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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 5
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 3 October 2004, 5:49 PM
Read/Post Comments
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MINUTEMEN: THE BATTLE OF BOSTON CHAPTER 5
Sorry about the delay in chapters, this is almost finished. Enjoy it, and drop a comment if you feel like it. Big ups to Helljumper for the technical support. Thanks for reading, enjoy.
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Commonwealth Avenue, Evacuated city of Boston
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
evening
With two loud Braaapps issuing forth from the SMGs, Medical Officer Harold Ibanez poured forth wrath from twin "bullet hoses." The recoil forced the bullets increasingly higher, so it was a good thing Ibanez started low. The Elites that had been lit aflame in their Creep transport from Specialist Rory Connor's Molotov cocktail had squirmed and roared in agony. Incredibly, a couple resilient ones went looking for the demolition specialist, now hiding out behind a bar less that seven meters right of the Elite's position. Now Ibanez's volley of automatic fire had gotten their attention and the focus of their wrath. They charged the latino medic at full force. Ibanez had felt fear many times in the last two years, but this was the first time he really wanted to run away and hide in a corner. At the very instant the Elites saw him and charged, Harold Ibanez peed his pants. It wasn't professional, he knew, but in reality not one of the militiamen had ever had an engagement this close and intense. Maybe the Captain Ibanez thought in fear, but I bet even the Cap's never fought flaming Elites. It was going to be tough to explain the stain away if he lived long enough to be embarrassed. This was an image from the medic's nightmares: teammates dead on either side of him, a former hideout in ruins in front of him, and Elites (on fucking fire! Ibanez yelled repeatedly in his mind) charging him at full force. Ibanez tried as best he could to steady his shaking hands by pressing the extended stocks of the SMGs into his shoulders, firing haphazardly at the aliens.
The Elites' shields, busy with the fire licking at their flesh, dropped occasionally, allowing a bullet or two to enter the battle-hardened bodies, but pressed on. Ibanez kept the fire going as one Elite fell, then two. The other six would not be denied. Plasma fired all around Ibanez as the Elites continued on, starting to tire from being bathed in fire, the accuracy of their plasma rifles suffering almost as badly as their bodies. A third Elite collapsed in death as its' internal organs were cooked, skin grilled and blackened. With five Elites twenty meters away, Ibanez's worst fears were realized.
Kl-kl-kl-kl-kl-klickClick. The noise from the weapons ceased suddenly into quiet declarations of Ibanez's doom. The medic stared incredulously at the empty SMGs, then back at his attackers. The Elites roared enthusiastically and redoubled their efforts.
Ibanez, not to be outdone, threw both weapons at the oncoming Elites. The throw was pitifully weak, one submachine gun clanking off the shoulder of a Elite, which replied with a hearty laugh. Ibanez had heard that laugh before. He had heard it in the dead of night after a hail of bullets and plasma fire. He had never heard a human give a rebuttal to that taunting laugh.
Death was ten meters from Ibanez. Without warning, two vapor trails appeared and entered the chests of two Elites. They spun clockwise and dropped face down on the pavement as if synchronized in death. At the same time, a round from a battle rifle entered the lead Elite's brain and exited in a purple mist. Ibanez stared in disbelief, mouth agape, as five holes appeared in a straight vertical line on the center chest of the another Elite. Both Elites fell backwards as if someone had simply held down their feet and pushed their heads back. One Elite remained. The laughing Elite. This one was stained in human blood and was still smoking as fire urged it forward. The four mandibles strained forward to partake in the kill.
At nine meters to the Minuteman's ranking medic, the red-armored Elite left its' feet and leaped at the exposed figure of the militiaman. Ibanez cringed as he imagined that he could feel the coming impact, the heavy weight crushing his spine, smashing his helmet in on his skull, his inferior skeleton crushed on the ground below. The blow never came. From Ibanez' right, the loud boom of a shotgun round made Ibanez flinch and duck for cover. The Elite was slammed in the side with the massive "Hippo round". The force of the slug carried the Elite half a meter to Ibanez' left and the Elite died on impact. Ibanez slowly turned to his right. The Hippo round could have came from only one man's shotgun, and Ibanez had witnessed that man's death just mintues ago. A young assault Minuteman, no older than 17, stood there with former Lance Corporal Harry McHale's shotgun shaking in his unsure hands. The young Minuteman looked Ibanez right in the eyes and threw up in front of the medic, white chunks splattering on the pavement. "Yeah, saving someone's life can feel like that," the medic said. Ibanez reached into his hole, pulled a wounded militiaman from the cover, and joined his ill savior. They hustled to the assault team's postion. The three men reached cover safely.
