Knowing she was in for a fight, McKay organized the vehicles into three temporary platoons. The first platoon was comprised of Warthogs under the command of Lieutenant Oros. She had orders to ignore ground targets and concentrate on defending the column from airborne attacks.
Sergeant Lister was in charge of the second platoon’s Scorpion Main Battle Tanks, which, because of their vulnerability to infantry, were kept at the center of the formation.
The third platoon, under McKay herself, was charged with ground defense, which meant keeping Ghosts and infantry off the other two platoons. A third of her vehicles, five Warthogs in all, were unencumbered by trailers and left free to serve as a quick reaction force.
By giving each platoon its own individual assignment, the officer hoped to leverage the Company’s overall effectiveness, ensure fire discipline, and reduce the possibility of casualties caused by friendly fire, a real danger in the kind of melee that she expected.
As the Marines headed east toward Alpha Base, the first challenge lay at the point where the flat terrain ended. Hills rolled up off the plain to form a maze of canyons, ravines, and gullies which, if the humans were foolish enough to enter them, would force the vehicles to proceed single file, which rendered the convoy vulnerable to air and ground attacks. There was a different route, however, a pass approximately half a klick wide. All three columns could pass through it without breaking formation.
The problem, and a rather obvious one, was the fact that a pair of rather sizable hills stood guard to either side of the pass, providing the Covenant with the perfect platform from which to fire down on them.
As if that weren’t bad enough, a third hill lay just beyond, creating a second gate through which the humans would have to pass before gaining the freedom of the plain beyond. It was a daunting prospect—and McKay felt a rising sense of despair as the company drew within rifle shot of the opposing hills. She wasn’t especially religious—but the ancient psalm seemed to form itself in her mind. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .”
Screw it, she thought. She ordered the convoy to lock and load and prepare for a fight. Psalms weren’t going to win the coming fight. Firepower would.
From his vantage point high on what Covenant forces had designated as “Second Hill,” the Elite Ado ‘Mortumee used a powerful monocular to eye the human convoy. With the exception of five vehicles, the rest of the alien LRVs were hooked to heavily laden trailers, which prevented them from making much speed. Also serving to slow the convoy down was the presence of four of the humans’ cumbersome tanks.
Rather than risk passage through the hills, their commanding officer had opted to use the pass. Understandable, but a mistake for which the human would pay.
‘Mortumee lowered the monocular and turned to look at the Wraith. Though not normally a fan of the slow-firing, lumpy-looking tanks, he had to admit that the design was perfect for the work at hand, and in combination with an identical unit stationed on First Hill, the monster at his elbow was certain to make short work of the oncoming convoy.
The counterthreat, if that’s what it was, would come from the armored behemoths which rolled along at the very center of the human formation. They looked powerful, but never having seen one in action, and having found precious little data on them within the intel files, ‘Mortumee wasn’t sure what to expect.
“So,” a voice said from behind him, “the Council of Masters has sent me a spy. Tell me, spy, who are you here to watch: the humans or me?”
‘Mortumee turned to find that Field Master Noga ‘Putumee had approached him from behind, something he did rather quietly for such a large being. Though known for his bravery, and his leadership in the field, ‘Putumee was also famous for his blunt, confrontational, and paranoid ways. There was a good deal of truth in the officer’s half-serious suggestion, however, since ‘Mortumee had been sent to watch both the Field Master and the enemy.
‘Mortumee ignored the field commander’s blunt tone, and clicked his mandibles. “Someone has to count all the human bodies, write the report celebrating your latest victory, and lay the groundwork for your next promotion.”
If there was a chink in ‘Putumee’s psychological armor it was in the vicinity of his ego, and ‘Mortumee would have sworn that he saw the other officer’s already massive chest expand slightly in response to the praise.
“If words were troops you would lead a mighty army indeed. So, spy, are the Banshees ready?”
“Ready and waiting.”
“Excellent,” ‘Putumee replied. The gold-armored Elite turned his own monocular on the approaching convoy. “Order the attack.”
“As you order, Commander.”
