Halo: First Strike

by Eric S. Nylund

  This last person was a woman, and she wore the flight-suit of a pilot. Her dirty blond hair was tucked into a cap. She saluted the Chief. "Petty Warrant Officer Polaski, requesting permission to come aboard, Master Chief."

  "Granted," he said and returned her salute.

  Stenciled onto her coveralls was a flaming fist over a red bull's-eye, the insignia of the Twenty-third Naval Air Squadron. Although the Chief had never met Polaski, she was from the same chalk as Captain Carol Rawley, callsign "Foehammer." If Polaski was anything like Foehammer, she would be a skilled and fearless pilot.

  "So what's the story?" Locklear demanded. "We got something to shoot here?"

  "At ease, Marine," the Sergeant growled. "Use that stuffing between your ears for something besides keeping your helmet on. Notice we're not floating? Feel those gee forces? This ship is in a slingshot orbit. We're coming around the moon for another crack at the Covenant."

  "That's correct," the Chief said.

  "Our first priority should be to escape," Haverson said and his thin brows knitted in frustration, "not to blindly engage the Covenant. We have valuable intelligence on the enemy, and on Halo. Our first priority should be to reach UNSC-controlled space."

  "That was my intention, sir," the Chief replied. "But neither this Longsword nor your Pelican is equipped with Shaw-Fujikawa engines. Without a jump to Slipspace, it would take years to return."

  Haverson sighed. "That does limit our options, doesn't it?" He turned his back to the Chief and paced, deep in thought.

  The Master Chief respected the chain of command, wnich meant that he had to obey Lieutenant Haverson. But, officer or not, the Spartan had never liked it when people turned their backs to him. And he certainly didn't like the way Haverson assumed he was in charge.

  The Chief had already gotten his orders, and he intended to follow them—whether or not Haverson approved.

  "Pardon me, sir," the Chief said. "I must point out that while you are the ranking officer, I am on a classified mission of the highest priority. My orders come directly from High Command."

  "Meaning?" "Meaning," John continued, "I have tactical command of this crew, these ships. . . and you. Sir."

  Haverson turned, his expression dark. The Lieutenant's mouth opened as if he were going to say something. He closed his mouth and looked the Chief over. A faint smile flickered over his thin lips. "Of course. I am well aware of your mission, Chief. I'll do anything I can to assist."

  He knew about the Spartan's original mission to capture a Covenant Prophet? What was an ONI officer doing here anyway?

  "So what's the plan?" Locklear asked. "Slingshot orbit—then what? We just going to talk all day, Chief?"

  "No," the Chief replied.

  He glanced at Polaski and the Sergeant. He could count on her, and though he was suspicious of exactly how Sergeant Johnson had avoided falling to the Flood, he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Haverson? He wouldn't trust him, but the man knew what was at stake, and he wouldn't interfere. Probably. Locklear was another story, though.

  The ODST was coiled and ready to pounce ... or come apart like an antipersonnel mine. Some men broke under pressure and wouldn't fight. Some snapped and disregarded their own and their team's safety for blind revenge. Add that to the Helljumper's fierce pride and one had a volatile mix. The Chief had to establish his authority over the man.

  "Get onto the Pelican," the Chief told him. "We only have a few minutes while we're on the far side of this moon. Grab anything we can use: extra weapons, ammunition, grenades. Keep linked up to my COM so you can hear the briefing."

  Locklear stood there, glared into the Chief's faceplate, and tensed.

  Sergeant Johnson opened his mouth, but the Chief made a subtle cutting gesture with his hand. The Sergeant kept whatever he had to say to himself.

  The Master Chief took a step closer to Locklear. "Was my order unclear, Corporal?"

  Locklear swallowed. The blue fire in his eyes dulled and he looked away. "No." His body slumped and he shouldered his rifle, accepting, for now, the Master Chief's authority. "I'm on it, Master Chief." He went to the hatch and dropped into the Pelican.

  To say this team was mismatched for a high-risk insertion op was an understatement.

  "So how do we get a Shaw-Fujikawa drive?" Polaski asked.

  "We don't," John replied. "But we go after the next best thing." He moved to the ops consol and tapped the display. The scan of the Covenant flagship appeared on the viewscreen. "This is our objective."

