Hey folks, Grubkiller here.
Hope you are enjoying this story.
Here is the exciting continuation. Much of this was pulled from Robert Mclees' superb Palace Hotel story.
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New Mombasa, E.A.P., Earth.
After fighting his way through the old city and crossing the bridge, the Master Chief Petty Officer - 'John' - Spartan 117 found himself about to enter New Mombasa.
"Aside from the Covenant discovering the location of Earth and our being on the ground with no viable means of transportation to our objective, I'd say we're in pretty good shape." Cortana's voice seemed to come from just over the Spartan's shoulder. The AI had been put in his care a little over a month ago and he still wasn't used to the intimacy of its communication.
"How's that?" John said, glancing over his left shoulder, half expecting to see her.
"We have one of the top-ranking members of the Covenant leadership within our reach. On top of that? We're still alive, Chief. And while there isn't anything I can do about the Covenant being here, I am working diligently to devise a viable solution to our other problem at hand."
John moved between what meager cover the few abandoned vehicles littering the toll plaza afforded him. As he closed in on a row of toll booths, he found his eyes drawn to the mouth of the outbound tunnel of the Mtangwe Underpass. It looked like a kiln—exhaling heat and light. Cutting across the plaza was a smear of molten glassiness three feet wide leading to the tunnel mouth and then up away from it along the face of the city's famous sea wall. Curiously, the inbound tunnel was undamaged. A dull smile crossed his lips behind his visor as he considered his options. He thought back. The correct choices have always been this obvious.
A thin whine from above signaled the arrival of Banshees. John dashed beneath the canopy of concrete that sheltered the island of toll booths—he was less concerned about the Banshees' effectiveness as attack aircraft and more about remaining out of sight. He flattened himself out against one of the booths momentarily and looked through its clouded and sagging polycarbonate window. The attendant, still seated within, wasn't much more than a partially articulated skeleton hung with the charred remains of a uniform and fused to an ergonomic seat bolted to the floor.
"His name was Carlos Wambua, age fifty-two, widower, three adult children. The oldest still-"
Cortana rattled off before John cut in.
"He just sat there—the position of his feet," John pointed at the man's smoldering shoes with his chin for emphasis. "He didn't even try to get away. From his position he would've been able to see the Scarab even before it crested the bridge—that's a little over eight hundred meters out."
He gave his gear a shake test then moved to the corner of the structure.
"Your point being?" Cortana challenged. "Do the words 'transfixed with terror' mean anything to you? You may find this hard to believe, but most people find Scarabs to be rather unsettling."
With a barely noticeable shrug he began looking for a path to the mouth of the inbound tunnel—moving along the line of booths until he found a straight shot with no obstructions. It was seventy-three meters to the entrance. That meant he would be out in the open for about four and a half seconds—enough time for one of the Banshees in the air overhead to make a positive ID. He slung his rifle and hunkered down.
Kelly had always been the fastest in their class—easily making her the fastest human being who had ever lived—but as he tore across the plaza, he was certain that his performance would have made even her take notice.
Once he was within the tunnel, John slid to a stop against a burnt-out sedan. He unlimbered his rifle and considered the path ahead. This section of the tunnel was littered with vehicles; some gutted or otherwise destroyed, others merely abandoned. The area would have been perfect for an ambush.
Unfortunately he was the one who had to move through it. The vehicles appeared to thin out some eighty meters farther in, but to get there would require patience. And so he began snaking his way through the environment—moving quickly but cautiously between cover. He checked the most likely hiding spots and the least, keeping his eye on his armor's motion sensor and listening intently for any sound that seemed out of place.
Working his way deeper into the underpass, he heard muffled curses and other sounds of agitated goings-on from about 150 meters ahead. He came to a stop alongside a lorry in pale green Technique Electronics livery and looked off to his right. The Moi Avenue junction was sealed off by heavy blast doors.
"The main route is locked down as well," Cortana huffed; the frustration in her voice was unmistakable.
John hesitated a moment, waiting for Cortana to continue. The main Mtangwe route, a 390-meter tunnel that resurfaced in the center of New Mombasa's industrial zone, had been his best bet to gain entrance into the city without being spotted by the enemy. The activity up ahead was promising and he hoped it was from a maintenance crew who could release either set of blast doors; if not, his only choice was to head back to the surface.
"That's it?" John asked, finally. "It's locked down and nothing else?"