Ibanez's radio chirped to life. "You all right?," 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi aksed over the Comm. Ibanez answered in the affirmative.
"So then let me get this straight" Tonsi chuckled, "when you run out of ammo, you throw the fuckin' SMGs at Elites?"
"Eat shit, camel jockey," Ibanez heaved as he treated a wounded comrade. "I killed at least one of the motherfuckers."
"Such foul language," Specialist Tim McManus chimed in from a rooftop, "and the snipers don't even get thanked."
Ibanez finally caught his breath. "Everyone who saved my life," he said, "drinks on me when we get back."
"I get the greenhorn's booze," Corporal Ron Parsons, the other sniper, declared. "I'm 300 meters from you, and I can plainly see he ain't of age."
"I dunno, sniper," Ibanez said, his sense of humor returning. "He's carrying McHale's shotgun now. That big ass gun might say different." Ibanez clapped a hand on the young soldier's shoulder. Another bond forged in combat.
Captain Jack O'Shea and Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds observed their kills silently. They had been in war long enough to know that saving lives by taking them was something that just happened. They both reloaded fresh magazines and sought cover behind a smashed car on the left side of the former cul-de sac. Reynolds flopped into a prone position and pointed the barrel of his MA5B Assault rifle down the street toward the five blocked Creeps. The two lead Creeps were nose-down and billowing smoke, their pilot's cabin crushed inward. The two disabled Creeps pointed out from the center of the street, effectively blocking any advance from the other troop carriers. By the time the veteran soldiers were in place, the Creep drivers had realized that they weren't going anywhere and were given the order to deploy troops. The mass of Covenant forces took position and started firing waves of plasma down the street. Oddly enough, however, the huge mass was not advancing. This fact still hadn't occurred to the ranking officers of the Minutemen, who were trying to formulate a workable plan against such long odds.
"Rory's still trapped in that bar by the Creep on the left." Reynolds noticed.
"I know. There are still thirty-two Covenant between us and him, though." The Captain answered. "More infantry support probably behind, if they mean it this time."
"Just another day..." Reynolds said, pulling back the assault rifle's bolt and chambering the first round. He glaned at his commanding officer and good friend. "For Boston?"
O'Shea nodded. "For Boston. Parsons, McManus, whaddaya got?"
Parsons and McManus had been sweeping the area through the optic scopes of their S2AM sniper rifles. The two were dressed head to toe in urban camouflage, their faces painted in blotches of stone, cement, and shadow. Parsons kept his blonde hair out of the way with a black wool cap as he stared into his scope. The plasma fire was steady, the direction continuous down the street. In the failing light, it lit up the street in strage colors like a psychedelic light glowing and flashing down a long, dark hallway. "Cap, I don't know how to say this," Parsons said, "but it appears that the troops are staying by their transports. I have three Creeps full of Elites and one that's mostly grunts, but I don't understand why the hell they're not...oh. I see."
Parsons heard the answer before he saw it. O'Shea heard it, too. The squad-wide, "New contacts," call from McManus was unnecessary. Every Minuteman could hear the sound they had trained to avoid, every Minuteman could hear it over the plasma barrage. The thundering footfalls, the distinct guttural tones, the clank of the body-encompassing armor, and the blast of fuel rod cannons now joining the streaks of rifle plasma. There were Hunters coming to the party.
"Sir, I've got...oh God...six pairs of Hunters at 850 meters. Troop strength stands at twnety-four Elites, 12 Hunters, seven grunts, and a jackal. Standing by for orders."
"Twelve Hunters?" Reynolds asked with faint disbelief in his voice.
"Confirmed here, sir." McManus said. "I see 'em, too. Twelve Hunters."
"Nice to know you're respected." O'Shea said. "Tonsi, whaddaya have for me?"
Tonsi looked at Seamus Connor. They had just fired most of their rockets. The right side of Seamus' face was being lit in sporadic flashes by the incoming fire. The face was not a positive one. They certainly did not have enough for twelve Hunters. "Sir, we can only spank six." Tonsi answered. "We have a lot of explosives, but we'll have to be very lucky to sneak up on these guys and plant anything."
