Halo. Flood

by William C. Dietz

  There wasn’t any natural cover here, so the Helljumpers moved their gear up onto a low rise, and did what they could to place fortifications around it. Dirt excavated from the firing pits was used to build a low barrier around the battalion’s perimeter, connecting trenches were dug, and a landing pad was established so that Pelicans could put down within the battalion’s footprint.

  Now, standing at the very highest point of the pad, and gazing off to the west, Silva listened as Wellsley spoke into his ear. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is that Lieutenant McKay has started her climb. The bad news is that the Covenant is about to attack from the west.”

  Silva lowered his glasses, turned, and looked to the west. An enormous dust cloud had appeared during the five minutes that had passed since he looked that way. “What kind of attack?” the ODST officer demanded curtly.

  “That’s rather difficult to say,” Wellsley replied deliberately, “especially without the ships, satellites, and recon drones that I normally rely on for information. However, judging from the amount of dust, plus my knowledge of the Covenant weapons inventory, it looks like an old-fashioned cavalry charge similar to the one that Napoleon threw my way at Waterloo.”

  “You weren’t at Waterloo,” Silva reminded the AI as he brought the binoculars up to his eyes. “But, assuming you’re correct, what are they riding?”

  “Rapid attack and reconnaissance vehicles—Ghosts,” Wellsley replied pedantically. “Perhaps a hundred of these Ghosts . . . judging from the dust.”

  Silva swore. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The Covenant had to respond to his presence, he knew that, but he had hoped for a little more time. Now, with fully half his strength committed elsewhere, he was left with roughly two hundred troops. Still, they were ODST troops, the best in the UNSC.

  “All right,” Silva said grimly, “if they want to charge, let’s give them the traditional counter. Order the pickets to pull back, tell Companies A and D to form an infantry square, and let’s get all the backup ammo below ground level. I want assault weapons in the pits, launchers halfway up the slope, and snipers up on the pad. No one fires until I give the command.”

  Like Silva, Wellsley knew that the Roman legions had used the infantry square to good effect, as had Lord Wellington, and many since. The formation, which consisted of a box with ranks of troops all facing outward, was extremely hard to break.

  The AI relayed the instructions to the troops, who, though surprised to be deployed in such an archaic way, knew exactly what to do. By the time the Ghosts arrived and washed around the rise like an incoming tide, the square was set.

  Silva studied the rangefinder in his tac display and waited until the enemy was in range. He keyed the all-hands freq and gave the order: “Fire! Fire!”

  Sheets of armor-piercing bullets sleeted through the air. The lead machines staggered as if they had run into a wall, Elites tumbled out of their seats, and a runaway machine skittered to the east.

  But there were a lot of the attack vehicles and as the oncoming horde sprayed the Marines with plasma fire, ODSTs began to fall. Fortunately, the Covenant vehicles couldn’t get a fix on the Marines’ position, which meant that the rise would continue to offer the humans a good deal of protection, so long as the Ghosts weren’t allowed to climb the slopes.

  Also operating in the Helljumpers’ favor were the skittish nature of the machines themselves, some poor driving, and a lack of overall coordination. Many of the Elites seemed eager to score a kill: They broke formation and raced ahead of their comrades. Silva saw one attack craft take fire from another Ghost, which crashed into a third machine, which subsequently burst into flame.

  The majority of the Elites were quite competent, however, and after some initial confusion, they went to work devising tactics intended to break the square. A gold-armored Elite led the effort. First, rather than allowing the riders to circle the humans in whatever direction they chose, he forced them into a counterclockwise rotation. Then, having reduced collisions by at least a third, the enemy officer chose the lowest pit, the one against which the fixed plasma cannons would be most effective, and drove at it time and time again. Marines were killed, the outgoing fire slackened, and one corner of the square became vulnerable.

  Silva countered by sending a squad to reinforce the weak point, ordering his snipers to concentrate their fire on the gold Elite, and calling on the rocket jockeys to provide rotating fire. If the humans’ launchers had a weakness, it was the fact that they could only fire two rockets before being reloaded, which left at least five seconds between volleys. By alternating fire, and concentrating on the Ghosts closest to the hill, the Marine defenders were able to leverage the weapons’ effectiveness.