"I'm having a little trouble accessing the local net," Cortana replied. "I'll have it in a moment."
The Spartan edged around the cab of one of the omnipresent SinoViet lorries.
About thirty meters away, near the blast door, were two M831s—the primary UNSC wheeled troop carriers that had become nearly as common in New Mombasa as the freight lorries over the past few weeks—and a squad of Marines who were busily pulling any useful bits of equipment out of them.
"They're from one of the ghost battalions out of Eridanus Two," Cortana said with a near-audible sigh of relief. "First Battalion, Seventh Regiment; more specifically, this is Third Squad, First Platoon, Kilo Company."
One of the Marines signaled the Spartan's arrival to the rest of the squad and moved forward cautiously to greet him.
"Holy crap," Private Jemison blurted. "Sorry, sir, but holy crap, you're a Spartan!"
"Yes," John said dryly as he jogged toward the Marine, but before he had the chance to utter another syllable, the distinctive report of a fuel rod gun rang out from behind him.
"Get to cover," John yelled as he brought his BR55 to bear, spun on his heel, acquired a sight picture of his target, and put a single bullet through the neck of the green-clad Grunt. Private Jemison's MA5B flashed to his shoulder and fired off a long burst as the first shot from the fuel rod gun sailed past the Spartan and the Marines and slammed into the tunnel wall a little more than twelve meters away. The nearly decapitated Grunt reflexively fired a second shot, which impacted the roadway less than a meter away from where it was standing. The resulting explosion killed half of the aliens that were visible in the tunnel, including their commander—an Elite in red armor.
The stray first shot had dug a four-meter-wide hole in the wall and dumped a literal ton of smoking, shattered concrete out onto the tunnel floor. Dark, brackish slop lazily spilled out, accompanied with a stomach-curdling stench—making it very clear that an opening had been punched into an adjoining sewer line.
As if on cue, brilliant purple light washed along the walls as the massive, bulbous form of a Wraith slid into view from behind an abandoned commuter bus. Its carapace seemed to crack open—broad curving plates folded out of the way of its deadly plasma mortar.
"Crap," Jemison howled as he backpedaled. "Corporal, what do we do?"
A tall, broad-shouldered redhead hopped down out of the back of the lead troop carrier and motioned with her left hand toward the opening in the wall.
"Jump in that hole—it ain't no worse than it is out here! Move it!"
Jemison continued to back up until he reached the edge of the rubble, all the while firing burst after burst from his assault rifle into the advancing enemies. Corporal Palmer approached the Spartan, tapped his shoulder, and shouted, "You wanna come, big guy?" She moved through the rubble to the breach, motioning for the rest of the squad to follow. And in they went, one by one.
John shouldered his rifle, took one step back toward the way he had come, and fired a burst into a mob of Grunts that had swarmed in past the Wraith, killing two and forcing the rest to scatter and dive for cover.
"Chief, you should probably follow those Marines—they look like they need the help—and there are three more Wraiths on the way," Cortana said thoughtfully.
As the walls of the tunnel reverberated with the sounds of the charging plasma mortar John dashed over to the rent in the tunnel wall—firing three more bursts from his battle rifle back at the advancing enemies as he went—then turned and disappeared into the breach. He had made it no more than thirteen meters when the mortar round slammed into the opening, sending a wall of concussion and heat that drove him to his knees and caused his shields to overload and drop. John got back to his feet, but Private Jemison, the second-to-last man to make it into the breach, was lying facedown in the now boiling muck—his organs ruptured and bones splintered from that same blast.
Howls from the darkness told him that Jemison wasn't the only casualty. He ran past Private First-Class Locke, whose split and blistered flesh and raw bone were visible through smoldering holes in his BDUs. He stepped over Private First-Class Galliard, who had been felled by a piece of rebar that entered just below the nape of his neck and exited through the bridge of his nose—the still-glowing chunk of steel protruded from the sewer wall ten yards farther ahead.
When John reached the flow-through tunnel below the spillway, the remaining Marines skipped their eyes past him and looked back down the tunnel.
"Where the hell's the rest of my squad?" demanded Corporal Palmer as she stepped forward. "The Wraith?"
"Affirmative," John replied flatly. "They were killed in action."
"Then we've gotta go back."
"We're going forward."
"No we're not." Palmer's brow furrowed. "We are not just gonna leave them lying back there in this goddamn sewer!"
