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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chap. 4
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 2 September 2004, 11:11 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: The Battle of Boston Chapter 4
53 Massachusetts Militia (Minutemen)
Boston, MA
Midway through the Covenant Invasion of Earth
Late afternoon
"TAKE COVER!" Captain Jack O'Shea yelled into his throat mike as huge pieces of the building started to rain down on the Massachusetts Militia Minutemen. O'Shea, Master Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds, Corporal Parsons, and Specialist McManus sprinted down the street away from the explosion, chunks of the former apartment building slamming behind, left, right, and in front of them. There seemed no escape as the four were buffeted with the shock and sound of gigantic pieces of structure impacting with the street. O'Shea took point as the group sprinted to try and find cover. The four Minutemen ran in a tight single-file formation, not willing to fall behind by even half a step.
At full tilt the four ran with their backs to the former building, now spouting blue flame and exploding outwards as Covenant artillery slammed it from behind. The building was at the end of a cul-de-sac on Boston's Commonwealth Avenue, where a firefight had broken out an hour ago between the Boston militia and Covenant. The Minutemen believed the Covenant force had been defeated. Instead, the Minutemen had been trapped perfectly by the Covenant, launching a surprise attack from behind. Now the Minutemen were caught unaware at the end of this cul-de-sac, running left and right with their backs to the barrage.
From behind O'Shea, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds slapped the Captain's right shoulder, and the four broke right toward an abandoned townhouse. O'Shea wasted no time with subtlety: he took out his holstered M6D pistol and blasted shots at the hinges of the front door. The semi-explosive rounds did their recquired job on the door, breaking the hinges sufficiently to make O'Shea's next move much more plausible. After emptying his clip and taking three strides up the front steps, O'Shea left his feet in a blind dive at the door, going head and shoulders at the right side of the doorframe. The door gave way as O'Shea slammed the door down with the force of his body. The other three Minutemen followed behind, Specialist Tim McManus getting in last, slamming down on the ground, yelling, "Son of a bitch!"
1st Sergeant Mahmoud Tonsi and the four Connor brothers had been playing around with the newly made car bomb before the explosion. The car bomb had been built out of an incapacitated Warthog as a last-resort weapon. Before the Covenant assault began, the Warthog was positioned about 100 meters away and to the right of the arpartment building, where the cul-de-sac widened into a small circular ending. With the apparent victory over the Covenant, however, the car bomb had yet to be detonated or dismantled. Gerry and Michael Connor, the two youngest, had just broken into a mock-fistfight about whose grenade killed three Jackals when the attack came. All five of the demolition experts looked up in shock as they realized what was happening. Their trained, slightly deaf ears knew the Covenant artillery had come around to the other side of the building, firing at close range. Now the entire structure was heading right for the Minutemen. "Incoming!" Tonsi screamed as the five tried to get clear of the warthog primed to explode. Amid a chorus of Fuck! Debris! What the Fuck! Shite! and INCOMING!, Tonsi ran away and to the left of the exploding apartment building, down the street toward a small alley not far away. As soon as he turned the corner of the alley, he looked back to see Seamus, the oldest, lugging two SPNKR rocket launchers and most of the explosives toward Tonsi. Just as Seamus turned the corner at Tonsi's position, a huge piece of what had been a steel support beam flew by at lethal speeds right where Seamus had been and split a car in two. Seamus hugged the wall next to Tonsi. He grinned an insance grin, "I told ya, Dad. I'm blessed." The wreckage from the building started to create craters in the pavement.
Rory, Gerry, and Michael split up. Rory, instead of running from the building, ran towards the explosion. With less than a second to spare, Rory managed to dive and roll under most of the building's projectiles. It was like diving under a wave, so when Rory stopped his roll, the wave was starting to envelope the empty space. He jumped to his feet and ran to his left, avoiding all the pieces that fell straight down from the building. Rory Connor ended up crashing through a pane glass window into a hotel restaurant. He found cover, as he usually did in times of dire need, behind the bar.
Gerry and Michael broke left and right. Michael went left, but turned a few steps from the Warthog to see how his older brother was going about this. Michael saw Gerry get five meters from the Warthog before a chunk of concrete, flaming hot from the explosion, plowed into his young body. One second, Gerry was there. The next, he was gone. All that was left was his battle rifle. Michael screamed in agony, his mouth open wide and face contorted in despair as he ran toward where his brother had been. As soon as he passed in front of the Warthog, a much smaller piece of steel flew from the building and landed square on the side of Michael's helmet, silencing his wailing. The force was enough to slam Michael's body against the Warthog and knock him unconscious. Michael was now knocked out under an armed and ready car bomb.