  This strategy proved effective. Wrecked, burned, and mangled Ghosts formed a metal barricade, further protecting the humans from plasma fire, and interfering with new attacks.

  Silva lifted his binoculars and surveyed the smoke-laced battle area. He offered a silent thanks to whatever deity watched over the infantry. Had he led the assault, Silva would have sent in air support first to pin the Helljumpers down—followed by Ghosts from the west. His opposite number had been trained differently, had too much confidence in his mechanized troops, or was just plain inexperienced.

  Whatever the reason, the Banshees were thrown into the mix late, apparently as an afterthought. Silva’s rocket jockeys knocked two of the aircraft out of the air on the first pass, nailed another one on the second pass, and sent the fourth running south with smoke trailing from its failing engines.

  Finally, with the gold Elite dead, and more than half of their number slaughtered, the remaining Elites withdrew. Some of the Ghosts remained untouched, but at least a dozen of the surviving ships carried extra riders, and most were riddled with bullet holes. Two, their engines destroyed, were towed off the field of battle.

  This is why we need the butte, Silva thought as he surveyed the carnage, to avoid another victory like this one. Twenty-three Helljumpers were dead, six were critically injured, and ten had lesser wounds.

  Static burped in his ear, and McKay’s voice crackled across the command freq. “Blue One to Red One, over.”

  Silva swung toward the butte, raised his glasses, and saw smoke drift away from a point about halfway up the pillarlike formation. “This is Red One—go. Over.”

  “I think we have their attention, sir.”

  The Major grinned. It looked more like a grimace. “Roger that, Blue One. We put on a show for them, as well. Hang tight . . . help is on the way.”

  McKay ducked back beneath a rocky overhang as the latest batch of plasma grenades rained down from above. Some kept on falling, others found targets, bonded to them, and exploded seconds later.

  A trooper screamed as one of the alien bombs landed on top of his rucksack. A sergeant yelled, “Dump the pack!” but the Marine panicked, and backpedaled off the path. The grenade exploded and sprayed the cliff face with what looked like red paint. The infantry officer winced.

  “Roger, Red One. Sooner would be a whole helluva lot better than later. Over and out.”

  Wellsley ordered the Pelicans into the air as Silva stared out over the plain. He wondered if his plan would work, and if he could stomach the price.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  D +03:14:26 (SPARTAN 117 MISSION CLOCK) / SURFACE.

  Up ahead the Master Chief saw a light so bright that it seemed to compete with the sun. It originated somewhere beyond the rocks and trees ahead, surged up between the horns of a large U-shaped construct, and raced into the sky where the planet Threshold served as a pastel backdrop. Was the pulse some sort of beacon? Part of what held the ringworld together? There was no way for him to know.

  Cortana had already warned the Spartan that a group of Marines had crash-landed in the area, so he wasn’t surprised to hear the rattle of automatic weapons fire or the characteristic whine as Covenant energy weapons answered in kind.

  He eased his way through
the scrub and onto the hillside above the U-shaped edifice and the blocky structures that surrounded it. He could see a group of Grunts, Jackals, and Elites dashing back and forth as they tried to overwhelm a group of Marines.

  Rather than charge in, assault weapon blazing, the Master Chief chose to use his M6D pistol instead. He raised the weapon, activated the 2X magnification, and took careful aim. A series of well-placed shots knocked a trio of Grunts off their feet.

  Before the Covenant forces could locate where the incoming fire had originated, the Master Chief opened fire on a blue-armored Elite. It took a full magazine to put the warrior down, but it beat the hell out of going toe-to-toe with the alien when there wasn’t any need to.

  The quick, unexpected sniping attack gave the Marines the opportunity they needed. There was a quick flurry of fire as the Spartan made his way down the slope, paused to strip some plasma grenades off a dead Grunt, and was welcomed by a friendly private. “Good to see you, Chief. Welcome to the party.”

  The Spartan’s reply was a curt nod. “Where’s your CO, Private?”

