors, two men to a window and four to the roof. 2nd squad held the only SMR left, and ammo was scarce, they also held the two SPNKR and remaining ammo. Behind them was one building that housed 56 civilians and the other three fire teams from 1st squad, CPL James was in charge, SGT Stagger had died when a beam rifle pierced his throat. Behind that building was the hoverpad, with 3 Pelicans, fueled up and ready to go, just waiting for nightfall to make their move. Sheer cliff faces rose on the left and right flank, there was one avenue of approach, the road Dawson was guarding. They had mined it earlier that day, with bricks of C12, buried underneath the dirt.
"Fireteam 3, team 3, this is Echo 5" Dawson's earpiece crackled with SGT Baily's voice.
"Send it 5"
"Be alert 3, you've got a fuckton of covvies approaching, T-minus 60 mikes till nightfall and the pelicans fly out. Stay Frosty, you've got control of the C12 remote det."
"Roger 5, 3 is on it"
This was it, all they had to hold for was one hour. that's it. Dawson turned to his men.
"Listen up gents, we need to hold this POS for 1 hour, that's it. Stay alert"
They responded with a smattering of rahs and rogers. He turned and peered down his Rifle Combat Optic, or RCO for short. The road was clear. For now.
They were coming. Lances of grunts and jackals, led by elite. Dawson fired first, a three round burst that popped a jackals head like a watermelon. The dusk sky erupted in muzzle flashes and tracers trading space with multi colored plasma balls. It would have been pretty if it was a light show of death. His radio screamed "GET DOWN 3. GET THE FUCK DOWN" all of team 3 hit the dirt, on the rooftop behind him, the platoons only M23A5 50 caliber machine gun opened up, bullets as large as a mans hand screamed downrange and shredded bodies, kicked up dirt and pierced armor. After one mike of continuous fire, SGT Baily's voice came over the hooks, "Be advised 3, we are Winchester on 50 ammo" Dawson responded, "Roger 5, frags out"
Fuck that wasn't good. No more 50 cal ammo. "Frags out gents." Dawson yanked his free of its pouch, yanked the safety clip and pin, counted to two and tossed it. Four explosions pierced the air. Fountains of blood and entrails arced for the dying sunset and painted the rocks a macabre masterpiece of varying colors and organs. Oorah Dawson thought. He lifted his head over the barrier, brought his rifle to bear and killed yet another grunt. The ground was clear. Then he looked up. "FUCK FUCK FUCK PHANTOMS INBOUND PHANTOMS INBOUND. 15 PLUS PHANTOMS INBOUND. FUCK GET THOSE CIVVIES OUT OF HERE" Dawson screamed into his radio. "3 this is 5. Negative negative 3, Pelicans leave we have no evac." Fuck, he thought. Banshees screamed overhead, lighting up the buildings with plasma fire and fuel rod bombs. 100 plus enemy foot mobiles were marching up the road, leapfrogging as they went. The options were few, death was all but certain. They were outnumbered. Dawson took a deep breath. "5 this is 3. We got this. Get out of here. We'll cover you."
SGT Baily responded with "3 this is 5, there's no one coming back for you Lance Corporal. Are you sure" No he thought to himself. "Yes SGT. This is what we asked for."
Baily came back on the radio. "Roger Dawson. Its been an honor." Dawson sighed deeply and turned to his fire team. They looked back with fear in their eyes, but their jaws were steeled and straight. "This is your chance, fall back and live. I wont hold it against you."
PFC Jones, a boot in his first battle looked back at me, the fear was gone from his eyes, replaced it was rage and anger, "Negative LCPL, someone has to watch your back." Dawson nodded and looked at Watson and Smith, the fear was gone, acceptance was there, acceptance and pure black rage. "Very well. Get ready" Dawson turned to see the three Pelicans hit supersonic speed and race away, silhouetted against the dying sunlight and the burning ruins of New Alexandria, and of Reach. Godspeed he whispered under his breath.
Smith was the first to die, a plasma grenade landed beyond his barrier and he leapt on it. Ammo was getting low, there were bodies everywhere, brass casings littered the floor, Jones's SAW was empty, discarded ammo drums littered the floor. He died next, 8 needles impacted his chest and burst, leaving his remains a bloody mangled mess. Dawson screamed and fired, and fired and fired, he was wounded in half dozen places, plasma burns on his shoulder and left leg, his pinky and ring finger on his left hand was gone, a carbine round had nicked his throat. But still he fought. He was a Marine, he would not go quietly into the night, he would not lay down and die. The next thing he knew and elite leapt Watson's barrier, energy sword drawn. Watson screamed then laughed, pulled the pins on his remaining three frags, pulled the elite and the sword towards his chest and took them both to the deck. A fiery explosion engulfed the both of them. "FUCK FUCK FUCK" He was alone. He took cover and keyed his radio. "All channels all channels, this is Lance Corporal James Dawson, Serial Number 2568732078, 25th Marines, Whiskey Company, Bravo Platoon. This is my final transmission. The line in the sand has been drawn. Semper Fidelis." Silence was his reply. Dawson grabbed the detonator and pressed the red button. A massive explosion rent the sky in two, and sent clouds of dirt and rocks dozens of feet into the air, bodies and entrails and blood was everywhere. Fix Bayonets he muttered, reached into the small of his back and drew his combat knife, fixed it to the bayonet stub and took a deep breath. He turned around the barrier, a deep roar, a primal shout, a battle cry that conveyed his rage and anger and thirst for blood and vengeance burst from his lungs. He rose with his bayonet in front of him and his finger on the trigger and he charged into the howling gates of death, hell and darkness, never to return.