Chapter Five
0823 hours, November 4, 2552 (Military Calendar) \
African desert, Earth, Earthian Sol System
The Master Chief snaked his fiber optic cable toward the edge of the window. He had spent the better part of the last hour sneaking his way through the disabled Forerunner ship. Back on High Charity he had not been able to hoard any ammunition or extra weapons, so he was dangerously low on firepower. He could not afford to run into any trouble before he could resupply.
There was a flurry of activity in the next chamber. From what he could tell, it was a shuttle bay of some sort. Phantoms and dropships were being loaded with Grunts, Jackals and Brutes. Engineers were uncharacteristically floating around various vessels, making modifications and necessary repairs. There were massive storage containers lining the back walls of the cavernous bay, from which Drones were busy gathering supplies.
Truth, however, was nowhere to be seen. John desperately wanted to stop this invasion force, but he knew he was outmanned, outgunned, and likely would be outwitted given his lack of rest and food. He had to get out of there, but he needed to gather more intel.
A trio of red blips appeared on his motion sensor. John was in an exposed position; he scrambled to find cover. There were some crates a few meters away. He ran to them and took cover behind the largest one.
Three grunts appeared around the corner. As usual, they were chattering in their dog-like language, not quite paying attention. John knew better than to engage, even though they would be easy kills. He wanted to attract as little attention as possible to himself. The only problem was the trio of Grunts –
They were headed straight for the crates.
They began loading the crates onto a hovering device. He hoped they would skip the one he was hiding behind. His hopes were not met with success. The trio grunted as they lifted the heavy crate – they were on a silver platter.
Three shots rang from his M6C pistol. The crate slammed into the floor as the Grunts toppled over, each shot once precisely in the head.
"Good thing I still have my aim," he thought to himself.
Unfortunately, three shots from his pistol were three too many, and no fewer than twelve new contacts appeared on his motion sensor.
Better get moving.
He punched the panel next to the door and it slid open. He turned around and punched its sister panel on the other side, then shot it once with the last of his plasma pistol. The door was shut; his pursuers would need to take another route. He was far from safe, however; John knew he had a bigger problem when he turned around.
The stunned Jackal let out a squawk as John grabbed its neck and snapped it. He seized the freshly charged plasma pistol from its lifeless hands and clipped the fallen Jackal's shield generator to his wrist. Down the bay he saw a sea of Phantoms and U-shaped dropships docked. He also saw them departing one by one.
He had to get off the boat fast. He spotted a group of Banshee fliers parked 300 meters away, near the closest bay opening. Having alerted the Covenant to his presence, he had no need or desire for stealth, so he started on a full sprint toward his escape.
It felt good to run. His adrenaline spiked and muscles burned, and he felt alive. After being cooped up for two days, he felt somewhat revitalized.
Plasma scorched the wall where he had been a split second before. A plasma grenade narrowly missed being stuck to his head. All of a sudden, a different kind of grenade exploded just in front of him. Nails and shrapnel flew out from it, and his shields flared as it repelled each piece. They were drained to a quarter. He was startled but did not miss a step.
He wished he had Kelly's speed. He never was the fastest Spartan. Nor was he the strongest or smartest. No one tabbed him the "best," but they all knew he was. He did have a knack for getting out of sticky situations, and he certainly exhibited the most fortune out of his bunch.
Lucky for him, no one was guarding the Banshees. He jumped into one, jammed on the controls, and sped towards the opening. He was out, but there were thousands of angry Covenant soldiers on his tail. Other Banshee fliers lifted off, and two Phantoms peeled off their exit vectors and came after him. He dodged and rolled as plasma fire barely missed him.
"This is Spartan-117, is anyone out there?" he barked.
No answer.
He knew he would need a miracle to get out of this one. His suit's temperature regulators overloaded and his skin blistered as a fuel rod round scraped the side of the Banshee and headed down toward Earth. He was glad it had not detonated.
John kept dodging and rolling, but something was wrong. He soon noticed there were no more trails of plasma fire whooshing by his flier. He turned enough to notice his pursuers were flying away.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Or was it a sigh of worry? Covenant never retreated. They must have known they had him dead to rights, why would they have abandoned their pursuit? Perhaps it was foolish pride – Truth had an aura of invincibility about him that would one day get him killed. John was thankful that he lived to fight another day.
A voice crackled over the COM, "Spartan-117, this is firebase Victor Oscar India 42, do you copy?"
"Firebase, this is Spartan-117 on commandeered Covenant craft. Requesting coordinates and landing permission."
"Roger that, Master Chief. We're rolling out the red carpet for you."
Coordinates flashed across his visor, and a NAV point was set. Twenty minutes later he landed at his destination.
"Welcome to Voi, Kenya, Chief," a grizzled man said, "We're sure glad to see you."
The Chief nodded. He was relieved to see a human again. He was pointed toward makeshift living quarters, where he promptly lay down and slept.
John awoke five hours later to a woman hovering over him.
Startled, the nurse backed away. She had never seen a Spartan up close, and he looked like a hulking robot to her. Then again, most people had never seen a Spartan in real life. She snapped out of it and said, "I have no idea how to treat you, sir."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, your readouts show you could use an I.V. –"
"Nevermind, I just need some food," John snapped. He had suddenly remembered how hungry he was.
"Right away. Oh, Corporal Hendricks wants to see you as soon as you're ready."
"Who?"
"The man who greeted you when you came. His office is four doors down the hall, to your left. He seemed pretty angry."
The Master Chief acknowledged her and closed his eyes one more time. She returned with some food, and he ravenously tore into it. He felt like a savage, or alien, but he was starved.
After his hasty dinner, he marched into Corporal Hendricks' office.
"Sir, you requested to see me?"
"Dammit, soldier, who said you could take a five-hour nap in the middle of this war? My men haven't slept for days and you waltz straight to a nice bed and take your beauty rest?"
The Spartan outranked him, but felt badly nonetheless. Had Corporal Hendricks known what John had been through – now twice – he would have understood. Or maybe not. Marines generally disliked Spartans, especially after his incident with those four ODSTs soon after his augmentation process. He had long buried that memory, but it still stabbed at him when he remembered.
"Nevermind, son, have a seat. We have a major problem. That ship you fell out of just sent a massive force out and we've been given orders to move out. We will have 57 full battalions attacking from different locations. Now what am I gunna do with you?"
The Master Chief pondered this question. He was used to working as a part of a small unit. That is, until, he was separated from his Spartans. He had learned to exist alone in battle, and he would be fighting alongside thousands of Marines that were slower, weaker, and dumber than he was. They needed him, though, and he could not ignore that. Besides, he had no alternatives. He wanted to go after Truth, and this was the best way to do it – en force.
"When do we move out?" John asked.
"1500 hours, son. Get ready to move out."
Master Chief only had a few minutes to get ready. He would be briefed en route to their next stop.