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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 6
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 26 October 2004, 2:48 AM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter Six
53rd Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Evacuated City of Boston
Two years into the invasion of Earth
Night
Rory Connor, the redheaded Irishman, was not having a good day. Reflecting back on where he was at this particular moment, he should have been happy. He was lying against a sparsely stocked bar, the pub in a state of utter destruction as if a massive bar brawl had just been broken up. Stools were splintered and lying on their sides, smashed bottles littered the ground with glass and sticky residue of pungent alcohol. Unfortunately, right outside the bar wasn't a swarming mass of hooligans, it was invaders. From outer space. Rory laughed to himself in the absurdity of his thoughts. He was now behind enemy lines, but in contrast to the last few hours, it was deathly silent.
The man many Minutemen had regarded as insane had heard all the commotion, and in the confusion and exchanges of fire, the Covenant had forgotten about him. Rory gritted his teeth and pulled out his standard-issue M6D pistol. Connor reached behind himself and pulled a bottle off the shelf. Not caring to look at the label, the demolitions expert twisted off the cap and took a long pull from the amber-colored liquid and covered his spiky red hair with a standard-issue combat helmet.
None of the Minutemen had ever encountered Hunters before, but from intelligence stolen from the UNSC, McManus had been able to teach the squad about Covenant weaknesses. Rory could remember the briefing, lazily looking out the window as McManus had lectured on Covenant tactics. "The most obvious weak spot in all the Covenant is in the Hunter. I can't really tell you what it looks like, 'cuz I honestly do not know. But apparently their weak spot is their flesh. It's hidden pretty well, but it appears from these documents that you can recognize it quickly."
Rory had seen it, all right. From his hidden position, he had seen the awesome power of the Hunters. He had seen one Hunter swat a Creep transport vehicle away with a simple swing of its' shield. Peeking his head above the bar, he had watched the last six Hunters advance, firing on the Minutemen. Even though most of the Covenant attack had been wiped out, the remaining forces were more than the Minutemen could handle. Rory saw Parsons' shot take out one Hunter, but it didn't look like anyone was going to be taking out the rest of the armored killers. Rory looked down on the pistol. In his dirty, bloodied hands, the pistol was gleaming in the night. He rarely used the firearm, preferring far more brutal methods of death for the Covenant. At this point, Rory decided, it would be better to be efficient than brutal.
In the dark, Rory saw the mass of shapes move past. In a crouch, the Irishman slinked into the open space. The battleground was a scene of urban devastation. On either side, buildings were crumbling and spewing structure fire from deep within their rooms. Concrete was churned up and smoking, deep craters were all around Connor. It was a lunar landscape. In front of him, the Demolition Specialist could see flashes of orange and yellow from around corners and different types of cover. Once in a while, a small dark shape would move from one crater to another, only to be lighted by plasma fire, the human body illuminated in death as so much Covenant fire concentrated on one small target. The Minutemen were pinned down in every sense of the phrase. Different sections of the street glowed green and purple from plasma residue, and every so often as the flames licked in their direction, Rory Connor could see the dead Covenant, their spattered blood taking up massive amounts of space.
In front of Rory, he could hear a massive retreat coming his way. He could hear heavy, labored breathing from at least six bodies. Rory immediately turned and took in his surroundings. In front of him now were two incapacitated Creep transports that created a small alley in between them. The Irishman quickly hid behind one of them. The Covenant transport vehicle had been disabled in the fire fight, but it was large enough to conceal him safely from whatever it was that was retreating from the battle. From the commotion they were making, the second-oldest Connor brother knew for a fact they had hooves. Grunts. Even though today had been an extraordinarily bad day, a dark smile spread across Rory's face. In Rory's right hand, he held his pistol. With his left hand, Rory extracted his knife, placed it on the ground, and took out his IRA-issue lighter. Those lil' fuggers ain't ever getting back home. Fuck efficiency. Let's get brutal.