O'Shea looked at Reynolds. "How's assault?"
"Assault took all the damage. We're down to twelve assault. We lost McHale, too." He answered.
O'Shea looked down at the ground and shook his head at the news. "Any chance we can sneak outta here, hump it back to cover?" O'Shea asked.
"Negative, sir. From up here, I can see we're exposed on both sides. No way to sneak around this one. We could fight a running battle back, but casualties would be high and we might lead them back to the hideouts." Parsons advised.
O'Shea took another peek over cover. Six rockets for twelve Hunters. Snipers on the roof. Seasoned and green assault troopers. Everyone pinned down by endless plasma fire and fuel rod cannons. How the hell were they recharging the damn things? O'Shea asked himself. At any rate, the result of the equation didn't look good for the Minutemen. O'Shea was about to ask Reynolds a question when the Comm chirped again. O'Shea expected bad news. He was wrong.
"Hey," Rory Connor said, still hiding behind the bar, "we still got the car bomb, right?" Across the street, Mahmoud Tonsi slapped himself on the forehead. He had forgotten.
The plan was now drawn in O'Shea's head. He called the shots to all the Minutemen, and they laid in wait for the Covenant to move. As the militia waited, Parsons and McManus kept reporting intel on troop strength and movement. As the afternoon sun finally died, the shadows lengthened into darkness that encompassed the whole of Commonwealth Avenue. The Minutemen held their fire to conserve ammunition while the Covenant continued to fire blindly down the street, hoping to pick off an unlucky human. After almost half an hour of continuous fire, the Covenant ceased. A deafening silence landed on both sides of the conflict.
"For the love of Christ," Parsons muttered as he switched on his night optics, "I almost wish the fuckers were still firing."
"I want to hear you say that in about three minutes," McManus said, his sniper rifle slowly panning from left to right.
"Think this'll work?"
"The Captain seems to think so."
"Yeah...but do you think this'll work?"
"Seven grunts, one Jackal."
"Yeah."
"Twenty-four Elites."
"Yeah..."
"Twelve Hunters."
"Yeahhhhh...?"
McManus paused and looked up from his rifle, staring into space. He shrugged. "...Could work."
Michael Connor woke up with an incredible headache and no recollection of where the hell he was. As soon as Michael could open his eyes, he lifted his head and banged the front of his helmet against steel. He head dropped back on the pavement and his eyes focused. The distinct undercarrige of an LA31 Warthog was several inches from his head. For a second, the youngest of the Connor brothers wondered what he was doing there. Suddenly his mind opened up and the past two hours of his life flew by in reverse: regaining consciousness, the sounds of plasma and explosions around him, getting hit by shrapnel, witnessing his brother's death, the bombardment of the apartment building, the fistfight, making the car bomb...THE CAR BOMB! Michael's mind yelled in shock and fear. We made the car bomb in a Warthog! We were running from the car bomb! Connor slowly and delicately started to slide himself from under the Warthog, then heard the sounds of Hunters and Elites not far from his position. He was in open area with no cover but the car bomb he was laying under. He was trapped.
It was time. The lull in firing convinced O'Shea that now was the time to move. O'Shea had been studying Covenant engagement tactics firsthand and had stolen enough UNSC intelligence materials to know that Covenant attacks were more or less north to south. Whether it was open field, artillery, or room clearing, the Covenant attacked head-on with fury and didn't usually retreat. This battle mentality led O'Shea to create one last trap. If O'Shea and Reynolds could get enough troops to the left side of the street and fire on the Covenant, the advance would come right ahead at them, directly in the path of the car bomb. The resulting explosion would cut the Covenant numbers by half, hopefully. It was the only way the Minutemen were getting out of this situation alive. O'Shea looked over at Reynolds. Reynolds held two flares in his hands, looking expectantly at O'Shea. "Waiting on you, sir," Reynolds said. O'Shea nodded and opened a channel.
From above the two commanding officers' position, Parsons and McManus had settled their sights on two different red-armored Elites. It was O'Shea's theory that without leaders, two Creeps' worth of Elites would blindly charge toward the car bomb and not wait for any backup units. A few Hunters would join in as heavy infantry support, adding to the carnage. It was a theory the two snipers were only too happy to test.
