"Consider this then, Doctor Halsey. You created the Spartans. A veritable game changer on the field of battle. But your creation hasn't just changed warfare; it's stretched the very limits of human potential."
"Such admiration. Then why am I in chains?"
"Because of a very simple question, Doctor. A dilemma, if you will. The Spartans serve without question; they kill when ordered. Their loyalty is absolute."
"They were difficult times. We needed a simple solution. A loyal solution."
"But what if that loyalty was misplaced?"
[Transcript sound gap, time-stamp 7:01 seconds, Voice 1 repeats.]
"Truly, how does one kill a Spartan?"
/EYES ONLY SOURCE LINK SEVERED/
- unknown audio log transcript, source-recall dated 2556
All across the city, orbital scans detected mass movement converging on Dakhar Market.
To the south, picking their way through the deserted ruins with ordered discipline and terse com reports, the UNSC war machine rolled inexorably forward, intend on bull-dozing a path straight to Central. From the opposite direction, a gathering surge of hostile contacts swarmed out in a wide line; seeking to reinforce the heart of the city. Far less disciplined, but not lacking in determination.
These were the quiet moments before the storm, as the gap between the two forces narrowed with each footstep taken.
Numerically, the advantage undoubtedly lay with the Insurrectionists; a ratio of some five to one. They had planned for this moment for years. Many had taken religious oaths to their respective gods, vowing to take at least one UNSC soldier's life before achieving martyrdom. They marched carrying banners proclaiming a variety of clashing faiths, held together by a single unifying factor: a combined hatred of the UNSC.
Many of the Insurrectionists wore looted armour; a patchwork of bulky glare goggles, swathed robes and full-faced re-breathers. While bio-weapon attacks were a rarity in the relative civility of the 26th century, many of the ULF were hardened protestors, and had been caught on the wrong side of a tear-gas attack all too often. Others simply settled for a set of overalls, choosing to armour themselves using whatever materials lay to hand: a welder's mask here, a construction helmet and civilian-issue ballistic padding there.
Eclectic too was their choice of weaponry - UNSC Army surplus for the most part; semi-automatic rifles which had been decommissioned in the wake of the Human Covenant War. An inordinately large number of rebel fighters carried criminal imports; cheap Koslovic knock-offs of more premium kit - crude, but notoriously easy to maintain in the dust-choked environment.
Many of the weapons themselves appeared similar in profile to standard UNSC weaponry, but had been embellished with all sorts of additional aesthetic tweaks: fluted muzzle vents, leather-padded stocks; even the occasional exposed belt-fed loading feed instead of the traditional hard-moulded magazine. Most of the less seasoned fighters had placed a high premium on bravado. Bandanas, draped ammo belts and exposed biceps seemed to form something of an unfortunate uniform amongst those without the sense to up-armour.
This was not to say that all of the ULF fighters lacked combat discipline. Far from it; many were hardened veterans of the last great war, and had taken the time to hold any loose fabric down with tape or taut boot-laces; removing any zippers from their clothing lest their jangling betray their presence. These men wore also improvised armour, but each had uniformly daubed their faces in camo paint or featureless ballistic masks - a combination of ritualistic tradition and ruthless pragmatism.
These were the Sons of Granica; Al'Hajar's chosen few. The Human Covenant War had hardened them, tempering them into killers every bit the match of their UNSC opponents. They spread themselves out in coordinated fireteams throughout the marauding crowds, hoping to lead their more bullish comrades by example.
On an entire different tier, overseeing all, McBride and his corps of specialists marshalled the defence of Dakhar Market from behind the scenes. Command protocol rested with the local ULF militia, but each of the local commanders bowed to McBride's wealth of experience. Bright eyed and fanaticl, they were hungry for instruction. They never asked for help, not explicitly, but a caution here, a quiet observation there, and soon McBride's plan began to take shape. McBride did not share the heady confidence of the men around him. True, the UNSC taskforce was at risk of being overwhelmed, but McBride was a practiced veteran, and knew full well that numbers alone would not win a fight. Drone strikes, even the risk of orbital bombardment, could end the fight before it even began, and the rebellion stood to lose everything if they broke here.