  Haverson frowned. "Chief, if we approach that ship we'll be blown out of the sky before we can even think about engaging them."

  "Normally, yes," the Chief replied. "But we're going to rig the Pelican as a fireship—we load it with Moray mines and send it out ahead of us. We'll have to remote-pilot the Pelican, but it can be accelerated past the point where a crew would black out. It'll draw enemy fire, drop a few mines, and let us slip by."

  Polaski's expression hardened into a frown.

  "There a problem, Warrant Officer?"

  "No, Master Chief. I just hate to lose a good ship. That bird got us off Halo in one piece."

  He understood. Pilots got attached to their ships. They gave them names and human personalities. The Chief, however, never fell into that trap; he had long ago learned that any equipment was expendable. Except, maybe, Cortana.

  "So we get close to the flagship," Haverson said and crossed his arms over his chest. "Are we going nose to nose with a ship with a thousand times our firepower? Or are you planning another flyby?"

  "Neither." The Chief pointed to the flagship's fighter launch bay. "That's our LZ."

  Polaski squinted at the comparatively tiny opening in the belly of the flagship. "That's a hell of a window to hit coming in this fast, but"—she bit her lower lip, calculating—"technically possible in a Longsword."

  "They'll launch Seraph fighters to engage the Pelican and the Longsword," the Chief said, "and to do that, they'll have to drop that section of their shields. We get in, neutralize the crew, and we have a ship with Slipspace capability."

  "Rock 'n' roll!" Locklear yelled over the COM. "Penetrate and annihilate!"

  Sergeant Johnson chewed on his cigar as he considered the plan.

  "No one has ever captured a Covenant ship," Haverson whispered. "The few times we've had one of them beaten and in a position to surrender, they've self-destructed."

  "There's no choice," the Chief said. He looked over Polaski, Johnson, and finally Haverson. "Unless anyone has a better plan?"

  They were silent.

  "Anything to add, Cortana?" he asked.

  "Our exit orbit burn leaves us low on fuel and traveling at high velocity on an intercept course with the flagship. There are overlapping fields of enemy fire on our approach vector. We have to decelerate and dodge simultaneously. That will be tricky."

  "Polaski will be on that." The Chief turned to her.

  "Pilot a Longsword?" Polaski slowly nodded, and there was a gleam in her green eyes that hadn't been there a second ago. "It's been a while, but yes, Master Chief. I am one hundred and ten percent on it." She moved to the pilot's seat and strapped herself in.

  "With all due respect to Miss Polaski's skill," Cortana said, "allow me to point out that I process information a million times faster and—"

  "I need you to link with the flagship's intraship battlenet," the Chief cut in. "When we're close you'll need to shut down its weapons. Jam its communications."

  "Sending an unescorted lady ahead to do your dirty work?" Cortana sighed. "I suppose I'm the only one who can."

  "Lieutenant Haverson," the Chief said, "I'll need you to program the Moray mines to release and attach onto the Pelican before we exit this orbit. Set half for detonation on impact. Program the rest to detach and track any enemy ship on our approach."

  Haverson nodded and settled into the ops station next to Polaski.

  Two crates and a duffel pushed through the open access tun
nel to the Pelican. Locklear emerged from the opening and sealed the hatch. "That's it, Chief," he said. "An HE Pistol, two extra MA5Bs, one M90 Close Assault Shotgun, and a crate or so of frag grenades. About a dozen clips for the rifles—only a few shells for the shotgun, though."

  The Chief took four grenades and a half dozen clips for his assault rifle. He ejected his weapon's nearly spent magazine and slapped a full one into place with a satisfying clack.

  The Sergeant grabbed ammo, an MA5B, and three grenades.

  "Orbital exit burn in ten seconds," Polaski said.

  "Dog the rest of that," the Chief told Locklear. "And brace yourself."

  Locklear secured the collection of weapons and ordnance in a duffel bag, looped it around his neck, and then found a hand-hold. Sergeant Johnson leaned against the cryopods. The Master Chief grabbed the bulkhead.

  "Releasing Pelican," Polaski said. There was a thump from beneath the hull. "Pelican away."

  "Pelican autopilot programmed," Cortana said.

  "Moray mines attached and armed," Haverson added.