‘Putumee nodded.
McKay heard the incoming Banshees and the prospect of action banished her butterflies to a less noticeable sector of her stomach. The sound started as a low drone, quickly transformed itself into a buzz, then morphed into a bloodcurdling wail as the officer keyed her mike.
“This is Red One: We have hostile aircraft inbound. First Platoon is clear to engage. Everyone else will remain on standby. This is the warm-up, people, so stay sharp. There’s more on the way. Over and out.”
There were five flights of ten Banshees each, and the first group came through the pass so low that ‘Mortumee found himself looking down on the wave of aircraft. Sun glinted off the burnished, reflective metal of the Banshees’ wings.
It was tempting to jump into his own aircraft and join them, thrilling to the feel of the low altitude flight, as well as the steady booming of outgoing plasma fire. Such pleasures were denied the spy if he was to maintain the objectivity required to carry out his important work.
Eager to have the first crack at the humans, and determined to leave nothing for subsequent flights to shoot at, the pilots of the first wave fired the moment they came within range.
First Platoon’s Marines saw the aircraft appear low on the horizon, watched the bursts of lethal energy jettison their way, and knew better than to engage individual targets. Not yet, anyway. Instead, consistent with the orders that Lieutenant Oros had given, the Helljumpers aimed their M41 LAAGs at a point just west of the pass, and opened fire all at once. The Banshees didn’t have brakes, and the pilots had just started to turn, when they ran right into the meat grinder.
‘Mortumee understood the problem right away, as did ‘Putumee, who ordered the following waves to break up and attack the convoy independently.
The orders came too late for eight of the first ten aircraft, which were ripped into thousands of pieces, and fell like smoking snow.
A pair of the flyers got through the storm of gunfire. One of the Banshees managed to hit a Warthog with a burst of superheated plasma, killing the gunner, and slagging his weapon. The LRV continued to roll, however—which meant that the trailer and its load of supplies did as well.
Once through the hail of bullets, the surviving Banshees turned and lined up for a second pass.
As the second flight of Covenant aircraft arrived from the east, split up, and launched individual attacks, Field Master ‘Putumee barked an order into his radio. The mortar tanks on First and Second Hills fired in unison. Blue-white orbs of fire, trailing tendrils of energy, shot high into the sky, hung suspended for a moment, then began to fall.
The plasma mortars fell with a deliberate, almost casual slowness. They arced gracefully into the ground and a deafening thunderclap shook the ground. Neither round found a target, but these were ranging shots, and that was to be expected.
McKay heard a Marine say, “What the hell was that?” over the command freq, then heard Lister tear a strip off him.
She knew exactly what that was, even if the Marine didn’t. It was a Wraith, the Covenant’s brutal heavy armor unit. For the soldier asking, it didn’t matter much though, because the weapon in question was clearly lethal, and would cause havoc in the close quarters of the pass. She keyed her radio.
“Red One to Green One: Those mortars
originated from those hilltops. Let’s give the bastards a haircut. Over.”
“This is Green One,” Lister acknowledged. “Roger that, over.”
There was a burst of static as Lister switched to his platoon’s freq, though McKay could hear every word on the command channel.
“Green One to Foxtrot One and Two: Lay some high explosive on the hill to the left. Over.”
“Green One to Foxtrot Three and Four: Ditto the hill to the right. Over.”
Banshees wheeled, turned, and poured fire down on the hapless humans as one of the pilots fired his fuel rod cannon and scored a direct hit. A trailer full of precious ammo exploded, wrapped the Warthog in a fiery embrace, and took the LRV with it. Covenant forces watching from the hilltops felt a sense of exultation, and more than that, the pleasure of revenge.
‘Mortumee was there to document the battle, not celebrate it, though he watched in fascination as two of the tank turrets swiveled to his left in order to fire on First Hill, while two turned in the opposite direction and seemed to point directly at him.
