Thorne had long ago developed a system of thought to maintain during any combat operation: APRR.
Analyze. Predict. React. Repeat.
The Covenant, in his experience, didn’t prove too inventive of on-the-fly tactics.
Analyze: The first wave was just Grunts, and a few Jackals on the wings that the group’s outriders took care of with ease. No casualties, and the civvies didn’t get too jumpy.
Predict: If the Covenant stuck to their usual doctrine, the squad’s next engagement would be worse. Likely with either a Brute or a— he didn’t even get to finish said prediction, a collection of Grunts, a duo of Jackals, and a Brute. Exactly what Thorne was expecting. The Spartan would assign herself the Brute, that was obvious—any second now the civilians would start to spook—and leave the rest for him and the UNSC regulars.
Lo-and-behold, the civilians started to scare. Not that he could blame them, his first encounter with a Brute had been rightly terrifying.
Then his thoughts turned from the civilians to the Covvies as he saw two Jackals vanish from sight out the far door, ascending what looked like a staircase. Why?
Then he remembered the overlook to the squad’s left flank, with a separate staircase leading up to it in this room. They were going to be outflanked.
React: Cox opened up, and one of the remaining Jackals’ heads exploded in a haze of purple mist. Immediately the other troopers opened up, taking cover behind various walls, pillars and barriers. Thorne himself fired off a five-round burst at a Grunt and sent it spiraling to the floor.
No one was moving for the overlook.
The main body had the civilians covered well enough. If they were being flanked, they were all done for.
The first words Thorne had spoken in so long he’d actually forgotten the exact number.
The other Army trooper barked back, shifting from his position in the veritable firing line they were putting up, he stepped back and took up a position by the civilians.
Thorne didn’t want any longer, vaulting the concrete barrier he’d taken cover behind and sprinting for the stairs to the overlook. A wash of plasma whizzed by his head, and he fired a suppressive spray of 7.62 in reply to his right, taking the stairs two at a time as he heard distinct Jackal screeching above him.
Another two seconds and he’d crested the stairs, greeted by the sight of a single Jackal stood at the edge of the overlooking aiming its rifle. But the instant it clocked onto his footsteps it whirled, raising its rifle and firing. But Thorne rolled left, coming up behind an outcropping that barely shielded him from—Jesus!
He ducked instinctively as the shot from the focus rifle took away a chunk of his cover, then immediately popped out and put two three-round bursts into the Jackal. That is to say, one burst, the other hitting the wall as it dodged. But it was staggered.
Thorne vaulted his cover, charging the Jackal as it recovered, hearing bullets and plasma roar roughly a dozen feet below. He slammed his shoulder into the wounded alien, sending it tumbling to the floor below.
Then came the second squawking noise from behind him.
Immediately, Thorne pulled a 180, raising his rifle only to throw himself to the left as he saw the focus rifle flare—fuck!
Gabriel simply held the trigger as he fell, a dozen rounds utterly shredding the avian creature. The instant he was sure it was dead, Thorne took his left off his MA37 and clawed at his scorching helmet, throwing it off the overlook and letting the object that had just saved his life plummet, a focus rifle scar etched into the side of it just shy of actually blowing his head off. But the third degree burn currently causing every pain receptor on his head to flare was certainly a negative from the situation.
From there, Thorne climbed up to a kneel, shouldering his rifle and raining down fire on the aliens, trying desperately to ignoring the mind-numbing pain on the side of his head.
“We’re on it, ma’am,” Kotevski answered for both himself and Wyman, the moment the Spartan issued the order to calm the civilians down. The ODST and his fellow soldier got to work immediately, backing the civilians away from the line of fire, keeping their heads down and talking to them quietly. In the same instant, the three Troopers stepped into the fray. Lead by Cox’s example, Thorne and Haxgild opened fire, the latter keeping the Grunts pinned while the first two took out the Jackals.
In the meantime, Artemis tangled with the Brute.
A Captain was relatively minimal issue; while they held decent seniority and had better armour and weaponry than their lesser counterparts, they lacked the power armour and energy shielding than Chieftains and others of higher rank. All she had to do was keep the bastard’s attention, bringing it to a boiling point of rage, before closing in for the kill.
The bumps so far weren’t hurdles, weren’t impossible obstacles. They would overcome this without any casualties. She knew that it would only get more difficult, as more and more Covie leaders dropped to pick up the slack. But for the time being, they could press the attack, use their advantage, get the civilians to safety and off the planet.
What was not routine was, as the Brute’s body dropped before her, a surprised yell splitting the air, coming from one of the Troopers. Whipping around, she flicked her wrist; a flung combat knife landed in the throat of a Grunt with barely a look in its direction. For a moment, she could not spot any signs of danger, and wondered if someone had merely been caught off-guard. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Not as far as she could tell.
Until she saw that the youngest Trooper — G. Thorne, her HUD had told her, helpfully — had abandoned his helmet, and was firing with reckless abandon at a last-known sniper’s position. That was wrong. That was not routine.
For a heartbeat, the Spartan was frozen with uncertainty. The pause was filled with action a fraction of a second later; the moment the Jackal popped its head up again, undaunted by the hail of 7.62mm rounds coming its way, Artemis raised her scavenged DMR and fired a single round into the creature’s head. It didn’t even have time to squawk; the bird-like alien crumpled without a sound, focus rifle clattering to the ground somewhere below.
She then rushed forward, dropping to a kneel at Thorne’s side, eyes flickering beneath her visor as she checked him over.
“It’s over, soldier. He’s dead.” she told him softly, wondering how badly he was injured.
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