McManus and Parsons may have differed in rank, but in terms of sniping ability, the two were nearly identical. Both snipers relaxed their bodies as they waited for the order to fire. Parsons started to count slowly in his head to regulate his heart rate. McManus recited the steps to assembling his S2AM sniper rifle. Through the optic sights of the two, the scene was the same: two red-armored Elites, both with an ominous red circle centered above their left eye socket. The Comm chirped to life in the zen-like silence of the moment. Neither sniper stirred. "Green light to fire, on my mark," O'Shea ordered. Both sharpshooters took in a deep breath, released half of it, then held their breath and remained absolutely still. Each finger settled on the middle of the trigger.
"3..." Private 1st Class Carl Sohn, in the alley across the street, waited with his battle rifle pointed toward the Covenant position, almost all of his weight transferred forward waiting for the signal over the Comm. Behind him, two other Minutemen were nervously eyeing their CO. They were chosen to sprint with Sohn to the Captain's cover and provide their services as bait for the Covenant. Well, one thought, if the Captain's volunteering as bait, it's not so bad if I do, too.
"2..." Rory Connor had been staring at the car bomb in astonishment that the damn thing hadn't blown up yet. In the past hour the explosives-laden Warthog had survived a head-on Covenant assault, the complete demolishment of an apartment building, and a continuous onslaught of plasma and fuel rod cannon fire. Rory was about to turn his attention to hiding when he saw a dark shape move under the Warthog. In the slight motion of figure, Connor realized that whatever was under the bomb was alive and human. He instantly scrolled down the list of people around the bomb when the attack started, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach as he realized who was most likely under the bomb out of all the Minutemen. This attack couldn't be allowed to continue.
"1..." Gus Reynolds took the two superflous flares he insisted on carrying every day and put one in each hand. He then slammed each hand on a fatigue-clad thigh and showered sparks across the immediate vicinity. The orange yellow flash made him turn his head away at first, but he then focused his attention downrange. The key was launching the flares close enough to make the Covenant come closer but not so close as revealing the true number on the left side of the street. Like a baseball pitcher, Reynolds gathered all his potential energy as he craned his body backwards and let fly the two firesticks.
"Mark." On the Covenant side of the street, a red-armored Elite jerked his head up at the blossoming of orange yellow light and the sound of sparks ahead of his position. He was about to issue orders when his body suddenly no longer recieved messages from his brain. There were no words, there was no motion, there was only the brief glimpse of vapor and the vast canvas of stars as the Elite fell backwards, his head slamming against the ground. There was no pain on impact. Then all was blackness. 800 meters away, Parsons reloaded. "I'll confirm yours if you'll confirm mine," he glanced at McManus. Hopefully they'd survive to keep score.
"Covering Fire!" Sohn yelled to O'Shea and Reynolds. The yelling was more to boost Sohn's courage than actually keep his superiors aware. The Private 1st Class took point, running in a half crouch, his eyes darting back and forth, pivoting his torso so it was facing the street, battle rifle waiting for the chance to to spit hot lead at an Elite's face. The two other Minutemen behind Sohn took off as well, their stances more exposed, their steps more hesitant due to fewer days of training and combat. The two trailing Sohn were less concerned with firing and more concerned with getting to cover as quickly as possible. The erupting flares laying sideways on the pavement made the overturned Warthog across the street visible in an eerie orange yellow glow. The light the flares were giving off made it seem as if the top half of the vehicle was on fire. While the side facing the Covenant was aglow, Sohn could see the facial expressions of his two commanding officers: stobe light images of grim determination and grimaces of duty flashed in front of the young Minuteman's eyes. The three volunteers collapsed behind the cover their superiors were using. "No time for a break, fellas," Sohn gasped, short of breath, "pour it on. Grenades to the left side of the street.
The Covenant side was briefly caught by surprise. There had been no trace of any human presence on the street until two Elites officers took direct hits to the head, two marking flares were lit and tossed, and the humans opened fire. The lack of leadership made communication near impossible and for a brief time, the Covenant didn't return fire. When one other Elite went down from O'Shea's covering fire, however, the Elites on the left side of the street snapped to attention and laid down blistering return fire. One particular Elite wielded his plasma rifle with such precision that he spotted a human popping up from behind his cover in the middle of a throwing motion. The Elite didn't even hesitate: he let loose three shots, one catching the soldier full in the face. With cold eyes the Elite saw the body leave the ground and flop backwards, The grenade landed harmlessly short.