But they would not break. McBride held no love for the insurgency, nor did he share their politics. But he had a job to do, and professional pride was at stake.
And so he considered the terrain before him. The Dakhar Market was long and wide; though in truth its title was something of a misnomer: it was in fact a network of interlaced open markets, each connected by large decorative archways and bordered by an elaborate colonnade. The market stretched almost a kilometre wide.
McBride knew better than to try and micro-manage the crowd. Instead, he attended to the key elements that required his attention: he staffed the overlooking balconies with sharp shooters, ensured anti-armour teams took position in staggered sections along the rooftops. Al'Hajar had impressed upon the men the importance of holding the Dakhar Market. McBridge's job was to make sure the men actually stood a chance at doing so.
The upper floors of the great trading houses that lined the market's edge were vacant attics, used to store excess grain and dry goods brought in from Orbital Two. Now they were home to a more sinister cargo: teams of machine gun crews and ancillary loading teams. McBride winced as a trio of young men banged past him on the stairs. He could hear RPG shells clink against each other roughly.
"Careful you idiots," he growled, "You'll get yourselves killed before the fight even starts."
The three youths blinked up at him, terrified of the bearded giant.
McBride's scalp was shaved clean, but he was bull-necked and powerful; easily 6'4 and as large as any un-augmented man could hope to be. His red beard had marked him as something of an oddity, even amongst the diverse ethnicities of the ULF. And yet when he spoke they listened, and when he pointed they moved to where he needed them to go.
Half of it was for fear of his disproval, though in truth he knew the man they really feared was his employer, the man they knew as Conrad Hedeker; Al Hajar's greatest and most ruthless advisor.
McBride himself suppressed a shudder, and reviewed his TACPAD once more. This would decide everything. He checked the chronometer fastened to the underside of his wrist.
Not much time left now.
The UNSC were rolling in force. The active AO stretched across the southern half of Central, the administrative heartland of New Cadiz, and the focal point for the city's logistical network. It was here where the entrance to Orbital Two's main loading terminal lay. The deeper one progressed into Central, the deeper the orbital tether's long shadow fell over you. The UNSC's force disposition was classic Stape: all sharpened spear-tip and direct action. McBride knew how the man went about his war-making, and approved. After all, he had served under the man himself.
But even for Stape this was bullish. Unusually so.
An infantry screen would precede the armoured units; likely Marines or elite Army elements. Nothing but the best for General Stape, and man for man the UNSC's professional corps would benefit immensely from their ingrained cohesion. The sheer level of tactical data being relayed from the UNSC ships orbiting high above played a factor too. Even the lowliest UNSC trooper would have a greater picture of the overall battle than any of their opponents, beam fed to them in real time.
They would need it. Of the five million citizens who had originally occupied New Cadiz, fully a third had risen in rebellion. Of those, some half were still viable combatants; the rest being too young to handle a firearm effectively, or supporters who approved of the insurrection, but took no actual part in the fighting - instead lending their support in medical aid and logistical contributions - storing food parcels and digging tunnels from one building to the next. Many of these had been caught in the cross-fire to date. McBride closed his eyes, scraping the sweat from his brow. Even more would die soon.
The excess information being fed to the UNSC might stand to the Insurrectionists, McBride thought to himself; even a cursory glance at his display showed him the overwhelming numbers of insurrectionists that lay in wait. That alone would be demoralising to all but the most hardened veteran.
So numbers were the ULF's greatest weapon. But marshalling those numbers, that was the key.
McBride had instructed the majority of the defending infantry screen to hold the northern half of the market. Earthworks formed the initial bulwark; reinforced with heaped rubble sc from elsewhere in the city. Rudimentary trenches had been dug - shallow foxholes for the most part. The earth was hard-packed here, and only determined digging managed to dislodge the heaped stones from beneath the sun-baked sand.
The south of the market lay barren and bare; a killing field.
The work had been rushed, and the level of fortification stood testament to that haste. If they could not repel the UNSC with overwhelming force from the initial offensive, then the field was lost. There was fall back plans, certainly, but the chances of an orderly retreat from a roving strike force of Warthogs, or worse still, a trundling wall of armour, were non-existent.
