Post by Stone, T. on Jun 7, 2018 14:07:44 GMT -5
1800 Hours, August 17, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
Outskirts of Manassass, Grid Ref QV-412336, Planet Reach
Epsilon Eridani System
Sweat trickled down his forehead as he pressed his back against the felled tree behind him, sliding down to a supported kneel as the plasma fire ceased. The smell of charred wood flesh and burnt wood assaulted his nostrils, coupled with the heavy breathing of his few remaining comrades and the warbles of alien soldiers.
For First Sergeant Thomas Jeremiah Stone, the day had taken a turn for the worst. He glanced ahead, scrutinizing the extent of the damage to their Albatross drop-ship, which had been abruptly shot out of the sky minutes ago by the likes of the Covenant. The starboard engine was in missing, having sustained a direct hit by an anti-aircraft Wraith whilst headed towards the metropolis of Manassass. There were dents, dings, and stripped paint all across the aircraft's hull, coupled with the sporadic scorch mark from plasma fire.
Stone had been aboard that bird, along with Second Platoon's first squad and Oscar Company's CMO. He'd recommended to the company commander that the leadership needed to be better dispersed, but he failed to listen. The bastard had transferred to the infantry from some POG unit and somehow thought he knew how to lead Marines into combat. Maybe this would be a lesson for him, Thomas thought grimly.
Most of First Squad had either been killed or injured in the crash. Frankly, it was a miracle that he hadn't been banged up more than he already was, having suffered only a few scratches and a nasty blow to his back. With all of the adrenaline that coursed through his body, he couldn't feel any pain, but he imagined that would change soon.
Or maybe he'd be dead before he had the chance to feel any pain at all.
The tell-tale strike of a lighter returned the grizzled veteran to reality. He looked to his left to find Sergeant Jason Furby leaned up against a rock, a cigarette in hand. "Devil Dog," Stone growled with incredulity, "Have ya lost yer Goddamn mind?"
Furby removed the filter from his lips after having pulled from it, and exhaled a large cloud of ivory smoke from his lungs. "What?" the man asked, as if he was guilty of no crime. "I'm just smoking one last cigarette before we all die."
Thomas shook his head before briefly rising up to see over the fallen tree. Down range, just roughly over seventy-five meters, was at least three lances of Covenant trooos approaching. The last fifteen minutes had been spent holding them off, and yet it didn't seem to demoralize them in the least. Damn aliens, Stone thought.
"How are we on ammo?" he asked as he locked the bolt back on his assault rifle, ejecting the magazine for a quick inspection. "I got half a 5C mag, 'n two more in reserve."
What remained of First Squad ejected their magazines, and checked the various pouches and pockets on their persons.
"Workin' on two mags left for the BR..." replied Furby.
Private Angleson, the greenest of the Marines, sighed. "Last mag after this. Only got twelve rounds locked and loaded, First Sergeant."
"Jesus H. Christ, son," Stone growled, shaking his head in disappointment, "Did nobody ever teach ya trigger discipline, or were ya asleep durin' that course?"
"I'm so--"
"Say it 'n ya won't have ta worry 'bout the split-lips killin' ya, boot!" Stone barked, cutting the young Marine off.
Before Angleson could reply, the remaining members of the squad sounded off.
"Williams, two mags, 5B."
"Three box mags fer the GPMG, Firs' Sarn't."
"I got four for the 5B, and two grenades left."
Stone peeked over the top of the tree, counting the number of Covenant they were dealing with. Their odds of survival weren't exactly stellar, but at the very least they still possessed their base of fire. Lance Corporal Dunleavy would come in handy with his weapon, but they'd have to use him sparingly if they intended to drag things out. Somebody from Oscar had to know they were missing a bird full of Marines.
The question was whether or not they'd realize it in time to make a difference. For a brief moment, the old codger wished Durant was still around. After Flannigan, he'd been the best company commander Oscar had ever had. Of course, he had to jump into bed with ONI, and then sacrifice himself like some Goddamn hero on Crystal. The man was certifiably insane, but Stone couldn't argue with his results.
With a heavy sigh, Stone turned to Furby, whom was at the tail end of his cigarette. "Sergeant," he started, leaning towards the man slightly, "we're gon' hold this pos for as long as it takes. If the bastards get within twenty meters of us, fall back ta the bird. If they make it there, then it looks as if we're cooked."
Furby nodded grimly as he stubbed out his cigarette. "So the plan is to keep shooting until we all die?"
"Son, I'd tell ya ta start throwin' rocks at 'em, but none of ya bitches can throw ta save an orphan's life," Stone replied. "Now conserve yer ammo 'n pick yer targets. Pegman, pass one of yer mags 'n a grenade to Angleson. Dunleavy, Angleson, yer comin' with me."
