The Flood (19 page)

It was a stupid thing to do since there was no clear target to shoot at, but that’s what Grunts were encouraged to do when in doubt: shoot. Linglin fired, and the plasma bolt flew straight and true. It hit the second Hunter in the back, and threw the spined warrior forward, and caused him to collide with his bond brother.

“Uh-oh,” Yayap muttered.

The Master Chief saw his opponent start to go down, shot him in the back, and brought the assault weapon back up. The fact that the second Hunter was already down came as something of a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, and he looked for something else to shoot.

No doubt stunned by the enormity of his error, and terrified regarding the potential consequences, Linglin was still backing away when the bulky, armored human raised his weapon and fired. Yayap felt Linglin’s blood spray the side of his face as he tripped over his own feet, fell over backward, and used his hands to push himself back into the shadows. A hand grabbed hold of his combat harness, jerked the Grunt into the still yawning cargo module, and held him in place. “Silence!” ’Zamamee instructed. “This battle is over. We must live to fight another.”

That sounded
very
good, maybe the most sensible thing he’d heard in a hundred units, so Yayap held his breath as the human walked past the open cargo module. He briefly wondered if there was some way he could get a transfer back to a normal front-line unit. To the diminutive alien trooper, such an assignment seemed considerably less dangerous.

His nerves on edge, fully expecting yet another attack, the Spartan circled the room. But there was nothing for him to deal with except his own twitchiness and the heavy silence which settled over the room.

“Nice job, Chief,” Cortana said. “Head through the cargo modules. The security center lies beyond.”

The Master Chief followed Cortana’s directions, entered a hall, and followed it into a room that featured a small constellation of lights floating at its very center. “Use the holo panel to shut down the security system,” Cortana suggested, and, eager to complete the job before anyone else could attack him, the Spartan hurried to comply. He was again struck by an odd near-familiarity with the glowing controls.

Cortana used the suit sensors to examine the results. “Good!” she exclaimed. “That should open the door that leads into the main shaft. Now all we have to do is find the Silent Cartographer and the map to the Control Room.”

“Right,” the Master Chief replied. “That, and avoid capture in unknown territory, possibly held by the enemy, with no air support or backup.”

“Do you have a plan?” she asked.

“Yes. When we get there, I’m going to kill every single Covenant soldier I find.”

Three parallel columns of vehicles are pretty hard to hide, and McKay didn’t even try. The combination of some thirty Warthogs and four Scorpions raised a cloud of dust that was visible from more than two kilometers away. No doubt the heat produced by the machines registered on sensors clear out in space. Banshee recon flights could have tracked them from the minute they hit the trail, and there was only one logical place the vehicles could be headed: the butte called Alpha Base.

It wasn’t too surprising that the Covenant not only organized a response, but a massive one. Here, after days of humiliation, was the opportunity to revenge themselves on the beings who had taken the butte away from them, paid a surprise visit to the Truth and Reconciliation, and raided more than a dozen other locations besides.

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, Excellency.”

’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
boom
ing 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 blobs of lethal energy blip 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 couldn’t help but wonder the same thing herself. The truth was that while the officer knew the vehicles existed, she’d never seen a Wraith tank in action, and wasn’t sure if that was what she faced. It didn’t matter much, though, because the weapon in question was quite clearly lethal, and would cause havoc in the close quarters of the pass. She keyed her radio.

“Red One to Green One: Those ‘energy bombs’ 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.”