Deep in the fighting decks of the Crusader the gun crews maintained the weapon systems and kept the ship in the battle. Lieutenant Erdeniz, although still wearing his bandages from injuries sustained in the attempted revolt on the ship, was standing at his post. Though there were metres of armour and two more decks between him and the CCS Victorious it was still a terrifying experience. In the last twenty minutes there had been two major breaches and the second one had vaporised one of his gunners before his eyes. This part of the ship was superheated and everybody working there was dripping in sweat.
His information on the rest of the ship was limited but he had seen the medical figures and it was clear to all onboard that the medical bays were to be avoided unless absolutely critical. His best guess was that they had already sustained two or three hundred dead with about the same number injured. It was high losses and as each member of the crew was removed from action the workload for those left increased. His crew of twenty-four engineers, gunners and loaders had already been whittled down to nineteen with one battery knocked out of action, three dead and two badly wounded.
“How are we doing?” he asked as he moved along the gantry checking on the three remaining gun batteries.
“Third battery is running hot, we’ve got maybe four or five volleys left and I’ll need to swap the rails out,” replied Gunner Thomas.
“Are you sure, can you reduce the power and keep them running?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Well, we could but that will cut the velocity down to half, Sir,” he replied as he turned, waiting for an answer.
“Do it, we can’t afford to take any chances in this fight. Maintenance can wait, right now every gun needs to keep firing!” he gave the order.
The wall-mounted intercom alarm started to blare, indicating that the command staff needed to speak with him. He moved off the gantry and down to the main command terminal.
“Lieutenant Erdeniz here,” he said loudly.
Spartan was covered in blood, his armoured suit was a bizarre mixture of camouflage pattern, dirt and the red streaks of gore. His L48 rifle was on the floor, its clip expended and the bayonet had snapped and was embedded in one of the insurgents’ chests. He had his left arm locked around the throat of one man as his right wielded a vicious looking machete that he had torn from one of the many fanatics that had attacked them. One of the few surviving men suddenly rushed towards him and with a fast, almost callous, slash he removed the attacker’s head clean from his torso. Following up with a slick twist on his left arm he broke man’s neck, dropping him to the ground like a piece of discarded garbage. Teresa was down on one knee as she smashed her rifle butt into the side of a wounded fighter’s head before lifting the weapon up and putting two rounds into another. Off to the left Jesus, Marcus and three other marines were fighting the last four fanatics, easily cutting them down with their weapons.
There were now only twelve commandos still able to fight and as they staggered forward, they dragged the rest of the wounded marines into cover. The bodies of many of them were buried deep under the scores of dead fanatics. As they were tending the casualties Marcus found the badly wounded Colonel West. The man’s body was shattered, his legs torn away and a huge trail of blood all around him. Marcus dropped to one knee, checking the officer’s suit for any signs of life. Incredibly he picked up a faint pulse.
Sergeant Williams limped over and knelt down next to the wounded man.
“Sir, Colonel, can you hear me?” he called.
The Sergeant reached out gently shaking him. The Colonel moved but he was unable to speak. Spartan looked back at the wounded and then ahead to their objective, noting they were now only a short distance away. He was torn between helping this officer and getting the mission done.
“Sergeant, we have to shut off those guns. The only way the Colonel is getting out alive is if we can get the rest of the regiment here.”
As if to remind them of the urgency of their situation a small group of insurgents appeared from the far right of the plaza and moved towards the their position. They were a mixture of well-equipped Zealot fighters and lightly armed fanatics, probably reinforcements from the surface. The group fired a few shots as they rushed ahead, the projectiles ricocheting from the walls around them. But without stopping and correcting their aim the fire was sporadic and inaccurate. A heavy weapon tore chunks from the wall behind them and one of the rounds hit Marcus below the knee, it sent him crashing to the ground crying out in pain.
The Sergeant put his hand on Spartan’s shoulder.
“Do it, we’ll watch your back!” he said, before turning around and helping the wounded Marcus into a ragged firing line behind the rubble and bodies. He quickly placed an emergency first aid pack on his shattered leg and then started firing at the approaching enemy. Two of the less seriously injured men helped to move the badly wounded Colonel to cover before joining the firing line.
“Everybody else come with me, we have work to do!” Spartan shouted.
The filthy and blood spattered marines moved on, with Spartan, Teresa and Jesus taking the lead through the now ruined building. Though most of them were still carrying their L48 rifles, Spartan and two others were holding a mixture of close quarter weapons. In this cramped and filthy environment they appeared to be just as useful. Once they were through the entrance they rushed along the main foyer and then down the side corridor. According to Spartan’s tactical display this would take them to the rear yard and on to the Command Centre. There was a chance that this part of the building would be booby-trapped, they could only hope that the first blast and collapse had already triggered any further devices. Either way it didn’t matter, time wasn’t on their side. If they waited any longer they would be overrun as more of the insurgents made their way to the area and surrounded the small number of marines. They needed to get the weapons off-line and help get the reinforcements into battle as quickly as possible.
Two Zealots lay in wait and as they reached the back entrance, they opened fire. As the bullets flew around them Spartan rolled to one side just as Jesus and Teresa hit the attackers with well-aimed shots. They didn’t stop and in seconds they were in the open and running in a loose line to the gatehouse at the front of the Command Centre. It was normally protected by a strong perimeter wall and gate, but now there were multiple breaches and none of the usual security. Spartan slid into cover behind the ruins of the wall and focused his helmet-mounted optics on the Command Centre. Zooming in he examined the defences and sighed in anger as he hit the communication trigger on his helmet.
“This is Private Spartan, our commando unit has made it to the Command Centre. Colonel West is down, there are twelve of us left,” he said on the radio.
The radio crackled with a broken signal from the Santa Maria.
“Spartan, good work. Third platoon is pinned down, the engineers have made it to the side-loading bay at the Command Centre, one hundred metres from the secondary entrance. If you can get to them they should be able to find you a way in.”
Spartan turned to his right, squinting through the dust and debris. He couldn’t see any movement, then he spotted the five armoured engineers stomping towards the Command Centre. All five were covered in dents and scorch marks and they had obviously had a very difficult time making it this far.
“I see them, we’re on the way!” Spartan said, as he indicated to the rest of his squad.
They were instantly moving around the compound and towards the engineers. The defenders had already noticed the noisy, armoured marines and were pouring fire into them. One rocket blasted past and impacted near the leading marine and sent him crashing to the ground. He was up fast though and kept moving ahead. They were only twenty metres away now and Spartan contacted the closest on the intercom.