Thirty yards

Thirty yards. Easy peasy.

Looking through the scope on Roscoe's sniper rifle was a hell of a lot better than through the LT's binoculars. Binoculars are bulgy, hanging off your neck like that, easy to break. Not the sniper scope. Not only can you see your target, but you get the satisfaction of watching a Grunt's head lose all of its bran matter inside ten seconds.

I handed him back his sniper rifle, still glaring towards where I knew the Covenant Elite was standing with its carbine. It was standing alone, which was a rarity for the Elites, who preferred to stay together or with a squad of Grunts. It must be a sentry. My first thought was to order it taken out, but I figured it was best if we waited for Gunny Hawkins or one of the other sergeants to show up. Hell, it'd be great if everyone came.

So far, it was just me and Roscoe. The rest of 2nd Platoon hadn't shown up yet; probably the LT's fault. He's new, so planning a LZ isn't exactly too easy for him. I guess I can't blame him entirely- this was, after all, the first time we were launched out in escape pods and not haloed in on a Pelican. It was easy to blame a lot of things: the JOC staff that planned the op, the satellite crew who picked out the LZ, even that pain-in-the-ass pilot who dropped us in through all the AA flak.

It's just easier to blame the officers.

Especially the new officers.

Rustling off to the left. I turned and aimed my M-6 magnum just as two figures popped up through the bushes. I let out a quick sigh of relief; it was only Edwards and Yacoby, two other Marines on our five-man Fire Team. At least me and Roscoe weren't the only ones anymore.

"There you two are," Yacoby turned to Edwards. "Go back and tell the LT they've already got eyes on the target." He nodded and disappeared through the brush while she dug in with us.

"Everyone else back there?" Roscoe asked.

"Most of us," she answered.

Two of ours hadn't made it; either killed on impact, or some Elites came upon them and slaughtered them before they could make it out of the pods. One was one of the replacements, and the other was a guy who had gone as far back as Harvest. Neither was the Gunny, though, so I breathed easier at that.

Before long, the rest of the platoon showed up. Well, the twenty-eight of us left, anyway. The LT, this really skinny guy named Fisher, came up to us and asked us the enemy strength, but aside from the lone Elite that was standing guard, we really didn't have that much to tell him.

This isn't too bad a thing. Especially for the veterans of the group- like me- who need a combat break.

--

For reference, before I go any further, we're on Earth. East Africa. Not too far from where New Mombassa is. Or where it used to be, thanks to one of the Covenant Prophets wiping it out when it deserted the battlefield. One of our ships, In Amber Clad, went after it while the rest of us were left to deal with the swarm of Covenant soldiers left below. And there sure are a lot of them.

For some reason, every alien scum out there, from the lowliest Grunt to the highest-ranking Elite, decided to come here, to this continent, instead of all the others. This actually makes our job easier, because it means we don't have to go all over the world trying to rout them out. At the same time, however, it makes life difficult because there are a few hundred thousand Covenant soldiers on Earth, and all of them are ready and gearing for a massive battle.

Our group right here is 2nd Platoon, Gamma Company, 3rd Battalion, 77th Marine Division, U.N.S.C. Out of the original three hundred and thirty men that founded the company, about forty of them- thirty-nine now, because of the guy from Harvest we just lost- are still left, and we've all been wounded at least once. Gunny Hawkins, our platoon sergeant, has been shot on about eight different occasions, almost had a limb amputated at least twice, and had needler rounds surgically removed from his brain, and he's still here fighting with us. Talk about your tough cookie. The rest of us have had everything from a needler in the arm to plasma almost taking off a leg. But we don't complain.

Much.

The only reason why we prefer an MA5C to a hospital bed is for the same reason everyone does: we wanna kill Covenant. They wage some sort of "holy war" on us without any warning, and expect us to just take it? Forget that. We owe it to our planet to smoke every last one of them.

And we are going to.

--

Now, with that said, time to continue the story.

After we told the LT what we had seen, he ordered Roscoe to get to a better alcove where he could get an eyes-on on any other Covenant targets in the area. We, meanwhile, would proceed down into the valley as planned.

The job for today was to clear out an old bunker used for coordinating Covenant air strikes. They had a whole relay team and everything in there, and it's because of it that Seraphs have been kicking our asses for the last four days. Intel suggested that it was mainly Grunt and Elite forces, possibly with a few Jackals for sniper cover, but not much else. Should be easy for a platoon of twenty-eight to wipe them out.