Lance Corporal Harry McHale and the rest of the assault squad gaped in fear at the wall of concrete coming at them. The squad had been lounging on the front stoop of a townhouse when the apartment building they used to hide in evaporated. Three assault Minutemen were right in front of the building. From Harry's view, they simply disappeared. The noise was absolutely deafening. He could hear what had to be massive Covenant artillery powering up its' weapon, then releasing the blast in an ear-grabbing, high frequency burst of noise. A second later, the plasma would hit home, causing destruction across a wide area. Harry grabbed two Minutemen up by their collars and shoved them up the street as the rest scrambled to find any kind of cover. Many ran to the left side of the building trying to find cover in an alley, while two others ran to the right side of the building toward the blast. The two made it into a two-story building, but the sheer amount of debris and velocity of the wreckage collapsed on the two, sealing them in a premature tomb.
Harry McHale saw providence where others saw disaster. When he was trapped inside the now-obliterated building no more than an hour ago, he emerged to save the lives of the Minutemen's two snipers. Now he took the chance to prove his quality as he activated the deceased Jackal's energy shield and started deflecting smaller pieces of debris, getting assault team members into much safer cover. Most of the team survived the heavy artillery onslaught, getting into much more secure points of cover as piles of debris started to gather on the street. The barrage continued around Harry McHale. Cars were smashed beyond recognition, and flying shards of windshield and glass put deep gashes into more than one appendage for the Minutemen. Luckily, the energy shield was good against that, too. The shield snapped, sparked, and popped with electricity as incoming pieces of construction material wailed against it. Finally, the last of the assault troopers that was still alive made it behind cover. McHale stayed in the middle of the street.
"Sir, with all due respect," a young Minuteman yelled above the din, "get your fucking ass behind cover!"
"There's two of our boys trapped back there!" McHale replied, pointing in the direction of the collapsed two-story building.
"What do you want us to do, sir?"
"Alert the refugees and tell them to clear out! Get as far away from here as you can! I'm going back to get those tw-"
The image of Harry McHale's face would never leave the young Private's mind as the dust caked, yelling, concerned face of McHale was replaced with a giant piece of structure. To the young Private, it was as if his commanding officer's piercing blue eyes were still burned into his retinas. Harry McHale was smashed into the ground by one of the last pieces of the top of the building. McHale's left hand stuck out of the impact point as the energy shield attached to it flashed and disappeared, both the shield and bearer destroyed. One Private looked away in disgust. The other, who had just been talking with McHale, slowly walked over to the giant boulder-like piece of steel and cement in a state of shock. As shards of glass and steel flew in deadly trajectories at unwitting humans, the young Private leaned down, took the Lance Corporal's shotgun from the middle of the street, and walked back unharmed to the alleyway. The young Private put his back against the wall and slid down it to sitting position, rocking back and forth, sobbing tears of frustration and despair, hugging the shotgun. Yet another father figure exterminated. Yet another man who deserved a future of love and prosperity wiped out. The young Minuteman banged the back of his helmet against the wall. "What's the fucking point!?" He screamed to no one in particular, the tears running hot and fresh down his dirty face.
One alleyway behind the scene of McHale's death, six assault Minutemen were secure in cover. One Minuteman, Carl Sohn, wearing Private 1st Class insignias, peeked down the street at the incoming plasma assault. He shook his head in disappointment at the sudden death of the Lance Corporal. Just an hour ago he had joined McHale in a sneak attack against Covenant Jackal officers. He took cover back in the alley. A young Minuteman who had just voluteered stared at his ranking officer. "Sir, we should call in an air strike!"
"What?" Sohn asked in disbelief.
"An air strike, sir!"
"We can't call in a fucking air strike! We don't have any fucking air power!"
"Sir, the UNSC could smoke that artillery!"
Sohn took a step toward the greenhorn. "You think the UNS-fucking-C gives a shit about us!? They left us and everyone in this city to the Covenant two fucking years ago! They don't give two shits about this city, or you! Understood, Private?"