But that wasn't what made him nervous.
Spartans, a full fire-team of them, he had been told. Untested, unproven, but looking at the carnage they had wreaked across the southern pickets, not without considerable ability. McBride had read up extensively on the field notes provided. He had studied the tactical data, as broken as the reports were. Comprehensive regenerating shield systems, sheathing a polymer metal-alloy suit encased by a Titanium-A outer shell. There were no known simulations for repelling a Spartan assault. No successful ones, at any rate. McBride had an army of militia, and even then he knew they would serve as little more than bait.
If there was to be any success today, it rested on his shoulders, and his alone.
McBridge's boots carried him to the top of the tower. A rounded cupola, not unlike those that decorated the cathedrals of ancient Earth - a sentimental affectation by a local stone mason, no doubt; hoping to instil some culture where there had never been any before.
McBride settled himself down on the small wooden stool by the cupola's window. He pressed the binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the kill zone before him, giving a satisfied grunt. The hard work was done now.
At his feet lay a M6 Grindell Nonlinear Rifle; a state-of-the-art piece plucked clean from any UNSC armoury. Beside it was a twin-tubed rocket launcher, fully loaded and prepped.
If there were no known simulations for repelling a Spartan assault, then it would be necessary to create one.
McBride had positioned himself carefully. Behind him and to his left lay the central CP of the ULF resistance, staffed by ULF militants; primarily Sons of Al'Hajar hard-liners. If Spartans truly were the sharpest tip of the spear, then it was here, at this beating heart, where they would strike. The ULF here were expendable to McBride, but they had their purpose.
Conrad Hedeker's instructions had been clear: a single Spartan, that's all he had to kill, or at the very least maim. His orders had been quite specific.
All he had to do now was wait.
First Sergeant Frank Merrill advanced with what remained of his unit, some fifty combat capable Rangers and roughly triple that number of local colonial infantry. From a functional perspective, the Rangers benefited from higher spec gear; monocular lenses, reinforced knee pads and more cutting-edge weaponry; DMR's and advanced MA5's for the most part. But the Granican Reserve were no slouches either, and despite their relative inexperience soldiered on into the city with admirable discipline.
Nevertheless, the reservists lacked the youth and physical conditioning of the Army's elite shock troops, and were beginning to fall behind.
Merrill pulled the Reservists commander aside, an older man by the name of Winston. Merrill was twenty eight, which marked him as positively ancient for a Ranger. The next logical career step would be ODST Selection, or even Spartan assessment, if he could make the cut and proved genetically compatible.
Winston by comparison had been on the edge of retirement age from active service, and had enlisted in the Granican Reserve as a means of extending his military career. North of forty, the man had seen his share of horrors as a Marine in the Human Covenant War. Leather faced and fixed with a perpetual squint, the man seemed reminiscent of an old boot, and twice as tough. Sweat beaded his brown beneath the rim of his hard top.
"How we doing, Winston?" Merrill asked. There was another unspoken question there, and both men knew it.
"Men are falling behind." Winston spat a wad of stim-chew onto the dirt, "Hard going in this damn heat, not helped by the hits they've taken. Not as young as I used to be either, heh."
"We can slow the pace if needed." In truth Merrill wanted to speed up, but the Rangers needed to hold the reservists together. "Better to arrive fresh."
"I've seen worse." Winston growled, "Hell most of these boys have. We'll keep pushing, First Sergeant. You just set the pace, we'll run it. "
"We're only one klick out shy of the RV. Let's keep it tight - the General is expecting great things."
"My experience? Generals always are."
At the front most tip of the advance, Corporal Mike Lerner and PFC. Binkowski were advancing on the eastern flank of the advancing infantry screen. The men had left the burning remnant of the convoy, and the comparative safety of the old battered school house, behind. Now they advanced on foot. The Insurrectionists had fled this sector, leaving the tight winding streets entirely to the UNSC advance, but Mike was under no illusions: the ULF were re-grouping, reinforcing. Things would heat up soon enough.