Outskirts of Manassass, Grid Ref QV-412336, Planet Reach
Epsilon Eridani System
Sweat trickled down his forehead as he pressed his back against the felled tree behind him, sliding down to a supported kneel as the plasma fire ceased. The smell of charred wood flesh and burnt wood assaulted his nostrils, coupled with the heavy breathing of his few remaining comrades and the warbles of alien soldiers.
For First Sergeant Thomas Jeremiah Stone, the day had taken a turn for the worst. He glanced ahead, scrutinizing the extent of the damage to their Albatross drop-ship, which had been abruptly shot out of the sky minutes ago by the likes of the Covenant. The starboard engine was in missing, having sustained a direct hit by an anti-aircraft Wraith whilst headed towards the metropolis of Manassass. There were dents, dings, and stripped paint all across the aircraft's hull, coupled with the sporadic scorch mark from plasma fire.
Stone had been aboard that bird, along with Second Platoon's first squad and Oscar Company's CMO. He'd recommended to the company commander that the leadership needed to be better dispersed, but he failed to listen. The bastard had transferred to the infantry from some POG unit and somehow thought he knew how to lead Marines into combat. Maybe this would be a lesson for him, Thomas thought grimly.
Most of First Squad had either been killed or injured in the crash. Frankly, it was a miracle that he hadn't been banged up more than he already was, having suffered only a few scratches and a nasty blow to his back. With all of the adrenaline that coursed through his body, he couldn't feel any pain, but he imagined that would change soon.
Or maybe he'd be dead before he had the chance to feel any pain at all.
The tell-tale strike of a lighter returned the grizzled veteran to reality. He looked to his left to find Sergeant Jason Furby leaned up against a rock, a cigarette in hand. "Devil Dog," Stone growled with incredulity, "Have ya lost yer Goddamn mind?"
Furby removed the filter from his lips after having pulled from it, and exhaled a large cloud of ivory smoke from his lungs. "What?" the man asked, as if he was guilty of no crime. "I'm just smoking one last cigarette before we all die."
Thomas shook his head before briefly rising up to see over the fallen tree. Down range, just roughly over seventy-five meters, was at least three lances of Covenant trooos approaching. The last fifteen minutes had been spent holding them off, and yet it didn't seem to demoralize them in the least. Damn aliens, Stone thought.
"How are we on ammo?" he asked as he locked the bolt back on his assault rifle, ejecting the magazine for a quick inspection. "I got half a 5C mag, 'n two more in reserve."
What remained of First Squad ejected their magazines, and checked the various pouches and pockets on their persons.
"Workin' on two mags left for the BR..." replied Furby.
Private Angleson, the greenest of the Marines, sighed. "Last mag after this. Only got twelve rounds locked and loaded, First Sergeant."
"Jesus H. Christ, son," Stone growled, shaking his head in disappointment, "Did nobody ever teach ya trigger discipline, or were ya asleep durin' that course?"
"I'm so--"
"Say it 'n ya won't have ta worry 'bout the split-lips killin' ya, boot!" Stone barked, cutting the young Marine off.
Before Angleson could reply, the remaining members of the squad sounded off.
"Williams, two mags, 5B."
"Three box mags fer the GPMG, Firs' Sarn't."
"I got four for the 5B, and two grenades left."
Stone peeked over the top of the tree, counting the number of Covenant they were dealing with. Their odds of survival weren't exactly stellar, but at the very least they still possessed their base of fire. Lance Corporal Dunleavy would come in handy with his weapon, but they'd have to use him sparingly if they intended to drag things out. Somebody from Oscar had to know they were missing a bird full of Marines.
The question was whether or not they'd realize it in time to make a difference. For a brief moment, the old codger wished Durant was still around. After Flannigan, he'd been the best company commander Oscar had ever had. Of course, he had to jump into bed with ONI, and then sacrifice himself like some Goddamn hero on Crystal. The man was certifiably insane, but Stone couldn't argue with his results.
With a heavy sigh, Stone turned to Furby, whom was at the tail end of his cigarette. "Sergeant," he started, leaning towards the man slightly, "we're gon' hold this pos for as long as it takes. If the bastards get within twenty meters of us, fall back ta the bird. If they make it there, then it looks as if we're cooked."
Furby nodded grimly as he stubbed out his cigarette. "So the plan is to keep shooting until we all die?"
"Son, I'd tell ya ta start throwin' rocks at 'em, but none of ya bitches can throw ta save an orphan's life," Stone replied. "Now conserve yer ammo 'n pick yer targets. Pegman, pass one of yer mags 'n a grenade to Angleson. Dunleavy, Angleson, yer comin' with me."