"Shit!" O'Shea heard Sohn yell behind him. "Farnan got fucked up!" O'Shea turned around quickly to see Sohn bent over the body, which had been carried back by the force of the plasma bolt. Sohn pulled back to reveal the face, the flesh and muscle burnt off by the searing heat exposing pale white bone to the unforgiving air. O'Shea fought the urge to vomit at the sight. The young Private next to O'Shea didn't have the same control over his body, spewing half-digested solids and liquids onto the street. The plasma was screaming over the group's cover as Sohn stripped the ammunition off the dead Private's body, taking grenades for himself and tossing two to Reynolds. With a nod between the two, Sohn and Reynolds lobbed two long, arching throws at the Covenant position, and were rewarded with the sounds of Elites in agony.
A little over 800 meters away from the Covenant position and two stories up, Parsons and McManus took careful note of the developing situation. The two had been ordered to hold fire and keep their location secret for as long as possible. From high above the battleground, Parsons' eyes widened. Seven Elites hopped over buckled concrete, followed by another six. The thirteen total Elites now moved quickly in two distinct packs; Parsons recognized the groups' formation: each group from each Creep was sticking together. He made a mental note of the Covenant tactic. From behind the Elites three pairs of Hunters advanced, one pair swatting away an incapacitated Creep with gargantuan swings from their arm-mounted shields. Their integrated fuel-rod cannons glowed green, illuminating the street beneath them. Parsons hastily switched on his microphone. "Captain, the plan's working. Enemy infantry is breaking cover and heading in your direction."
"Any lateral movement?" The Captain's voice crackled over the Comm.
"Negative, sir. They're heading right for the bomb."
"Good. We're going to draw them closer."
"Sir!" Everyone on the channel looked around in confusion, even though Rory Connor, the voice on the channel, was nowhere around. "We can't detonate the bomb!"
O'Shea looked on as Sohn popped up and hurled another grenade at the swiftly advancing Elites. "Why the fuck not, Connor?" O'Shea demanded.
"Because Mike's alive under it!"
The color left O'Shea's face. Even in the dark of night, Gus Reynolds noted the stark constrast of the dark uniform against O'Shea's pale visage. It looked like someone had just drained all the blood out of the Captain. Reynolds had heard the exchange over the Comm and grabbed O'Shea by the shoulders. "It's what he volunteered to do, Jack!" He yelled.
O'Shea yelled at his old friend at the top of his lungs, "A child does not sign up to die!"
"He signed up to fight a war! This has to happen!"
"Not under my command!"
Right behind O'Shea's right shoulder, the second Private to make the sprint with Carl Sohn fell back, screaming in agony. Reynolds and O'Shea watched as Sohn fired blindly over cover, then dove to the Minuteman. Sohn slid in on his knees and listened for breathing by taking off his helmet and pressing his ear to the fallen soldier's lips. Sohn's face changed and they could both hear Sohn yelling and gesturing wildly, "Medic! MEDIC!"
Reynolds pointed with aggression, almost accusingly, at the fallen Private. "You're about to lose your entire squad under your command, sir!"
"I will not lose another child in this goddamn war!" O'Shea finished, and was instantly transported to two years ago. The memory was repressed, hazy, and fragmented. In his waking nightmare, it was always the same. Home...shattered windows...bloody hands...door...rifle...noammorifle...dizzy...door...Elites?ELITESHERE??...explosion...room...my...room...wifeLaura...kids...grenadekidsgrenade...elite...hidegrenade...plasmapain...no ammo...pain...smoke...fire...burning...Laurablood...where...kids...where are the kids...Laura...where...are...wherearethekids...wherearethekidswherearethekids...
O'Shea blinked out of the memory and looked into the angry face of his old friend. Duty stared him in the face. The greater good stared him in the face. Death, for the moment, cared to stay in his peripheral vision. "Sir," Gus Reynolds said, looking and talking evenly into O'Shea's face, "if you don't give the order to detonate that bomb, we're all dead."