The Elite wondered if he should seek cover, but before the message to move could reach his feet, he heard a reverberating roar as the 105mm shell passed through the intervening air space, followed by a loud craack! as the shell landed about fifty units away. A column of bloody dirt flew high into the air. Body parts, weapons, and pieces of equipment continued to rain down as the half-deafened ‘Mortumee recovered his composure and ran for cover.
Field Master ‘Putumee laughed out loud and pointed to show a member of his staff where ‘Mortumee had taken shelter behind some rocks. That was when the second round detonated just below the summit of the hill and started a small landslide. “This,” the Elite said happily, “is a real battle. Keep an eye on the spy.”
Stung by the loss of a Warthog, a trailer-load of ammo, and three Marines, McKay was starting to question the division of labor she had imposed, and was just about to free her platoon’s gunners to fire on the Banshees, when her driver said, “Uh-oh, look at that!”
A series of plasma bolts stitched a line along the ’Hog’s side, scorched the vehicle’s paint, and kicked up geysers of dirt as the officer followed the pointing finger. A force of Ghosts skittered into the pass.
“Red One to all Romeo units . . . follow me!” McKay yelled into her mike, and tapped the driver’s arm. “Go get ’em, Murphy—let’s clear that gap.”
No sooner had the officer spoken than the Marine put his foot into it, the gunner whooped, and the LRV leapt forward.
The rest of the five-vehicle reaction force followed just as the Wraith on Hill One hurled a third then a fourth plasma mortar high into the sky.
McKay looked up, saw the fireball slow to a near stop at the point of apogee, and knew it would be a race. Would the mortar land on top of the reaction force? Or, would the fast-moving ’Hogs slip out from under it, leaving the plasma charge to explode harmlessly on the ground?
The gunner saw the threat as well, and yelled, “Go! Go! Go!” as the driver swerved to avoid a clutch of rocks, did his best to push the accelerator through the floor. He mumbled, “Damn, damn, damn,” as he felt something wet and warm puddle on his seat.
The mortar fell with increasing velocity. The first LRV slipped underneath it, quickly followed by the second and third.
Heart in her throat, McKay looked back over her shoulder as the plasma mortar landed, detonated, and blew a large crater out of the ground.
Then, like a miracle on wheels, Romeo Five flew through the smoke, bounced as it hit the edge of the newly created crater, and lurched up over the rim.
There was no time to celebrate as the Ghosts pulled into range and the lead vehicle opened fire. McKay raised her assault rifle, took aim at the nearest blur, and squeezed the trigger.
Master Sergeant Lister faced a harsh reality. Never mind Banshees that swooped overhead, or the Ghosts up ahead, it was his job to do something about the mortar fire, and as the hills loomed ahead, Second Platoon’s Scorpions were coming up on the point when their main guns would no longer be able to elevate high enough to engage the primary target. One more salvo, that’s what the tanks could deliver, before their weapons could no longer be brought to bear.
“Wake up, people,” Lister said over the platoon frequency, “the last group on the left was at least fifteen meters too low, and the last group on the right overshot the hill. Make adjustments, take the tops off those hills, and do it now. We don’t have time to screw around.”
Each tank commander adjusted aim, sent their shells on the way, and prayed for a hit. They all knew that facing the Covenant would be easier than suffering Lister’s wrath should the shells miss their marks.
Field Master ‘Putumee watched impassively as the Wraith on First Hill exploded, taking a file of Jackals with it. He was sorry to lose the mortar tank, but the truth was that with two dozen Ghosts milling around in the pass below, he was going to have to cease fire anyway. Either that or risk killing his own troops. The Elite snapped an order, saw one last mortar sail into the air, and watched the humans enter the gap.
Lance Corporal “Snaky” Jones was screwed, he knew that, had known it ever since the front end of his ’Hog took a hit and flipped end-for-end. He was standing behind the LAAG, firing forward over the driver’s head, when he was suddenly catapulted into the air. Jones saw a blur, hit hard, and tumbled head over heels. Once his body came to a stop the Marine discovered that it was almost impossible to breathe, which was why he just lay there at first, staring up into the amazing blue sky as he gasped for air.