  Polaski said, "Exit burn in three... two... one. Burn!"

  The Longsword's engine roared to life, the hull creaked with stress, and everyone leaned against the acceleration.

  The Pelican pulled ahead, rounded the horizon of the moon first, and arced back into the debris field. As the Longsword followed, the light struck the surface of the moon just right and the Chief saw meteors rain upon the planetoid, leaving craters and tiny puffs of dust as they impacted.

  Polaski snapped the display port camera centered on the Covenant cruisers. "They were waiting for us," she cried. "Evasive maneuvers." The Pelican rolled to starboard. "Accelerating to the flagsh—"

  The flagship was close. Too close. It must have anticipated their orbital trajectory. But it hadn't counted on them turning straight toward it. If they hadn't, the flagship would have been in a perfect perpendicular firing position.

  "Pelican now two hundred kilometers in the lead," Polaski said. The bulky craft drew fire from the cruisers. Smoke trailed from its hull, and bits of the empty ship were vaporized. "Mines away," Haverson announced. "Plugging coordinates and trajectories into NAV, Polaski. Don't run them over."

  "Roger," she said. "Hang on—we're going in."

  "I hate this crap," Locklear muttered. "Ships shooting each other, fire so thick you could walk on it to the LZ, and me sittin' here not able to do a damn thing but hang on and wonder when I'm going to get blown up."

  The Chief said nothing, but he agreed. Despite the ODST's foul disposition, he shared his uneasiness with space combat.

  "Amen," Sergeant Johnson added. "Now shut up and let the lady drive." He removed a mission record unit from his pocket and inserted a chip. The screen blanked; a rhythmic cacophony blasted from its single tiny speaker.

  The Chief recognized the sound as "flip" music—a descendant of some centuries-old noise called "metal." The Sarge had peculiar tastes, to say the least.

  "Just shoot me now, Sarge," Locklear protested, "and get it over with. Don't torture me with that crap first."

  "Suck it up, Marine. This is a classic."

  "So's a mercy killing."

  Polaski continued to evade, and the Longsword rolled and jinked port and starboard. She sent the ship into a double barrel roll'to dodge a plasma torpedo fired from the flagship.

  "Show-off," Cortana muttered in the Chief's helmet speaker.

  "Connecting to the Covenant battlenet," Cortana announced

  over the ship COM. "Accessing their weapons systems. Stand by."

  Ahead, the Pelican intercepted a second torpedo and burst into flames, vaporized, and smeared across the night as a cloud of sparkling ionized metal.

  The flagship appeared on the forward viewscreen—no larger than a dinner plate. "No more time to play around," Polaski muttered. She hit the afterburners and rocketed toward the flagship.

  The sudden acceleration sent the Chief and Sergeant Johnson bouncing to the aft of the Longsword. Locklear still hung on to the frame, now nearly horizontal.

  "There is now insufficient distance to decelerate and make a soft landing inside the flagship launch bay," Cortana warned.

  "Really?" Polaski replied, irritated. "No wonder they call you 'smart' AIs." She tugged her cap lower over her eyes. "I'll do the flying. You concentrate on getting those weapons offline."

  "They're launching fighters," Haverson warned. On the viewscreen the Covenant flagship now filled half the display, and six Seraph fighters emerged from the belly of the massive ship. "I've still got active signals from twenty of the Moray mines.

  Their momentum is carrying them within range. Tracking . .. locked on . . . maneuvering." Tiny puffs of fire overlapped the teardrop-shaped Seraph fighters as they exploded. Haverson laughed. "Bull's-eye!"

  "Forward weapons systems and shields are disabled," Cortana said. "The doors are open," Polaski murmured. "We're invited in. It'd be damn impolite to say no."

  The flagship filled the display.

  "Collision imminent," Cortana warned.

  Sergeant Johnson got to his feet. The Chief knew better and stayed where he was on the deck. He grabbed on to the Sergeant's leg.

  Polaski cut the engines and hit the maneuvering thrusters. The Longsword spun 180 degrees. With the ship now pointed backward, she pushed the throttle to maximum, and the engines thundered in full overload. The hull strained against the sudden reverse deceleration.

  The Chief hung on to the floor with one hand; with the other he held on to the Sergeant and kept him from flying across the ship.