As the first Grunt ran through the alleyway created by the Creeps and passed by the red-haired Irishman, Connor struck the flint on the lighter, dropped it to the ground, and snatched up his knife in an overhand grip. As the lead Grunt passed by, the demolition expert slashed down viciously over the methane tube leading from the Grunt's mask to a tank on his back. The severed tube gave off a soft hisssssssssss and the immediate area reeked of Methane gas. In the same motion, Connor drew the flame of the lighter across the hissing opening of the slashed tube. To Connor's right, he heard a panicked, high-pitched voice yell, "Oh no!" The slashed Grunt's tube lit up quickly as the Methane gas created a small Grunt explosion. In the flash of light and bright blue blood, Rory's hightened senses observed five remaining Grunts, two in the back carrying a wounded comrade. Five combat-effective, he thought as he strafed left, his pistol out and spitting hot lead at assorted limbs of the aliens. One wounded. One down. All they have to hide in are these two Creeps and the open road. This isn't fair. Ahead of the Irishman, he could hear two Grunts scrambling to hide inside a disabled Creep. The two were carelessly giving away their position with their frantic breathing and loud discourse. Christ, Rory thought, they shouldn't even count as kills. This is fuggin' murder. Two Grunts were hiding inside the Creep, thinking they were safe. "I'm with you!" One called out to its' partner. Connor spun inside the Creep in a crouch, his knife out and gleaming in the sparse flames.
From the scene of the first Grunt's death, one lucky invader snuck over to the mutilated body. It looked up to find the rest of its' squad, and saw two comrades hiding safely in a disabled Creep. All seemed clear until the light of a fire caught a gleaming object directly behind the two supposedly safe Grunts. "Look out! Bad guy!" It yelled at its' two partners, but it was too late. The remaining Grunts that were alerted fired in the direction of the yelping as Rory Connor brought the brunt of his blade to bear on the small aliens. With his left hand, Rory plunged his knife up to the hilt in the top of one Grunt's head. The right hand pressed against the back of the other's head and he fired from point-blank range. As he pulled the trigger, he twisted the knife inside the head and ripped it out with savage efficiency. The two Grunts died instantly, and friendly fire finished the job as Rory doubled back to where had had come from.
Three combat-effective. Rory turned and returned to the scene of his first attack, where a Grunt was standing over what was left of its' commanding officer. With no remorse, Rory punched three rounds through the Grunt's torso, pushing it head over heels into the darkness. The darkness was lifted for an instant as Rory finished the job, standing over the mortally wounded Grunt and discharging a round directly into the invader's face. Two.
The two remaining Grunts were in the middle, between the two Creeps Rory had gone back and forth from. They were exposed and scared, talking to the other, but not moving. The discussion between the two was not a dissertation on battlefield tactics, to be sure. "See 'im? See 'im?" One asked. How the Hell did the bastards learn English? Connor wondered to himself as he turned and walked purposefully at the two Grunts. One carefully aimed shot not only disarmed one Grunt, but it also dis-handed it, the fingers travelling a far greater distance than the pistol. As it clutched its' ruined hand in agony, the other was eliminated with a semi-explosive round through the neck. It pitched forward, the plasma pistol ending up skittering to a stop at Connor's feet. The demolition expert picked it up and charged the pistol. He pushed it against the Grunt's neck, the hot plasma scalding the Grunt's neck. "Noooooooo, no morrrrrrrrre..." It whined.
"Strange," Rory Connor noted, "you didn't give my brothers a chance to plead." The plasma bolt nearly took the head off, the body dropping to the pavement. Connor reloaded his M6D pistol and pushed the knife into the face of the last remaining wounded Grunt. He wiped the florescent blue blood off on one of this thighs, then sheathed the blade. As Connor checked the area for any more hostiles, he noticed an odd silhouette. He paused for a second, then realized the shape of the object: a still functioning Shade stationary gun. The Irishman turned to rejoin his fellow Minutemen when an idea flashed through his head. A plan had suddenly formed.
