A/N I still own nothing. here is a new chapter, a tad bit different I think. I am still looking for a beta reader, and as always please read and review, throw some criticism, advice and suggestions my way. Thanks so much to anyone whose reviewed other chapters, i really appreciate it. Everything helps improve my writing. If you like this chappie, you should check out my other story, A Pile of Empty Brass. Its a military zombie fic and most chapters are written like this. Violent and profane. Anyway, read and review.
The squad was dwindling in numbers. We had dropped in with 16 men, a full ODST squad. We were attached to the 105th, 37th Division, 1st Battalion, India Company, and then us, our squad. 3rd Squad. Callsign; Viper 1-5. Our handler, back on the UNSC Cruiser, Sheepdog was Viper Actual. Our mission was to assassinate a Prophet, codenamed Tango 1-7-9. This fucker was responsible for leading fleets in what we believe to be over four battles. All four of those battles resulted in glassed planets; including New Constantinople. Typical spec ops shit, ya know. Like the shit you see in the recruitment holo vids. Oh here come big ODSTs with their black armor covered in covie blood and big fancy weapons. Well you know what those vids don't fucking tell you, that the blood is red more often then not, and our piece of shit, made by the lowest bidder, weapons are ineffective against the goddamn energy shields of the fucking covenant army. Fuck. Sorry about that people. If anyone is reading this. Ya know I'm writing into a blood and water soaked field journal. Yes I am using paper and pen, sue me fucktards. Maybe someone will find this on my armor, maybe not. Who fucking knows if I'm gonna make it.
Well the OP went fubar from the start. As per usual. 16 men, four 2 man sniper teams, giving us 8 SRS rifles and two four man fire teams for support. I was the fire team leader of team Zulu, we had team Whiskey and team Zulu and then sniper teams Alpha through Delta. The plan was simple enough, hot drop into a flood infected zone outside some shithole in Africa, hump our gear overland for 8 klicks, set up shop, kill Mr big bad prophet guy, hump our asses back 8 klicks for evac and be home in time for breakfast. Well sonny let me tell you something, this is the military and also war, which means nothing runs smoothly. Period. End of story.
The first snag happened when sniper team Bravo collided during the drop, neither made it. Their dog-tags weigh heavily in my left cargo pocket. I don't know if you've ever seen the remains of two heavy solid metal pods colliding at terminal velocity, fusing together, then impacted the dirt at speeds nearing the sound barrier. The two men were turned into a bloody pulp. I would never forget that sight. Oh hey, did I forget to mention the covvies were on fucking earth?! Yeah that's kind of important.
We started with 14 men, we still had 6 sniper rifles which should be enough. The rest of us were operating with the flood in mind. Everyone carried a silenced SMG as a secondary weapon. Half of the support fire team had shotguns, the other had BR55 battle rifles. We were going quiet, we would go loud when we were made but not till then. The second snap happened when an infection form dropped from a low over hang onto one of the guys from sniper team Charlie. The form burrowed into his neck, snapping ballistics grade armor plates like they were made of paper. Before we knew it the form had control and a shotgun blasted the remaining man from team Charlie to the great beyond. Have you ever had to shoot a friend in the skull? What am I saying, of course you haven't. well let me tell you it fucks you up inside. I leveled my BR55 at the infection form and fired a three round burst. Green puss and matter exploded everywhere and he toppled to the ground. My cargo pocket had four tags then. But there was always room for more! Good god I need help.
Four klicks went by smoothly. It was a text book operation. We were down to two full sniper teams and two full supporting fire teams. It was still a big number for an op like this, but we were headed deep into Indian country and needed every rifle we could get. We moved in standard patrol formations for this situation, but any situation with the flood was not fucking normal. Sniper teams at the center, the two four man teams formed two triangles, Zulu had point, Whiskey had rear. Silenced weapons out. Just cause we were Marines didn't mean we were dumb. Asshole.