Cortana spoke to the entire group over their helmet-integrated comm units. "They will be left behind just as the other twenty-three billion that preceded them were left behind. Because they could not be saved, and carrying them with us will only make us vulnerable."
They looked at John like he was a monster; like an alien. In some of their eyes he could detect something deeper. Not horror; astonishment? Betrayal? Of course it may have just been hearing Cortana speaking through his comms.
"Who was that?" Palmer spat.
"That was Cortana. She's . . ."
"She's a real fucking bitch."
The Spartan stood in silence, head cocked slightly to the right. "Corporal, give me your TACPAD."
Corporal Palmer produced a notebook-sized device from her pack and passed it to the Spartan, and he flipped it open and showed them a traffic video with a time stamp from twenty-two minutes earlier four Wraiths and fifty light infantry entering the Mtangwe Underpass.
"It's amazing how persuasive an argument overwhelming force can be," Cortana whispered to the Spartan. John shrugged and moved toward what appeared to be a series of rungs imbedded in a flat section of the sewer wall.
Cortana was the first smart AI he had ever worked with directly. Sadly, whoever died to make this AI possible had to have been a genius among geniuses. For example: The section they were in wasn't on the grid; it dated from before construction had even started on the Mombasa Tether—itself more than two hundred years old. Cortana had plucked the plans for them out of the ether before he could finish his request. As far as equipment went, the AI was cutting edge. The only thing that bothered him about Cortana was her excessive familiarity; she was more like a pushy civilian that just happened to fit on a data crystal than a true military AI.
"You can tell her that the rest of their unit has begun to dig in at Beria Plaza," Cortana's voice buzzed in his ear. "That's a little under two kilometers away."
"Corporal Palmer, does Beria Plaza mean anything to you?"
"It was between where that door came slamming down in front of us and where we were going."
"That's where the rest of your unit is. It's about two clicks due east of our current position. You'll go up here," John said, indicating the ladder. "It'll take you up to the surface."
Cortana may have been busy looking for some way to get him onto the Covenant assault carrier, but not so busy that she couldn't provide him the occasional blueprint, video feed, or other intel—whether it was helpful to his situation or not.
"Okay." Palmer nodded. "So you gonna follow this pipe all the way out to the Mombasa Quays?"
"No. I'm going to make sure the rest of you make it out of here alive."
"Gosh! That's awfully nice of you," Palmer mugged—then the smile faded. "Look, you may be a Spartan, but . . ."
"Exactly, Corporal. And if we had all been Spartans back there none of us would have died. Now let me do my job."
Palmer's jaw dropped. After about a second and a half she closed her mouth, snapped off a smug salute, pivoted on her heel, and then jogged over to the rest of the Marines.
As the Marines stacked up at the base of the ladder, John readied his service rifle, swapped in a full magazine, and took station on the other side of the tunnel so he could keep an eye on them as well as keep an eye out for pursuers. He glanced over at the Marines as they moved into position to climb to the upper part of the spillway—and out of the sewer they had been slogging through for the past twenty minutes. While it may have only been a storm sewer, it hardly mattered this close to the Kilindini Harbor. He wondered if the oppressive stench was the reason for the soldiers' sour expressions.
"Chief," Cortana whispered, "there was no way for you to save those three."
"Even so," he muttered, "I could've wiped out that entire unit."
"Four Wraiths," Cortana broke in. "Four. You rely too much on your luck."
"The limited space and the abandoned vehicles in the tunnel would have restricted their mobility as well as their ability to use their main weapons, especially if they brought all four down—which they did. I've been doing this for twenty-seven years, Cortana. And I know the exact limits of my luck."
"Then what? The rest of them die trying to support you?"
"They started running as soon as the shooting started."
"Yes, Chief, but Corporal Palmer's reasoning was sound—even without knowing about the other three Wraiths she had more sense than to go up against armor without any anti-armor weaponry."
John watched as the last Marine started up the ladder and fired a burst from his BR55 back down the way they had come. He heard the heavy rounds gouge the ancient concrete, followed by the panicked cries of Grunts in the distance as they dove for cover—and into the semigelatinous, ankle-deep liquid. Hopefully that would keep them from coming any closer, at least until the Marines were all safely up on the spillway. There was precious little cover within the confines of the sewer, certainly not enough to avoid any incoming fire. The spillway would allow them to break contact with their pursuers—then he could get back to his mission.