Corporal Ron Parsons and Tim McManus were elated at the kill of a Jackal officer below them. What they hadn't realized was a Hunter across the street had witnessed the death and marked the snipers. It was a matter of a few seconds to charge its fuel rod cannon and measure the arc precisely to take out the lower section of the roof and drop the two snipers to their deaths. Across the street and two stories up, Parsons looked away from the victory high five to check Tim McManus' ammo count. As he glanced away from his own optic scope, the ominous pale green glow shone hazily out of the smoke below them and triggered every alarm in Parson's body. For an instant, and an instant only, Parsons froze in fear.
"Move it, Specialist!" Parsons yelled, seizing his junior partner by the back of his collar and pulling him from the edge of the roof. In a reflex, McManus hugged his urban-camouflaged S2 AM sniper rifle to his chest and allowed his body to be carried backwards by the surprisingly strong Corporal. In the backwards momentum, Tim saw the cannon fire arcing through the air towards the duo. With what ground McManus could get ahold of, he pressed his boots as hard against the roof as he could and pushed with all of his might against the floor. Combined with the forward progress of Parsons, Tim's jump, and the impact of the fuel rod cannon against the building, the two snipers hurtled toward the other end of the roof. For a second, Ron Parsons imagined he and his partner were going to clear the roof. With the same superhuman precision that had allowed him to move toward safety, the sniper Corporal let his rappel cord drop from his body, wrapping around a skinny antique air conditioning unit and jerking the two to a stop mid-air. Both bodies hit the ground hard, bouncing awkwardly as they skidded to a stop, and were pelted with smaller pieces of the roof. The snipers laid face down, hands over their heads to shield themselves briefly. The dust settled and Parsons looked over, his head a groggy mess. His eyes opened in disbelief as he took in the sight of his partner, already lying prone and scanning his new battlefield. Tim McManus returned his commanding officer's look, then stared through the scope in grim determination. Parsons had never seen the boy with that kind of look.
"Jesus Christ, Corporal," McManus growled, "Are you gonna play dead, or are we gonna hunt that motherfucker?"
"Good as dead, McManus." Parsons replied, and spun himself 180 degrees on his stomach, now facing the battle.
Captain Jack O'Shea was in trouble. He was stuck behind a ruined Warthog, and to make matters worse, he had just been told that the only two men with instruments able to take out the Hunters, Tonsi and Seamus Connor, were not going to be coming out of their alley without paying the dearest cost. The strain of battle had caused the Captain to sweat, but the cool night air and the loss of men had chilled him sufficiently. Jack wiped the dangling strands of brown and gray-spotted hair from under his helmet and focused his eyes in the dark. He was about to issue orders when the green streak started to form just meters from his position. O'Shea pulled his old friend, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds, to the ground as the fuel rod cannon fire blasted above his position. "FRC!" The Captain yelled to all nearby as the enemy fire flew by and overhead, the discharge sounding like an animal's growl when threatened.
Above the Captain's cover, the roof where Parsons and McManus had been shooting from disintegrated, pieces falling to the street, the majority of the roof falling straight down the buidling's facade to block the front entrance. "Debris!" O'Shea pointed out, and the three Minutemen hiding behind the Warthog took similar cover positons, pressing their bodies against the ruined Warthog and covering their helmets with their hands, weapons placed on the ground. Smaller bits of rubble showered the threesome harmlessly as the Captain called the snipers over the Comm. "Parsons! McManus! Reply now! Status!" The Captain clicked off and hung his head, wishing this was some kind of awful bad dream. To awake him from his feelings of helplessness, Parsons voice came across the Comm, groggy and labored: "Parsons here. We're hit, but OK. Soldiering on, sir."
"Thank God," O'Shea breathed, and recomposed himself. "I need status, snipers. Demo is pinned down, can you assist?"
The reply came back quickly. "Negative, sir. Tim and I are combat ineffective for assisting demo. Hope you have a backup plan for those guys."