"Sir, that's fucked up, sir!"
"Huah, Stick. Fuckin' huah."
Rory Connor had the best view of any surviving Minuteman. Peeking over the sparsely stocked bar, he saw what used to be a sprawling, towering building reduced to what best looked like a giant rock pile that he used to play on as a "wee lad." Now he could hear the low drone of machinery, and the looser pieces of rubble began to shimmy down the decline of the pile, the foreshadowing action of the battle to come. Rory hastily patted himself down looking for the button to open a channel. Tonsi never let him talk on the Comm, so Rory constantly forgot where the transmit button was. Rory thumbed the button to open a channel and called the whole squad. "Rory Connor here. Incoming infantry from the North. Defensive positions, lads. We got flanked on this one."
Tonsi and Seamus were relieved to hear Rory's voice over the Comm. "Finally, he gets his chance." Seamus said.
"Yeah, good word choice, too." Tonsi said. "Diction, pronunciation, clear, crisp, to the point. There's hope for him yet."
"Infantry, Dad?" Seamus changed the subject.
"Yeah, bet you it's Creeps, a whole mess of Elites, coupla Hunters, maybe even a Phantom or two."
"Shite, we're earning our way back to the bar, aren't we?"
"Every day we do, son. Every day we do." Tonsi took a SPNKR rocket launcher from Seamus and loaded two 102 mm rockets into the weapon. It was time to take a stand. The Minutemen had been in some hairy situations, Tonsi recalled, but usually they got to pick their battles. He handed a launcher to Seamus, who loaded the launcher without a second thought, and disengaged the safety. Tonsi was not naive enough to think that everyone survived that attack, and wondered if he would be included on that list when the day was through. Tonsi sighed as he briefly looked down the street. He could see shapes through the dusty afternoon haze coming through Covenant-controlled territory. He too disengaged the safety, hearing the soft tone telling him the target finder was active. Not everyone was coming home today. There were going to be some disappointed wives and girlfriends back in the bunkers.
Captain Jack O'Shea reloaded his urban-camouflaged battle rifle. Gus Reynolds searched his body for extra magazines and secured them in chest pockets. Two years of guerilla war had taught the Minutemen several things about equipment. First, there were no Longswords or Scorpion tanks or anything resembling heavy UNSC equipment, so the Minutemen picked their battles carefully. Getting in over their heads was a quick way to get dead. Second, less was more. Body armor did next to nothing against plasma, but a good flak vest kept projectiles from explosions out of the important parts. On the same subject, speed and agility was key. It was extremely rare to catch a Minuteman lugging a rucksack and superfluous equipment, but Gus Reynolds always liked to carry more than enough equipment, which was why he was toting extra grenades and tossing a few to O'Shea. Parsons and McManus stole glances up the stairs. O'Shea read their minds.
"Better find the high ground, fellas." O'Shea said. "No spotter this time. We'll need both your guns."
"Huah, sir." The two snipers replied. McManus started to assemble his S2 AM sniper rifle. In 40 seconds, the two snipers were starting up the stairs to the roof of the building. Gus looked at O'Shea. "This is going to get interesting," Reynolds said, peeking out a window at the rubble in the street. He looked out into the street with apprehension. The storm of cement and steel was past, but Reynolds couldn't shake the feeling that this was the only the eye of the storm. This shit's about to get hectic, he thought.
Jack O'Shea analyzed the situation. The immediate danger was past, but far bigger trouble was coming for them. This kind of direct engagement was very new to the Minutemen. They had to take proper precautions in case the worst occurred. "McManus," O'Shea called over the Comm.
"Here, sir."
"Call the camps and tell them to clear out. I want every man, woman, and child out of the immediate vicinity. I don't know if the Covies are here for us or are cleaning house again, but let's not take chances."
"On it, sir." McManus closed the channel.
The 53rd Massachusetts Militia had been entrusted with a grave charge: protection of the city of Boston. This included the people, structures, military installations, and ammunition depots. As O'Shea looked back on it, sometimes that charge was a little too big for the Minutemen to carry. 95% of human structures were at least heavily damaged. Tens of thousands had been killed. UNSC military intelligence had been compromised in at least one structure. But, O'Shea reminded himself, if the Minutemen hadn't been around, there was no telling how many times those figures would be multiplied by.
