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Last of a Dying Breed by hornet34
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Last of a Dying Breed-One Night
Date: 23 November 2003, 7:09 PM
A blaring siren jolted Warren out of sleep. He slapped at the clock and threw it across the room. The siren didn't stop. Warren gave the battered alarm clock a betrayed look, until he realized the truth. "Shit, that's the base alarm." He ran out of his cramped room into a dark hallway. Fumbling against the wall, he snapped the light switch on. His eyes winced from the painful illumination as he cautiously made his way to the base's medical brig.
"Doc, what's going on."
"Looks like it's just a probe. Still, you better see if they need anyone up there."
Warren grabbed his med kit, strapped his sidearm on, and ran up the hallway leading to the outer base walls. Medical personnel traditionally refrained from engaging in combat, but Warren was somewhat of a pecularity. In the days of war with the Covenant, where a soldier either came out in one piece or didn't come out at all, he was a combat medic. The last of a dying breed, he went to the frontlines in the midst of some of the fiercest battles and tried to ease the pain of his fellow marines.
Warren hurried through several corridors before coming out into a large open lot. He jogged over to the main wall and climbed the ramp. Making sure to stay low enough not to be spotted by any enemy troops that might be out there, he made his along the wall until he came across a machine gun nest.
"Psst. What are we looking at here guys." Warren said in a harsh whisper.
"Slash, that you." Slash was Warren's nickname, given in reference to his sometimes hasty bandaging jobs.
"No, its your mom. Who else do you think would be out here at this time of night."
"Well I did order a pizza."
"Shut up. Seriously though, what's going on. The base alarmed sounded."
"Ah, the scanners picked up some movement on the south wall. Probably just some wildlife."
The chatter of a lone assault rifle filled the air, followed by a blue flash.
"Shit."
"Good call on the wildlife. I better go see if anyone was hurt."
Warren ran as fast as could while still crouching and got to the area where the flash had been. The gunfire had stopped, but two marines were still tensely eyeing the thick underbrush on the other side of the wall. In the moonlight he could make out the figure of a man lying in a somewhat unnatural position, letting out low moans.
"Slash, that you." Warren recognized the voice of Captain Chan.
"Yeah."
"Check on Jim there."
Warren crouched down next to the soldier. "What happened."
"Spotted a big ole sonofabitch sneakin' up. Blasted most of his leg off before dat blue bastard could git out a grenade. Dat bastard come back and he'll git more dan jus' a torn' up knee, I garuntee.." The private's thick Creole accent was cut short in a yelp of pain as Warren examined the injury.
"Sorry. You got some shrapnel in your leg there. I'll patch you up and send you on down to see the Doc."
"My face, suh, it does feel like it burning."
Warren chanced a quick light to see the private's face. It was bright red.
"Looks like you got a little too close to that plasma. Ya know, there's better ways of getting a tan. Might be a while before you can grow eyebrows again."
"Dat's fine. I neva knew what dem fo anyway."
"I think it has something to do with improving a person's looks. Shouldn't be a big loss in your case." The private let out a small chuckle. Over the years Warren, had found it was just as important for him to talk to injured soldiers and take their minds off their injuries as it was to bandage them up.
Warren helped the two soldiers that came out to load the private on a stretcher, taking care not to move his leg too much. Assured the injured marine was in good hands, he crept over to where the Captain and another marine were, conversing in hushed tones.
"...probably won't be able to get a team out there until tomorrow morning. Ah, Slash, how did he look."
"The leg was pretty messed up, but the Doc will fix him up right as rain. I don't think there will be any permanent damage, but he'll probably be out a couple weeks, depending on how much muscle tissue was destroyed."
"That's a shame. Here, I want you to take a look at this," the Captain said while handing him a pair of infra-red goggles. "Thats the way we think he went," he said, pointing. "The blood and the fact that he was probably crawling gives it away."
Warren took the goggles and did indeed see a faint red path path leading back through the brush, highlighted occasionally by darker red spots that resembled puddles of blood. "Whats that big red log down there?"
"That ain't a log," he said with a laugh. "That's the poor bastard's leg. Like I was telling the private here, we probably won't be able to send out a scout team until the morn..."