  “Back there,” the Marine said. He turned and called over his shoulder. “Hey, Sarge!”

  The Master Chief recognized the tough-looking Sergeant who trotted to join them. He’d last seen Sergeant Johnson during a search-and-destroy run aboard one of Reach’s orbital docking facilities.

  “What’s your status here, Sergeant?”

  “It’s a mess,” Johnson growled. “We’re scattered all over this valley.” He paused, and added in a quiet voice, “We called for evac, but until you showed up, I thought we were done for.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cortana said over the Spartan’s external speakers, “we’ll stay here till evac arrives. I’ve been in touch with AI Wellsley. The Helljumpers are in the process of taking over some Covenant real estate—and one of the Pelicans has been dispatched to pick you up.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Johnson replied. “Some of my people need medical attention.”

  “Here comes another Covenant dropship,” the Private put in. “It’s time to roll out the welcome mat!”

  “Okay, Bisenti,” Johnson barked. “Re-form the squad. Let’s get to work.”

  The Master Chief looked up and saw that the Marine was correct—another Covenant landing craft hovered for a moment, then dropped close to the ground. The oddly shaped vehicle dipped slightly, and the mandible structures that formed the bulk of the dropship’s fuselage hinged open. A clutch of Grunts and an Elite dropped to the ground.

  The Master Chief moved fifty meters to the right, and raised his pistol once again. In seconds, a team of Marines poured fire into the Covenant LZ and flushed them out. As the aliens scattered and dove for cover, the Spartan put them down one by one.

  There was a brief respite, and the Master Chief paused to survey the situation. Cortana pulled up the Marine positions, tagged them as FIRETEAM C, and highlighted their locations on his HUD. Several of them had climbed the large structure that dominated the area, and the rest patrolled the perimeter.

  He had just readied his assault rifle when a Marine voice called out: “Contact! Enemy dropship sighted! They’re trying to flank us!”

  Seconds later, the Spartan’s motion sensor painted a contact—a large one—nearby. He stayed close to a large boulder and used it for cover, then cautiously checked for targets.

  The dropship disgorged another contingent of troops—including a trio of Jackals. Their distinctive, glowing shields flared as Sergeant Johnson’s men opened fire. Bullets ricocheted as the birdlike aliens crouched behind their protective devices, like medieval footmen forming a shield wall.

  Behind them, more Grunts and a blue Elite spread out in an enveloping formation. It was a good tactic, particularly if there were more dropships inbound. Eventually, the Covenant would wear down the Marine defenses and overrun the position.

  There was just one problem with their plan: The Master Chief was in a perfect flanking position. He crouched, then sprinted forward into the Jackal’s line. His assault rifle barked and bullets tore into the exposed aliens. They had barely hit the ground as the Spartan spun, primed a captured plasma grenade, and threw it at the Elite, almost thirty meters away.

  The alien only had time to roar in surprise before the glowing plasma orb struck him in the center of his helmet. The weapon fused to the alien’s helmet and began to pulse a sickly blue-white. A moment later, as the alien attempted to tear off his helmet, the grenade detonated.

  After that it was a relatively simple matter for the Master Chief to move through the ruins and hunt down the remainder of the Covenant reaction force.

  A welcome voice sounded from his radio receiver. “This is Echo 419. Does anyone read me? Repeat: Any UNSC personnel, respond.”

  Cortana was quick to reply on the same frequency. “Roger, Echo 419, we read you. This is Fireteam Charlie. Is that you, Foehammer?”

  “Roger, Fireteam Charlie,” Foehammer drawled, “it’s good to hear from you!”

  There was a distant rumbling, and the Master Chief turned to identify the source of the noise. In the distance, he saw movement—lifeboats, trailing smoke and fire as their friction-heated hulls tore through the atmosphere.

  “They’re coming in fast,” Cortana warned. “If they make it down, the Covenant will be right on top of them.”

  The Chief nodded. “Then we should find them first.”

  “Foehammer, we need you to disengage your Warthog. The Master Chief and I are going to see if we can save some soldiers.”

  “Roger.”

