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Last of a Dying Breed-Fierce Retaliation
Posted By: hornet34<hornet34x@hotmail.com>
Date: 5 December 2003, 2:48 AM
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A blaring siren startled Warren. He hadn't really been sleeping; last's night events were still fresh in his mind. He soberly turned the alarm off on his battered clock and got dressed. Walking into the hallway, he fumbled against the wall before snapping the light switch on. His eyes winced from the painful illumination as he cautiously made his way to the base's medical brig.
"What's going on, Doc?"
"Warren, what are you doing down here? They just sent someone looking for you, you were supposed to be up at the hangar ten minutes ago." Dr. Riveria was standing over the sleeping figure of Jim, who still had that drug-enduced grin on his face.
"I think there's worse things than being left behind."
"And being court-martialed," the doctor retorted.
Warren gathered up his medical gear, stuffed a couple extra bio-foam containers in his bag, and strapped on his pistol. "See ya, doc," he said as he left for the hangar.
The hangar was a hive of activity. The sound of Pelicans test-firing their engines droned out the nervous conversation of the marines. A couple of Warthogs dashed across the cavernous floor, rushing to get into position. Warren found his dropship, number 347, the last in the row. There was a couple of marines already seated, looking grim before their dance with death. The rest of the passengers consisted of a pale skinny marine who wore the uniform and nervous gaze of an artillery spotter, and his accompanying artillery crews. All the first-strike troops would head out in the other Pelicans, hopefully securing the landing zones before their Pelican got close.
Warren double-checked his gear and strapped in. The two marines were engaged in an intense conversation about manuevers and tactics, while the artillery-men threw dice against the Pelican wall and joked loudly. Warren turned the meek little spotter in an attempt to start up a conversation, but the guy wasn't looking too hot.
"Hi, I'm Warren."
The spotter moved his mouth like he was saying something, and then grabbed his helmet and bent down, vomiting.
"I'm taking it your name is Ralph." Warren's joke elicited laughs from a few artillery-men. The two marines gave the little man a look, saw it didn't concern them or their conversation, and continued talking. The Pelican's jets fired up and the craft began lifting off, igniting another round of vomiting from the green spotter.
"Don't worry about him!" one of the artillerymen yelled over the engines, "he does that before every mission! Loosens him up!" The growing roar as multiple Pelicans took off made further conversation impossible. Instead Warren used the opportunity to check out the landscape. The morning sun was still low in the sky, but the temperature was well into the nineties. Down below the ground was swathed various shades of green brush and jungle. The base, with its concrete and metal, seemed a gruesome blemish on the beauty of mother nature.
After a few minutes of peaceful flying, the pilots voice cut in over the comm channels. "Look alive, unfriendlies could still be out there." The pilot expertly lowered the craft to just under a meter above ground and the soldiers and crew disembarked. The marines instantly began setting up defensive measures while the artillerymen began siting their prepared guns. Behind him Warren heard the sound of footsteps and branches breaking.
Warren turned around to see a squad of marines come jogging up and getting into defensive positions, all except for a lean, dark-skinned marine that made a beeline for him. "Medic?" It was a question, not a cry for help.
"Warren. You my escort."
"Sure 'em, right this way. Name's Jerrold"
The marine led Warren through the thick jungle, the sound of gunfire becoming slowly more distinct. Warren was breathing heavily when Jerrold stopped and motioned to stay put while he went ahead. After a few minutes of waiting, he returned and they made their way up to the forward base. Warren barely had time to take stock of the situation when the cry for "Medic!" began ringing out from the trees.
Warren dashed into the foliage, not waiting for his escort to lead. With his pistol in hand, Warren came to his first patient. The marine's hip was black from plasma, but he had a strong look in his eyes. Warren whipped out the biofoam and began applying it. "Wort, wort, wort," an elite's battle cry came from behind him, and Warren heard his escort begin opening fire with a shotgun. He didn't have time to look up, but from the fact he didn't feel hot plasma burning into his back assured him that the elite was no longer a problem. Warren got the soldier bandaged up and yelled to his escort, "You gotta help him back, I'm gonna go ahead!"
"Are you crazy. What if you get attacked!"
Warren held up the pistol and said, "I'll be O.K." The marine shrugged, slung the injured soldier on his back, and took off for the evac zone.
Warren headed off towards a spot where he'd heard pained cries for a medic. There was a soldier on the ground; his eyes glassy and his body covered with splotches of blood. Warren bent down and examined the soldier. He had what appeared to be several wounds from shrapnel, and his breath was shallow and his pulse weak. Warren pulled out on of his disposable morphine shots, injected into the fallen soldier, and moved on. His time was better spent elsewhere.
He began creeping forward carefully, pistol in hand. A group of Covenant could be seen clearly less than a hundred yards ahead, forming up for a counter-attack. Warren dropped down and thumbed on his radio. "HQ, I've got a Covenant formation ahead. Our defenses in this area are comprimised. Request immediate artillery support on these coordinates." Warren read off the coordinates watched the troops, nervously fingering his pistol. Soon the air was filled with the intimidating sound of incoming shells. Warren ducked down and watched as three blast enveloped the Covenant position. When the smoke cleared, all that was left was a single grunt. Warren wasn't sure how the grunt survived, but he aimed his pistol and prepared to finish him off. Warren's hand's were shaking with anxiety, and his first shot missed, prompting the frightened grunt to dive to the ground. Fortunately Warren still had sight of him and squeezed off two more shots that ensured the grunt stayed down. Another cry of "Medic!" reminded him of what his real duty was. As he got up to rise, he was hit from behind; knocking him onto the ground, and the gun from his hands.
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