Gunfire cut off the Captain. Chan and the other marines snapped around instantly and had their guns trained on the woods. Warren duck down to the point where he could just barely see over the wall, not wanting to expose more of himself then necessary. Warren heard the click of Captain Chan's radio. "Lieutanent, what's going on down there." The reply was almost inaudible to Warren; the Captain undoubtably had his volume turned way down.
"Well do you guys need any support over there?" Warren continued to listen to the one-sided conversation. "I got Slash here, I could send him in case something happens," followed by a muffled reply. "Just keep me informed then." He thumbed the radio back off. "The Lieutanent said one of the guys got thought he saw something and fired into the woods. Can't confirm anything. We're just gonna sit tight and keep an eye on our own section for now.
And that's the way the rest of the night went. Unconfirmed sightings, low nervous talk, and one probe on the other side of the base that was turned back after a short firefight. The sun was threatening to come up when Warren finally got leave to return to bed. He hadn't done much, but just being on the frontlines was exhausting. He fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.
Last of a Dying Breed [part 2]-A Brief Respite
Date: 27 November 2003, 12:57 AM
A blaring siren jolted Warren out of sleep. He slapped at the clock and threw it across the room. This time the siren stopped. Warren gave the battered alarm clock a victorious look, until he realized it meant he had to get out of bed. He dragged himself out of bed and made his way out of the cramped room into a dark hallway. Fumbling against the wall, he snapped the light switch on. His eyes winced from the painful illumination as he cautiously made his way to the base's medical brig.
"Doc, what's going on."
"Not much news from the perimeter. The probes all stopped at daybreak. Your guest from last night is laying over there. You could check on him."
Warren nodded and strolled over to Jim's bed. The marine was fast asleep. A happy grin was on his face, no doubt from the medication. Warren quickly scanned his chart and then made his way out. Jim was a good marine and deserved a nice undisturbed slumber. "Forgot to tell you, there is a mission briefing in an hour!" the doctor shouted after him as he left.
An hour gave Warren plenty of time to hit the mess hall. He gave a cook a look like he had just revealed the location of Earth when he slopped down a glop of mystery meat on his plate. He took his tray and grabbed a seat next to a couple of pilots he recognized.
"Hey guys."
"Hi. Oh, hey, your the medic guy, right."
"Warren Hughley's the name, but you can call me Slash, everyone else does."
"My name's Maria, and the pretty boy to my right here is Garit, but everyone calls him Quickly."
"Why Quickly?"
"Because that's how he does everything, if you get what I mean." Maria's comment was accompanied by several lewd gestures and all three burst out laughing.
"Really though, its because I got in the flight program a year before everyone else. My dad was on the Air Marshall's staff and got me in early."
"Wow, you were really in a hurry to get yourself killed," said Warren.
"Ah, what can I say, I was young and foolish."
"Oh, and your not foolish now?" laughed Maria.
Quickly shot her a glare, but soon broke out into a playful grin. Warren was rapidly gaining the impression that his two table companions were something of an item.
"What about you, Slash?" Maria asked. "Being a frontline medic is hardly the safest place to be."
"Oh, it's all an act. I'm really a coward inside, I've just got to keep doing things like this to prove to myself how brave I am."
"Well, we could use more guys like you just the same. I hope you'll excuse us for leaving so soon, me and my friend have a meeting shortly, and we have to go, uh," they each shot each other furtive glances, "prep."
Warren gave his food a disgusted look and said, "It's O.K., I'm not that hungry anyway."
Warren policed his tray and checked the time. Still having roughly half an hour before the meeting, he made his way back to the medical ward and was greeted once more by Dr. Riveria.
"Hey Warren, I forgot to tell you, that term extension form you requested has come in, if your still interested."
Warrens good humor was suddenly disspelled. About a month ago he had inquired about continuing his stint in the UNSC for another two years. The pay was decent, the work relatively light for a doctor, and he had the respect of the enlisted men, but the prospect of spending two more years on the frontlines was not a pleasant one. His own words from lunch came back to haunt him. "Tell you what Doc, start the paperwork on it, but don't send it out until next week, I'm still not certain."
"I understand, Warren. This is a tough decision for any young man to make."
"Yeah, uh, I'm going to check on Jim now." Warren was anxious to relieve himself of the conversation.