He looked back two years on the first contact with the Covenant: Jack O'Shea had just turned 40, a milestone in many peoples' lives, but to O'Shea was just another year in a happily married life with kids to carry on his line. On Earth, his life was prosperous and filled with joy. However, O'Shea knew that it wouldn't be long until events in space would touch down on his life on Earth. O'Shea had heard the rumors of the Covenant; he had followed the propaganda-laced news reports and heard the true story from UNSC buddies who made it back to Earth on medical leave. At that point, O'Shea was a former Captain in the UNSC Marines, a man who had seen enough of the galaxy and killed enough of humanity's would-be enemies to earn his way home. Like the Roman legionaries of ancient times, he had done his duty and retired to his family, collecting his retirement and helping the UNSC with the secret observation of Earth's orbit. The UNSC knew the Covenant were coming, just not when.
When the invasion did occur, the UNSC immediately mustered its' forces at the large and important rally sites: New York, New Mombassa, Berlin, Beijing, Sydney, New Palestine, and Rio de Janeiro. Boston was left with token forces to maintain civilian order. O'Shea was a senior administrator. Not long after the first Covenant forces touched down in the major cities, Boston's air space was violated.
Even in the ruined townhouse he was taking cover in now, O'Shea's stomach turned when he thought of the first sight of the underside of that massive Covenant Carrier, the curving teardrop shape ending in a spear-like head, the purple tint that the ship cast on the streets and buildings. He remembered how quickly he had run into his office and contacted Command. He had almost broke a shin slamming into office furniture. He could hear the dialouge of two years past even in the din of Covenant artillery:
"Command, this is Captain O'Shea, UNSC Admin Post 53, Boston! We have contact with Covenant!"
The voice on the other end had been unsettlingly calm. "We know, 53. Calm down."
"You know!? We just picked them up on our sensors!"
"Understood, 53. We have them, too."
O'Shea had fought to say composed. "Command, what are my orders? We need immediate assistance! When will UNSC forces arrive? We're going to need ODSTs."
"Unable to comply, 53. UNSC forces in that area are engaged."
"Engaged!? Command, I have over seven million people in this city!"
"Understood, 53." If O'Shea had heard "Understood, 53," one more time, he was going to shoot the communcations equipment. "...We have issued a flash-evacuation mandate. Maintain civil order through the evacuation. Your orders are to destroy any military intelligence in the city of Boston, gather all available ordnance and weapons you can carry and extract all available troops to New York. We need your help there."
Two years ago O'Shea looked out a window not unlike the one he was staring out now. He had seen thousands of people take to the streets almost simultaneously. Plasma was already beginning to streak through the air. Civil order, my ass, he had thought. We've just been left for dead.
"Command," O'Shea had said, pulling off his UNSC pin and reaching for the list of available UNSC personnel, "Unable to comply with orders. My troops are engaged."
Recruiting the abandoned UNSC troops had been easy. O'Shea had instantly bonded with Gus Reynolds, who was also in constant contact with the Boston office, and all the UNSC troops that had been left behind took to the streets to give the evacuating civilians as much time as possible to clear the city. In that battle that followed, 85% of the UNSC troops in Boston were killed, but many millions escaped the brutal rampage of the Covenant juggernaut. The next day, O'Shea and Gus Reynolds created the 53rd Massachusetts Militia. In O'Shea's study of colonial American history he remembered a segment telling of a time when ordinary men in the former colony of Massachusetts had banded together to combat an occupying force. The militia was small, fast, and agile; striking the superior forces in rapid attacks, rallying together and mobilizing so quickly they were called, "Minute men." In the chaos that followed the invasion and the subsequent destruction and occupation inside the city, the name "Minutemen," was forged. The name was then known among the human survivors as a safe word, a name to be called on when protection was needed and the city of Boston was to be defended.
The Minutemen had started small, made only of the ten surviving UNSC personnel that had followed O'Shea, but the legend attracted many new soldiers and insurgents from the surrounding areas. Anyone old enough to fire a gun well and live in the secret bunkers of the Minutemen were allowed to volunteer. Now the militia was almost fifty strong, but the maximum number that went out on missions was thirty. That number was only required for missions were hit-and-run attacks that lasted several days. Those who were not in the field performed other duties, such as medical, ammunition storage, civilian administration, and intelligence-gathering. The majority of the Minutemen's duties entailed protecting the large refugee and holdout communities that disregarded the evacuation mandate and stuck it out. The Minutemen identified with these people, and so every community had a direct link to the Militia. When things were going wrong in a particular area or Covenant were headed that way, the holdouts knew about it before the Covies arrived.
