Chapter Eight – It really is a Small World!!
Palmer saw the Phantom dropship pull away, wounded by Collins' rocket fire and felt a sense of elation. Infantry they could handle, his men were tough – but air support was a problem. He spoke into his comm..
"Hold it together Marines! Just hold it together. They have to retreat soon! They have to! Their armour is neutralised. Hold your positions!" he bellowed, triumph in his voice. Pvt. Moreaux was reloading, his hands shaking a little, fumbling it. He finally got it jammed home, and slipped into the corner of the room, to fire blind through the broken store window, but Palmer grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him upright, and the two stepped to the parapet. They poured burst after burst into hunched figures, cutting down A Brute Major who was attempting to lead the troops in the street, trying to get the Grunts to attack. He saw the two and made to throw a grenade, but his life ended too quickly. He staggered back, dancing to the tune of lead, and then keeled over, the spike grenade dropping next to him. There was a thump of a blast, and yelling as the razor-tipped spikes riddled several nearby Jackals. Some Grunts in behind the wreckage of the lead Wraith tank began to backpedal, even their Deacon, a red-armoured, more ornate atmosphere processor designed to look distinguished, looking instead vaguely ridiculous as he waddled away from the fighting; when he retreated, the Grunts, with no Brute close enough, began an outright rout, but were quickly scared back into action.
There was, he noticed, a disturbing number of Covie infantry sidetracking in through the breach in the shop front next one down from Keele's position, where the middle Shadow had crashed. He had seen perhaps a half-a-dozen go that way so far. He made to communicate with Keele, but too late. He heard from Keele first.
Just as Keele had thought, the connecting wall between the clothing store and the next building collapsed explosively inwards. He whipped his rifle around, and Garcia looked up, grabbing for his own rifle. The first thing to come through the breach was, predictably, a group of squealing Grunts, which were quickly and dutifully slotted. They sparked and tumbled as they were riddled with rounds. Keele's SMG clicked rapidly as the firing pin continued to strike an empty chamber.
Shit.
He tossed the useless weapon aside and made for Ilyanov's MA5C just as two Jackals with energy shields edged their way in through the two-metre gap, their barriers eerily glowing in the haze of gun-smoke and concrete-dust. Their pistols blazed, and Keele reached for a grenade that wasn't there. He noticed one attached to the webbing of Ilyanov, but the man had passed out from blood loss and pain. The rifle in his left hand by the shaft, he grasped the grenade and pulled it clear, losing the spoon and pin all in one go, and then fluidly tossed it at the Jackal.
"Get down!" he bellowed to Garcia, who dove behind the counter in the far corner as the weapon went off. Miraculously, Ilyanov and Keele were spared the shrapnel – The Jackals weren't but now they had bigger problems. A brute had followed, a Type-25 Carbine, or Spiker, in its massive hand, the curved blades glistening wetly. It came forth, its heavy blue-coloured armour covering nearly its entire body, its head and face covered by an ornate headdress. It was evidently of high rank. Two of its low-rank buddies followed it in, their bodies only partially covered by the blue-tinged plate armour. They carrier plasma rifles of red chrome.
Keele muttered into his comm..
"God damn it, Palmer I need backup now, now!" he terminated the link and hefted the rifle.
Cpl Ferris got the call as he heard the distinctive noise of the explosion. He was in the Carpet Store with Pvt Sureno and PFC Beck. The Store was shot up badly, reams of burning carpets giving off a foul-smelling smoke that was choking off the ceiling, forcing them to crouch beneath it. He struggled to hear the communication from the Lieutenant in his ear as more enemy fire splashed inside. A burning fleck of it, miniscule, splattered his cheek and he yelled in pain and leapt back so fast his helmet slipped back on his head. He splashed the dispersing solution from the aid kit that was luckily by his feet, just in time for a lull in the fire to allow him to hear. Only the machine-gun in the support nest never stopped, its heat-dissipating tech pretty high-end. He realised they must be firing on a flanking threat, meaning they would not be safe in their position for long. At first he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Say again, LT, say again!" he called into the receiver at his lips.
"I said get your ass into the clothing store! Keele needs backup! Do it, Marine!" the LT's voice crackled so loud in his ear he knew the man must be screaming.
He clapped Sureno on the shoulder and made a 'with me' gesture. The Marine nodded.
"Cover us, Beck. Make like a fire team." He said to the remaining trooper, PFC Louise Beck. She nodded smartly, her ice-blue eyes glittering determinedly from between narrowed lids. She laid fire out of the window, screaming wordlessly as he and Sureno made for the back door. The door slid open after a moment and he poked his head out into the street. The multiple contacts on the rooftops of the North road paid no notice to his left, engaged in a fierce firefight with the support nest. He jerked his head in the direction of the back door of the clothing store, and then dashed over, Sureno close behind. It sounded like hell in a snowglobe was happening inside. He held up three fingers to Sureno, taking the left side of the door while he took the right. He counted three seconds, lowering a finger each time. Then he hit the door control and the flat metal panel slid into the frame. He went in first, rifle up, Sureno close behind. They fanned left and right, spotting the trio of Brutes and swallowing as they realised the bigger of the three in the centre, with the headdress, had to be one mean motherfucker.