That was the idea, anyway.

In no time, Gunny Hawkins split us up into our teams. 1st Squad was hitting the left flank, 2nd Squad going around the right, while 3rd- including my Fire Team- would advance down the middle. Roscoe would remain wherever he was to provide the sniper cover. Once in the facility, we destroy whatever comms device they had and then hold the position long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The bunker was crucial for our operations as well as theirs, so we weren't allowed to be evaced afterwards. We had to hold it.

Edwards, Yacoby, McAllen and I got into our group as the LT joined up with 1st Squad. He seemed really nervous, which I guess is normal; this is only his second skirmish, I think, maybe his third. Definitely not as much as the Gunny, who's been kicking Covenant ass on more worlds than I can count. I myself have been on three or four, and have been wounded twice. But the LT's just transferred in from basic, so combat hasn't really grasped him like it has most of the rest of us.

The sound of a rifle cracking hit my ears like only the sound of a SRS-99D sniper rifle could. Roscoe must've shot that Elite we saw earlier. I could just picture that thing's helmet guard going flying, the rock behind it getting sprayed blue by its blood and brain matter. When I had first joined up with the company and saw a dead one, it scared the hell out of me, and I had trouble sleeping for weeks after I had seen it. Now I see an Elite get its head blown off and I smile like the others.

But then I wiped it off and led my fire team down into the valley. There had been some heavily armored battles in this area a week ago, and there were still blown up Scorpions and Wraiths here and there that would work for perfect cover. Maybe we'd be lucky and one of the 90mm's would be working. It was just wishful thinking on my part, but wishful thinking has saved us before, so one never knows.

Suddenly, McAllen broke left, flipping the safety off his M-7 submachine gun and crouching behind one of the Wraiths. Yacoby went to join him, cocking her M-90 CAW shotgun. Edwards and I took cover behind a Scorpion, our own weapons ready. I peeked out, trying to see what they had seen.

First thing I saw was that dead Elite's body. Its face was looking our way, its eyes wide and its four jaws wide open, never knowing what had hit it. And then I saw the two other Elites standing over it, with the eight or nine Grunts standing with them and the three Jackals that were providing sniper cover. Not too far from them I saw two other Grunts sitting in their Ghosts, waiting for the word for if they could attack or not.

Going by what Intel had told us, this was probably the extent of the Covenant forces in this area. Going by what Intel told us, however, I had the feeling there were more. Intel was never one hundred percent right, not even sometimes.

Edwards raised his own weapon- a BR55HB-SR Battle Rifle- and looked down the scope at one of the Elites. From the distance, the three-round burst would at least drop its shield, if not kill it entirely with a headshot. I in turn raised my MA5C; as team leader, I would be taking the first shot.

One of the Grunts began walking towards us, possibly trying to find a better view towards where Roscoe was. Its beady little eyes scanned over the hillside, over towards the Scorpion tank- and then right on me, with my gun trained right at it. The eyes widened.

I fired a burst before it could let out a yell. My bullets slammed into his chest, five of them, pelting him. Splashes of blue blood came out from everywhere the bullets hit. The little guy made a high grunting noise and then a yell and then fell backwards and did not move again.

One of the Elites whipped its head up just as its minion fell. Just as he pulled out his plasma rifle, Edwards pulled the trigger on his Battle Rifle. One three-round burst weakened his shield; the second burst destroyed the shield entirely. He aimed upward and pulled off one final burst to the head, which sent its helmet guard flying. The Elite slumped backwards, joining its comrade with the same stupefied look on its face.

After that, the real shooting started. The remaining Elite, Jackals and Grunts began taking cover, picking up their plasma rifles and needlers, and firing back at us. My men fired back, and though outnumbered, we were doing a better job of hitting them than they were at hitting us.

McAllen fired off half a clip into two Grunts, shredding both of them up. One of them had been right in the process of throwing a plasma grenade as the bullets hit him, and when he fell, it dropped from his hand and rolled over to the tank. McAllen, whose gun had decided to jam right as he was about to shoot the other Elite, saw the grenade and swore loudly.

"Grenade!" he shouted, ducking back behind the tank.