O'Shea numbly opened a channel. To his right, Ibanez was trying to sneak his way across the street, but it would be too late. He would get two steps into the street and be forced to dive back from whence he came. Sohn was continuing to yell and trying to provide cover fire, but the street was not a safe place to be at this point. As O'Shea briefly took in a breath to issue his orders, time slowed to a grinding halt. To O'Shea's left, he could see Reynolds' face as he issued forth death from his MA5B Assault Rifle. His old friend had the assault rifle jammed into his right shoulder and the force of the recoil was bouncing his helmet slowly up and down on his head. In staccato flashes of light and soft, slow pings of each round casing falling out, O'Shea could see the tears in Reynolds' eyes. He could sense the anguish in Sohn's voice as he called for a medic that couldn't get there; he felt the anguish in losing someone under direct command. Just as suddenly, O'Shea could hear his voice and all of the world moving in normal time. He heard himself say, "Tonsi, light the blue spider and send it to the Warthog."
"NO!" Rory Connor's voice was so loud O'Shea flinched.
"It has to be done." O'Shea replied calmly.
"I will not lose my brother in front of my own eyes!"
"I lost a son and daughter in front of mine."
"Rory," Seamus Connor, the oldest of the brothers, interjected, "it has to be done."
From below the doomed Warthog, and equally doomed Michael Connor stopped trying to squirm out of harm's way. He could hear the sounds of Elites advancing, and the young boy knew he was about to be overrun. He looked up and to the left and saw a pair of eyes staring into his. He knew the expression on his older brother, Rory's, face. Rory was looking at a dead man. Michael quickly understood his purpose. He took another half of a second to glance behind his position and to the right, and saw the shape of a bright blue ball lighting the alleyway. With a new sense of determination, Michael took his deceased brother, Gerry's, battle rifle and put it to his right shoulder. Using what strength he had left in his tiny frame, he took his own rifle and jammed it into his left shoulder. In one motion, he leveled both rifles in the direction of the approaching Elites and sat up in a sitting position, his legs straight out in front of him. He yelled an anguished yell, a gut-wrenching wail of desperation and fear that, for a moment, gave the Elites pause. When the bullets began to tear into their numbers, the Elites gave in to full assault, leveling their own weapons at the small target and opening unmercilous fire.
Seamus refused to watch the next phase of the plan after he spoke to Rory. It was just as difficult to know Michael's fate, but the protection of innocents had to be done. It was the agony of duty. Behind Seamus, 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi placed his right hand on Seamus' heaving shoulders, and with his left, took out the "blue spider": one of the only plasma grenades the Minutemen had found.
"There is one God, Allah, and Muhammed is his Prophet," he said to himself as he activated the plasma grenade. The object immediately turned blue, bathing the alleyway in comforting azure hues as Seamus turned around to face his commanding officer.
Your duty to Allah is sacred. Allah forbids the killing of women and children, Tonsi gauged the distance to the Warthog and knew he wouldn't leave the throw short. As he was about to throw, he saw Gerry's incredible feat. The dual-rifle wielding Irishman sat up and unleashed hell into the invading aliens. Just as quickly as it started, however, it ended. Tonsi and Seamus both witnessed the wave of plasma fire that impacted square on the body of Michael Connor. The boy was thrown against the Warthog, his dead body still smoking when he slid to the ground.
Allah guides my hand and watches over all who believe. Tonsi hefted a mighty throw toward the Warthog, the ball trailing a faint afterglow. It missed an Elite's shoulder by a hair and stuck securely to the side of the Warthog. As the internal fuse made its' distinct hisssssss Tonsi saw the Elite turn and yell out a warning in its' revolting tongue. Tonsi imagined he saw its' four mandibles extended in terror.
"Fire in the hole!" O'Shea yelled aloud and pushed Carl Sohn's helmet to the ground. Without hesitation, Gus Reynolds did the same, pressing both hands to the back of his helmet, his body embracing every inch of pavement he could hide in. The warning started a frantic chain reaction of Minutemen diving wildly for cover and medics falling on top of wounded militia to prevent their exposed bodies from being riddled with shrapnel. The explosion was astounding. Several pounds of antique plastic explosive had been attached to the vehicle, and every compartment, rivet, and piece used in its' construction became a barrage of lethal projectiles. Four wheels rocketed in every direction, smashing bodies in their way and burying themselves several rooms deep in the sides of buildings. The force of the explosion left a deep crater in the street, and two Elites right next to the Warthog simply ceased to exist, their bodies more or less vaporized by the force of the blast. A building next to Rory's hideout collapsed, billowing dust and rubble into the restaurant as Rory continued to huddle behind the bar. Several Hunters were thrown over twenty feet in the air, their bodies impaled with pieces of steel and glass flying at speeds that almost broke the sound barrier. When the hulking bodies landed, their fuel rod cannons exploded, creating secondary blasts that were mistaken around the city for separate battles. Body parts of Elites were scattered around the area, the entire avenue was showered in gore. Ibanez and the medics all got up, covered in purple blood, and tended to unlucky Minutemen who took a stray piece of shrapnel despite their evasive intentions. The entire Covenant force that had attacked was eliminated.