Two klicks to go and the next snag happened. Covvie patrol. An elite with an energy sword stabbed number 3 man from Whiskey Team. The points of hardened energy pierced his heart and he died instantly. The elite received the gift of buckshot, military grade, depleted uranium, 8 gauge, right in the skull. I doubt you, my dear reader, have ever seen 8 gauge buckshot impact a skull, but let me tell you, on an alien's skull it's a beautiful motherfucking sight. Energy shields aren't sliced through as much as punched into oblivion, armor plates, mandibles and the skull itself are fucking impounded upon itself and then pummeled outward. We may have lost another man, and another dog tag rested in my cargo pocket but that fucking hinge heads skull decorated everything within a ten meter radius, and that, dear reader, made me smile.
"COVERING FUCKING FIRE. LEFT FLANK. LEFT FLANK." 10 men now. Holed up on a rooftop, being pounded with wraith fire, infantry, and banshees overhead. We were kinda fucked. I say kinda cause we were motherfucking Marines, and then ODSTs. You may find a Marine dead, but by God you'll find him in a pile of empty brass, surrounded by the bodies of his slain enemies. Save the last one for yourself.
Alpha 1 fired his SRS, the 14.5 MM round impacted a hinghead in the chest plate, bitch dropped, another crack split the air and a bright blossom of blood erupted from its now non-existent chest cavity. I shifted aim, pause, squeeze, and the rat-tat-tat of the three round burst from my BR55 hit an elite dead center mass. Once, twice, thrice and his shields were gone. Once more and the fucking asshole was dead. "ZULU ON ME." I screamed to my fire team. "OVER THE SIDE, GO GO GO." I leapt first, two stories down. My armor absorbed the impact. My left hand went for my sidearm and centered on the methane tank of a grunt. Pop and that little bitch went up in flames. I crackled as I swung my BR55 into action and began firing into the mass of grunts and jackals who were fleeing now without their leadership. The last elites laying in pools of rapidly congealing blood and dust. My boots pounded the ground, lungs heaving and shoulders waving as we advanced. Grunts and jackals fell to the dirt, blood oozing from multiple gunshot wounds. "NONE OF THESE FUCKS GET TO LIVE," I screamed to my squad. Grunts that advanced to us with arms raised in the universal symbol of surrender received a round to the skull. Jackals that threw down their energy shield gauntlets won the prize of a 3 round burst from a BR55. Death hath no mercy. And we were death incarnate.
We lost men in that skirmish. Good men. Men with families, wives, husbands, kids. My cargo pocket had 12 jingling tags. 4 men left. Alpha 1 and 2, both with SRS, me and the other fire team leader, Whiskey 1. Mission accomplishment before troop welfare as they say. And we pressed on. The SRS in my hands had a range of about 2000 meters. In a trained snipers hand it was about 2500. We were aiming for 2100 meters to make the shot. We crested a ridge overlooking the remains of a small town. A covenant cruiser hovered over the town, a small one horse town. Maybe 50 buildings tops. One of those "escape to the past" places. Nostalgia really attracted some nut jobs. The buildings were the old style, brick, wood, cement, shit like that. The center of town had been razed to the ground, supply crates and watch towers littered the area directly surrounding the bottom of the grav lift extending from the ship. Our vantage point turned the entire valley into a killbox. Fucking A.
"Viper Actual, Viper Actual, this is Viper 1-5, come in Viper Actual." I spoke into my helmet mike as the rest of my guys took position aimed into the valley. Whiskey 1 was on rear security, Alpha 1 and 2 had set up about 20 meters from each other, both poised to strike at the prophet. My radio crackled to life, "Viper 1-5 this is Viper Actual, send your traffic."
"Viper 1-5 reports 12 friendly KIAs, target area in sight. Requesting IDF (Indirect fire support) or CAS (Close air support)."
"Viper 1-5 this is Viper Actual, negative on that request, all air assets are tired up elsewhere, all IDF has been destroyed on contential Africa. You're on your own. Good luck. Viper Actual out."
