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Outlaw six: Prologue
Posted By: Andres<andres_vera2000@yahoo.com>
Date: 13 March 2006, 8:20 am
Read/Post Comments
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0012, January 20, 2529 (UNSC Military Calendar)
Taurus System, UNSC Inner Colony Controlled Space
On the Orbit of Westwood
The evacuation protocol was, in a crude way, very simple. Each town, city or county was assigned an evacuation unit by the local ground commander. If by the time the pick up team had arrived the "Hotels" did not show up, they were left behind, and there was no coming back for you. Generally local commanders, Territorial Army personal and local police struggled to get those left behind out. But the idea was to get as many people evacuated from doomsday, day zero and Armageddon. Priority was given to people over five and under fifty, who had more potential to help the war effort. In a way, a horrible way, it was simple.
Lieutenant Ricardo Nunez had with his own, terribly tired and stunned brown eyes seen how coldly children under five were kicked out and how elder people were left behind by the Marines when they evacuated Tormenta III the previous month.
During the first attacks, now called "Glassings", Covenant ships would surprisingly arrive undetected, surprising and blasting the planet to flames and ice. When the UNSC raised the alert status and enabled local commanders to fire the nuclear batteries on the ground at will, Covenant ships got a nasty surprise they paid in blood. They adapted, changed their tactics and approach rapidly and adjusted to the new human doctrine unbelievably fast. Small ships would invade certain areas of the planet, where the silos and airfields where and destroy them using ground troops.
During the first engagements both sides preformed at the same level of tactical proficiency, but the UNSC was heavily outgunned and outnumbered and by sheer attrition the Covenant would overwhelm the troops on the ground and destroy the defenses, glass the planet and move on to the next one.
A bright man, unknown before the war, named Preston Cole created Task Force Guard Angel. Its name gave it justice to the task they were to perform time and again. While regular forces struggled to score a victory, TF Guard Angel would be on the ground extracting "Hotels". The highest number they managed to extract was seventy million on Tormenta Prime.
The job of 1st Platoon, Echo Company, 4rd Squadron, Lima Operational Detachment of the ODST was to assist in holding key positions, covering the Marines extracting people and hitting targets of opportunity along the way in and out. For the Helljumpers the task was daunting, exhausting and unwanted. They had joined the unit to fight battles, storm enemy positions and wax tangos on a mud fight. So far they had no combat drops on the loved Human Entry Vehicles.
Onboard the assault vessel UNSC Tierra Nostra Ricardo, with his back arched forward and his face buried on the screen carefully read a report that caught his black eyes. Two units from the Company were lost, somewhere around a village called Saint Paul, by Checkpoint Charlie during an escort mission for a Marine Heavy Equipment Transport Vehicle Task Organized Company. The neural interface detected his thought and the OPORD for Saint Paul flashed on the large screen.
OBJECTIVE SAINT PAUL; SAINT MARYS COUNTY; TERRA PRIME.
POPULATION: ONE-ZERO THOUNSAD.
QUALIFIED FOR EVAC: SIX THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED AND TWELVE.
EXPECTED PICK UPS: FIVE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED.
ASSIGNED UNITS: UNIFORM SIX-NINER, UNIFORM FIVE-TWO, OUTLAW THREE, OUTLAW FOUR. TASK ORGANIZED FOR MISSION.
EVACUATION POINT: FORWARD OPERATIONS BASE FOXTROT. TERRA ONE-THREE-ZERO.
Again, on the screen what he thought was displayed.
MAIN PICKS UP AREAS:
SAINT PAUL WEST HIGHSCHOOL
SAINT PAUL'S CONGREGATION ORPHANAGE
SAINT PAUL PD
He grunted, sighed and collapsed on the back of his comfortable chair. Stroking his Jarhead cut black hair he remembered times past. No, that isn't right. He grabbed a nearby phone, the sensors on his head picked up where he wanted to call and the black phone beeped twice.
"Terra one-three-zero, copy over."
