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Glory to the Corps: Chapter 1
Posted By: Maelstrom48<krugt2@scranton.edu>
Date: 19 January 2007, 3:04 am
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"Contacts, right flank. Heavy incoming. Request assistance, over." Captain Daniels' voice was calm, given the odds.
There was a hiss of static, then Lieutenant Roger's voice drawled, "Roger. Sending a squad your way." The white noise in the background cleared up as the Captain switched to a narrower band. "Fire Team Waltz, you reading me?"
Private First Class Timothy Jacobs squeezed off his cartridge's remaining rounds and swung back behind the tree trunk, empty assault rifle pressed to his chest. He fumbled in his belt for another cartridge. A couple of plasma rounds hit the foliage above his head and covered him in pine needles. Jacobs wagged his head furiously, letting off a stream of curses that would've dropped a merchant spaceman's jaw. The Private's slightly-trembling fingers found a new cartridge; he whipped it out, banged it on his helmet a couple of times—which threw his helmet tactical displays into static for a moment—and rammed it home.
He racked the slide a bit harder than necessary and glanced about. Fire Team Waltz was dug in around him, some with their backs to pine trees like him, others stomach down on the ground. Thomas crouched behind a good-sized rock. He'd regret that later when he had to dig bits of re-solidified rock off his armor. Covenant plasma was funny stuff.
In front of Waltz Squad was a steady slope, mostly clear of trees, and below that a grassy valley with a blue river meandering through. Oaksville was down there, a decent-sized town of fifty-thousand or so. Half of it was a smoking crater. The other half swarmed with fresh Covvies, their dropships disappearing over the mountains in the distance. Echo Company, 128th Infantry, had managed to get most of the population out before the orbital strikes.
It was a rearguard action now. Somewhere behind the line, trucks laden with civilians were plodding through muddy back roads to get to the only open spaceport on Jamesiah IV. It was only a matter of time until the Covenant glassed the planet.
But before they did that, they'd have to give the Marines a nudge.
"Damnit, Waltz, get your heads out of your asses!" The Lieutenant was getting pissed.
"We've got heavy incoming!" yelled Corporal Fitzpatrick. "Little bastards, five-hundred meters!" A swarm of Grunts, easy thirty of them, were emerging from the trees. Behind them, Jacobs spotted around a dozen jackals, which were already in formation with their shields overlapped. And behind those, there had to be elites.
The Sarge keyed his mic. "Going with negative on this one, L.T. Left flank's about to get hot." He switched it off, cutting off the Lieutenant, who had been starting to say something about serving his balls as an appetizer at the next Officer's Club banquet.
Fire Team Waltz—there were fifteen of them—popped out of cover and picked their targets. These aliens were ugly little bastards. The Grunts were clad in an odd assortment of yellow and red armor, scaled blue skin glinting in the sunlight. Pairs of stubby legs awkwardly carried their weight, and their wagging gait was comical at best. They barked and squealed at the sight of the Marines and kept right on coming, firing off their plasma pistols in a pitiful excuse for covering fire. The little guys had to die first. The trick was to take them down before they got close, using a minimum of ammunition so you'd have enough for the next wave. If they hit your line, you had a slight problem. They tended to bite.
The Grunts entered effective weapon range.
Jacobs sighted on the lead Grunt and tightened his finger on the trigger—the Grunt went down, knees shredded—but Jacobs hadn't fired his weapon.
"Piss off, Fuzz, that was mine!" he yelled to the man on his right.
Fuzz gave him a two-fingered salute without even looking his way, a lopsided grin on his tanned face.
Jacobs switched targets to a shorter alien dead ahead. His MA5B barked twice—it was impossible to fire a single round because of its firing rate—and the Grunt stumbled, blue blood spattering the ground. It fell head-first into Jacobs' next burst, and its skull pulped.