  The Pelican rounded the spire of the alien structure, circled the area once, then hovered above the crest of a nearby hill. Slung beneath the Pelican was a four-wheeled vehicle—an M12 LRV Warthog. The light reconnaissance vehicle hung beneath the dropship for a moment, then dropped to the ground as Foehammer released it from her craft. The Warthog bounced once on its heavy suspension, slid five meters down the hill, then was still.

  “Okay, Fireteam Charlie—one Warthog deployed,” Foehammer said. “Saddle up and give ’em hell!”

  “Roger, Foehammer, stand by to load survivors and evac them to safety.”

  “That’s affirmative . . . Foehammer out.”

  As the Marines sprinted for the Pelican, the Master Chief made his way to the Warthog. The all-terrain vehicle was mounted with a standard M41 light antiaircraft gun, or LAAG. The weapon fired five hundred rounds of 12.7×99mm armor-piercing rounds per minute and was effective on both ground and airborne targets. The vehicle was capable of carrying up to three soldiers, and one Marine had already taken his place behind the gun. His rank and ID scrolled across the Spartan’s display: PFC. FITZGERALD, M.

  “Hey, Chief!” Fitzgerald said. “Sergeant Johnson said you could use a gunner.”

  The Spartan nodded. “That’s right, Private. There’s two boatloads of Marines on the far side of that ridge, and we’re going after them.”

  Fitzgerald pulled the gun’s charging lever back toward his chest, and released it with a metallic snap. A shell slipped into the first of the weapon’s three barrels. “I’m your man, Chief! Let’s roll.”

  The Master Chief pulled himself up behind the wheel, started the engine, and strapped himself into the seat. The engine roared and the wheels kicked up geysers of dirt. The Warthog accelerated to the top of a rise, caught some air, and landed with a spine-jarring thump.

  “I put a nav indicator on your HUD,” Cortana said, “just follow the arrow.”

  “Figures,” the Spartan said, a hint of amusement in his level voice. “You always were a backseat driver.”

  True to the aircraft’s nickname, Keyes heard the Banshee long before he actually caught a glimpse of the attack aircraft. The alien pilot had them on his sensors—Keyes was sure of that—and it wouldn’t be long before another team dropped out of the sky in an attempt to root them out.

  The hills, which had seemed so welcoming when the command party first landed, had been transformed into a hellish
landscape where the humans scuttled from one rocky crevice to the next, always on the run, and never allowed to rest.

  They had faced capture on three different occasions, but each time Corporal Wilkins and his Marines had managed to blow a hole in the Covenant’s tightening net and lead the naval personnel to safety.

  But for how much longer? Keyes wondered. The continuous scrambling through the rocks, the lack of sleep, and the constant danger not only left them exhausted but levied a toll on morale as well.

  Abiad, Lovell, and Hikowa were still in fairly good shape, as were Wang and Singh, but Ensign Dowski had started to crack. It had started with a little self-concerned whining, grown into a stream of nonstop complaints, and now threatened to escalate into something worse.

  The humans were gathered in a dry grotto. Jagged rocks projected over their heads to provide some protection from the Banshee above. Wang knelt next to the thin, dirt-choked stream that gushed through the rocky passageway. He splashed water on his face. Singh was busy filling the command party’s canteens while Dowski sat on a rock and glowered. “They know where we are,” the junior officer said accusingly, as if her commanding officer were somehow at fault.

  Keyes sighed. “ ‘They know where we are, sir.’ ”

  “Okay,” the Ensign replied, “They know where we are, sir. So why continue to run? They’ll catch us in the end.”

  “Maybe,” Keyes agreed as he dabbed ointment onto a burst blister, “and maybe not. I’ve been in contact with both Cortana and Wellsley. They’re both busy at the moment, but they’ll send help as soon as they can. In the meantime, we tie up as many of their resources as possible, avoid capture, and kill some of the bastards if we can.”

  “For what?” Dowski demanded. “So you can make Admiral? I submit that we’ve done all we could reasonably be expected to do, that the longer we delay the harsher the Covenant will be. It makes sense to surrender now.”