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 massive 50mm 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 gunfire scythed 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 to see through the downpour. "We're sitting ducks in here, Corporal," Fincher yelled. "We have to get out of 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 the passenger seat, but Walker didn't respond. He clutched their last Jackhammer rocket launcher with a death 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 for his 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 fire during the ambush. The aliens used some kind of projectile weapon that fired long, thin needles—which exploded 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 their target area. Lieutenant McCasky had even said it was a "milk run". They were supposed to set up motion sensors on grid thirteen by twenty-four—just see what was there and get back. "A simple snoop job," the ell-tee had called it.
What no one told McCasky was that the satellites weren't penetrating the rain and jungle canopy of this swampball too well. If the Lieutenant had thought about it—like Corporal Harland was thinking about it now—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 knew how to kill Grunts—when they massed by the hundreds, they knew to call in air support. They'd even taken 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 klicks down 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 all they 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 a grotto pool. Arches had been carved into the wall, their edges extremely weathered. There were a few scattered 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. He wanted 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 Harland had ever seen. And oddly, it looked like it was wearing armor reminiscent of medieval plate mail; it even 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 full speed 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 jungle as the tiny razor shards exploded.
Harland and the others stopped and hit the deck, splashing into the thick, red mud, as a Covenant Banshee passed them overhead.
When they got back on their feet, Cochran took the round in the stomach. The Grunts had caught up to them. Cochran flinched, his side exploded, and then he crumpled to the ground. He fell into shock so fast he didn't even have time to scream.
Harland, Fincher, and Walker hunkered down and returned fire. They killed a dozen of the little bastards, 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 got closer.
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 what they 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 on the narrow band."
"Yes, sir," Fincher answered in a wavering voice. He glanced at the near-catatonic Private Walker and shook his head.
Harland checked on Cochran. Private Cochran's eyes fluttered open, cracking the mud caked onto his face. "We back yet, Corporal?"
"Almost," Harland replied. Cochran's pulse was steady, although his face had, in the last several minutes, drained of color. The wounded man looked like a corpse. Damn it, Harland thought, he's going to bleed out .
Harland placed a reassuring hand on Cochran's shoulder. "Hang in there. We'll patch you up as soon as we get to camp."
They had dropships at Bravo. Cochran had a chance, albeit a slim one, if they got him back to the combat surgeons at headquarters—or better yet, to the Navy docs on the orbiting ships. For a moment Harland was dazzled with visions of clean sheets, hot meals—and a meter of armor between him and the Covenant.
"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 of microshrapnel. 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 way the 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 to ignite 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 of jungle in the valley, the river meandering through it, and on the far set of hills, a clearing dotted with fixed 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 place where they could safely store their munitions and bunk down. A ring of sensors encircled the camp so nothing could sneak up on them. Radar and motion detectors linked to surface-to-air missile batteries. A road ran along the far ridge—three klicks down that was the coastal city, Côte 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 had been was gone—it had been flattened. Only a mirror surface remained. The sides of the adjacent hills glistened with a cracked glass coating. The air was thick with tiny Covenant fliers in the distance. On the ground, Grunts and Jackals searched for survivors. A few Marines ran for cover . . . there were hundreds of 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 the battlefield 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 thirteen by twenty-four. The Grunts gave it a wide berth. The thing lifted its arm—its whole arm looked like one big 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 push it."
"Yeah." Fincher reversed the Warthog. "Yeah, some luck."
He sped back down the hillside and hopped the Warthog off the embankment and back into the streambed.
"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 Covenant Banshees 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 and fishtailed across the stream.
Bolts of plasma hit the water next to them—exploding into steam. Rock shards pinged off the armored side 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 heavy machine gun was only accurate at reasonably short ranges—and not even that with Fincher bouncing the Warthog 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 to drive 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 river with no cover.
"Walker, do something!"
Corporal Harland fired the chain-gun again until his arms went numb. It was no good; the Banshees were too far away, too quick.
Another plasma bolt hit—directly in front of the Warthog. Heat washed over Harland. Blisters pinpricked 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. He screamed 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 Jackhammer launcher 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—streamed from 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 of the 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, cowardly bastard 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 the horizon.
They passed the first armed checkpoint. The guardhouse and bunkers had been blasted away, and in the mud were thousands of Grunt tracks.
Farther back, he saw a circle of sandbags around a house-size chunk of granite. Two Marines waved to them. 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 in that 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. They glassed the main barracks. The Command Office. Almost got the munitions bunker." He looked away for a moment and his one eye glazed over. "We pulled it together and fought 'em off, though. That was an 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 my report."
The Private shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. The hospital was the first thing they hit. As far as who's in command . . . 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 and wavering heat in the distance. "They're in fire-fighting suits to keep from burning up. They're recovering weapons and ammo."
"Understood," Harland said. "Fincher, try the radio again. See if you can link up to SATCOM. Call in for 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 the Leviathan on the horn."
"This is Corporal Harland." He spoke into the microphone. "The Covenant has hit Firebase Bravo and Alpha HQ . . . and wiped them out. We've repelled the enemy from Alpha site, but our casualties have been nearly one hundred percent. We have wounded here. We need immediate evac. Say again: we need evac on the double."
"Roger, Corporal. Your situation is understood. Evac is not possible at this time. We've got problems of our 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 his lips. "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 many planets 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 and whispered, "They better send a whole regiment down here."
A handful of other Marines returned to the bunker. They had salvaged ammunition, extra rifles, a crate of frag grenades, and a few Jackhammer missiles. Fincher took the Warthog and a few men to see if he could 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 you fight?"
"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 the darkening sky was a dot, and the unmistakable roar of Pelican engines. He pulled the pin and tossed the smoker 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.
"One dropship?" Walker whispered. "That's all they sent? Christ, that's not backup—that's a burial detail."
The Pelican eased toward the ground, spattering mud in a ten-meter radius, then touched down. The launch 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 bigger than 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 weighed two 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 Four back from the Covenant, Corporal," he said calmly. "To do that, we're going to kill every last one of them."