I ducked back too, because when a plasma grenade goes off, you really don't want to be anywhere near it. It sends off a plasma charge that can melt right through your armor and melt into your chest and through your bones. Real nasty stuff. And worst of all, if a grenade hits you, it sticks. And when that happens, you don't have a chance. All you can do is warn everyone else to get the hell away from you.

Well, the grenade went off, but the only real casualty was a Jackal who had been trying to flank around the tank to shoot at my men. The plasma stuck to its stomach, burning its way through. The Jackal let out a low squeal; McAllen, at this point, had un-jammed his M-7, and blew off the rest of the clip into its beady little head.

By this time, those two Grunts sticking by the Ghosts had gotten their vehicles running and were hitting us with strafing fire. We all ducked back behind the armor for cover as the twin plasma cannons singed through the already-burned out tanks. Ghosts are normally not as much of an inconvenience as they seem, but when they have you pinned down behind cover with nothing to shoot them down with, they can get real annoying real fast. The most you can do, however, is try to stay down as long as you can to think of a better solution to get rid of them.

And this time, I had one. One of the dead Grunts had landed not too far from us. Still in the kill zone for the Covenant, but not as bad if you stayed low and kept your head down. And there was a plasma grenade on its belt, ready for the taking. If I could stick it on one of the Ghosts, it would sure make out lives a hell of a lot easier.

I crawled on my belly towards the Grunt and its grenade while Edwards loaded another clip into his Battle Rifle. Bullets and needler shards flew over my head but I stayed low, thanks to the many months of hard training they put me through, and managed to pry the grenade off of the dead alien's cold limp body. The smell of it was already repulsive; I was glad to get away from it as I crawled back to my lines.

I waited for the right moment for one of the Ghosts to drive by. A second earlier or later would do damage to the surrounding troops, but probably do nothing on the Ghost. I prepped the grenade, my thumb on the button to activate it, waiting patiently for the vehicle to drive by. Come on, you dumb bastard…come on…

And sure enough, the dumb Grunt turned its ship around for another pass. Right as it did, I stood up, thumbed down on the button, and threw it as hard as I could at the Ghost. It stuck right to its hull, right on its front engine. I ducked back down behind the tank.

Whether or not the Grunt saw it, I didn't know, but it still drove back towards its line just in time for the grenade to detonate. The little bastard was sent flying from its seat, smashed its head into a rock and then fell to the ground. The Ghost stopped dead in the air and just crunched to the floor, its engine completely blown out, its hull peeled open like a banana.

The second Ghost had pulled around and was high-speeding for its next run when there was another loud cracking sound like before. Roscoe has taken the shot just at the right moment, and the bullet had gone right through its head and out. It slumped back in its chair and the Ghost, now driverless, flew right into the rock wall and exploded into it.

The other two Jackals moved into position to try and counter-snipe Roscoe. One of them, however, walked right into Yacoby's shotgun. Before it even realized where it was, she pulled the trigger, and its head and most of its neck went flying off while its body fell forward, purple-colored blood shooting out in spurts from its neck. She ejected the shell out of her weapon.

The sole surviving Jackal, realizing it was all alone, started to retreat back to safer lines. Unfortunately for it, it went right into Roscoe's line of fire, and the very person it was trying to snipe plugged it quickly with a bullet to its head. The Jackal was thrown forward and slid several feet on the ground until coming to a complete halt.

Now, only the final Elite was left. Its plasma rifle was out of charge, and all it had left was its energy sword. We all stood out from our cover, our weapons trained on it as it stood tall and proud. I knew there was no point in asking the overgrown lizard to surrender. Elites are too proud and too stubborn for that. They fight to the death.

Luckily enough, so do my boys.

The Elite was eyeing me. I was eyeing the Elite. Even if I missed, and even if the others missed, I knew Roscoe wouldn't miss. My only concern was it running me through with its blade before he could take the shot. But if that happened, there wasn't much I could do about it. There was no point in worrying about it.

The Elite snarled. I checked the ammo counter. Full clip; I had just reloaded as Roscoe had taken that shot on the Jackal. The rest of my team were fully loaded too. I'm pretty sure there were fully loaded needlers and plasma rifles on the ground that it could've used, but this thing wouldn't even look at them. It preferred melee fight to the death. Unfortunately for it, we weren't like that.

