0600 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) /Sigma Octanus IV, grid thirteen by twenty-four“Faster!” Corporal Harland shouted. “You want to die in the mud, Marine?”
“Hell no, sir!” Private Fincher stomped on the accelerator and the Warthog’s tires spun in the streambed.
They caught, and the vehicle fishtailed through the gravel, across the bank, and onto the sandy shore.
Harland strapped himself into the rear of the Warthog, one hand clamped onto the vehicle’s massive50mm chain-gun.
Something moved in the brush behind them—Harland fired a sustained burst. The deafening sound from“Old Faithful” shook the teeth in his head. Ferns, trees, and vines exploded and splintered as the gunfirescythed through the foliage . . . then nothing was moving anymore.
Fincher sent the Warthog bouncing along the shore, his head bobbing from side to side as he strained tosee through the downpour. “We’re sitting ducks in here, Corporal,” Fincher yelled. “We have to get outof this hole and back onto the ridge, sir.”
Corporal Harland looked for a way out of this river gorge. “Walker!” He shook Private Walker in thepassenger seat, but Walker didn’t respond. He clutched their last Jackhammer rocket launcher with adeath grip, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Walker hadn’t said a word since this mission went south.
Harland hoped he would snap out of it. He already had one man down. The last thing he needed was forhis heavy-weapons specialist to be a brain case.
Private Cochran lay at the Corporal’s feet, cradling his gut with blood-smeared hands. He’d caught fireduring the ambush. The aliens used some kind of projectile weapon that fired long, thin needles—whichexploded seconds after impact.
Cochran’s insides were meat. Walker and Fincher had filled him up with biofoam and taped him up—they even managed to stop the bleeding—but if the man didn’t get to a medic soon, he was a goner.
They had all almost been goners.
The squad had left Firebase Bravo two hours ago. Satellite images showed the way was all clear to theirtarget area. Lieutenant McCasky had even said it was a “milk run”. They were supposed to set upmotion sensors on grid thirteen by twenty-four—just see what was there and get back. “A simple snoopjob,” the ell-tee had called it.
What no one told McCasky was that the satellites weren’t penetrating the rain and jungle canopy of thisswampball too well. If the Lieutenant had thought about it—like Corporal Harland was thinking about itnow—he would have figured something was wrong with sending three squads on a “milk run.”
The squad wasn’t green. Corporal Harland and the others had fought the Covenant before. They knewhow to kill Grunts—when they massed by the hundreds, they knew to call in air support. They’d eventaken down a few of the Covenant Jackals, the ones with energy shields. You had to flank those guys—take them out with snipers.
But none of that had prepared them for this mission.
They had done all the right things, damn it. The Lieutenant had even gotten their Warthogs five klicksdown the streambed before the terrain became too steep and slippery for the all-terrain armored vehicles.
He had the men hump the rest of the way in on foot. They moved soft and silent, almost crawling allthey way through the slime to the depression they were supposed to check out.
When they had gotten to the place, it wasn’t just another mud-filled sinkhole. A waterfall splashed into agrotto pool. Arches had been carved into the wall, their edges extremely weathered. There were a fewscattered paving stones around the pool . . . and covering those stones were tiny geometric carvings.
That’s all Corporal Harland got a look at before the Lieutenant ordered him and his team to fall back. Hewanted them to set up the motion sensors where they had a clear line of sight to the sky.
That’s probably why they were still alive.
The blast had knocked Harland and his team into the mud. They ran to where they had left the Lieutenant—found fused glassy mud, a crater, and a few burning corpses and bits of carbonized skeleton.
They saw one other thing—an outline in the mist. It was biped, but much larger than any human Harlandhad ever seen. And oddly, it looked like it was wearing armor reminiscent of medieval plate mail; iteven carried a large, strangely shaped metal shield.
Harland saw the glow of a regenerating plasma weapon . . . and that’s all he needed to see to order a fullspeed retreat.
Harland, Walker, Cochran, and Fincher fell back, running—blindly firing their assault rifles.
Covenant Grunts had followed them, peppering the air with those needle guns, mowing down the jungleas the tiny razor shards exploded.
Harland and the others stopped and hit the deck, splashing into the thick, red mud, as a CovenantBanshee passed them overhead.
When they got back on their feet, Cochran took the round in the stomach. The Grunts had caught up tothem. Cochran flinched, his side exploded, and then he crumpled to the ground. He fell into shock sofast he didn’t even have time to scream.