"This is Lieutenant Ricardo Nunez out of Monterrey, requesting a SITREP on Outlaw elements on your area."
There was a short pause. "uh.. they secured the package, contact was lost shortly after… oh damn… listed as Mike-India-Alpha."
"Copy, thank you one-three-zero. Do you happen to know the status on the pick up?"
"That is classified Monterrey," said a different voice, older and more thick, possibly the station chief, acting on protocol.
"Copy one-three-zero. Over and out," he hung up the phone, grabbed his MA-5H, stood up and walked out the empty, small, and cosigns intelligence room of his Company. Took a right and walked down the featureless, gray and wide main corridor of the second level of the vessel.
The uncommonly large ship, even for UNSC standards, was originally built to carry two complete Marine Expeditionary Forces, numbering around two hundred thousand troops, gear for five tank and mechanized battalions and the supporting aircraft. Under directive Guard Angel it had been modified to carry around five hundred thousand civilians, and no other but the troops necessary to supply them and maintain order. All weapons, including the Magnetic Accelerator Cannon and Archer Missile Batteries had been removed; a layer of Titanium armor and the maintenance facilities too had been scrapped. Basically a big juicy target for everything the Covenant fleet possessed.
He reached the elevator at the end of the corridor, entered alone and pressed a red button only a few people could. His fingerprint was read immediately and the elevator moved to a floor that only authorized personal could enter, the Intelligence Center of the Ship.
For the average Joe if you wanted certain info, you had to go to a certain someone who would burry you on paper work. But Ricardo wasn't the average Joe you will normally encounter requesting information. He was an intimidating man, in a stubby black Helljumper uniform that had a way with words. If that didn't work he knew the only attaché of the Office of Naval Intelligence in the vessel, thank you very much.
He reached a door where two white dressed SPs stood guard. They were both tall and muscular and only one, a blond good looking fella carried a rifle. "First Lieutenant Ricardo Nunez here to see Lieutenant Junior Grade Marco Russo, he is expecting me," he took a more intimidating tone. "I suggest you do not waste my time and let me pass."
Both snapped at attention immediately and the door opened. The room, by some reason Nuñez did not understood, was illuminated with a dull red light. Standing next an uncommonly large table in the center of the room in full blues a bold, black man waited for him.
"I need a favor," said Nuñez with a faint smile on his face.
"Figured as much."
"Ye, I need you to dig up a couple of things for me. I need-"
"No," Marco interrupted, the two sailors manning the console stopped their activities and listened like children at the interesting conversation. "I can't give you the evacuation specifics of both units in your Company; neither can I give you a satellite sweep over the area," there was a smile in his face. "Don't act surprised, we are ONI. We monitor anything and everything, plus I know you man. You have every right to feel like that."
Still with his game face on, Nuñez crossed his thick arms and stared at the sailor manning a console nearby. "You will do it; it's not up to you my friend."
"Listen," said Marco a little nervous. "I know you grew up on an orphanage and it will hit you emotionally."
"Now," Ricardo, with anger noticeable on his voice, barked at Marco. "You will do this for me, you owe me."
"This is out of my hands," the door opened, Ricardo turned around as a reflex, and the two SPs entered the room, one of the Sailors with a sidearm and a second with his ready-to-fire MA5A. "ONI is up to you, requesting a SITREP on cargo is a breach of security and, well, they found out. I tried to help you pal, but you got out of the rulebook."
He was right. During the first massive evacuation allot of assets were diverted to rescue groups that were left behind by local commanders. It had been a symptom of one of the clauses, the age regulation and preference. Too many assets were diverted; too many people were killed by mistakes of communication, misplaced feelings and mercy for babies and old folks. It had been the right call by the brass, but if anything Ricardo did not believe in right calls by people who were not in hip deep on the cold shit.
Ricardo cynically smiled. "I suggest you tell your kids here to calm down and settle this like gentleman." In spite the warning one of the young men grabbed the elbow of the Helljumper, it was not the logical thing to do.