The Captain peeked above what was left of his cover. Scanning the entire area, he saw the entire militia squad groggily getting up, one by one. Every Minuteman had been buffeted by the force of the bomb. O'Shea looked across the street to the two alleyways that housed the remainder of the assault squad. It seemed each Minuteman was hitting the back of their helmet or shaking their head to clear the fog from their heads. Others blinked, wide-eyed, or rubbed their eyes with dust-caked hands or gloves. O'Shea realized that he too was feeling the affects of the blast, he shook his head vigorously and pressed a hand to his right ear, where he could hear every transmission over the Comm. He opened a channel. "Parsons, how ya feeling up there?" There was a second of uneasy silence until the Comm chirped in reply. Parsons' voice sounded groggy and a bit fatigued. "Good enough...to fuck your mother, sir."
Above the battlefield, Ron Parsons rolled over onto his stomach. He had taken a beating, lying on his back, clutching his sniper rifle to his chest as parts of the former Warthog had arced out into open air. Right before O'Shea had called, an Elite had landed on the roof two meters from Parsons and McManus, the corpse making a dull thud on collision. The sheer force of the invader landing on the roof almost broke through the structure to the next floor, but instead sent deep cracks spidering out in all directions from the broken body. The alien muttered a tired, "Wraghhhh" as it breathed its' last. McManus hadn't wasted a second. Parsons saw his subordinate draw his M6D pistol in a blur and punch a semi-explosive round into the exposed head, opening the top of the skull for the world to see. Parsons punched his junior partner in the side of the head. "That was not very nice," he had said.
"I'm not a nice guy," McManus had replied.
"Roger that," Parsons answered, and then picked up the Captain's call.
Now Corporal Parsons was back at full operational status and sweeping the field once more. "Captain, I am back and have acquired target. Sights are hot and standing by."
"Now, sir," McManus said, focusing his sniper rifle on his next victim, "with all due respect, you realize this will probably give our position away."
"Acknowleged, McManus," O'Shea replied. "It's our only option now. Fire at will."
"Roger that, fire at will," Parsons confirmed, and pulled the trigger. The fin-stabilized, discarding sabot round flew fast and true toward a focused Hunter, its' arm glowing a bright green and aimed square at a group of assault Minutemen hustling to cover in the middle of the street where Ibanez' crater was. Before the Hunter could fire, it felt searing pain pass through the soft orange flesh beneath impenetrable armor. The round had entered the flesh but did not exit; instead, the round clanged against armor on the other side of the flesh and ricocheted inside the Hunter, scrambling vital internal organs and pitching the Hunter face-first to the ground. On a reflexive spasm, the Hunter fired into the ground, pitching itself a meter into the air and, spinning in wild corkscrews through the air, landed on another Hunter that was aiming for the same shot. The cannon fire flew harmlessly several meters overhead.
While half the Covenant offensive may have been wiped out, the rest of the force hadn't hesitated to act. The remaining Covenant now spread out, and the Hunters were launching furious cannon fire while the two Creeps-worth of Elites and seven additional grunts fanned out. The grunts hopped up the center of the street, their plasma pistols waving wildly as they struggled to make out targets in the pitch-black night and smoky haze. The flanking Elites wasted little time, keeping their fire focused on the left and right sides of the streets. The Covenant were determined to sweep the humans off this street, and they were leaving the Minutemen with little room to maneuver. From above the left side of the street, a flanking force of Elites saw two vapor trails appear from the roof of a nearby building. While the Elites had been busy with acquiring the location of the snipers, they had diverted their attention from the troops at street level, and therefore they had not realized that O'Shea, Reynolds, and Sohn had popped up from behind their cover and had taken careful aim. The first volley of semi-automatic fire eliminated the leadership, the following strike of grenades had all but eliminated the left flanking force of Elites. Unfortunately, it had also exposed the snipers and O'Shea's group to the Hunters.