"Chief, I was serious about their being useful for getting us to our objective," Cortana whispered in the Spartan's ear.
"Thanks. So you strongly suggest following them?"
"I merely suggest we take them back to their unit," Cortana whispered very sweetly. "They could be useful too."
Palmer called down from the top of the spillway, "Your girlfriend say to wait there? you coming or what?"
"It's an AI."
"Nice," Cortana huffed.
John turned his attention to the ladder. He looped his arm behind the rungs and popped them out, three at a time, until he had pulled out all of them he could reach; it wouldn't stop their pursuers for good, but it didn't have to. All it needed to do was slow them down. He sent four more rounds ripping into the darkness before jumping three meters up to the top of the spillway and following the sounds of the boots retreating up one of the drainage tunnels. He could hear the sound of wind in the trees and the pounding of the surf somewhere up ahead, and beyond that the staccato chatter of gunfire and dull thudding of explosions in the distance.
The tunnel opened into a wide culvert that seemed to emerge from beneath the inner part of the island's western sea wall—and directly behind the parking area for the Kilindini Park Cultural Center. The Marines had flattened out against the walls, stopping just short of the tunnel mouth. A Covenant beam rifle leaned unattended against the end of the culvert twelve meters away. Straddling a deep rut a half meter beyond the end of the culvert was a Jackal. Its back was to them—a thin stream of fluid fell into the rut between the alien's feet.
The Spartan inched forward in uncanny silence, carefully gauging the distance between himself and the Jackal. He positioned his feet on the tunnel floor, assessing his footing and evaluating the strength of the concrete beneath him. He was less than seven meters from the alien when its head snapped to the side with a start, inhaling sharply. John sailed forward—covering the distance in two strides, his left arm a blur shooting forward, index and middle fingers outstretched together to form a spike. The Spartan's gauntleted hand passed effortlessly through the Jackal's skull just behind its left eye. John backpedaled, retreating into the darkness of the drainage tunnel—the grisly remains of his quarry dangling limply from his forearm, leaving a streak of brilliant purple blood in their wake.
Corporal Palmer quailed momentarily and then glanced back at the group and motioned for everyone to stay low and quiet. She scooted up to the edge of the culvert in a low crouch. When she reached the end she popped the covers on her scope and slowly swung her BR55 over the low concrete wall.
She could see the smoking remains of several variants of the UNSC's ubiquitous Warthogs—M831 troop transports, M12 reconnaissance vehicles, even a couple of M12G light anti-armor rigs, all of which were arranged in a line partially shielding the main entrance of a squat concrete structure—a makeshift defensive wall. She could also see the Jackals overlooking the parking area from the roof and the bodies of men scattered about below them.
"It looks like a goddamn massacre out there," Corporal Palmer stage-whispered. "There're bodies all over the place—there's a Grunt bleeding out and a Jackal standing not ten feet away from him poking at one of our boys. What the hell, man?"
Private First-Class Sullivan scooted up next to her and stole a quick peek over the wall. "This shit happened ages ago—we woulda heard those sixty-eights goin' off even down the pipes," he muttered.
Private Emerson tossed John a spare canteen and he rinsed the blood from his arm. Behind him, half a dozen meters deeper into the tunnel, one of the Marines was busily constructing what looked to be a miniature barricade. "Don't hold onto anything you can't fight with," John said before stepping out into the culvert. He glanced over at the line of Warthogs and opened a private channel with Corporal Palmer. "Sitrep, over."
Palmer looked over her shoulder at the Spartan—a mere seven meters away, "Huh? I'm right over here."
John tapped his throat and pointed past her at the enemy. "A Jackal's ears may not be very big, but they are very sensitive."
"Oh all right," she grumbled, put her eye back to the scope, and continued, "Looks like a detachment of Army mechanized infantry got sent in to evac some civies or whatever out of this gift shop or whatever the hell that is—that being the structure that looks sorta like a giant concrete intake manifold. There's a fountain about twenty meters northeast of the structure in the middle of what looks to be the parking area. But the fountain is busted all to hell and the entire parking area is under about four inches of water. I count about . . . eighteen civilians and . . . twenty UNSC personnel—all dead—and half a dozen 'hogs. The 'hogs are strung out in a line from the center of the northeast wall of the structure to just past what's left of that busted fountain. All but two of the 'hogs are out of commission. We might be able to use one of the other em twelve gees but its generator is holed—I wouldn't trust it. Looks like the Covies've got a T-42 set up on the roof at the eastern corner of the structure—the Grunt on it looks like it's snoozing, though. So, along with the gunner, I'm counting twelve bad guys—eight Jackals; four Grunts. That ain't counting the one Grunt bleeding out. They've got elevation on us so don't take that number as a guarantee; it'd take a lot more than this handful of assholes to grease twenty-odd shooters—even if they were only Army. Over."