Easy stuff, he was the one who trained his entire platoon on hand to hand combat. He was skilled in both knife and fist. But what he taught his man was most important was the killer instinct, that "thing" that took over when you were in the fight. He taught them that the real killers the tigers, lions, wolves and snakes before attacking were as still as a rock, did not move a hair. Waiting for that exact moment were every condition is met to attack a prey. And for two full seconds Ricardo did not move, just focused. Then it happened, he was no longer in control of his body.
He raised his knee, and threw his hell on the man's knee cap, the boot and the sheer strength was sufficient. A crack was enough for Ricardo; the young sailor was effectively neutralized and dropped to the ground. The corner of his eye was something he was proud of, it did not miss a single thing, and together with his instincts it was as if the man had warned him what his move was.
The butt of the blond sailor's rifle headed straight for Ricardo's back. The Helljumper threw his elbow back to the tall man's ribcage, the blonde sailor lost his balance and the blow missed. Ricardo then grabbed the butt of the stubby MA5A, pulled it and grabbed the grip tightly, removed the safety and then it happened.
It turned off. His reflexes stopped and he, not his training and gut, was back in control. "Drop," and like a peon the blonde SP threw himself to the ground in pain, carefully protecting his ribcage. "You two, both to my right and left," the other two people in the room. Sailors manning the consoles, dropped like rocks to the caged, iron floor. "On the ground, I want no guns."
"Damn Rich, you really blew it," said Marco, both his hands raised.
The muscular Helljumper lowered the rifle, thumbed the safety on, and shook his head. "Shit!" he looked at the two kids on the ground, both in agonizing pain. "See what you made me do?"
"Just drop the gun Ricardo, more guys are provably coming."
"Yes, they are," he walked to the door, and closed it; he waited until it slid close, and locked it. "Now you are going to get me what I want. Either way, you owe me and I am pointing a thick muzzle at your chest."
Marco nodded. "OK, not that it will do you any good. Ron, Fitzgerald, get on it," both sailors stood and started to type on their consoles. A low beep, only heard my Ricardo, resonated on his neck and the intercom was on automatically.
"What the fuck ell-tee?" the large black sergeant sounded like someone who was confused and pissed off.
"Sorry Woods… I got to take care of some shit. Do you know where they are?"
"Entering the elevator know. You don't think you are going to firefight our guys, right?"
"Negative. Listen, ready the guys, as many as you can and get to our hangar, secure a DSV, I'll be there in ten."
"Uh…" there was a short pause. "OK sir, will do. See ya then," for some reason, either by own will or by a simple mistake he left the mike transmiting. "That damn nutjob is goanna get me killed. Damn it shit and fucks. He always goes nuts at the worst possible time."
He keyed off the radio and stared at Marco. "ONI can override any system of the ship, right?"
"OK…" said Marco very worried at that point.
"Then freeze the elevator, cancel the codes to this floor. Nobody to get in or out."
Marco nodded. He wanted to help his old friend, who had every right to be troubled but was taking matters to the edge of sanity. "Listen Ricardo. There are provably at least a dozen guys already behind that door ready to blast in."
"I know must be around seven pukes of the intelligence community with their sidearm. They will not burst in yet. Believe me I know."
"Done," said Marco, pressing the ENTER button on his personal console.
"Now I want you to turn of the ventilation system of this room."
"You want me to vent the atmosphere out of this room?" the men on the ground snapped in sudden movements that the Lieutenant ignored, there was no way they were going to challenge him, and stared in disbelief at Ricardo.
"No buddy. I want you cancel the air conditioning system so I can use the vents to get where I want."
"Uh… ok," Marco noted. Not surprised at all.
"So, my dear sailors. When will I get what I want?"
"We are done sir," the older sailor, a chubby man, gently handed Lieutenant a data crystal. "It should work on your datapad sir."
"OK, now where is that vent?" he said sarcastically. It was on the top of one of the consoles, two and a half meters over the metal floor. "Cover your ears ladies!" he thumbed the safety off and fired a short, controlled burst into the vent. The fan disintegrated and a fell of, revealing a large hole in the wall. "Now, I have to go. Sorry for the knee and the ribs and thank you for your troubles. Good bye."