  Polaski changed the viewscreen to a spilt view—fore and aft. She maneuvered with the ship's thrusters, adjusting their approach to the launch bay opening. Onscreen the small opening grew larger alarmingly fast. "Hang on—hang on!"

  The engines whined and the ship slowed... but it wasn't going to be enough.

  They entered the launch bay at three hundred meters per second. Flames from the Longsword's engines washed over Grunt technicians as they vainly attempted to scramble out of the way. Their methane-filled atmosphere tanks popped like firecrackers.

  Polaski cut the power. The ship slammed into the wall. The Master Chief, Sergeant Johnson, and Locklear crashed into the pilot's and ops seats in a heap.

  Grunts approached the ship with plasma pistols drawn, the weapons glowing green as the aliens overcharged them. Covenant Engineers struggled to put out fires and repair burst conduits.

  "Shield reenergizing in place over the launch bay," Cortana announced. "External atmosphere stabilizing. Please feel free to get up and move around the cabin."

  Locklear scrambled to his feet. "Yeah!" he whooped. The young Helljumper yanked his MA5B's charging lever and racked a round into the chamber. "Let's rock!"

  "Good work, people," the Chief said, standing. He readied his own assault rifle. "But that was just the easy part."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1750 hours, September 22,2552 (Military Calendar) Aboard unidentified Covenant flagship, uncharted system, Halo debris field.

  Plasma bolts impacted on the Longsword's hull and splashed across the windshield. The packets of glowing energy sizzled across the cockpit and etched cloudy, molten trails into the glass.

  A legion of Grunts hunkered behind docked Seraph fighters and fuel pods. Some darted in and out of cover and fired ghostly green blobs of plasma at the Longsword.

  "I got 'em," Polaski said and flipped a switch.

  The Longsword's landing gear deployed and raised the craft a meter off the floor. "Guns clear," Polaski announced. " 'Bye, boys."

  She brought up a targeting reticle and swept it around the bay. A hail of 120mm rounds tore through the Grunts' cover. Fuel pods and unshielded fighters detonated and sent metal fragments and alien soldiers hurtling to the deck. The air exploded into roiling flame, which billowed toward the ceiling and then subsided. Pools of burning fuel and the charred bodies of Grunts and Covenant Engineers littered the launch bay.
r />   "Fire suppression system activating," Cortana said.

  Jets of gray mist blew down from above. The fires intensified for a moment, then guttered and went out. "Is there atmosphere in the bay?" the Chief asked. "Scanning," Cortana replied. "Traces of ash, some contami

  nation from the melted ship hulls, and a lot of smoke, but the air in the bay is breathable, Chief."

  "Good." He turned to the others. "We're going in. I'll lead. Locklear, you're up with me. Sergeant, you've got the rear."

  "You'll need to take me, too," Cortana said. "I've pulled a schematic of this ship to navigate, but the engineering controls have been manually locked down. I'll need direct access to this ship's command data systems."

  The Chief hesitated. His armor allowed an AI like Cortana to tag along stored in a special crystal layer. On Halo, Cortana had been an invaluable tactical asset.

  Still, she also used part of his armor's neural interface for processing purposes, literally harnessing parts of the Chief's brain. And after coming out of Halo's computer system, she'd been acting... twitchy.

  He put his discomfort aside. If Cortana turned into a liability, he'd pull the plug.

  "Stand by," he said. He punched a key on the computer terminal and dumped Cortana to a data chip. A moment later the terminal pulsed green.

  He removed the chip and slotted it in the back of his helmet. There was a moment of vertigo, and then the familiar mercury-and-ice sensation flooded his skull as Cortana interfaced.

  "Still plenty of room in here, I see," she said. He ignored her customary quip and nodded at Johnson and Locklear. "Let's go."

  Sergeant Johnson hit the door release, and the side hatch slid open. Locklear shouldered his rifle and poured fire through the opening. A pair of Grunts who had crouched near the Longsword to protect themselves from the fire flew backward onto the deck. Phosphorescent blood pooled beneath their prone forms.

  The Chief dived through the open hatch and rolled to his feet; his motion tracker picked up three targets to his side. He whirled about and saw a trio of Covenant Engineers. He removed his finger from the weapon's trigger. Engineers were no threat.