The hillside rang with staccato bursts of semi-automatic fire, and the front rank of Grunts went down. The little guys didn't stand a chance. They couldn't even return fire at this range; they couldn't hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle. Jacobs put another one down with a shot to its rebreather unit. Clutching its neck, the Grunt thrashed on the ground, air hoses spewing super cooled methane. Jacobs just let it die like that. Little bastard.
A beam of blue-white light whizzed over Fuzz's head. He swore and hit the dirt. "Oy, we got a sniper!" Another beam impacted the tree he was hiding behind. "And he sucks!"
"Quit whining, man, I'm on it." Louis was lying prone behind a log, his sniper rifle's barrel protruding from beneath it. "Ten o'clock, watch and learn."
"Get that dick out of your mouth, I can't understand what you're say—"
Fuzz was cut off by the sniper rifle's bang. The covenant sniper didn't fire again. Louis was one of the best. He pulled his rifle out from beneath the log and crawled backward. He stood and ran farther along the tree line, searching for a new position. Had there been another Covenant sniper—a decent one, this time—he would've had a stationary Louis painted.
Meanwhile, the Grunts kept to their charge. At least half of them were dead; they'd been in range for twenty seconds, and they weren't even close to the Marines yet. Jacobs checked his MA5B's digital indicator: 46 rounds remaining. He picked out another Grunt and squeezed the trigger. He missed. It went down anyway, playing dead. Grunts were cowards. You could point your finger at them, say "Bang, bang!" and they'd die of a heart attack on the spot.
Jacobs grinned and sent the alien to its maker.
"Jackals entering range," Smith called. The Marines emptied their cartridges one by one, making sure to stagger it so that at least ten of them were able to fire at any one time. The Grunts went down in short order, riddled with more bullets than was necessary.
"Section one, reload," Sergeant ordered. There were five loud clicks of ejecting cartridges.
Section two kept the jackals' heads down. Tracer rounds impacted against blue and yellow energy shields, sparking and bouncing off harmlessly. Someone scored a hit on a jackal's hand; a plasma pistol fell to the grass, and the jackal stumbled. The Marines took advantage of this opening with enthusiasm; within two seconds, the jackal was an unrecognizable pile of steaming flesh and bone. The rest of the jackals moved to close the gap, but not before the ones to either side of their very dead comrade were killed by the Marines' crossfire.
The jackals somehow recovered. The nine of them were getting a little too close. And instead of the expected Elites emerging from tree cover, another swarm of Grunts ran out squealing. There were definitely about fifty of them.
No one complained, though. This was pretty standard stuff for the Covenant. And hey, at least they hadn't brought in vehicle support.
"Ghosts, one o'clock!"
Shit.
Waltz had a pair of SPNKr rocket launchers on them, carried by Fuzz—thrice damned be his name—and Lee, a Londoner with an inflated sense of dignity, a large vocabulary, and hemorrhoids.
There were four ghosts moving quick in a diamond formation, racing along the opposite treeline. One of them dipped every so often, smoking and sparking, and hastily righted itself. The right flank was doing just fine, it seemed, if they could chase off a squadron of ghosts. There were usually ten of them.
The ghosts spun and began accelerating towards Waltz, spitting plasma. There was a lot of it, and the Marines all ducked. A couple of trees burst into flames, including Jacobs'. Brushing flaming pine needles off his helmet, Jacobs ran for it at a crouch, assault rifle held low. He heard rocket discharges and glanced back.
Lee and Fuzz had locked on and unloaded. Two missiles careened towards the ghosts, pirouetting as they tracked their targets, leaving trails of grey exhaust to mark their passage. The front two ghosts swerved and gained altitude, trying to avoid the projectiles. The insect-like vehicles were quick, but not quick enough to avoid the HE missiles traveling at just under Mach I.
The lead ghost was head dead on. A ball of red flame mixed with a bright blue flash as the ghost's fuel and ammunition cells cooked off. The entire front half was blown to bits; pieces of purple armor plate and Elite flew everywhere.