He had to use every trick he knew to climb through the narrow vent a whole floor. Twenty meters in all, to get to the hard part of the insanity he was performing.
"Outlaw six, copy?"
"Yes sir."
"I'm on one-foxtrot, in a vent. Status?"
"We have secured the area, we are thirteen total. There were two ground crews in the hangar, we got 'em temporarily under our payroll, what can I do for you?"
"Every Sierra Prince on the whole ship is looking for me right now. I need you to give me ten minutes, just that."
"Yeah…" there was an awkward pause. "OK, got it. We are gearing up here. Where are we going?"
"Negative on that right know, tell ya when I see ya."
"Whatever, almost set. Move in fifteen seconds sir."
"OK, I'm out."
No Shore Patrolmen were in the carefully chosen path from the first floor to the third level of the Air Operations galley, simply a combination of unused Hangars refitted to receive hundreds of Pelicans at a time with thousand of refugees. The halls of the section of the ship, were different, worn out by constant use and grey, white and black stains on the iron walls were to be seen everywhere.
Yet, the sing ABLE SIX on top of a sliding door was a beautiful sight, despite been worn out by sheer usage. But, the excitement betrayed him as he for a second lowered his guard.
"Hey pal!" screamed someone on his back. He turned around, and no thanks to him his hand was firmly on his rifle. Four fully armed Marines walked towards him, all packing a shooter. "What the hell happened?"
"What the hell is this private?" he rehearsed this on his mind time and again for this situation. An intimidating face and officer small talk on Marines that were provably intimidated.
"Oh sorry sir," the Marines stopped cold. Part one complete. "It's just one of you guys went nuts and dropped two guys at the intelligence room."
"I heard. I'm busy anything else I can do for you?"
"No, just wanted to know if you knew anything," the Marines saluted and turned around. Just as they did their radios came to life audible to everyone. "Net call, search for other Oscar Delta Sierra Tangos, be advised, suspect is armed and possibly derraigned."
Oh crap, Ricardo thought. The four Marines turned around and stared at the now suspect. "Sorry sir, but I have to detain you."
Ricardo, exalted took a more firm stand. "Sorry Marine, can't right now. I'm busy."
"Please sir, it will just be for two minutes while we check who you are."
"Fair enough," Lieutenant stated as a reflex while his brain computed possible solutions. He could try to drop all of them, no; they were wearing armor and were for sure better fighters than the poor shore patrolmen he dropped earlier. Talk his way out, maybe.
"Please sir; I need you to hand me over that rifle, standard procedure."
"Sure," he took of the sling from his back and handed over the rifle. He was flat on the cold floor after hearing the four muffled sounds. He was followed after by the numb bodies of the Marines.
"C'mon sir gotta get the hell out of here," his name was Lance Corporal Igor Smertin, a short man from Little Ukraine, far away in the outer rim of UNSC controlled space. The guy took more risks than anyone, some times even more than Lieutenant Nuñez.
"What did you use on them?"
"The morphine and pentanol mix of our dear corpsman, poor bastards will be out for a while," he slammed two more of the pointy cartridges on the stubby handgun and led the way into the hangar, just a few feet away where fourteen men waited in the confined where the modified Pelican laid ready for takeoff. Around it thirteen men worked to get it underway, and a tall sergeant waited for Nuñez with a surprised expression on his black face his muscular arms corssed and an odd smile on his face. "Now you have some explaining to do," he joined his Lieutenant and walked together to the pilot checking the turbofans bellow the wings.
"Of all the possible ways you could have solved this, this way is about the worst."
"Yeah, I know. Let's get on the DSV, suit up and head out. I'll tell you on the way."
The Drop Support Vehicle, or DSV was just but a modified Pelican for the ODST. The only difference was the large rocket boosters beneath the ship, just a few thousand pounds of thrust to stop it from a long freefall from space. "Why not go with the HEV?"