It was pretty, very pretty, until a Banshee screamed through the picture and a Warthog roared past on the left.
That was when Jones managed to scramble to his feet, and yelled into his boom mike, only to discover that it was missing. Not just the mike, but his entire helmet, which had come loose during the fall. No helmet meant no mike, no radio, and no possibility of a pickup.
The Lance Corporal swore, ran toward the wrecked Warthog, and gave thanks for the fact that it hadn’t caught fire. The vehicle was resting on its side and the S2 was right where he had left it—clamped butt down behind the driver’s seat.
It was hard to see Sergeant Corly strewn over the rear fender with half her face blown away, so Jones averted his eyes. His rucksack, the one that contained extra ammo, a med pack, and the stuff he had looted from the Pillar of Autumn, was right where he had left it, secured to the bottom of the gun pedestal.
Jones grabbed the pack, slung it across his back, and grabbed the sniper rifle. He made sure the rifle was ready to fire, then clicked on the safety and ran for the nearest hill. Maybe he could find a cave, wait for the battle to end, and haul ass back to Alpha Base. Dust puffed away from the Marine’s boots and death hung all around.
Lieutenant Oros estimated that First Platoon had reduced the number of attacking aircraft by two thirds—and she had a plan to deal with the rest. McKay wouldn’t approve—but what was the CO going to do? Send her to some uncharted, alien-infested portion of the galaxy? The Lieutenant grinned, gave the necessary order, and jumped down to the ground.
She waved to the volunteers from four of the thirteen Warthogs she had remaining, then scampered toward a group of likely-looking rocks. All five of the Marines carried M19 SSM Rocket Launchers slung across their backs, plus assault weapons, and as many spare rockets as they could carry in the twin satchels that hung from their hands. They pounded across the hardpan, scurried into the protection offered by the surrounding boulders, and set up shop.
When everyone was ready, Oros pulled the pins on one flare after another, tossed them out beyond the circle of rocks, and watched the orange smoke billow up into the sky.
It wasn’t long before the Banshee pilots spotted the smoke and, like vultures attracted to fresh carrion, hurried to the scene.
The Marines held their fire, waited until no less than thirteen of the Covenant aircraft were circling above them, and fired five rockets, all at once. A second v
olley followed the first—and a third followed that. There was a steady drumbeat of explosions as ten Banshees took direct hits, some from multiple rockets, and ceased to exist.
Of the aircraft that survived the barrage of rockets, two bugged out immediately. The last staggered in response to a near miss, belched smoke from its port engine, and looked like it would go down. Oros thought it was over at that point, that she and her volunteers would be free to fade into the hills, and beat feet for home.
But it wasn’t to be. Unlike most of his peers, the pilot in the damaged Banshee must have had a strong desire to transcend the physical, because he turned toward the enemy, put the aircraft into a steep dive, and plunged into the pile of boulders. Oros tried to make the shot but missed—and barely had time to swear before the mortally wounded Banshee augered into the rocks and swallowed the ambush team in a ball of fire.
The fact that Lance Corporal Jones made it all the way to the base of the hill without getting killed was just plain luck. The subsequent scramble up through the loose tumble of rocks was instinctual. The desire to gain elevation is natural to any soldier, but especially to a sniper, which was what Jones had been trained to be when he wasn’t busy humping supplies, operating LAAGs, or taking crap from sergeants.
The fact that Jones was about to go on the offensive, about to take it to the Covenant, that was a decision. Maybe not the smartest decision he’d ever made, but one he knew to be right, and to hell with the consequences.
Jones was only halfway up the side of the hill, but that was high enough to see the top of the opposite hill, and the tiny figures who stood there. Not the Grunts who were running this way and that, not the Jackals who lined the edge of the summit, but the shiny armor of the Elites. Those were the targets he wanted, and they seemed to leap forward as the Marine increased the magnification on his scope, and let the barrel drift slightly. Which life should he take? The one on the left with the blue armor? Or the one on the right, the shiny gold bastard? At that moment in time, in that particular place, Lance Corporal Jones was God.
Halo. Flood Page 15