It finally charged, sword whipped back and ready for the swing. It hadn't even taken three steps when we all opened up with everything we had on it, semi-automatic, automatic, and shotgun fire. Roscoe probably fired off a shot too, but I wasn't paying too much attention. I must've emptied my entire clip into it, and I'm pretty sure the others did the same. Bullets all by vaporized its shielding, and when that was down, it didn't stand a chance. It got riddled all over, chest, arms, legs, neck. A shotgun round tore off the two mandibles on the left side of its face. How it still stood, I don't know, but it still managed to make its way up to me and even take a swing towards Edwards before it finally collapsed and lay still.

Everything was quiet in our sector now. We all lowered our weapons and caught our breath. I cracked my neck. Not so bad an assignment today. I just wondered how the rest of our platoon was doing.

An explosion over towards that bunker answered that question. Machine-gun fire and grenade detonations were picking up over that away. We had been so caught up in our own little fire-fight that we had not been paying attention to how the rest of the platoon had been doing, but now we were listening to it in full-swing. I guess the flanking movements by 1st and 2nd Squads didn't go unnoticed. The rest of 3rd Squad was still behind us, and we started moving out with them towards the others. It sounded like they could really use an extra hand.

And they looked like they were. When we got there, there was plasma fire from two mounted turrets, one on the roof of the bunker, one from its window. Ten of our guys- mostly replacements- were either dead or wounded. 2nd Platoon medic, Doc Hutchinson, was at the moment treating one of our older guys who had taken a needler right to the gut; one of the really bad wounds but not fatal if treated properly. Doc was someone you could rely on, so we kept going and knew he could handle everything.

LT Fisher and Gunny Hawkins were behind a rock with the LT's radioman, a big beefy guy named Hatcher. He was trying to raise the Hornets on the net while LT and Gunny were conferring with the next course of action. Gunny was all for a flanking movement, while the LT argued that they should just go full frontal. Which was, of course, suicide; our guys were getting torn up just by being behind cover. A frontal attack would be a disaster.

The plasma turrets were shredding us. A botch landed on one soldier, sending plasma into his side and melting his skin and bones. He screamed for a full minute, emptying his MA5C clip and even managing to pull the pin on a frag grenade and throw it- to no avail- before collapsing to the ground.

I ran forward, firing from my Assault Rifle at the bunker in the hopes that it would slow the firing down. I might as well have thrown a paperweight at it; it probably would've had the same effect. I got down and ejected my empty clip. I only had two clips left- about sixty-four rounds. I would have to make them last. The other guys weren't much better off; we haven't had a decent re-supply in weeks. The scumbags were probably better off in that bunker, which only further complicated matters.

Any other day, this would be considered to be an impossible mission.

This day, however, I was too tired and hungry to care.

Edwards slammed against the metal hull of a Wraith and bellowed to me to join him, which I did. From where we were, we could see a few Grunts behind the bunker loading some more turrets onto the back of what looked like an old U.N.S.C. transport truck. How they were going to drive it, neither of us knew. Where they were going to take them was something we didn't know either, but it didn't bother us too much, because Edwards just stood up and picked them off one by one with his Battle Rifle. They were all dead within seconds.

Gunny Hawkins' rough voice called out over the incoming fire. Hatcher had managed to get a couple of Hornets over the net, and they would be coming in hot. Any soldier near the bunker had better get as far as they could, or the Grunts were not going to be the only ones going to Hell today.

Edwards and I jumped up as quickly as we could, and as we did, a beam of plasma energy whizzed past my ear and hit the ground a few feet away from us. Instinctively, I hit the ground and scurried back behind the cover of the burnt-out enemy tank. Edwards, who at this point had covered some distance from our cover, hit the ground and pressed himself into it as hard as he could, trying to make himself a smaller target. There was plenty of debris around, but where he was, there were few things big enough for him to hide behind and be safe.

I stuck my head out a crack. The shot had come from a carbine, and I was looking for the Elite that was shooting at us. It hadn't been a Jackal, otherwise, my head would have been blown off; Jackals don't miss. It hadn't been a Grunt either, for I had rarely seen the little bugs pick up a weapon larger than a plasma rifle, and certainly nothing bigger than themselves. That just left it to be an Elite. Trouble was, it was behind cover, somewhere where I couldn't see it.