O'Shea slammed his hand against the Warthog, the force of the blow rocking the vehicle slightly. There was only one option left, and it was a risky one. O'Shea scratched the back of his head for a second, then reloaded his Battle Rifle. "McManus?" O'Shea asked.
"Yes, sir?" McManus answered.
"I need you to make a call out."
"Captain, I already alerted the refugees, and they're safely-"
"To the boys upstairs."
Silence.
"Um...sir..." Came an uneasy reply, "...we've never done that before."
"I suppose now is as good a time as any, eh Specialist?"
"Huah, sir."
Tim McManus had monitored enemy and friendly radio and electronic communication since he first joined the Minutemen. Now he was being ordered to do something he wasn't sure would work, or even be safe. McManus had to order UNSC reinforcements, posing as a fake UNSC unit, trapped behind enemy lines. This, McManus thought to himself, is damn near impossible. Next to McManus, his ranking partner threw in his thoughts.
"Sir, permission to express reservations." Parson's voice crackled over the airwaves.
"Granted," O'Shea replied.
"Even if this works, sir, and that's a big if, we're not just risking our lives, we're risking the whole city!"
"I know what we're risking, Corporal."
"But sir, we're putting ourselves directly at risk for Cronin Protocol-"
"Permission to express reservations denied, Corporal."
Parsons put his forehead against the cool concrete of the roof. "Understood, Captain. Tim, make the call."
McManus already had this communications gear set up. Still in a prone position, the resident genius of the Minutemen had a small receiving/transmitting dish set up to his left, pointing towards the black and cloudy night sky. McManus placed both palms against the roof and glanced left toward Parsons. "Be advised, I am eyes-off." He said, and slid backwards to a safer position.
"Eyes-off, roger."
McManus didn't like lying. He also never liked talking on any kind of civilian communication equipment. For one thing, intelligence had revealed that any civilian communication broadcast was intercepted and heard by the Covenant. That was worrying enough. McManus also doubted his ability to sell this to the UNSC. Before the war, McManus dreaded the thought of talking to girls in his class. He had always been the smarter one, which led to his loner mentality. No one knew as many languages or technical procedures as he did. He loved science, and on weekends when he wasn't swamped with homework, he loved to hunt. Those days, however, had passed. The girls had started disappearing, killed or evacuated, and that problem had therefore taken care of itself. The girls who remained as refugees were easier to talk to, since they all had surviving as a common interest. McManus started to focus on one particular refugee and how she looked for him every time he and Parsons made it back to camp...No. Focus, McManus. Get back in the game. Make it home alive. He shook his head to clear it and focus.
McManus had practiced this manuever before, but none of the Minutemen ever really took it seriously. When would the UNSC ever help them? Tim briefly reflected on the morning they had first practiced the transmission, and Rory Connor's observation on the procedure.
"Aye, with all due respect, Cap'n," the Irishman had said, "we're expectin' the fuggin' UNSC to pull our sorry arses out of the fire? This is like calling a girl I've never met and convincin' the lass to take a night on the town. Right now. And she's payin'!" It was funny then. It wasn't quite as funny now.
Tim connected the communications equipment to his personal "All-Hands" frequency so the Captain could listen over the Comm. With surprisingly steady hands, he dialed up all UNSC frequencies so he could get as many "hits" as possible. If the young specialist was nervous or looked nervous, his voice didn't betray him. He would have been mistaken for a soldier many times over him in rank.
"This is Major McManus, UNSC Unit five-three, fire team foxtrot! We are pinned down by five Creeps of Covenant and are losing men quickly, command! I need reinforcements or air support!"
Static reigned over McManus' and O'Shea's headsets. Suddenly, the communications channel burst to life.
"Copy that, five-three. Where did you say you were, again?"
McManus took a breath. "Evacuated city of Boston. We were tracking Covenant arms and got in over our heads, here Command. We really need some help."
"Five-three, we don't read you on our sensors."