Parsons and McManus were now firing against the clock. Parsons was trying to take his time about it, but through his optic scope, the greens, whites, and pale yellows were blurring back and forth as he brought his wrath on every target he could find. His haste was affecting his accuracy, however. More than one shot missed their lethal charge and only wounded their targets. With the ominous red circle going from target to target, Ron brought his barrel even with the crown of an Elite officer's skull. Parsons pulled the trigger to hear a disappointing click. The Corporal's eyes widened in immediate fear as the Elite's face in his scope looked directly into his own. The Elite brought up its' plasma rifle with superhuman speed, its' warrior senses directing it to the source of fire with almost supernatural accuracy. Parsons immediately hit the deck as a barrage of plasma fire screeched overhead. "Reloading!" The Corporal yelled, ejecting a spent magazine and grabbing another, slamming it in to the piece of precsion equipment, pulling the bolt back to bring in the next round into the firing chamber and pushing it closed again, the greased mechanism sliding effortlessly back and forth.
"Goddammit!" McManus yelled as easily as he could, "would it kill you to cover my ass!?"
More plasma fire impacted with the building, narrowly missing the sniper. "As a matter of fact," Parsons yelled back, "it could!"
McManus steadied himself as he took a mental picture of the battlefield, and rolled onto his back to eject his empty magazine. "Reloading!" He yelled above the din of battle. McManus cursed under his breath and reached for one of his last magazines. His accuracy was failing him in these circumstances, and he could only assume it was the same for his partner. It was getting impossible to set up for a shot. "Yo!" He yelled over to the Corporal, who had tenatively gotten into positon at the rooftop's edge and lined up another shot, "We're gonna have to relocate!"
"No time!" Parsons replied as the S2 AM sniper rifle jerked back into his shoulder, the vapor trail dissipating in the rising smoke as he slid the bolt back and forth.
"Then what are we supposed to do?"
"C'mon, rookie," Parsons yelled as he observed his kill. Ron turned his head to look at Tim McManus. "We're supposed to survive. Call the Captain and complain. See how he likes it."
The smoke was rising up to the top of the building the snipers inhabited, which was very good news. The additional concealment was just what the two snipers ordered. However, it was a double-edged sword. The sophisticated and complex optic scopes only gave the snipers a slight advantage. As the smoke grew thicker and the fog of war became denser, the hostiles were becoming harder and harder to see. McManus hefted his rifle to the rooftop's edge and tracked a moving source of light. Even through the smoke, Tim could see the distinct bobbing motion of the lime-green light and his experience on the battlefield told him both the weapon type and species carrying it. The Specialist knew what it had to be, and indeed, the sniper had spotted a high value target. He leaned to his left and hit Parsons on the shoulder. As Parsons looked over to McManus, Tim put his fingers to his eyes and gestured while he talked.
"Trailing a Jackal officer. Charged plasma pistol." McManus declared.
Parsons immediately pivoted his weapon to the spot McManus has pointed to. "Acquired." The Corporal confirmed.
"I'll hit him in the shield. You take him one quarter-shot up and to the left. If we tag this son of a bitch, the Grunts will scatter and we'll buy the Cap some time."
"Agreed." Parsons nodded. Any sniper worth his pay can hit a target up to one thousand yards three times. Those three shots must be grouped so tightly that they can all fit in the space of a quarter. Otherwise, the sniper puts his life in danger. McManus had told his partner to aim above and to the left of the light, and Parsons would not miss. Not today.
Two seconds after the snipers conferred, Parsons heard the suppressed discharge of McManus' rifle, and the Corporal shot his round at the thup of the silenced weapon. In an instant, both snipers observed the bobbing green light jerk up and to the right, then streak off into the sky as the Jackal's finger closed on the trigger in a death spasm, the result of its' body transmiting one last reflex. Neither sniper moved their eyes from their scopes, but met the other's hand in a victory high-five.
Below them and across the street, they failed to see the Hunter that had acquired the two jubilant Minutemen on the rooftop. They also failed to see the Hunter charge up its' fuel rod cannon and measure the arc at its' intended target.
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