Nevertheless, they opened up. At this range, auto-fire was their friend, and the bullets hit the shields, ricocheting and flattening. Keele was on one knee, and the battle-drunk Brutes were firing wildly, no real aiming involved, though he could tell they had hit Sureno. The man fell to his knees, gurgling. Blood poured from his mouth and the spike in his chest. Garcia on the right, Keele on the left, Ferris in the middle. One Brute screamed and went down as his shields failed and he was riddled with bullets in the neck and head. The one on the left lunged for Garcia who ducked, and in a ballsy move, primed a captured plasma grenade and under-armed it onto the Brute's, well, balls. It roared in anger and detonated, splashing the walls, counter, and Garcia with its insides.
The middle one's shields held. Screaming a demonic battlecry, it leapt straight for him. Deploying a sticklike device to the ground as it did so, dropping it from its belt.
A great-half-sphere of yellow-white energy as tall as the ceiling sprang up as it leapt, and rounds refused to penetrate it. It had come up just in time, for the last few rounds forced its shields to fail.
Oh shit! Leapt to mind as it leapt at him, swinging the twin blades on the Spiker towards his face, over-hand. He instinctively tried to block with his rifle, but the sheer weight and force of the Brute's blow split the rifle in two, rendering it useless. The halves fell from his grip as he was thrown against the wall. Better, he supposed, than being split into two himself.
But he had brought himself only a temporary reprieve. The beast stepped forward freakishly fast, and brought the weapon up to strike again. At which point a rifle-less Keele slammed into his side, combat knife drawn, and…
Bounced off its armour and bulk, winding up on his ass in the bubble with them.
The Brute chuckled at the stunned ODST and raised the weapon to shoot him, and at that moment, Garcia spectacularly failed to intervene as well, rushing the creature in the bubble, but simply being struck aside. He knocked his helmeted head on the counter, splintering its edge with the force of his impact. The helmet was nothing, of course, if a Brute hit you. He fell to the floor unmoving. It was all the distraction Keele needed to jam the laser-sharpened combat knife into the space between the two segments of its armour greaves, trying for the femoral artery, though he knew not if the physiology was anything at all like humans. Still, the blade stung it, stung it enough for it to bellow in pain and reach for the hilt.
Ferris reacted now, though he was dizzy as hell from the impact. He drew his M6C and started to punch rounds into its belly, just beneath the edge breast-plate. It howled at the three-sided, frustrating, and painful attack, and then Keele retrieved his blade, drawing forth spurting arterial gore. Physiology saved the day. The Brute started to look woozy. The deployed anti-ballistic shield popped into nothingness. Keele reached up and slammed the blade into its throat, up through the jaw and into its brain. It shuddered, the weapon dropping from its fingers, and then fell to its knees, slumping back into a sitting position, where its weight came to rest.
Garcia started to push himself up and saw flashing chrome in the breach in the wall. He grabbed his rifle and crawled to the doorway, firing at enemy Grunts, who had evidently been waiting for their leaders to clear the room. Three died.
Outside, Palmer saw, the Grunts were wavering, and the Jackals were trying to steady them, but there were few Brutes left, and the Jackals had not the same terrifying authority. He relished it.
"A few more of 'em Marines! Kill a few more!" he bellowed into the unit-wide comm. frequency.
Larue had not an earthly idea who was fighting up ahead. He looked back at Kagiso, who looked just as confused. Hammond was the one that voiced what they were all thinking. Except perhaps Tanner, who had slipped into delirium again and probably thought he was in a holovid.
"Come on, for God's sake! Hustle up!"
The sound was not a click away. They continued to beat feet, the possibility of friendlies lending them new reserves of stamina.
There were perhaps a half-dozen Grunts on the north rooftops now, with four dead. Another four Jackals had bought the farm under the MG fire, but the parapets were just the right height for the more diminutive Covenant soldiers to hide. Newly expressed his frustration with this with a heartfelt expletive while he rattled off the last of his ammunition belt.
The moment he had a grenade lobbed from the Brute Chieftan's Brute Shot hit the tripod-mounted weapon and smashed it asunder, though it had been aimed for Newly. He was simply thrown to the floor, his face and BDUs, in fact anything not covered by his body armour, peppered with microshrapnel. He found himself lying on his back, his ears ringing, staring into Alejandro's sole remaining eye, glassy and devoid of life, catching the light from the battle below. It all seemed so distant now. He tried to sit up, his hand clamped at a cramp in his side.
Ah. Not just microshrapnel after all. His pulse pounded in his ears, making his head hurt. He looked for Alejandro's rifle. He would tag the great golden bastard back. He gripped it, pain searing through his body beginning in his side. The long black barrel in his left hand. He removed his right from his injury and tried his best to bring the scope to his eye while lying uncomfortably half on his side, half on his front. He managed it. The scope had a little blood on it, but he could see well enough for this. How could he manage not to see the beast that stood on the opposite rooftop, laughing its ugly laugh. He rested the barrel of the S2AM on the lip of the hole in the wall ripped by the Wraith tank. He wondered vaguely if it was still operational.