O'Shea looked out onto the cratered and debris-strewn street and sidewalks. He could still hear the screech of plasma and wished for the good old days when he could call in a Longsword squadron and blast that piece of shit to oblivion, but that was no longer an option. While the Minutemen had delivered some surplus arms to the UNSC; that generosity had been for the good of humanity. The Minutemen, O'Shea in particular, never forgot that the UNSC had left Boston behind. They had left O'Shea and his men behind to slip through the cracks. Anger still turned around in his heart as he clenched his fists. It didn't have to be this way. However, he had to make do with what he had.
"All right." O'Shea replied to Reynolds' questioning looks. "Let's get over to assault."
Rory was improvising as soon as he saw Creeps moving over the rubble. About 90 percent of the Creeps cleared the rubble, but the lower parts smashed through it, cleaving a wide gap in the middle of the pile. The Creeps halted after clearing the rubble, idling. For what reason, Rory knew not. From Rory's view, he could see every one of the purple personnel carriers, carrying eight Covenant infantry each. The lead vehicle carried seven grunts and a jackal, the four flanking Creeps all carried Elites. This was not going to be an easy day. Rory finished with his improvised weapon: a molotov cocktail. Taking his antique Zippo lighter inherited from back in the days of The Troubles in Ireland, he took shredded parts of his extra t-shirt and stuffed them into large bottles of cheap alcohol. Rory took the battered lighter from his pants pocket and examined it. The scratches and dings in the old metal rimmed an equally battered Irish flag. Rory looked up from his hidden spot and heard the slow-moving Creeps start up. The one on the far right of the formation would have to move past the bar. Behind the five Creeps were infantry on foot, and he could hear the approaching heavy footsteps of Hunters. Rory heard the chatter over the radio. He opened a channel to reply. "I can take the far right," he said. He decided it was time to even the odds for the Minutemen.
In two strokes, Rory swept the lighter across his fatigue-clad thigh to open the flint, and then stroked back across to light the Butane. The flame leapt to life. Rory brought the flame to his lips to light a cigarette stolen from Seamus' bunk back home. If the fuggin' Covies don't kill me, he thought, Seamus will after he sees this. Rory started to walk to the door as he applied the flame to the cloth hanging from the bottle. When he lit two bottles, he clicked shut the lighter, hopped over the bar, grabbed the two instruments of death, and stared to jog to the door, toward the dying light and the large Covenant structure that was presently blocking it.
Gus Reynolds craned his head out the door and didn't like what he saw. In the same V formation as the ill-fated Ghosts before, five Creeps were idling at the site of the destroyed apartment high-rise. Above each of the Creeps was a stationary gun, and Gus could swear the grunt manning each Shade could see him. Reynolds looked back at O'Shea and shook his head. Reynolds pointed two fingers to his eyes and then pointed his hand down the street. Reynolds then showed five fingers and made his hand into a "C" shape. O'Shea understood. They'd never make it across the street to the assault team in this state.
Reynolds looked across the street at six assault team members, stacked in single-file formation in an alley. One veteran made the same hand signals to Reynolds that he had made to O'Shea. Reynolds gave the assault member a thumbs-up. Where the hell is McHale? Gus thought. O'Shea called upstairs to the snipers. "Snipers, we got an issue that needs to get cleared up, copy?"
McManus and Parsons had just reached one of the only intact roofs in the city. The two kept very low and headed for the side of the roof facing the street. Parsons peered over the roof. He could see five Creeps in front of the building, each with a manned Shade on top. All the Minutemen were pinned down. There was no way anyone could cross the street with that kind of firepower blocking the way. Parsons opened a channel. "Standing by for orders, sir."
"Neutralize the Shades."
"Huah."
McManus smiled. " 'With extreme prejudice' I belive is the term." He said.
The two snipers both sat with their backs against the short rise at the end of the roof. The two screwed sound and flash suppressors on their rifle's barrels. They would take no chances with this. Parsons sat cross-legged at the edge of the roof and unfolded his bipod to make his aim true. Next to the prone position, the cross-legged sitting position was the best for sniping, stability and accuracy. He focused in on his first grunt. McManus moved to Parsons' side and unfolded his bipod. He took aim at the Creep on the left side of the formation; Parsons, the next one over. The two snipers stared through their optic scopes.