The second ghost was a bit luckier. It managed to face the incoming SPNKr missile at such an angle that it glanced off, detonating a few yards above the speeding vehicle.
Nevertheless, the impact was enough to spin the ghost end over end, and good ol' Physics propelled a flailing driver into the air. The Elite flew upwards in slow motion, almost—just slow enough to be riddled with enough ammo to kill God himself. The body—if it could even be called that anymore—reversed its momentum and tumbled backwards onto the ground, spewing purple blood.
"They're bugging out!" yelled Malloy. Sure enough, the two remaining Ghosts had pulled up and were accelerating away.
"Got a good lock, Sarge," Fuzz said. He leant against a tree, steadying his rocket launcher against a conveniently-placed branch. Nature was awesome.
Sarge called, "Finish your tubes!" The words weren't even out of his mouth before two more rockets corkscrewed out of the trees, making a beeline for the alien vehicles. Jacobs squinted; the Ghosts had reached the opposite treeline, far enough away that it was hard to make out with the naked eye. But it wasn't far enough to mask the orange blossoms of detonating high explosives, followed shortly by a pair of blue flashes as the flaming Ghosts hit the ground hard.
"Call me butter," roared Fuzz, "'cuz I am on a roll!"
Jacobs ignored him; the ground-pounding Covvies were getting close. The Private had found a promising tree with a thick trunk and a reassuring lack of burning foliage. He slammed himself against it, took a deep breath, and leant around it with his MA5B raised. The jackals had made good use of the ghosts' distraction, and they were so close that Jacobs could hear their avian squawks that passed for a language.
They also happened to be within grenade range, a fact that wasn't lost on the Sergeant. "Frags! Count off three!" Jacobs fumbled at his vest and tugged at a dangling sphere of green metal. Mentally timing the fuse—three seconds—Jacobs swung around his tree, cocked his arm back, and lobbed the frag grenade into the air over the Jackals' heads.
A ball of plasma whizzed past his ear, so hot that his skin tingled. Cursing, Jacobs ducked back into cover.
"God damnit, I said three!" Sarge yelled as four grenades soared over the Jackals' shields. Four muffled thumps sounded off, and the Private dared to poke his head out of cover. The pack of Jackals were ground meat, blown to ribbons by the fusillade of flying shrapnel. The air was still fizzling where their energy shields had been; from what Jacobs understood from the briefings, they did something strange to the ions when they dissipated. But he hadn't paid much attention to the egghead giving the lecture; it was a lot easier to just kill the alien, have a little cry, and move on. Screw the details.
There were still fifty Grunts to worry about, and in the intervening time they had closed to well within rifle range. Close enough to pitch a curve ball to, in fact.
"Fire at will!" ordered Sarge, laying aside his indignation at Fire Team Waltz's enthusiasm for the moment.
Jacobs pressed the butt of his Assault Rifle to his shoulder, sighted on a Grunt, and squeezed the trigger. He aimed for the knees to compensate for the weapon's recoil. The ideal burst was four rounds. Aimed well enough, the first bullet would blow off a kneecap, the second would steal the victim's manhood, the third would gut him, and the fourth would take out the throat. But then, Grunts were short, so that fourth round inevitably missed when the previous lead punched out the alien's brain.
There was no "fire by sections" routine now—no one wanted close combat, not even with Grunts, which were barely strong enough to lift a bowling ball. Had he not been fighting for his life against a foe he hated more than cafeteria food, Jacobs would have taken some time to enjoy the glorious racket of full automatic fire.
The squat little aliens were a spit's distance away. Jacobs could see whiffs of methane hissing out of their masks as they panted furiously. He could also see that the Grunts were finally returning fire. It wasn't much—half of them were bleeding out onto the grass right now—but the searing bolts of plasma and purple needles were enough to keep Waltz's heads down.
Jacobs thumbed his Assault Rifle's release just as a wheezing alien rounded the tree he was using for cover. The man's jaw dropped. God, they were ugly. The Grunt was just as surprised as he was; it jumped. The Private swore spectacularly. The alien raised its pistol. He raised his rifle.