Harland, Fincher, and Walker hunkered down and returned fire. They killed a dozen of the littlebastards, but more kept coming, their barks and growls echoing through the jungle.
“Cease fire,” the Corporal had ordered. He waited a second, then tossed a grenade when the Grunts gotcloser.
Their ears still ringing, they ran, dragging Cochran with them, and not looking back.
Somehow they had returned to the Warthog, and gotten the hell out of there . . . or, at least, that’s whatthey were trying to do.
“Over there,” Fincher said, and pointed to a clearing in the trees. “That’s got to lead up to the ridge.”
“Go,” Harland said.
The Warthog slid sideways then raced up the embankment, caught air, and landed on soft jungle loam.
Fincher dodged a few trees and ran the Warthog up the slope. They emerged on the ridgeline.
“Jesus, that was close,” Harland said. He ran a muddy hand through his hair, slicking it back.
He tapped Fincher on the shoulder. Fincher jumped. “Private, pull over. Try to raise Firebase Bravo onthe narrow band.”
“Yes, sir,” Fincher answered in a wavering voice. He glanced at the near-catatonic Private Walker andshook his head.
Harland checked on Cochran. Private Cochran’s eyes fluttered open, cracking the mud caked onto hisface. “We back yet, Corporal?”
“Almost,” Harland replied. Cochran’s pulse was steady, although his face had, in the last severalminutes, drained of color. The wounded man looked like a corpse.Damn it, Harland thought,he’s goingto bleed out .
Harland placed a reassuring hand on Cochran’s shoulder. “Hang in there. We’ll patch you up as soon aswe get to camp.”
They had dropships at Bravo. Cochran had a chance, albeit a slim one, if they got him back to thecombat surgeons at headquarters—or better yet, to the Navy docs on the orbiting ships. For a momentHarland was dazzled with visions of clean sheets, hot meals—and a meter of armor between him and theCovenant.
“Nothing but static on the link, sir,” Fincher said, breaking through Harland’s reverie.
“Maybe the radio got hit,” Harland muttered. “You know those explosive needles throw a bunch ofmicroshrapnel. We probably got slivers of that stuff inside us, too.”
Fincher examined his muscular forearms. “Great.”
“Move out,” Harland said.
The tires of the Warthog spun, gripped, and the vehicle moved rapidly along the ridge.
The terrain looked familiar. Harland even spotted three sets of Warthog tracks—yes, this was the waythe Lieutenant had brought them. Ten minutes and they’d be back on base. No more worries. He relaxed,took out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one out. He pulled off the safety strip and tapped the end toignite it.
Fincher revved the engine and shot up to the top of the ridge—crossed over, and skidded to halt.
If not for the haze, they would have seen everything from this side of the valley—the lush carpet ofjungle in the valley, the river meandering through it, and on the far set of hills, a clearing dotted withfixed gun emplacements, razor wire, and pre-fab structures: Firebase Bravo.
Their platoon had partially dug into the hillside to minimize the camp’s footprint and provide a placewhere they could safely store their munitions and bunk down. A ring of sensors encircled the camp sonothing could sneak up on them. Radar and motion detectors linked to surface-to-air missile batteries. Aroad ran along the far ridge—three klicks down that was the coastal city, C.te d’Azur.
The sun broke through the haze overhead, and Corporal Harland saw everything had changed.
It wasn’t fog or haze. Smoke rose in columns from the valley . . . and there was no more jungle.
Everything had been burned to the ground. The entire valley was blackened into smoldering charcoal.
Glowing red craters honeycombed the hillsides.
He fumbled with his binoculars, brought them to his eyes . . . and froze. The hill where the camp hadbeen was gone—it had been flattened. Only a mirror surface remained. The sides of the adjacent hillsglistened with a cracked glass coating. The air was thick with tiny Covenant fliers in the distance. On theground, Grunts and Jackals searched for survivors. A few Marines ran for cover . . . there were hundredsof wounded and dead on the ground, helpless, screaming—some of them trying to crawl away.
“What have you got, sir?” Fincher asked.
The cigarette fell from Harland’s mouth and caught on his shirt—but he didn’t take his eyes off thebattlefield to brush it away.
“There’s nothing left,” he whispered.
A shape moved in the valley—much larger than the other Grunts and Jackals. Its outline was blurry.
Harland tried to focus the binoculars on it but couldn’t. It was the same thing he had seen at grid thirteenby twenty-four. The Grunts gave it a wide berth. The thing lifted its arm—its whole arm looked like onebig gun—and a bolt of plasma struck near the riverbank.