"Fuck. Listen gents. We've got no support coming. Were on our own here. Prepare to take the shot. Fire on my mark."
This was it. 12 men killed for this fucking rat. Now we had to wait.
One hour and 17 minutes later the Prophet designated one-seven-niner descended from the grav lift, sitting in his resplendent throne. Payback time fucker.
I turned to the pair of snipers as the Prophet touched dirtside.
"Alpha 1, are you green?"
"Roger that, target acquired." He answered.
"2?"
"2 is good to go." Both snipers were locked and loaded, target in sight, ready to bring death.
"How we looking back there Whiskey 1?"
"All clear mate, no covvies in sight."
"Solid copy." I took a deep breath. "Team we take the shot on my mark, then its over and down the ravine and into the town, we need confirmation of target killed. Stick together, stay frosty and stay alive. Everyone good to go?"
The remaining three men all said rah or roger. "Fix bayonets," I muttered under my breath.
"On my mark. Three. Two. One. MARK."
Twin cracks rent through the air.
"Alpha 1 and 2 report target down." Fuck yes.
"1 and 2, fire at will," I screamed, "Whiskey 1 on me."
We sprinted over and down the hill and the sniper team poured round after round into the encampment. I heard a whoosh and a muffled boom behind me. A banshee screamed over my head, the green cloud of a fuel rod explosion blossomed up from the position of 1 and 2. Whiskey 1 made movement to go back toward them.
"THERES NOTHING WE CAN DO. REMEMBER THE MISSION." I fucking screamed at him. I saw his steely eyed glare return to the covvie and nod and we resumed sprinting. The banshee doubled back.
"TAKE IT DOWN."
We aimed skyward and fired round after round. Our combined firepower brought the banshee down and killed the pilot but not before a trio of bolts destroyed the chest of Whiskey 1. Viper squad was down to me and 13 dog tags in my cargo pocket.
Before being killed Alpha team managed to destroy every elite in the town. I mopped up the remaining grunts and jackals. The pair of 14.5 MM rounds had thrown the prophet from its chair, one bullet impacted his groin area and the other its chest. The fucking thing was still kicking. It weakly aimed a plasma pistol at me. I kicked it away, slammed its hand to the dirt and shoved my combat knife through its hand and into the dirt. It howled in pain and violently shook.
"Vermin," it spat in a weak voice, "your precious earth will burn, and you with it."
I took my helmet off and laughed, deeply. I looked down on the prophet with contempt and hate in my glare and in my voice.
"Haven't you heard? Marines never die, we just go to hell and regroup."
I wrenched my knife out of the things hand, ignoring its howls and mewls of pain. It took four strokes of my 12 inch, blue steel, half serrated combat knife but off with its head. The head went into my ruck.
"Viper Acutal, this is Viper 1-5, requesting evac."
"Viper 1-5 this is Viper Actual, there will be a Pelican at your drop zone. You have three-zero mikes."
Fuck em all.
I made my way back to the drop zone in a damaged but functional Ghost. There was a Pelican waiting for me, I took it back to my ship, the Sheepdog. The entire way I looked over the dogtags of my men, and committed them to memory, searing them into my psyche. We landed in the hanger bay and some fucking boot private told me I needed to debrief with my handler. Fuck that. I charged into his office, full of comm equiptment. He was a major, in the fucking Navy, not even an ODST. Overweight and never seen a day of combat.
"Job well done!" He shouted cheerfully at me.
"Shut the fuck up," I whispered to him. I reached behind me and pulled the prophets severed head and threw it on his desk, its blood splashing his pearly white uniform. His face was ashen and filled with disgust. I slammed the 13 dog tags next to it.
"There's your fucking target and theres the fucking price."
I spun on my heel and charged out the door. I headed to the drop pod bay. I had battles to fight, aliens to kill, and the memories of 13 more men to haunt me until the day I die. But by god, I'll die in a pile of empty brass.