Then he realized it was empty. Instinctively, he dived head-first into the alien. Its shot went wide, and it squeaked as the Marine landed on top of it and knocked the air out of its lungs. He ignored the flailing of the Grunt and went for his knife. Sliding it out of his boot, Jacobs reversed his grip, holding the alien down with his entire weight as he swung his arm down. He plunged the knife into its throat. The alien gurgled sickeningly, its eyes wide with shock, and Jacobs gave the blade a brutal twist. Bones cracked. Phosphorescent blue blood sprayed all over his arm.
Shakily, Jacobs stumbled to his feet. As an afterthought, he yanked the knife out of its fleshy alien sheathe and shoved it back into his boot. He felt blood staining his good UNSC-issue socks. He ignored that tragedy and reloaded his rifle.
All around him, Waltz was similarly engaged, fending off the Grunts with their knives, fists, rifle butts, and teeth. Jacobs blinked and did a double-take at Fitzpatrick. He'd have to have a talk with the Corporal about that later. He racked the slide on his rifle.
Something on his right barked, and the Marine spun on his heel, spraying his MA5B from the hip. A Grunt had been clambering over a log, but its progress was notably delayed by the spread of bullets peppering its torso. Bits of bark and clouds of blue blood flew everywhere, and the alien dropped to the ground. Farther down the line, Fuzz had just finished bashing another Grunt's head in, but another one had managed to flank him.
Jacobs aimed and helped him out a bit. The other soldier, now coated in glowing alien juice, sputtered. "Thanks for the heads-up, asshole!"
The Private spotted a trio of Grunts leaping into a foxhole. Checking his HUD to make sure it was unoccupied, Jacobs slung his rifle, primed a grenade, and tossed it in. "Fire in the hole!" he screamed, spit flying, and hit the dirt. The resultant explosion left Jacobs' ears ringing, but it also killed the Grunts, so it was all good.
Straightening his helmet, Jacobs scrambled back to his feet. He checked the hole to make sure the aliens were dead—which they were—and moved on.
All too soon, the Grunts were fended off. The last of them—four or five in all—tried to run, but the Marines reassumed their former position and cut them down in short order.
"Sound off, who's hit?" called Sarge. He was strolling down the line, his rifle held loosely in front of him. He seemed to realize that his cap was crooked and took the time to straighten it. It didn't help one bit. He looked gruff as ever—unshaven, his grey eyes impassive, a long scar running down his jawline. Jacobs had always assumed it had been a shaving accident, not a hairy encounter with an elite as the Sarge always claimed.
"Thomas is," Lee replied. Jacobs glanced over. He'd sat Private Thomas against a tree. One of his upper arms was black and burnt. "Plasma scoring."
"I'm good," Thomas growled, trying to get to his feet.
Lee shoved him back down. "Stay still, mate." He dug into his belt and drew out a rolled gauze bandage, then bent to apply it. Thomas spat out a stream of curses, wincing as the Brit rolled the bandage around his burnt arm.
"Hey, Thomas," said Fuzz, "You look pretty bad, man. Got some last words for your mom? I'll tell her while I'm banging her."
"Oh sweet, mom jokes, good thing I grew out of those in freaking grammar school," the wounded man replied with a snarl.
Fuzz waved his hand. "You're just jealous of what we have…"
"Oy, shut up!" Sarge cut in. He was looking up at the sky with his eyes narrowed. Jacobs followed his gaze, squinting against the sunlight. Something was dropping out of the high clouds—something blue, fluid, and incredibly hot, judging by the way the clouds were simply boiling away. Plasma bombardment.
Jacobs breathed a long expletive. This long-ass day was about to get longer.
Author's note: This is more of a random piece than anything. I haven't worked on it in a while. I put a Chapter 1 tag on it just in case I decide to continue on with it. In the meantime, thanks for reading!
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