Even from this distance, Harland heard the screams of the men who had been hiding there.
“Jesus.” He dropped the binoculars. “We’re bugging out, right now!” he said. “Turn this beast around,Fincher.”
“But—”
“They’re gone,” Harland whispered. “They’re all dead.”
Walker whimpered and rocked back and forth.
“We’ll be dead, too, unless you move,” Harland said. “We already got lucky once today. Let’s not pushit.”
“Yeah.” Fincher reversed the Warthog. “Yeah, some luck.”
He sped back down the hillside and hopped the Warthog off the embankment and back into thestreambed.
“Follow the river,” Harland told him. “It’ll take us all the way to HQ.”
A shadow crossed their path. Harland twisted around and saw a pair of stubby-winged CovenantBanshees swooping down after them.
“Move it!” he screamed at Fincher.
Fincher floored the Warthog and plumes of water sprayed in their wake. They bounced over rocks andfishtailed across the stream.
Bolts of plasma hit the water next to them—exploding into steam. Rock shards pinged off the armoredside of the vehicle.
“Walker!” Harland shouted. “Use those Jackhammers.”
Walker huddled, doubled over in his seat.
Harland fired the chain-gun. Tracers cut through the air. The fliers nimbly dodged them. The heavymachine gun was only accurate at reasonably short ranges—and not even that with Fincher bouncing theWarthog all over the place.
“Walker!” he cried. “We are gonna die if you don’t get those missiles into the air!”
He would have ordered Fincher to grab the launcher—but he’d have to stop to grab it . . . that, or try todrive with no hands. If the Warthog stopped, they’d be sitting ducks for those fliers.
Harland glanced at the riverbanks. They were too steep for the Warthog. They were stuck in the riverwith no cover.
“Walker, do something!”
Corporal Harland fired the chain-gun again until his arms went numb. It was no good; the Bansheeswere too far away, too quick.
Another plasma bolt hit—directly in front of the Warthog. Heat washed over Harland. Blisterspinpricked his back.
He screamed but kept shooting. If they hadn’t been in water, that plasma would have melted the tires . . .
probably would have flash-fried them all.
A burst of heat and a plume of smoke erupted next to Harland.
For a split second he thought the Covenant gunners had found their mark—that he was dead. Hescreamed incoherently, his thumbs jamming down the chain-gun’s trigger buttons.
The Banshee he was aiming at flashed, and then became a ball of flame and falling shrapnel.
He turned, his breath hitching in his chest. They hadn’t been hit.
Cochran knelt next to him. One arm clutched his stomach, and the other arm hefted the Jackhammerlauncher on his shoulder. He smiled with bloodstained lips and pivoted to track the other flier.
Harland ducked, and another missile whooshed directly over his head.
Cochran laughed, coughing up blood and foam. Tears of mirth or pain—Harland couldn’t tell—streamedfrom his eyes. He collapsed backward, and let the smoldering launcher slip from his hand.
The second Banshee exploded and spiraled into the jungle.
“Two more klicks,” Fincher shouted. “Hang on.” He cranked the wheel and the Warthog swerved out ofthe streambed and bounced up the hillside, up and over, and they slid onto a paved road.
Harland leaned over and felt Cochran’s neck for a pulse. It was there, weak; but he was still alive.
Harland glanced at Walker. He hadn’t moved, his eyes squeezed shut.
Harland’s first impulse was to shoot him right then and there—the goddamned, goldbricking, cowardlybastard almost cost them all their lives—No. Harland was half amazed he hadn’t frozen up, too.
HQ was ahead. But Corporal Harland’s stomach sank as he saw smoke and flames blazing on thehorizon.
They passed the first armed checkpoint. The guardhouse and bunkers had been blasted away, and in themud were thousands of Grunt tracks.
Farther back, he saw a circle of sandbags around a house-size chunk of granite. Two Marines waved tothem. As they approached in the Warthog, the Marines stood and saluted.
Harland jumped off and returned their salute.
One of the Marines had a patch over his eye and his head was bandaged. Soot streaked his face. “Jesus,sir,” he said. “It’s good to see you guys.” He approached the Warthog. “You’ve got a working radio inthat thing?”
“I—I’m not sure,” Corporal Harland said. “Who’s in charge here? What happened?”
“Covenant hit us hard, sir. They had tanks, air support—thousands of those little Grunt guys. Theyglassed the main barracks. The Command Office. Almost got the munitions bunker.” He looked awayfor a moment and his one eye glazed over. “We pulled it together and fought ’em off, though. That wasan hour ago. I think we killed everything. I’m not sure.”