"So, only two serviceable 'hogs." John looked at the eight Marines squatting in the culvert and sighed. "Proximity to each other? Over."
Palmer let her rifle drift slowly, covering a wide arc. "The M831 that isn't burning or otherwise busted all to hell is right near the main entrance of the structure, and the LAAV is a good fifteen meters east-northeast of that, over by the fountain. Chief, if you're planning on going for that M12G, you won't just be running into their field of fire—you'll be running across it like a duck in a shooting gallery. Over."
The Spartan looked over the low wall at the M12G; it was a mess. What was left of the windshield was lying across the hood in tiny cubes, the seats were burnt down to their frames, the winch was a fused wad of metal, and most of the bodywork was distorted, pitted, and scorched. But it wasn't burning, smoking, or leaking fluid and it had all four wheels.
"You, Sullivan, and I will secure the M12G; once we get it moving we'll suppress what's left of the local Covenant group until the M831 is secured. Over."
Palmer's heart seemed to skip a beat and she reflexively licked her lips.
"Chief, I believe I can honestly say that even though you are an honest-to-God one-man death squad, and that if you were to ask nicely I'd give up my lucrative career in the Corps and start pumping out your babies as fast as you could put them in me, there is no way that I am gonna run across fifty goddamn meters of open terrain covered by three Jackal snipers that I can see just to jump into an open vehicle. Throwing myself on a goddamn grenade makes more sense than that. Out."
The Spartan was at Corporal Palmer's elbow so quickly and so quietly that only those Marines who had been looking directly at him noticed that he had even moved. He closed the private channel and addressed the group as a whole.
"Palmer, Sullivan; you're on me. Concentrate on running until we get to the LAAV —then mount up as fast as you can. Corporal, I want you on that sixty-eight. The rest of you will cover us until the LAAV starts moving—we will then lay down suppression fire until you secure the M831 by that structure's main entrance—I'm setting a waypoint now. This is sure to get more complicated once we are under way, so stay on your toes."
The assembled Marines looked at one another nervously and then out at the open field that lay between themselves and the Warthogs—numbers above the tiny blue deltas indicating the objectives in their HUDs reinforced their remoteness. The Marines began systematically checking their gear in grim silence. The furtive glances that passed between them, however, spoke volumes. To wit, they were about to pit themselves against a group whose exact composition they were unsure of, that was established in a defensive position with superior elevation, and that was clearly capable of annihilating a unit more than twice their number even if it had been equipped with vehicles and support weapons. They did have one advantage, though: they had a Spartan with them. But how much could one more man, no matter how well trained or equipped, possibly affect the outcome of the coming battle?
John placed fresh magazines into both of his weapons, replaced the missing rounds in his spare magazines, and then nodded toward their destination. Without looking back he motioned for the group to move up.
"Pine Tar," Palmer whispered sharply through the comm, "get your narrow ass up here - we're leaving. Over."
"Wilco, out." Lance Corporal Pineada called from deep within the drainage tunnel. He gave a quick glance at the group in the culvert before putting the final touches on the lethal contraption he had been hiding beneath a sodden shipping pallet. He circled his handiwork gingerly, then nodded to himself, satisfied that the two scavenged jerry cans, fragmentation grenade, and mess kit that he had fashioned into a deterrent for their pursuers was nearly impossible to detect. He leaned the last jerry can against the tunnel wall by his improvised trap and joined the rest of the group.
"Couldn't we just try sneaking around them?" Private Emerson asked feebly.
John ignored Emerson and continued. "Forget the Grunts—concentrate on the rooftops and any Jackals you see—the DESW at the eastern corner is a priority-one target." He slung his battle rifle across his back.
Corporal Palmer had not moved from her position observing the parking area. "Chief, that Jackal isn't just poking at our boy—it looks like it's biting him."
The Spartan held up a gauntleted hand. "We go in five, four. . . ." He tucked his fingers in as he counted.