"Copy that, Command, we're in close proximity to Covenant BattleNet hubs, so our signal was scrambled. I do not, repeat, do not have time to banter back and forth over this, Command. Are reinforcements on the spoke, or aren't they?"
O'Shea held his breath. They were dead or alive on the UNSC's reply.
"Enemy troop strength?" the disembodied voice asked.
"Stands at six Hunters, around seven Elites."
[indenet]"Roger that, Five-three. OK, foxtrot, I've scrambled two Pelican dropships and Marines to your signal, that should serve you to handle the Covies. Hang tight in there, roger?
"Roger that, Command. Five-three out." McManus noted the frequency then shut the transmission down. The young sniper laid his head down on the roof for the briefest of seconds, then noticed his commanding officer looking at him with wide eyes and one eyebrow raised. Combined with the camouflage paint, Parsons looked ridiculous.
"What?" Tim asked the curious face.
"Major McManus?" Parsons asked. The Corporal started laughing
"Sir, fuck you, sir." McManus replied, crawling back to his bipod-steadied rifle.
As the channel closed, O'Shea's shoulders sagged in relief. The Captain changed the frequency to his Comm channel and stole a peek down the street, observing the advance of the last group of Elites. The seven remaining Elites advanced slowly down the road, but failed to check the skinny alley that, unfortunately for the aliens, hid Seamus Connor and 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi. As the last two Elites passed the alleyway, two shotguns peeked out of the alley and a fragmentation grenade skipped along the ground in the midst of the Covenant assault squad. In a frenzy of roars and leaps, the Elites attempted to scatter from the blast radius, but instead only made their numbers more manageable for the spread-out Minutemen. Short bursts from Battle Rifles, two quick pops from each shotgun, and another grenade later and the last of the Covenant Elites sent against the Minutemen laid sprawled in different sets of agony. From concealed positions, Minutemen took potshots to end any kind of threat from the Covenant warriors. Even mortally wounded, the Minutemen knew each alien could still be a deadly threat.
Above O'Shea's head, there was a faint trail of vapor that ended in the neck of the Hunter across the street. It was the same Hunter that had managed to fire at the snipers. O'Shea nodded in satisfaction as the creature pitched forward, it's body relaxing in death, orange blood pooling underneath it. "Excellent work, snipers. Confirmed kill from here."
"That fucker's staying down, sir." Parsons said.
"Huah, Corporal. Recommend you and McManus relocate. Reinforcements are on the spoke."
"Huah."
O'Shea clapped his hand on Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynold's shoulder. The Captain yelled into his friend's ear over the noise of automatic fire, "We're getting UNSC backup! Clear and mark a drop zone!" Reynolds nodded, still firing, then dropped to a crouch behind the Warthog. O'Shea turned and pointed at the other Minuteman with the two commanding officers. "Clear a drop zone and drop smoke! Follow Gus!" Both Minutemen made haste away from their Captain, moving to secure a drop zone for the Pelican.
Jack O'Shea took another look over his cover and observed the carnage. The Hunters were overturning cars with their cannon blasts, uncovering Minutemen every now and then. Despite the danger the uncovered Minutemen were in, each individual militiaman made it to safety. The Hunters were hurting without their Elite support. There was a pair on each side of the street, blocking any advance by the Minutemen. Return fire by the Minuteman assault team was sporadic, every bullet clanged off the armor into the night sky. Even in the dead of night, the street was surprisingly well-lit, the smoke and haze dispersing light from fire and plasma and illuminating more of the street than O'Shea would have liked. In the smoky haze, O'Shea noticed something he had never seen before. The five Hunters meant one Covenant was all by itself, it seemed that without a partner, all strategy and tactics went out the window. The lone Hunter skipped back and forth, making blind charges every now and then, but it was leaving itself wide open for attack. O'Shea seized the opportunity.
"Seamus, Tonsi, see the loner in the middle?"
"We see it, sir."
"Spank that motherfu-"
"Huah, sir. Huah."