"Hey Jim, how ya feelin'."
"Oh, much bedda, suh. The doc, he does git me sum mofeen, an' de pain it go ride away." Jim still had the happy grin on his face, and his thick Creole accent was even harder to discern as he slurred his words.
"Good. Well, I'm just going to re-wrap these bandages for ya, and I'll let you get back to sleep."
"T'ank ya, suh. An didja here wat happen' to dat 'lite dat I shot?"
"Oh yea, you blasted his leg clean off. You really got him a lot worse than he got you, if I must say."
"I did tell ya I shot 'is leg off, suh, I did speak de trufe."
"That you did, Jim. That you did." By the time Warren finished bandaging his leg, the burly marine had already dozed off. He quietly made his way out of the medical ward to the conference room.
The conference proved to be an immense bore to Warren. The new base commander had a policy of briefing every branch of the attacking force together, to "improve coordination," as he said. Warren couldn't deny that the battles had been more cleanly fought lately, he just couldn't stand a briefing that went on so long about matters that had little importance to him. When it was finally over, Warren had discerned that an attack was being launched against the Covenant base that was acting as the launchpoint for all those annoying probes of late. The attack was scheduled to be begin at approximately 0800, and Warren had the late shift again, meaning he couldn't expect more than a couple hours of sleep tonight.
Warren went back to the medical ward and picked up his gear. Dr. Riveria didn't seem to be around and Jim was still happily dozing, so Warren made another quiet departure and headed towards the base walls. He spent the next couple hours going from one position to the next, checking on soldiers and exchanging jokes. Warren could see each soldiers face light up when he sat down to talk to them. Many of the men had been out in their posts for hours, some for days without a break. Spending a few minutes talking to someone new always brightened them up.
It had been dark for about an hour or so when Warren came to Lt. Gregory "Fubar" Hines machine gun nest. "Hey Fubar, how's it going."
"Hey Slash, you get the night shift again?"
"Yeah, I must have pissed off the C.O. or something."
"Well it's good your here, I've got a new recruit to introduce to you." The Lieutanant flipped on his radio, "Taylor, get your ass down here." He switched it back off and said, "You'll like Taylor. The kid's strong as an ox, but ain't much smarter."
A broad shouldered marine came jogging up, standing more erect than any veteran would dare. "Dammit Taylor, what have I told you about staying behind cover."
"Sorry sir."
"Don't let it happen again," he said with a glare. The bigger man seemed to cower a bit. "This here is Doc Hughley, but call him Slash. He's the guy you want to see first if you have any trouble, don't bother with those other quacks."
"Oh, uh, hi sir. Uh, sir, can I ask you about something?" The young marine seemed to be intimidated by the Lieutanant, despite his superior size.
"Go ahead."
"Well sir, its, uh, its my feet sir. They so damn uncomfortable in these boots."
Warren laughed. "That's no problem, just go down to the quartermaster and pick up a new pair, and make sure you change your socks often."
"Yes sir. Thank you sir. Well, I'm going to go back to my post, if that's O.K. with you, sir."
The Lieutanant nodded, and Taylor got up to leave, but as he did, a brilliant flash of light lept out of the forest and struck him in the head, toppling him over. Warren saw the Lieutanent jump for the machine gun and begin pumping out untargeted shots, while he made his way to where the body lay. Taylor face, or what was left of it, was barely recognizable. His hair burned in patches, and Warren took out a strip of cloth and smothered the fires. This injury was beyond his ability to heal. The sounds of gunfire grew louder as more assault rifles joined in, and then two concussion grenades rang out in succession and everything was quiet.
"Dammit," Fubar muttered. "If I've told that boy once, I've told him a million times to keep his head down. It's not our fault, ya know. The damn UNSC sends half these guys in green. They don't have a chance." He voice was both sad and angry.
Warren tried to say something to comfort the Lieutanent, but no words would come. The rest of the night was a blur. No more attacks came, but Warren still had to stay out in the lines. He couldn't get the image of what he had just seen out of his head, and when dawn finally broke, he staggered to his room and lay in his bed, restless.
Last of a Dying Breed-Fierce Retaliation
Date: 5 December 2003, 2:48 AM
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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