- last post: 01.01.0001 12:00 AM PDT
It's not quite fineshed yet, but here it is.
CHAPTER THREE
1830 hours, December 22, 2552 (Military Calendar)\
New Mombassa, East African Protectorate, Earth
Colonel Dominick DePascale looked out of the cockpit of his C290 Raven at the stretching cityscape below. He noticed a caravan of four Warthogs driving to some unknown location; probably headed to a group of marines that needed support. Covenant AA fire slowly arced into the orange-hued sky from somewhere and detonated with a pop amongst the taller buildings, dotting the sky with little clouds of plasma that hung for a moment then slowly faded from existence. The new part of the city looked much nicer than the old, abandoned, dingy suburbs. As torn up and lifeless as Old Mombassa was, DePascale knew that once the Covenant invaded with full force, it would look much worse. An incoming radio transmission broke his train of thought. Static was all he heard, until a familiar voice cut through.
"This is Colonel Fisher, does anyone..." More static interrupted, then it cleared for him to finish. "Is anyone on this channel? Over."
"I read you," replied Dominick. "This is Halifax One. What can I blow up for you today?"
"That you, DePascale?" Fisher asked with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Ha, figures. We need some serious support here. We're pinned down at..." He hesitated, only gunfire filling the radio for a moment. "Grid thirteen by ten," he finished.
"Roger that, Colonel," DePascale answered. "We're on our way." He cut off the transmission and radioed his wing man to relay the message. "Dwire! Fisher's pinned down due east. He needs some immediate air support."
"Roger that!" Colonel Matt Dwire replied. "Let's kill us some aliens!" They both banked left in their Raven fighters.
Colonel Travis Fisher fired the last two bursts in his BR55 and reloaded. The private on the mounted turret next to him took an overcharged plasma bolt in the face and flew back. Fisher felt a splash of blood on his cheek and looked at the spot where the marine had stood a second ago, then at his corpse. Fisher grimaced at what was left of the man's head and barked an order to one of his men. "Stewart, man that turret! Hurry your ass up!"
"Yes, sir," the Lance Corporal said as he quickly manned it and plowed through the 15 pissed off Grunts charging towards them. Their angry barks and growls where drowned out by the loud chatter of the machine gun as it cut them down, spraying phosphorescent blue blood all over the street. A Phantom screamed overhead and landed about 50 yards in front of Fisher's platoon, or at least what was left of it. They had been forced up against a building so at least they couldn't be easily flanked. Luckily, no Hunters had arrived, but if anything with a fuel rod showed up, they'd be really screwed.
Five Elites and five Brutes dropped from the glowing hole in the bottom of the craft, followed by seven Jackals, who locked their shields in a phalanx and moved towards the marines, firing.
"Damn it!" Fisher said as the aliens unloaded. "Sgt. Staten, hand me that Jackhammer!"
Fisher lifted the launcher, aimed, and fired the 102 mm rocket straight toward the Jackals. The explosion sent the bastards flying. All except two, who immediately turned to run. Their cowardice, as strange as it seemed, was rewarded with a hail of bullets in their backs.
He had never seen them run from battle before, but he didn't care. They were dead now.
He fired the second rocket, and it hit a Brute square in the chest. Three other Brutes and two of the Elites flew through the air as chunks of Brute littered the already body covered street. He dropped the launcher, shouldered his battle rifle, and opened fire on the last Brute. No sooner had Stewart gunned down the last Elite when two more Phantoms came in and dropped off ten Brutes and ten Elites. They hovered there and their three turrets lit up with plasma fire.
"Where are these things coming from?" a private complained as he fired a rocket, blowing off one of the turrets. Fisher wished they had a Cobra tank. He'd blow those ships right out of existence.
As though someone had read his mind, a pair of missiles screamed over them and slammed into one of the ships. The drop ship's left engine was engulfed in a blue-white flash. The pilot struggled to control the ship but failed as it crashed to the ground, swallowing the Elites below it in a ball of fire. Fisher heard the familiar buzzing of a Raven's rotary cannons and saw two streams of the 30 mm rounds tear into the group of Brutes, sending blood and hairy chunks of flesh all over the street. Fisher looked up in time to see two C290s roar overhead. He recognized the insignias painted under the wings and grinned. "It's about time you two showed up," Fisher said to himself. The remaining Phantom started to run, but it didn't get far. Missiles streaked from the wing tips of each fighter and tracked the Phantom. They went into the engines and blew them apart. The drop ship spiraled into a nearby building and a huge explosion blossomed from the wall as parts of the building crumbled and flaming debris fell to the ground.
Travis radioed DePascale and said, "Nice fireworks. Those Phantoms were starting to piss me off! See you guys back at base."
"Thanks to us you will," joked Dwire.
DePascale interrupted them. "I just got a message from Sergeant Banks. He needs us to take care of a little artillery problem."
"This will be fun," Dwire said. "Let's get this over with." The two Ravens accelerated away towards Banks' position.
[Edited on 12/12/2004 5:39:03 PM]