They advanced at a snail's pace. Every window was a potential sniper hole, every alleyway a potential choke point for an IED or ambush, just waiting to be sprung. It was all hand signals and whispered exchanges.
The shadowy windows and ghostly atmosphere didn't do much to ease Lerner's sense of dread. Overhead, Falcons buzzed overhead, rotors beating the air and slapping the higher rooftops with residual chop-wash. Clothes lines and rudimentary power cables shook as they whooped past. ULF flags - ragged and punctured with bullet holes - snapped and fluttered in the air. They were still flapping as the Falcon's moved away further over the city; the humming echo reverberating against the walls of the empty streets. In the distance, they could hear sporadic shell fire, as the fight continued further afield.
Binks and Lerner exchanged a look.
"Don't say it." Lerner warned him quietly.
"All I'm saying is that it's quiet."
A few of the Rangers around them groaned, knowing what was coming.
"That's not all you were saying. I know full well what you're about to say."
"And when it's quiet… I get a-"
"No. Zip it. Not another word, Binkowski or so help me I will shoot you myself." Lerner threatened, before activating his com and whispering, "Lopez, how we looking up there?"
Specialist Lopez was on point fifty metres ahead, he turned and waved them onward.
All clear.
Lerner shot Binks a look, before giving Lopez an approving nod. This far at the front, noise discipline was a premium. Binks knew better than this.
The advance followed cautiously, panning for targets as they crept forward. Beyond lay the last block before the horizon vanished into the grand vastness of the Dakhar Market. Lopez had recovered from the injuries he had received back in the ambush on the Massif Wasteland some months before, though the man now carried himself more cautiously than he had before. The ideal point man, Lerner thought to himself. Lerner waved the next two Rangers forward, then crept forward himself, following the knot of Rangers into a narrow alleyway.
Abruptly, Lopez held up a clenched fist. Everyone froze.
Hold up. Another hand signal. Potential contact.
The signal went back down the line. The Rangers dropped into cover instantly. The reservists followed suit, in an altogether less organised fashion. They listened. Nothing but hissing steam vents and wheezing condenser fans.. Lopez went to sound the all clear.
"Easy now, friendlies." a voice breathed over the open-com.
A single Spartan detached itself from the shadows of the alley behind them, its gunmetal grey armour blending in with the metal pipe work surrounding it. It held up an open palm in greeting. So too did a metallic purple giant, its armoured scales dulled with a coat of sand to mask its reflective glint. It was only when Lerner looked up that he saw the three other Spartans looking down from the walls of the alleyway above, weapons half-trained on the tightly packed Rangers below. They hung from window ledges and duct work by their fingertips. Lerner couldn't even begin to imagine the degree of grip strength required to keep all that armour in place, so silently.
The Spartans dropped to the ground with agile grace; their armoured soles touching the dirt with the barest muffled thump. Not even the Rangers had caught them on their initial sweep.
"The way ahead is clear, Rangers." Spartan 451, identifier Damien, said, "Rally point is just ahead."
"Potential hostiles?" Mike Lerner asked.
"Nothing we haven't taken care of already."
With that, Lerner took another glance at the tomb-like buildings around them, and realised that - not for the first time - there were more terrifying things in New Cadiz than insurrectionists.
Lerner and Binkowski exchanged a look.
"Still got that feeling, Binks?"
"Yeah," Binkowski swallowed, "Only now I'm not sure we're the ones to feel sorry for."
High in orbit, Rebecca watched the tactical display Kaizen had prepared. The increased aerial activity over the city had dramatically increased levels of data from the gun-cams of the roving Falcon gunships. Kaizen used this data to build a more comprehensive model of the rebels' defences. It made for grim viewing.
A wall of Insurgents had lined up to deny the central UNSC push. The line was comprised of three interwoven layers, with overlapping fields of fire and staggered withdrawal points. Again, astutely ripped from the pages of a UNSC field manual. Air support - both drone and fixed wing aircraft - had dropped some initial fire on the market, but the market was too close to the support struts of the Orbital Two's tether, and the deeper layers of the defence had been left unmolested. From hereon in it was a ground fight.