"800 meters." McManus said.
"Wind 5 to 8," Parsons continued.
"One click down." McManus called the dope.
"...And that's an ugly motherfucker." Parsons finished.
"Targets acquired," McManus breathed into his mike, "sights are hot and we are standing by."
O'Shea took in a breath to give the fire command, but before he could finish, Reynolds held up a fist, then twirled his index finger around. The Creeps had started up again. It would be about half a minute before the Creeps reached the assault and the demo positions, and then the assault troops would be cut to pieces by the stationary guns. O'Shea knew what the Minutemen would have prepared by this time, and made his orders accordingly. "Demo," O'Shea called.
"Here, sir," Tonsi replied over radio.
"Incoming hostile vehicles with Shades."
"Sighted, sir."
"Spank 'em."
"Huah, sir, but we can only take out two of them."
"Leave the two on the left side of the formation for us," Parsons cut in.
"I can take the far right," Rory chimed in.
"Rory?" Tonsi said in shock, but the channel clicked closed. Tonsi didn't realize Rory was so close or had the means to engage a Coveant stationary gun.
"They're moving," Reynolds reported. "We better do the same."
Medical officer Harold Ibanez saw the whole attack unfold from the middle of the street. Before Ibanez could find cover during the initial artillery assault, he saw an assault trooper go down, hit in the chest with a piece of building. The medic rushed to where the Minuteman had fallen, face up in a small crater created by a huge section of construction. That had served as adequate cover during the attack. He had seen the deaths of Michael Connor and Harry McHale: he grieved the loss but understood the reality of the battlefield. It would be tough to joke about this later.
When the Creeps arrived, Ibanez dared not move. He stole peeks from his hide, but never moved from the trooper, who was conscious but badly wounded. Ibanez didn't know where he would go to until he heard all the commotion and orders from O'Shea over the Comm. Once the Creeps started up toward his position, Ibanez got low and observed. The five troop carriers moved in a V, and once the Creep on the far right lumbered past a bombed-out bar, Ibanez saw a Minuteman with a shock of red hair run out from the bar with two bottles aflame. Oh no fucking way... Ibanez thought. He watched as the red haired militiaman stopped, then launched one bottle onto the top railing of the Creep's open space. There was the smash of glass and a burst of light as the weapon dropped flame onto each Elite in the carrier. With roars and Wort wort worts, the eight aliens piled out of the Creep, not before Rory Connor heaved another cocktail up at the grunt manning the Shade. The Stationary gun burst into flame and the grunt jumped off the Creep, screaming in pain and impaling itself on a steel beam, twisted and sticking up in the street. Rory ran back into the bar as the flaming Elites tried to put themselves out, plasma firing everywhere.
As soon as the flames had hit the Creep, Ibanez saw two streaks of vapor that ended at the two Shades on the far left of the formation. Ibanez never heard the shots, only saw the vapor. Ibanez whipped his head around and saw two shilouettes reloading twin rifles simultaneously. At the receiving end of the vapor trail, two grunts fell to the ground with large holes in their heads. As each dropped, one Elite in each carrier looked over quizzically as the gunner fell from the sky and landed unceremoniously on the ground. Combined with the fire attack, there was confusion.
Just ahead of Ibanez and on the right side of the street, he saw two figures whip around the corner. One rolled to the left, and both ended up on one knee, SPNKR rockets at the ready. Simultaneously the two launched rockets at the middle Shades, The red-hot projectiles trailing white smoke in the short flight toward their targets. With a Pwooom the impact of each rocket dislodged the Shades from their anchors, slamming the stationary guns to the ground and sending the gunners flying backward in pieces of flame. Now the confusion was panic as the two rocketmen re-targeted and loosed two rockets at the lead vehicles' front. There was a terrific explosion and fragments of the Creeps landed across a wide area as Ibanez shielded the assault team member's body with his own. The two leading Creeps' fronts plowed into the pavement and dragged their noses left and right, blocking the paths of the other three vehicles. Ibanez crossed himself and took both his and the fallen assault trooper's SMGs. He got up from his position and opened fire against the flaming Elites. The counter attack had begun.
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