Chapter Seven
1721 hours, November 4, 2552 (Military Calendar) \
African Desert, Kenya, en route to Covenant position \
Earth, Earthian Sol System
"Everyone, stay in formation!" barked Commander Borowski.
Master Chief revved his flier as he spotted the Covenant position in the distance. He maintained his position just behind a Pelican. His only hope was to sneak by the Covenant line unnoticed.
Two kilometers ahead, fourteen lines of over 10,000 M-12 LRV Warthogs were interlaced with 5,550 M808B Scorpion tanks. Countless ATV Mongoose 4x4s dotted the rest of the formation. The Master Chief held back along with 1,156 largely overloaded Pelicans and 2,470 D447 NightHawk helicopters. The force was spread over eight square kilometers. It was a sight to be proud of as a soldier – as a human.
John ventured another peek over the Pelican. Six kilometers ahead he saw flashes and heard explosions. Longswords, Shortswords, and SkyHawk jets had been sent ahead to soften up the Covenant force. Unfortunately, their position was well defended. The air strikes did some damage, but the humans were forced to retreat the aircraft. There was too much AA firepower.
John eased his flier back behind his Pelican.
"Contact! Enemy craft up ahead, three clicks," yelled an excited Marine over the COM.
"Hold your positions. Do not engage until ordered," barked Borowski.
Borowski waited. Mortars began painting the night sky. The comet-like streaks of plasma were almost beautiful. They arced up and then back down gracefully, glimmering in the Earth's night sky.
With a thunderous chorus they rained down on the human force. Luckily for them, the first volley of mortars was only a gauge; the Covenant were so busy worrying about the aerial bombardment that they had scarcely noticed the massive force bearing down on them. It seemed the HighCom brass had indeed caught the Covenant off-guard, or at least partially.
"Engage, now!" Borowski screamed.
The Scorpions answered the Wraiths' mortar overture with their own salvo. Warthogs and Mongooses sped ahead to avoid the next round of mortars. The NightHawks charged into battle while the Pelicans broke formation. They were stuffed to the gills with military personnel. There was no place for infantry on the battlefield this early, though. They would flank the Covenant army while the choppers engaged Covenant air support.
The Master Chief dropped his craft low, just above the nearest Warthog. Amid the din of war he could hear the private cursing at the Covenant as he let loose a volley of bullets from his chain gun.
Chaos had erupted. Banshees took on helicopters and Ghosts chased Warthogs. Mortars dotted the night sky and plasma turrets splashed along the desert while rockets streaked across the battlefield. Chainguns rattled and gauss cannons bellowed. The cacophonous symphony of battle had begun.
The ground advance allowed the Shortswords one more pass as the Covenant were temporarily stunned. Accompanied by SkyHawks, three formations of Shortwords dropped napalm on Covenant backline entrenchments. The desert was ablaze.
John gunned it. There was no way the Covenant could tell who he was now. He was also aware that he was more liable to get shot by his own men.
The Banshee pitched and rolled, narrowly missing another flier. Bullets zinged by its aft wing. His flier did a series of loops and turns, avoiding rocket fire and plasma streaks. He was doing well. He had cleared the largest battle area and was heading straight into the heart of the Covenant force. The Chief spotted something in the distance that looked like a giant flickering candle. He turned toward his new target –
His luck ran out.
Another Banshee had been hit and smashed John's from above. The fliers tumbled in a fiery embrace toward the blood-painted African desert. John narrowly averted his death by jumping out 20 meters above ground. He tumbled to the ground. His night vision flared as the two fliers exploded just 5 meters away.
He was temporarily blind.
John crouched as he tried to get his bearings. He listened intently as he tried to shake off the blind effect. He heard a roar as a Brute spotted him. He rolled just in time to dodge the Brute's charge. John opened his eyes and began to see – the Brute had turned to face him, and John was on his back.
He tried to get up, but the Brute lifted him and slammed him back to the ground. Dots lined John's returning vision as the wind was knocked out of him. The beast stomped on John's chest and hefted its grenade launcher at John's visor.
"Your days have been numbered," it said, "Say goodbye to this plane of existence, demon!"
John would have liked his life to flash before his eyes. He got a visor full of blood for his thoughts. The Brute toppled over. John looked it over; one hole had been opened through helmet, and another had ripped the Brute's throat to shreds – 14.5mm bullet holes to be precise.
Someone had his back. His luck had not run out just yet.
He did have a problem – John was stuck behind enemy lines with no help. He knew his plan had failed, so the Spartan sprinted back toward his fellow soldiers as he silently thanked his guardian angel.
Griffith released the empty clip from the sniper rifle. It trailed smoke from his shots, and they needed to move from their now exposed position.
"Did you hit anything?" asked Private Huard, his spotter.
"Just a Brute," he responded as he inserted a fresh magazine. "Gotta move!"
Griffith did not need a spotter. He also knew he did not need to save that cyborg. Something in him would not let him die though. His father had always taught him well, and his words manifested themselves on this night.
Just because his father died a Spartan 1.0 did not mean he should hate this one. He knew better than that. He could not help but feel hatred for the cyborg when he first saw it, but now it was a part of his army. They were on the same side, after all.
