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 ring world 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 FIRE TEAM 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.