O'Shea fought to keep himself composed. It wasn't like him to lose control of his emotions like this. However, this attack had brought up so many of his experiences since the invasion started that he was losing focus. He worried about losing control of his troops. Some were very young and had little combat experience. They were showing signs of strain: some simply ran out in open space and were gunned down accordingly. It was gut-wrenching to see, so O'Shea waited for a good moment to boost morale. From the overturned Warthog, O'Shea held his breath as Seamus Connor, That crazy Irish bastard..., ran out of the alley with a SPNKR rocket launcher across open ground. O'Shea was about to mourn yet another death when he noticed 1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi spin around his corner of the alley and shoot a rocket toward the pair of Hunters closest to Connor. The flight of the rocket seemed to light the smoke on fire as it streaked through the haze in a descent at the Hunters' feet.
The attack had not gone unnoticed as the pair leaped left and right to avoid the explosion. The diversion worked perfectly. As the lone hunter turned to face the attack on its' brethren, Seamus Connor dropped to one knee and loosed a rocket straight into the lone Hunter's chest from the minimum safe distance. The rocket impacted with a resounding crash of armor and fragmenting metal that sent the Hunter flying into a building on the other side of the street, its' hulking body crashing through a wall. The force of the explosion also blew Seamus Connor backwards, his body tumbling in a somersault, still holding on to the rocket launcher.
The oldest of the Connor brothers ran back to safety, but not without loosing another projectile at the remaining pair of Hunters. The rocket impacted harmlessly above the aliens, but it achieved the desired purpose: Seamus and Tonsi both got back to cover safely. O'Shea took the swing in momentum and opened a squad-wide channel. "Minutemen," O'Shea declared, "Reinforcements are on the spoke! Pelicans are dropping in troops and taking out the wounded! Pour it on!"
A resounding chorus of "Huahs" made O'Shea smile for a brief second before he turned his attention to the drop zone. Reynolds and Private 1st Class Carl Sohn were marking the drop zone with red smoke at spots where the Pelicans could put down in relative safety. At this point in the battle, all the Minutemen were hoping for were the 70mm chin guns from the Pelicans to sweep the Hunters off the block and secure the street. O'Shea took his eyes off the skirmish with the Hunters to monitor the drop zone progress. In hazy darkness, O'Shea could barely make out two blotches of black slinking back and forth across the street. In the middle of the street, behind the battle, the two blotches separated and each settled on either side of the street. The Comm channel chirped to life.
"Captain," Gus Reynolds voice came over the airwaves, "Drop zone secured. The birds can come in at any time now."
"Copy, Gus. Hang tight."
"Huah."
O'Shea turned his body to take in the remainder of the battle. The two pairs of Hunters were being occupied by sporadic fire, but were remaining in their position, firing, but not moving. It was odd to O'Shea, he remembered Hunters to be at least a little more mobile than that. The observation was pushed from his mind as McManus relayed a message from the incoming reinforcements:
"Fire team Foxtrot, this is Pelican Golf-seven on approach with Pelican X-ray three. We are coming in hot to your position, be advised, we have picked up enemy air power in your vicinity. Please acknowledge."
O'Shea instinctively looked to the sky, but in the smoke and flickering light, it was impossible to find anything. Enemy air power was no real cause for concern, the Minutemen had dealt with Banshees and Phantoms throughout the invasion. That, Jack thought, could be handled. The Captain opened a channel to reply. "Copy that, Golf. We can't see them here, but we will keep an eye on the sky. We have four Hunters on the ground and would appreciate some of that famous Chin Gun support."
"Roger, fire team. ETA thirty seconds. Mark the LZ at any time."
O'Shea put his back to the Warthog and yelled back at Reynolds and Sohn. "Drop smoke and clear out!"
Without hesitation, the two black blotches emerged from their cover. With a nod between them, the two Minutemen pulled out sleek gray cylinders and rolled them to the curbs of the street. As soon as the canisters were away, they retreated back into the shadows as twin plumes of red smoke began billowing up into the vast canvas of black. The roar of the Pelican engines started to echo down the street and wash over the remaining Minutemen.