Machine-gun fire came from the rear. I turned around and saw with satisfaction that Humley and Bennington, our machine-gunner and his assistant, had set up the platoon's heavy machine gun, an AIE-486H. Most units didn't carry one of these, for it was mainly used on vehicles and as stationary turrets, but the two men had secured it from one of the many military bases we lost last year and so felt they had the right to keep it. It was a hell of a thing to have; very heavy, slow rate of fire at first but increased within seconds, with a 200-round belt of ammunition that could be dried up in a few seconds but every one of them 7.62x51mm of pure stopping power. Humley had managed to get in an order for the ammo and we have been using the gun ever since.

Right now, Humley had set the gun up on the tripod that Bennington had laid down for it and was firing a steady burst at the bunker. Another plasma beam from the carbine fired at them, missed them by a few inches, and this time I could see the Elite's head poking out of the roof of the bunker, carbine in its hands.

I grabbed my last grenade, pulled the pin and flung it over onto the roof. I don't think it ever saw it, because a few seconds later, the grenade blew and the Elite went flying head over feet over our heads and down the valley. It gave most of the guys a much-needed laugh to see it fly like that.

All that happened in the seconds after Gunny Hawkins had told us the Hornets were on their way, and now, I could hear the high-powered engines of the aircraft over the shooting. With me still being behind that tank, I immediately bolted out of my cover, stopped for a moment to pick Edwards up off the ground, and the two of us ran back to where the LT and the Gunny were hiding out and took cover with them.

Before long, those ugly-as-sin birds flew overhead and began firing both machine-guns and rockets into the bunker. Just one or two of those heat-seeking mothers was enough to clear out the place, and as we watched, Grunts went flying left and right through the air, screaming for whatever God they thought could save them. From the rear, a power core must've been hit, because the whole place just suddenly erupted in fire. So much for keeping the place in one piece, though it definitely destroyed the Covenant equipment.

Those Hornets went on forever, and all the while what was left of our platoon was hollering for them to keep it up. Just keep firing, keep going, and don't stop until every one of those bastards is deader than Hell. That was usually how it was; whenever our side gave a beating, we would always cheer it on. Just like a football match, only way more violent.

When the shooting stopped, we picked our heads up. The bunker looked a mess, as it rightly should have, but at least the shooting from there has stopped. Hatcher thanked the Hornets over the radio, and the aircraft flew off to help the other units along our very thin and much depleted line across the continent.

I ordered my team up and over. We were going to be the first ones in. The rest of 3rd Squad-the only intact squad in the platoon- would follow behind us, while the remainders of 1st and 2nd Squads fell in behind them. Doc would see to the wounded as best he could down below, while Hatcher would radio in to Command to let them know the mission was accomplished.

McAllen and Edwards stopped at the entrance, their weapons pointing in. Yacoby and I went in, our weapons sweeping looking for any possible survivors. Yacoby fired a shotgun shell into the head of a snarling Elite who had had its legs blown off by one of the rockets. My eyes fell on a Grunt, its leg badly bleeding from four different places, its gas tank ruptured by bullets and shrapnel. It was breathing heavily, and when it looked up at me, its beady little eyes were wet with tears.

I pulled out my M-6, aimed carefully, and fired. The bullet pierced its head, going right through to the other side. I saw steam fly out the whole, along with the blood and brain matter, and as I watched, its eyes rolled into the back of its head and it fell onto its back, completely and totally lifeless.

I had felt bad for the thing, for a fraction of a second. However, it had passed me by the instant I felt it. Pity would not get these wretched creatures off our planet and back where they came from. This thing's holy mission was now over. Mine would not be until every last one of them was dead and buried; however long that turned out to be.

With that one shot, we were done. The bunker was officially secured and in U.N.S.C hands by 0335 hours- about an hour before we were supposed to have. Thirty men from Gamma Company had wiped out a platoon of Elites and Grunts with Jackal escorts, along with any chances of their kin coming to aid them.

Five of our men had been killed in the attack; two before they had even gotten out of their pods. Another seven had been wounded, though three of them-the man with the needler wound- would be fit to return to the outfit by the end of the week. Now, with the bunker secure and communications established, we could be allowed to rest for a while and allow the rest of Gamma Company to arrive, probably in an hour or so. With no orders to follow and nowhere specific to be, my men and I went off to find something to eat and maybe a comfortable spot where we could make our mats for the night.