The green UNSC identifiers advancing toward to the red wall seemed woefully outnumbered, and for the first time since the Spartans had made landfall Rebecca began to wonder whether the UNSC response to the New Cadiz rebellion had been entirely adequate. The aerial push over the city had driven the frontline deeper into the city, but that same frontline had become a more consolidated pocket of resistance, and all the harder to break because of it. Indeed, the ranks of the frontline units depleted by the bombing quickly swelled with replacement fighters flowing out from the core of the city, emerging from the tunnels below. Grim-faced and determined, the rebels pushed the bodies of their fallen allies aside, and dug in.
Once again, Eric 239 found himself standing before General Stape.
"General Stape, a word, if I may."
"Spartan, this really isn't a good time." Stape was surrounded by a host of orderlies, and was tapping commands into the central command terminal at the base of the holo-display. Points of approach were being debated and mercilessly refuted time and time again.
Not one to be deterred, Spartan 239 held his ground, insistent. A Spartan was not one to be ignored.
"You know why I'm here General."
"And you already know my answer, Spartan: Operation Rising Dawn is a go. I will not commit additional resources to this fight, not at the eleventh hour."
"Orbital One has never been threatened by ULF forces, not with the degree of ground side material we have on site. Governor Jennings is secure. Conventional forces can hold Argjend, Sir. Let the rest of the Spartans take the field."
"Not a chance, 239. We proceed as planned."
"We could orbital strike right behind their lines, Sir. Break up the enemy command structure before we even engage. I urge you to reconsider, General."
"And I urge you to listen, son. Platinum and Trident will do their jobs, as I expect you to do your job. Now get back to your post and let me win this fight Spartan."
"Then I request permission to deploy to the combat zone personally, Sir. I'm more good to you down there."
That got General Stape's full attention. It also seemingly eroded his patience entirely. He stared coldly into Eric's visor, unblinking.
"You're not combat certified, 239. You know better than to ask that."
The Spartan tilted his chin upward at that, the micro-movement as close as a Spartan ever came to bristling.
"Well I'm asking, General. Put me in the fight, and let me take this city."
"Request denied, 239. You're our allocated Spartan overseer. Now get back to your station, and get overseeing God damnit - this entire fight could hinge on Chimera's performance. Waste any more of my time, and I'll have you charged with insubordination."
"Sir." Eric saluted, turned smartly on his heel and stalked back to where Rebecca sat in the side station dedicated to Spartan operations.
Even ensconced as he was in his armour shell, the doctor could feel the rage radiating from him. Eric rested his hands on the empty chair beside her. When he finally released his grip, Rebecca tried not to notice the indentations Eric's fingers had warped into the metal.
"That went well." Rebecca observed mildly.
"I don't understand." Eric said simply, committing himself to the readouts. He stabbed one finger into the haptic display too roughly, and the entire display wobbled in an angry blurt of red interference.
I do, Rebecca thought quietly. They don't trust you.
The doctor thought more about the Spartan's personnel file. About the redactions, the endless walls of red tape. That rage. She spared another glance at the damaged chair.
And neither do I.
Five hundred metres clear of the target, the mission clock ticked ever onward.
Eric was now busying himself with the task at hand, determined to see the job done.
"Chimera Actual to Chimera One, do you copy?"
"Go ahead, Sir."
"Be advised, heavy contact up ahead."
"Copy. Target estimates?"
Kaizen began piping in with an estimated headcount in the thousands. Eric cut her off.
"Too many to count. General Stape thinks we can simply roll over the insurgents and make for Orbital Two directly."
"And you disagree, Sir?"
"This is going to be bloodbath if the General carries on as planned. Breaking the deadlock will be up to you."
"Understood. Recommended course of action?"
"Isolate and neutralise the insurgent CP. I'm uploading an old Scimitar combat protocol to your neural lace. Attack Pattern Hydra."
"Cut off the head?"
"Cut off the head, Chimera One."
"Consider it cut, Sir. Chimera One out."
The link went dead.
"Now what?" Rebecca asked.
"Now the hard part" Eric replied, settling himself into the chair beside Rebecca. He reached up and unsealed his helmet. The man's scarred face was grimly set.