Ricardo raised his MA-5H, pulled charging handle rearward and checked the chamber, it was empty and without a single particle of dust. "I don't know if we have to abort." The squad stopped all movement, grouped outside the cockpit staring at their CO with odd expressions behind the greasepaint on their faces. "I guess you want to know what this is about."
"Yes sir!" barked everyone at unison, surprising Nuñez who took a symbolic step backwards. "There is a place down there called Saint Paul, two of our units were sent down there to pick up some refugees, and are down."
"We going to pick 'em up?" asked Woods, the large black man really excited.
"That is part of our objective, but we are going to a place called Saint Paul Orphanage, there are at least one hundred kids that are going to be left behind plus, of course, the unqualified." The squad's reaction was exactly what he predicted after what they had seen the previous month.
"Hooah!"
"Roger that men. No more bullshit protocol for us, we are going to do the right thing." Ironically no "Hooahs!" and shouts, but rather a quiet, warm combination of nods and looks confirmed the feeling of the entire group of fifteen troopers, two pilots and two ground crews who, with out room for doubt, had joined the party. In all, he had about the right amount of muscle he needed to get the job done.
The DSV's four rockets, for space maneuver, came to life inside the hangar and several thousand pounds of thrust pushed the ship forward. "Here we go." Warrant Officer Jon Pettit was the best pilot, in his former CO's opinion, in the ODST ASS, or Air Support Squadron. The pressurized hangar lat out air into space as the thick gray doors opened and the aircraft into a puzzle of gray ships floating on the black void over the white, brown, green and blue planet.
"What do you think?" asked the Lieutenant kneeling between the bulky seats of the pilot and copilot, just at the center of the two rows of seats in the cramped cabin of the Drop Support Vehicle.
"That this is fucking crazy." Everyone of the fifteen men, and woman, laughed. The Crew Chief, named Fiona, shook her head in aproval, with a silly grin on her face as she floated on by the rear door of the pelican.
"Not that," said Ricardo with a chuckle. "I think we should come by the night side, nap of the earth. It is around down in that area."
"Negative," said the Copilot, a Marine Sergeant smiling. "You could not have picked a worst spot Leftenant. Covenant has air stacked all over the place, from Seraphs to Banshees even a few thousand Phantoms there," the Sergeant showed the situation clearly on the crystalline MFD. The planet had only one hope of survival, the valiant Marines and soldiers standing by the nuclear silos and time, luck and ammo was running out.
"Roger," said Ricardo. "So, what you reckon?"
"Go straight in," said the Warrant officer. "Dive over town and hit the breaks right on the ball, hover, fast rope in and clear the hell out, if that is even possible."
"Yeah," said Ricardo. "I don't think you will be able to get out."
"Yes. Even if the battle with the boots on the ground is tight for the shitheads they control the air over the area."
"Dash one-one, this is Homeplate, check in, over."
Both flyboys turned to see the ell-tee. "That is a no-no."
"Copy." The pilot thumbed the radio off and that was it, as always, the Helljumpers when on their own.
"We could," said Ricardo speaking of the top of his head. "Fast rope on the church, check the building, blow up an LZ and dust off."
"Yeah," said Woods gliding on the other side of the cabin, with a smile on his face as he flew on space. "And haul a hundred kids back to friggin' space."
"That's why they have the LZ boss," said Di Cabello with his Italian accent.
"This is a private conversation," noted the Lieutenant with a sarcastic chuckle.
"One minute for entry, you better get strapped in," the Pilot rolled his right index finger between the seatbelt and his chest. "We are going to go ballistic on this one," he whispered to his copilot as he gripped tightly the U shaped rudder.
The Lieutenant pulled and glided himself to the jumpseat just behind the pilot's seat and strapped on. Woods lobbed a helmet towards the Lieutenant that arrived slowly, placed it over his head and clipped the straps on his right eardrum. "Ok." Ricardo took a moment to look at his men who looked fearless behind their black armor. Some of them, maybe all, would not see another day, and yet they smiled, joked and talked. That was why he loved them.