“Who’s in charge, Private? I have a critically wounded man. He needs evac, and I have to make myreport.”
The Private shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The hospital was the first thing they hit. As far as who’s incommand . . . I think you’re the ranking officer here.”
“Great,” Harland muttered.
“We’ve got five guys back there.” The Private jerked his head toward the columns of smoke andwavering heat in the distance. “They’re in fire-fighting suits to keep from burning up. They’rerecovering weapons and ammo.”
“Understood,” Harland said. “Fincher, try the radio again. See if you can link up to SATCOM. Call infor an evac.”
“Roger that,” Fincher said.
The wounded Private asked Harland, “Can we get help from Firebase Bravo, sir?”
“No,” Harland said. “They got hit, too. There’s Covenant all over the place.”
The Private slumped, bracing himself with his rifle.
Fincher handed Harland the radio headset. “Sir, SATCOM is good. I’ve got theLeviathan on the horn.”
“This is Corporal Harland.” He spoke into the microphone. “The Covenant has hit Firebase Bravo andAlpha HQ . . . and wiped them out. We’ve repelled the enemy from Alpha site, but our casualties havebeen nearly one hundred percent. We have wounded here. We need immediate evac. Say again: we needevac on the double.”
“Roger, Corporal. Your situation is understood. Evac is not possible at this time. We’ve got problems ofour own up here—”There was a burst of static. The voice came back online.“Help is on the way.”
The channel went dead.
Harland looked to Fincher. “Check the transceiver.”
Fincher ran the diagnostic. “It’s working,” he said. “I’m getting a ping from SATCOM.” He licked hislips. “The trouble must be on their end.”
Harland didn’t want to think of what kind of trouble the fleet could be having. He’d seen too manyplanets glassed from orbit. He didn’t want to die here—not like that.
He turned to the men in the bunker. “They said help is on the way. So relax.” He looked into the sky andwhispered, “They better send a whole regiment down here.”
A handful of other Marines returned to the bunker. They had salvaged ammunition, extra rifles, a crateof frag grenades, and a few Jackhammer missiles. Fincher took the Warthog and a few men to see if hecould transport the heavier weapons.
They filled Cochran with more biofoam and bandaged him up. He slipped into a coma.
They hunkered down inside the bunker and waited. They heard explosions at an extreme distance.
Walker finally spoke. “So . . . now what, sir?”
Harland didn’t turn toward the man. He covered Cochran with another blanket. “I don’t know. Can youfight?”
“I think so.”
He passed Walker a rifle. “Good. Get up there and stand watch.” He got out a cigarette, lit it, took a puff,and then handed it to Walker.
Walker took it, shakily stood, and went outside.
“Sir!” he said. “Dropship inbound. One of ours!”
Harland grabbed his signal flares. He ran outside and squinted at the horizon. High on the edge of thedarkening sky was a dot, and the unmistakable roar of Pelican engines. He pulled the pin and tossed thesmoker onto the ground. A moment later, thick clouds of green smoke roiled into the sky.
The dropship turned rapidly and descended toward their location.
Harland shielded his eyes. He searched for the rest of the dropships. There was only one.
“Onedropship?” Walker whispered. “That’s all they sent? Christ, that’s not backup—that’s a burialdetail.”
The Pelican eased toward the ground, spattering mud in a ten-meter radius, then touched down. Thelaunch ramp fell open and a dozen figures marched out.
For a moment Harland thought they were the same creatures he had seen earlier—armored and biggerthan any human he’d ever laid eyes on. He froze—he couldn’t have raised his gun if he had wanted to.
They were human, though. The one in the lead stood over two meters tall and looked like he weighedtwo hundred kilograms. His armor was a strange reflective green alloy, and underneath matte black.
Their motions were so fluid and graceful—fast and precise, too. More like robots than flesh and blood.
The one that first stepped off the ship strode toward him. Though his armor was devoid of insignia,Harland could see the insignia of a Master Chief Petty Officer in his helmet’s HUD.
“Master Chief, sir!” Harland snapped to attention and saluted.
“Corporal,” it said. “At ease. Get your men together and we’ll get to work.”
“Sir?” Harland asked. “I’ve got a lot of wounded here. What work will we be doing, sir?”
The Master Chief’s helmet cocked quizzically to one side. “We’ve come to take Sigma Octanus Fourback from the Covenant, Corporal,” he said calmly. “To do that, we’re going to kill every last one ofthem.”