"Now we wait."
Damien dropped to a crouch. Luke was on point, and held up a clenched fist. The Spartans knelt at the southern edge of the market, hidden from view by the pock-marked perimeter wall that bounded the clearing. Damien opened a com channel.
"Talk to me, Five."
"Feeding you VISR footage now." Luke replied, "The Viking wasn't lying, Chief. That's a wall of hurt, right there."
"Com discipline, Five." Damien suppressed a smirk, thankful that his own helmet hid his expression, "And I would remind you that the appropriate title for our beloved C.O. is Chimera Actual."
A single amber acknowledgement light flashed its discontent. All of Chimera grinned.
Damien's smile quickly faded as he studied the footage Luke had captured when he had peaked around the corner of the retaining wall.
The hastily panned glance had been slowed to a snail's pace by Kaizen; processed and overlaid with red contact targets tagged from orbital scans. The entire horizon swam in a red haze.
Damien opened a channel. Wide band, full UNSC broadcast.
"Sierra 451 to all advancing UNSC elements; be advised, Dakhar Market is an ambush. Repeat: rally point is an ambush. All units hold position."
"Belay that order." General Stape's rang out, "Air support will provide necessary cover. All elements proceed as planned."
As if on cue there was roaring whoosh as something supersonic shot past overhead. A rib-shaking boom announced the drone strike in thunderous retrospect.
For once it was Rashid who spoke up. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the trundling of tire threads: the armoured elements of the UNSC push had arrived, and were on the verge of breaching the market's perimeter.
"Sir, forgive me, but is he crazy? "
"We have shield systems." Chidinma added, shaking her head emphatically, "That's a five hundred metre run with no cover. Even the Rangers will be butchered."
The Rangers watched wide-eyed as the Spartans conducted their conversation over a private channel.
It made for a surreal tableau; as though the armoured giants were conducting a telepathic conversation. The keening of armoured tracks grew louder. Armadillo personnel carriers, up-armoured Warthogs, even the trundling clatter of the occasional Scorpion MBT. Staccato pops and the hiss-sneeze of RPG fire filled the air as battle was joined. There simply wasn't any more time.
Damien became conscious of the panicked stares of the reservists looking up at him. He switched his external mic back on.
"We proceed as ordered. But we do it our way. Prep smoke. As much as you can. Follow the armour in."
"Smoke up!" one of the Rangers barked.
"Poppin' smoke!" came the return call.
There was a smattering of hollow phunks as breach-loaded launchers popped smoke rounds into the air. Others freed twist-trigger smoke grenades from their webbing and lobbed them over the retaining wall. Soon a drifting pall of smoke wafted up over the wall beyond. Within, muffled bangs and snaps sounded out the deluge of fire hammering the tip of the UNSC spear. The monstrous thump of an AP shell sounded out in return.
Damien rose to his feet, taking lead position at the edge of the archway. He glanced back over his shoulder, at the throng of men waiting behind him.
"Rangers, with me. Spartans, take the field."
Without another word, Fireteam Chimera swept around the corner, vanishing into the fiery smoke.
Even as a rain of fire fell upon the Insurrectionist battle line, the resistance was numbing.
Machine guns opened up like murderous sewing machines, tracer fire slicing and stitching the dirt. Hard rounds clattered and spalled off rounded armour plating, denting paintwork and rebounding with a resounding series of pings. The men advancing were all but blinded by the churning smoke. Low light filters proved useless: the very air was hot with frenzied bullet-churn.
The UNSC armour took the brunt of it. The Armadillos weathered the storm for the most part, though one or two eventually erupted in a mighty burst of upward shrapnel; holed in several places by the storm of RPG fire. This is not to say that the carnage was one sided: auto-tracking systems killed hundreds of embedded insurgents in seconds, as UNSC weapon operators smoothly tracked from target to target.
The frontline of the ULF defence buckled quickly, forced back by the storm of iron. Those who weren't pulped outright were smashed off their feet as incoming rounds caught them in the back, bursting torsos and snapping men in half. One or two unfortunates fell beneath the treads of an oncoming Scorpion, their shrieks muffled out by the maddening whirr of the trundling threads.