The troopers strapped themselves on the chairs by lowering large shoulder holders from above their sits and waited for that exact moment when the Helljumpers knew they started their mission. The bump, jump and shake of the atmospheric breach.
"Rockets one through four are off."
"Roger," said the pilot turning a knob over his head igniting the first turbofan. "One is on."
"Two is on," said the copilot instantly. White contrails began to exit through the exhausts on the cold dawn of the planet. Warrant Officer Pettit lowered the nose of the Pelican to a nearly vertical dive.
"Go, go, go," the craft jumped and accelerated towards the surface as several alarm sounds and light went of on the cockpit.
"Triple A!"
"Roger!" replied the pilot as he pushed the throttle forward. "Drop to five kay." The terrain began to grow clearer and nearer with intense detail as the aircraft descended. under the orange light of the sun. Then, when it was all calmed the bumpy ride began. The modified Pelican was surrounded by red and black explosions as several Shade turrets locked into it from their positions on the ground. "Hold on!"
He pushed the elevator and dived the nose on a seventy five degree dive and after a few thousand feet a white contrail formed on the nose. "Target is two-nine-zero miles!" the craft jumped up and down as the pilot leveled it just above the white cloud cover dragging a pack of white puffs on the stern.
"Contact!" screamed the copilot.
"Got 'em," replied calmly the pilot at the same time as the troopers were pushed down on their seats by the pounds of gravity added by the barrel roll made by the pilot.
"What damnit?" The answer came in form of blue lights flashing on the port side of the DSV.
"Banshees, to of them at seven o' clock!" For the Warrant Officer, it was a culminating moment. He never qualified for fighters because of his eyesight. Yet, he was as skilled as a Navy jock, and as he always wanted, it was his time to prove himself.
"Get ready to hit rockets one and two."
"Copy," the copilot raised his left hand and grabbed the respective knobs.
"Those are the rear ones righ-" Ricardo was interrupted by a sudden change of pressure on the cabin as the pelican did a loop leaving a hundred beams bellow the cockpit as Pettit made a last second miracle by pulling the elevator towards him.
For the Covenant pilots, it was a sudden surprise. Somehow the Pelican was on their rear firing twin twenty millimiter cannons at them. The two ovals with skis bellow them turned into fireballs and disintegrated as they fell flamingly to the ground. "Kill!" screamed the pilot when there was a sudden bump on the ship.
"Oh-oh," said Pettit as he pulled the FIRE lever on the top of his panel.
"What? What?" shouted the Lieutenant in a way that clinched every member of the squad.
"We are hit, but we are OK."
"What do you mean by that?"
"We are trailing smoke but we have nothing to worry about," he was interrupted by a sudden, violent bump in the air. "Damn it."
"ETA to target is two-zero minutes."
"Copy," said Ricardo grabbing the MA-5H that he had hanging on his chest. He stood up, grabbed the security rail above his head and looked at his watch. Full daylight was just a few moments away. "Igor."
"Hooah," said the trooper standing by the rear door.
"We'll fast rope in or on the Church, you and I will go first."
"Thank you Lieutenant."
Ricardo turned to the cockpit, placed his right hand on the pilot's left shoulder and gripped. "Talk to me."
"We took a hit on the tail, a bit of rudder control loss but we are OK, as long as I don't have to engage a Seraph."
"Amen."
Then, after eighteen tense minutes, the backwater town of Saint Paul came into view on the glass. The church laid like a giant beside the little houses, grocers and commerce buildings, little league fastball stadium and police station, if one could call that office one.
"On the ball," said the Pilot as he clicked the rear door open. A gentle, deafening breeze entered the cabin and for a second, it was relaxing. Pinto, the machinegunner slowly walked to the rear ramp and carefully sat down one leg at time, leaving his feet hanging in the air. He raised his right hand and thumbed an OK as the aircraft began to pas over Saint Paul
The sight was awful, as every man in the craft felt sick at the dear bodies on the streets, burnt cars and sacked buildings. "Good lord."