He hoped not.
He pressed his finger to the trigger, drew a bead on the bastard as he was aiming his huge weapon of needless overkill at one of the strongpoints below.
What was it Al always said? Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Exhale as you shoot.
He was finding breathing a little hard anyway. He pulled the trigger, the weapon bucking against his shoulder, nearly knocking him onto his back. The Brute's head snapped back in the closeness of the scope. He settled in again now the shield was weak. It was looking around for the shooter.
"Look at me." Newly muttered. "Look into my eyes when I kill you."
Its eyes found his. The perfect way to do it. The perfect way. Vengeance, and then death.
He felt tears in his eyes. He had so wanted to see Belinda again.
The second round exploded from the barrel and took the Chieftan's head apart. His followers, as one, screamed in terror.
Newly rolled onto his back, finally. The jagged stump of tripod between his ribs hurt no more. He stared up at the sky, the roiling sky, billowing black smoke and hellish orange and distant velvet-blue.
Quite beautiful in a way. Such a fucking shame it's produced by something so awful.
Then he was dead.
They were running. They were breaking and running and he didn't know why but God strike them down they were running and that was good enough for Palmer. The Grunts in open rout, screaming and fleeing, the Jackals withdrawing in considerably better order. Even over the north rooftops they were retreating. The couple of surviving low-level Brutes charged, bellowing their courage, and were cut savagely down by the surviving Marines. He could hear no triumphant yelling, no joy in the victory, and he wondered how few were left of the unit he had loved so much. He felt his eyes water but he wiped them with a bloodied sleeve. He staggered to his feet, and looked for Moreaux. He too was alive, slouched by the shot-up storefront, looking out on the bodies and the sparking wreckage of the Covenant convoy.
He slapped a hand on his shoulder, and the Marine stared up at him, unrecognising, then turned back to look out the window.
He stumbled clear of the unidentifiable store in which he had been stationed, and fell to his knees in the cratered, body and debris-choked centre of the crossroads. He looked for his comm. set at his lips but it was gone, all that remained a stub of half-melted plastic protruding from his earpiece. He ripped it clear and tossed it aside, and decided he would do it the old fashioned way.
"Get out here. Bring the wounded. S-sound off." He stuttered, his voice hoarse from all the shouting that was commonly necessary in a battle.
Moreaux emerged from behind him, weaponless. He gripped his arm and helped him up. From the Carpet Store came Sureno, looking far better than he expected he did. From the Carpenter's roof, he saw Collins wave his acquiescence, his assault rifle cradled in the crook of his other arm. He watched as he hauled the German, Weber, to his feet. Weber was limping a little.
PFC Cruz fell through the front window of the Carpenter's shop, into broken glass, but nonetheless, he got to his feet and joined the growing huddle in the crossroads' centre.
Keele, at long-last, emerged from the clothing store supporting Ferris, who did not appear to be outwardly injured. He sat the Corporal down and then disappeared back inside. Then he and a concussed-looking Garcia emerged into the night, carrying a badly injured, but breathing, Ilyanov between them. Nobody sounded off, and so Palmer did a head-count. Able-bodied were himself, Moreaux, Keele, Collins, Sureno, Garcia, likely Weber, and possibly Ferris, once he had rested up a little; also, there was Cruz, newly emerged. That made nine. Ilyanov made ten survivors of nineteen men. Nine dead, one wounded. Just worse than fifty percent casualties. He tried not to think of the dead.
He ordered Cruz and Moreaux to count the enemy dead. He detailed Garcia and Sureno, Collins and Weber to gather their own dead in the carpenters.
Twenty-nine dead Covenant Grunts, as well as fourteen Jackals and ten Brutes, not counting fish-in-a-barrel vehicle crews, really didn't seem worth it. The armoured units were a big achievement in some respects, but they had been sitting ducks for the prepared ambush in these narrow streets, barely wide enough to fit a Wraith in, let alone have it manoeuvre. The Ghosts couldn't hit rooftop targets.
He stopped selling short the accomplishment. That did no honour to the heroic dead.
He was facing along the east road in a daze when he saw them. Contacts, humanoid contacts in the distance. He hit Keele on the shoulder, who sat next to him on a chunk of masonry, and pointed. Keele shouted for everybody to take cover, and then got out the remarkably intact fieldscope he carried in his webbing.
"I'll be damned." He said, and handed the Lieutenant the fieldscope. "Small world." He continued.
The Lieutenant wondered who he was looking at. It was several police officers half-dragging, half-carrying a wounded Marine. And at their lead, was another ODST.
"That's Larue." Keele stated matter-of-factly as though he had read Palmer's mind. The ragged file of battered troops approached a battered group of other battered troops who now emerged from the decimated crossroads, assured that they were not the enemy by Gunnery Sergeant Keele. Keele walked to meet them, bemused, weary, but none the less happy to see a squadmate he had presumed dead for that. A small world indeed.