Chimera saw none of this. They led the infantry charge, augmented legs demolishing the distance between the perimeter wall and the rear of the UNSC's armour advance. Huge craters formed by incoming mortar fire and earlier artillery shelling proved the most natural source of cover available, and it was in one such large crater where they set a rally point. Dozens of UNSC infantrymen crashed out of the smoke and slammed into the dirt around them. Filthy, smoke-stained, but mercifully alive for the most part. Some twenty broken bodies, a collection of reservists and a smattering of Rangers, lay forlorn in the now-clearing smoke, where hard-rounds had knocked the life and legs out from under them.
The UNSC troopers bellied up to the lip of the crater, and now the amount of small arms fire exchanging between the two opposing forces became something of an even contest: while the UNSC had inferior numbers, the majority of the untrained militia were too busy cowering in terror from the merciless butchery meted out by the support vehicles.
Chidinma got to work. She rose to a half crouch, anti-material rifle braced in her arms. With mechanical precision, she filtered out all distractions and hammered shot after shot home. Rashid clambered up beside her, using his GUNGIR system to pinpoint targets for her. Her strike rate, already in the 90 percent range, grew by an alarming degree of precision. The rest of Chimera weighed in, laying down a wall of suppressive fire against the upper windows that looked down at them from the northern end of the square.
Damien glanced at his TACPAD. The audacious armoured assault had driven back the initial ULF infantry screen, but the upper tiers of the northern square were holding fast. The Warthogs had sped back toward the southern end of the clearing. Too many of them had been torn apart in the initial point. Also bloodied, the Armadillo Personnel Carriers had held position either side of the rally point crater, unable or perhaps unwilling to rsk getting closer to the entrenched anti-armour teams bedded down in the northern structures. Only the two Scorpion MBT's remained, largely impervious to the small arms fire skipping against their plating.
"Chimera One to Chimera Actual. You seeing this?"
"Kaizen here, Chimera One. Com traffic appears to be centred upon that warehouse directly ahead of you."
"Find me a pattern."
"Analysing. A moment."
Kaizen interfaced with Damien's VISR directly, showing an overlay of traffic noise. The visual display interpreted com traffic - panicked cries, murmured prayers, frenzied yelps - all hot noise and wobbling frequencies; and distilled it into the more muted tones. The command echelon of the ULF began to take shape before Damien's eyes. A visual web that became ever clearer the more Kaizen filtered.
"Got it. Warehouse four hundred metres directly ahead of you. Sandstone structure, white-washed."
"I see it. Heck of a stretch in these conditions."
"Additional armoured support is inbound."
It was then Damien realised that, distantly over the rumbling chatter of machine gun fire and constant scream of shellfire, he had noticed something new. Even with all his augmentation and advanced combat training, it took him a moment to pin down what it was.
He could hear music.
Steadily approaching the market with ruthless determination, Stride Team Kodiak loped through the burnt out streets. The PA system thumped out their most recent choice of anthem; Gimme Shelter by some obscure band Currie was fond of. The Rolling Rocks, Stride Commander Williams decided, that was their name. I think.
The UNSC push had torn through this sector less than an hour ago, but already insurgent rocket teams had begun creeping through the devastation, looking to flank the UNSC assault.
The Walkers didn't give them the chance. One insurgent crested a mound of broken rubble and dropped to one knee, prepping a launch tube on his shoulder. He burst seconds letter, a single round from the Midnight Cowboy's gunpod popping him like a fleshy water balloon.
"Clear. Good eyes, Three."
"Thank you, Sir."
"All Stride elements forward. Watch those rooftops."
The Mark IX Mantis Armoured Defence System was designed for many things, Hazardous mountain terrain, rapid-reaction counter assault; the system had proven itself time and time again since its introduction. There was even a de-fanged police model, equipped for riot-control and crowd suppression.
Yet for all their virtues, the Mantis proved ill-suited to urban warfare. The reality was that the constricted environment lent itself to all manner of counter ambushes, which exposed the natural weakness of any bi-pedal armour system: the leg joints. In an urban environment, constrained as this one was, this weakness became all the easier to target. Kodiak's survival was predicated on denying the enemy the chance to get a clear shot.