"LZ marked, Pelicans." O'Shea called in.
"Roger, we see 'em." The Pelican pilot replied. O'Shea was about to call in to the rest of the squad when the other pilot suddenly came on the Comm, his voice full of fear.
"Contact! Contact! Five Covenant Banshees on my six! Sensors also detect two Wraith tanks with infantry support closing on your position! New contact! I've got a squad of Ghosts coming from the South of you! Fire team, what have you stumbled on to?"
From the crumbling rooftop, high enough to be separated from the din of battle, Parsons and McManus both stared in fear at the same spot in the sky. Mixed with the Pelican's engines, the screaming whine of Covenant Banshees could be clearly heard...multiplied by five.
"Mother of God..." Parsons breathed as he pulled out night-vision binoculars. As the shape of the Pelicans could be made out, ten trails of vapor from the Banshees could be seen in their zig-zag shape. The Banshees were coming in attack formation. Two Banshees broke off their pursuit of the Pelicans, activated their turbo mode, and accelerated past the dropships. The three remaining covenant air fighters opened fire on the airships. The Pelicans started evasive manuevers as they came closer and closer to the drop zone. The air space became cramped as the buildings trapped the dropships into a lethal narrow corridor. Parsons shook his head as he calculated the Pelicans' chances of survival.
"Captain, I don't know if they're gonna make it," McManus reported, "Parsons and I are gonna try and be legends, though, if you'll excuse us." Specialist McManus glanced at his commanding officer, and the two snipers both hefted their rifles to their shoulders, pointing their weapons into the sky. "One wing each, OK?" Tim asked. Parsons nodded. Both snipers steadied their hands as the aerial bombardment began.
Gus Reynolds and Carl Sohn flattened themselves against cover as quickly as they could. As the two Minutemen took cover, blue plasma collided with the pavement, shooting up the concrete in tiny craters, and quickly started advancing down the street behind the Minutemen's positions. The Banshees were walking the fire down the street, trying to cover every inch of Commonwealth Avenue. The skittering attack created a pat-pat-pat-pat-pat sound as each shot hit the street. From Gus' view, he could see the balls of green plasma cannon fire coming down, moving slower than the blue primary blasters. "Incoming!" Gus called out, but for several Minutemen, it was too late. The blue plasma skipped down the street, catching more than one Minuteman in the chest as they turned to acquire the threat. The blue plasma fire continued down the street, even hitting the remaining Hunters, which stumbled backwards, growling in pain. The green cannon fire struck two Warthogs, exploding and sending shrapnel into the limbs of several Minutemen. The situation was grim, to say the least. More militia hit the deck, writhing in pain. The medics got to work.
From Rory Connor's position, one positive came out of the attack. The two pairs of Hunters succumbed to friendly fire as two green bolts of plasma missed their intended human targets and killed their own brethren. For the time being, the Covenant ground offensive had been destroyed. From the top of the Creep he had seen before, Rory Connor decided to take matters into his own hands. He had been studying the Shade stationary gun's controls for some time, and now he was pretty sure what would do what. This has got to be the most fucked-up thing I've ever thought of doing, he told himself, but after nodding his head to convince himself what he was doing was right, Rory Connor vaulted onto the gun, and opened a squad-wide channel. He was making his stand here, and he wanted to sure up the confidence of his comrades. The clinically insane Irishman's fingers danced across the panel as the turret lifted up, supported by some manner of gravity control. The movement of the gun was fluid, but Connor detected no sign of hydralics or anything else of that nature. Rory fired up the plasma turret, hearing a brief Whirr and aimed it at the incoming Banshees. The fiery Irishman threw off his combat helmet. He knew the odds of his survival. Rory Connor was about to fight fire with fire, taking up his older brother's battle cry, "All right, you fuggin' Covie bastards! Come get a taste!"
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