For a second, all the worries of a mistaken choice were erasen from the mind of the Helljumper. He was glad to be down there in the shit, and not upstairs on a confortable bed having drinking alcohol in the afternoon. "Fuck that protocol bullshit."
Every head turned around to see the Lieutenant who walked to the ramp with a desisive stand.
"Over the target." The only place to fast rope, safely, in was the courtyard in front of the large, wooden, egg shaped door of the church. "Ropes!"
The Lieutenant slightly crouched and jumped out before the tip of the black ropes touched the ground, he grabbed it in midair and slid down. For a second, even tough his armor denied the pleasure, he felt the cold air tingling across his rigid body and suddenly, he was on the ground with his rifle firmly gripped, slaved to his eyesight as he checked the surroundings.
There was no gunfire, explosions or warnings. Lucky Strike if there was ever one. After eight men were on the ground, it then all went to hell. Unexpectedly the Pelican was spinning wildly in the air trailing black smoke as it disappeared out of sight behind the tall, stone walls of the courtyard.
Just then, he caught the movement on the corner of his right eye. One of the troopers, the youn Hispanic Pinto, was covered on a white cloud as his Light Support Weapon of 6.8x51mm showered bullets on an unseen foe. "Jackals on the window!"
"Mayday! Mayday!" called the pilot struggling with his bird somewhere over the town.
As one mind, body and soul the nine men on the ground engaged in the same battle drill. Private Commons aimed the greanade launcher bellow the barrel of his rifle on a window and pulled the trigger. Igor smoked the courtyard with a grenade and in teams of three against the eastern wall hiding from the Covenant return fire.
Ricardo, just a few feet from the black fence that led into the courtyard, raised his right hand, closed his fist and twisted his wrist several times. The trooper behind him, Moore if he guessed correctly, stepped aside from the wall and threw a cylinder to the opposite side. The powerful flashbang blinded, deafened and stunned whatever was on the other side.
The other six men passed by Ricardo and his two men and blitzed towards the street. The Lieutenant held fast as hundreds of rounds were discharged by his men by the far side of the wall.
Suddenly, it was all over. "Clear!" called several voices at the same time.
"Call in a SITREP!"
"Clear," said Igor entering the courtyard again. "Ten Jackals or so," the trooper knelt by his CO and upholstered his sidearm. "All of them killed."
"A hunting party."
"Outlaw six, Dash one-one, we are going in. Setting her down outside the village, uploading location to your NAV set. Got in a scare up here, Sergeant Roberts is dead."
"Copy," the Lieutenant grabbed with his left hand the datapad that was attached through a wire to his COM set on his right shoulder and located rapidly the location of the DSV. 782m SSW. "Roger that, hang tight."
"Sir," called somebody on the other side. "We may have a working vehicle."
"Roger that Dieter." Ricardo bowed his head and shook it, trying to wear of the nervousness that filled his temper. Woods, Zach and Hack were still on the bird, together with the pilot and the crew chief, and the Covenant certainly knew where they where.
"Talk to me boss," said Igor. The Lieutenant turned his head to see the Lance Corporal in the eyes and then the stone Church and the LCp got the signal immediately.
"Robinson, Dimitri, Commons with me," the trooper stood up and upholstered his loved forty five and gently pulled the black slide back to find a silver hollow point in the chamber. "We have a church to check."
Three on the DSV, four on the church, that left five on his squad, with only one heavy weapon at hand –Prado's Light Support Missile- that simply lacked the punch of a Jackhammer if shit got nasty. "Pinto," he said to the trooper packing the long, belt fed, machinegun with a bipod. "Set up so you can cover the courtyard."
"Roger," the trooper behind Ricardo got up, lowered the muzzle of his weapon and passed the Lieutenant to the side and turned towards the street at the gate.
"Eyeball. Get up the bell tower and get eyes on the town." The Lieutenant got up and smiled. "I have a hunch."
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