They reached the ruined base just as a chopper was taking off. The squad of eight men fanned out ahead of their Colonel, sweeping the surroundings through their gun sights searching for targets of opportunity, careful not to trip on stray bits of structure or body parts littering the snow.
The Colonel consulted a small device he was carrying, which was emitting a faint yet ever more frequent beeping sound. "Search the rubble for any sign of Agent Rheenovsky. His locator implant is still active and my readings tell me he's somewhere in this mess. By the grace of mother Russia perhaps he's survived."
The squad dutifully went to work turning over flaming debris and snow frosted bits of insulation scattered about the ground around them. They had to stay away from the core of the still blazing building, but whatever was near the blast would have been flung far from there anyway. Within minutes, one of the men called out.
"Sir! I have something!" It was Agent Samsonov. The Colonel approached with haste. Beneath a piece of corrugated steel sheeting his man was lifting up with his gun barrel, a head lay on its side in the crimson stained snow. Just a head. He immediately recognised it as Kenskei Rheenovsky, his most trusted agent in the field. Despite his military training and years of soul hardening war operations, his heart sank at the sight.
The head was resting on its left ear, about a quarter of the way sunk into the snow. The one visible eye was open wide and staring out into the Antarctic wastes, as if longing to be home. Ken's right ear and most of his right temple were torn off of his skull and holding from a flab of skin at the base of his jaw line. He looked like a half peeled blood orange. The Colonel thought he could see some kind of shrapnel embedded in the head, but he couldn't begein to tell what it might have been.
"Bag his remains for return to the Tchaikovsky. His duty to Mother Russia here in this barren wasteland will not be forgotten. A proper funeral awaits our comrade back home." The Colonel also knew that many a military scientist would like to examine the brain of Rheenovsky to investigate his unusually high restistance to mental influence. Combined with Donahue's work he had stolen and transmitted to them, there were likely many applications that could be found with the information gained.
Minutes later, as the squad was making final preparations for the trek back to their sub, a group of armed humanoid creatures appeared about a hundred yards away from the blazing ruins. Before the Colonel or any of his men could process what they were seeing, the things opened fire on them. Three of the men were instantly sublimated into a fine cloud of pink particles. Luckily Samsonov wasn't one of them.
"Samsonov, full retreat! Genkin, Ivanishin, switch to full auto! Fire at will to cover us! Back to the Tchaikovsky!!!" The Colonel had to scream at the top of his lungs to be heard over the cacophony of weapons fire around him and his squad. The sound of gun fire and explosives was deafening, but it was made worse by the sound the creatures' weapons fire made when it vaporized the snow it came into contact with. It sounded even worse when the beams hit flesh...
---
+What are you doing!? Those are my allies!+ Donague watched helplessly as his extra terrestrial saviours began vaporizing his only remaining human cohorts.
+Quiet Doctor! These humans know not with what they are tampering. We still sense some essence of Xyctexyct nearby. All trace of him must be extinguished, for the good of your race.+
Donahue could faintly hear the sound of a helicopter far overhead and began to wish he was on board. The Russians were being minced before his eyes and with them went his only chance at completing his work. He doubted the aliens would stick around to enlighten him any further once the threat of Xyctexyct was dealt with.
Looking up, he saw the helicopter he had heard moments before, except it was now silent and beginning to list alarmingly. The engines had failed and the vehicle was now in a free fall. Realizing what was happening, Donahue began to run away from the battle as fast as he could. He knew it wouldn't be fast enough.
---
"Samsonov! Run! Get on that snowmobile and get the fuck off this god forsaken continent! Ru-" The Colonel's orders were cut off as 3 separate finely collimated beams of energy pierced his torso and neck, causing him to detonate and fly apart like a pinata hit by a 12 gauge.
Samsonov couldn't help but stare at his long time superior and mentor's demise. As he registered what had happened and prepared to act on his commander's final orders, he saw a large object plummeting from the sky toward his aggressors.
The Bell 212 chopper hit the hard packed snow like a meteor, the bulk of it's now flaming mass bouncing once and hurtling straight into the group of beings firing at the now one-man Russian squad. The creatures were instantly mulched by the momentum of the vehicle, main rotor still spinning wildly and sending various body parts flying through the air in all directions.
As the flaming wreckage came to rest, Samsonov stood agape, unable to come to terms with his luck. After several seconds, he regained his wits, hoisted the pack containing Kenskei's head onto his shoulder and jogged over to the snowmobile.
Thirty minutes later, Samsonov let out a long sigh of relief as the hatch of the Tchaikovsky closed above him and he was admitted back into his vessel. He'd never been so happy to be confined in its cramped inner spaces before this moment. He was now the commanding officer of the sub, and as such would have to make his way to the bridge with haste to command their retreat from the bay and long trip home.
Before doing that he made his way to the galley, ignoring the men staring at his blood spattered snow-camo outfit. Once there, he threw open the door to the walk-in freezer and threw in the pack he was carrying. He knew the scientists back home would want to take a look at the remains it contained. He would make sure the Colonel and the rest of his squad's demise would not be in vain.
The door to the freezer made a dull thunk as Samsonov slammed it shut. In the darkness, the canvas sack sitting in between two sides of beef shuddered. A single chitinous claw emerged from the drawstring tightened opening at the top of the bag and dug into the frost lining the shelf it sat on. A second claw appeared, spreading and opening the bag, revealing the head of Kenskei Rheenovsky supported on insectile limbs protruding from its neck. Its eyes were pure blackness. Its jaw opened, distended at an odd angle, produced mandible like protrusions and began to emit a bone chilling string of sounds...
"Xyctexyct will riiiissssssse again... Ksst-ksst-ksst-ksst-ksst-kssssssssst!!!"
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