And deny they did. The gun pods were capable of filleting the thin sandstone walls of the very basic habitational blocks. A single round could punch through three of the buildings. The collateral damage to the city caused to the city was considerable. Had the non combatants not fled the city long ago, the death tolll would have been considerable.
When they reached the southern wall, they didn't pause for a way through. They simply waded through it, the masonry exploding inward in a swirl of tumbling debris.
"Kodiak One to all elements, we are on station - mark targets and suggest you seek cover, over."
The Mantis Stride hit the square in a loping sprint, pintle weapons chattering as they burred a rake of fire across the front face of the white-washed northern buildings. Windows didn't so much shatter as erupt in fiery bursts of shredded stonework. Rocket pods hissed as they impacted; collapsing entire buildings in crumbling columns of churning smoke. The weight of fire bearing down on the advancing UNSC army slackened considerably. They whooped as Stride Kodiak ripped into the foe, striding past the rally crater.
They were still whooping when a blinding crimson light flashed out, catching Kodiak Three square in the central stabiliser. The beam lanced clean through the gyros beneath the driver's cage, impacting with such force that the advanced sensor RADOME exploded outright. There was a terrible screeching sound and the walker's legs wobbled and tottered about, like some nightmarish foal.
Finally the mech slammed over on its side, crushing one of its cannon arms beneath its own weight. The music died abruptly.
"Kodiak Three is hit!"
The other two walkers reflexively skipped back a few steps. Kodiak One narrowly missed a second lancing beam of light, which arced past and caught a hapless reservist in the distance. The man barely had time to scream as he vaporised; tufts of burning BDU scraps fluttering in the air like discarded newspaper.
"Kodiak, pull back - they're packing tier one anti-material weapons!" Damien warned.
"Lasers? In this shit-hole?!" Luke chimed in.
"Radio discipline, Five! Rashid, secure that Mantis!" Damien barked, sighting his rifle, "Ranger elements will support. The rest of you; covering fire, now!"
"You three, with me." Rashid motioned to the three men closest: Lerner, Binks and Lopez, before breaking cover and advancing into the open.
All four men advanced in a similar manner to the giant in front of them: knees bent, rifle tucked beneath the crook of their arms. Even encased in his armour, Rashid was a living textbook on best field practice. The Rangers mimed him, lethal professionals; though on a more human scale.
The Rangers moved up toward the broken walker, disciplined fire marking their advance. Rashid had clambered up atop the fallen Mantis, and was wrestling with the emergency release hatch. Mike Lerner and his men took up overwatch positions, using the Mantis' heavy plating as cover. He only saw the movement in the shadows of the tower above when it was too late.
"RPG! RPG-!"
The rocket hissed toward them; aimed squarely at Lerner, Binks and Lopez. There was no time to move, not even to so much blink.
High on adrenaline, time slowed to a crawl. Something impossibly fast bowled the Rangers aside - Lerner caught a half glimpse of Spartan , back half turned toward the arcing rocket. One gauntleted hand held up to shield his face as he shied backward; the other out-stretched in an abortive warning to the regular humans whose lives he had just undoubtedly saved. Then there was a column of smoke and fire, an electro-static crackle. Dust obscured everything.
The dirt soared up and smashed into Lerner. Suddenly he was staring at open sky.
Warning icons hooted and flared on Lerner's HUD. A dull, keening whine consumed his skull. Numb, he rolled onto his belly and scrambled back to the relative shelter offered by the Mantis. He hunkered down, chest heaving. He'd lost his rifle. The acrid taste of blood made his mouth feel thick and swollen.
Burning shrapnel fell down around him, though Mike Lerner heard nothing but the faintest muffled patter. He blinked to clear his vision.
Rashid lay on his back, like an upturned turtle, utterly helpless. The Spartan's leg was gone from beneath the knee.
Deafened as he was, Mike opened the com-line.
"Spartan down!" Mike croaked, "I repeat, Spartan down!"