Besides, now Griffith owned bragging rights over a Spartan-II.
Master Chief dodged a Ghost as he ran full-sprint towards the human battle line. He was almost a kilometer deep behind the Covenant front line; it would be no easy task. He whipped out his pistols and his heads-up display automatically adjusted, giving him his trusty targeting reticule and an ammunition count. He hoped that his pistols would need little use.
He felt the heat from the plasma bolt that struck his side. His shields drained to half as he turned to face his enemy. A group of Unggoys had leveled their weapons at the demon, hoping to score a kill.
So much for "little use".
They would die for their trouble – John unleashed a barrage of gunfire as he strafed their position and continued on his blitz.
John looked over his shoulder; what could only be described as a giant, metallic motorcycle accelerated towards John in an attempt to crush him. John timed his jump perfectly – he caved the Brute's face in as it went flying off the machine. John grabbed the controls and gunned the chopper. He chased down another Brute on a ghost and laid it to waste. After running over a contingent of Jackals, John noticed the human line had actually advanced toward his position.
All of a sudden, the Chopper exploded under him and he was launched fifteen meters to his side. A Brute had gotten off a lucky shot and hit the machine's equivalent to a gas tank.
Dazed, the Chief pushed himself off the blood-muddy desert ground. Another clutch of Grunts was nearby with handfuls of blue, glowing orbs. They uncorked their torrent of plasma grenades at the chief. He dodged the hail of explosives, narrowly avoiding several plasma explosions. He fired his M6Ds until the Grunt formation broke and ran. He would have loved to shoot each one in the head, but he had to conserve ammunition.
John turned and began to run – except he ran headlong into a Brute's chest. He had holstered his pistols and knew better than to pull what amounted to a pair of beebee guns to the beast.
He unsheathed his combat knife in a flash and it pulsed a cool blue as he flipped it on. Blue traces arced the night sky as the Chief battled the Brute. He had gotten a few minor hits on the Brute, but the beast was deceptively fast. The Brute whipped a backhand at him that sent the Spartan flying backwards. His shields were fully drained; one lucky Grunt shot could fell the greatest human warrior that ever lived. John staggered back to his feet, reached back and flung his knife right into the Brute's chest.
The Brute howled as it went into berserker mode and charged John. The Spartan only had one chance, he had to be quick. He waited until the beast was nearly on him and then lunged at it. He palmed the knife handle and buried it as far into the Brute as he could. The Chief used his momentum – he grabbed the handle as he kicked himself off the Brute's chest as it tried to grab him. Spartan-117 flew upward and over the Jiralhanae's head as he dragged the knife through its body.
John landed behind the Brute as it collapsed. The sand soaked its spilling innards as John had split the beast vertically in half – a grisly sight, but an effective tactic.
He had no time to ponder his actions. John spotted a downed Ghost and ran to it – it was still operable. He climbed on and sped again towards his comrades.
John motored along for a few seconds until he noticed an odd sight – the Covenant were running at him. They were retreating. He made it to the Marine front line in time to see them regrouping. There were cheers and hollers as they watched the Covenant run. They would regroup quickly and chase them down.
Something was peculiar about the situation. Everyone knew that the Covenant would rather die than run from battle. Even though the Marines were winning the fight, there were still plenty of Covenant warriors left to fight.
Just then John heard a loud clap of thunder. There may not have been anything unusual about the sound, except it was a clear night.
"Everybody move!" he screamed through his COM. "Spread out and retreat. Go, go go!!"
"Chief, what the hell are you talking about?" answered Borowski as the confused Marines broke formation.
"Sir, the Covenant aren't retreating. They're moving out of the way."
"Out of the way of what, Spartan?"
"Look up."
Borowski paled and froze for a second before he yelled, "Retreat! Orbital bombardment is imminent, get your asses outta here!"
The Covenant had punched a hole in the UNSC space defense and three Covenant cruisers were inbound directly overhead. Their plasma turrets glowed, making them look like clusters of slowly falling stars from their position.
The human force scattered and ran chaotically as plasma began to rain down from the heavens. Beam projectors blew craters in the desert floor and vaporized anyone within their blast radii.
John gunned it. There was no way to dodge these plasma blasts. He only hoped he would not be fried by a random plasma burst. Sand turned to glass as hellfire descended from heaven. The stench of burned flesh and scorched metal overloaded the filters on John's suit.
Three hundred meters ahead of him, a beam projector flashed some of his fellow soldiers out of existence. The blast rumbled through the Chief's armor as bits of glass rained down from the explosion. His ghost caught air as he came over the edge of the crater and down on the other side.
John spotted a Warthog that had rolled and spilled its Marines. He grabbed the nearest downed marine and put him on the back of his rider.
"Thanks," said the dazed Marine.
Griffith wondered what hit him. All of a sudden he realized where he was – riding on the back of a Ghost with a hunk of metal.
"Christ," he muttered, "Guess we're even."
The plasma fire stopped and John ventured a look. The UNSC had responded with seven destroyers and two frigates. The Covenant cruisers peeled off back into the fray in space, sparing the rest of the human counter-invasion force.
Armageddon had failed to live up to its name, but the battle had not claimed him. John would live to fight again. Frustrated, he wondered how much fight he had left in him.