"I think it's eating him, man," Palmer choked.
"One—then it dies first—now stow your weapon and move out." John pointed at their intended destination and then he was gone.
The concrete beneath the Spartan had turned to dust and gravel as he launched forward. Barely half a second had passed and he was already ten meters away. Palmer slung her weapon and tore off after him; Sullivan fell in directly behind her, running for all he was worth.
Palmer was pumping her arms and trying to control her breath as she trailed behind the Spartan.
She looked up from her boots and saw that his hands were no longer empty—his right hand now held a massive hard-chromed M6D, and a spare magazine was in his left. Eight thunderclaps rang out so fast that they bled together into a single long roar. At that same moment a terrible cacophony erupted behind them as her squadmates opened fire on the building—its facade disappearing behind a cloud of pulverized concrete and shattered glass. Two of the Jackals that had been covering their approach had already fallen—bright purple blood fountaining out of huge ragged holes that she could pick out even at this distance. With one hand at thirty meters and a dead run, two shots apiece, each a hit to the head or neck.
'What the holy hell are my guys even aiming at back there-? Shit'. The Corporal's mind raced, but her legs had begun to slack off. She saw another Jackal appear at the roof's edge and there was a flash of purple light.
And then her view was blocked by a wall of green armor; there was a loud crack and a flash of golden light. The Spartan had spun to face her; she saw her own reflection in his visor for a fraction of a second, then he dipped slightly before popping into the air, sailing backward three and a half meters above the ground—smoke trailing from the inside of his right arm. Four more rapid-fire thunderclaps roared in her ears; the magazine dropped out of the Spartan's M6D, his left hand slamming the fresh magazine up into the well and flicking to catch the empty one as it fell, the huge pistol now latched onto his right thigh, the empty magazine stowed, and his knees tucked up to his chest as he continued through the air over the Warthog. Three fingers hooked the crossbar and the vehicle rocked as the Spartan swung down into the charred remains of the driver's seat; the M12G roared to life as Palmer scrambled up into the rear of the vehicle and behind the controls of the gauss cannon in a near daze; Sullivan practically leapt into the sooty pan of the passenger seat and disengaged the safety on his MA5, bellowing, "C'mon! Floor it!"
All four wheels spun, abrading the surface of the parking area and throwing up four giant rooster tails of water and grit. Palmer keyed in the startup sequence on the M68 ALIM—your basic mini MAC. She started scanning for targets—and did a double take when prioritized targeting tabs began appearing on the monitor.
"If anything else shows up, I'll add it to the list, Corporal," the Spartan spoke over a private channel. "No vehicles yet—just infantry. Don't take any shots you don't have to—just concentrate on staying alive for the moment."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Palmer growled through her headset.
Just then the Spartan threw the 'hog into a four-wheel drift, creating a momentary wall of spray and mist that screened the rest of the squad, who were now dashing across the open ground between the culvert and the vehicles. Sullivan was hooting and hollering above the sound of the engine as he fired his assault rifle at anything that poked its head out.
John gave Sullivan a sideways glance and said, "Remember to save some ammo for when you're actually trying to hit something—and forget the Grunts!"
Corporal Palmer glimpsed just a hint of movement behind the T-42 DESW—the closest thing to a heavy machine gun in the Covenant arsenal. It could have just been the corpse of the weapon's operator shifting, but she wasn't taking any chances. There was a flash of light, a teeth-rattling snap, and then the heavy plasma weapon on the roof exploded—transformed into a rapidly expanding cloud of whirling ceramic razorblades and plasma-temperature flames. If anything had been crawling up to the weapon, it was now either part of that cloud or had been consumed by it.
"'Hog secured—we're in, Chief," Private Emerson howled over the Warthog's radio. "Let's boogie!"
"Follow me." The Spartan swung the M12G around the eastern corner of the Cultural Center, just barely dodging the bulbous purple cowling of a Covenant Ghost half-hidden in a stand of elephant grass. One of the Ghost's stabilizing wings and a fair amount of its carapace were missing—obvious signs it had been raked with heavy machine-gun fire. The 'hogs roared past it, and the park's enormous outdoor amphitheater loomed ahead.
The park's main entrance was at the southern end of the amphitheater, right where Cortana indicated it would be. But as the gate came into view so did a group of Elites, two in blue armor that were sitting astride a pair of Ghosts, and a third in red armor. The one in red looked up at the approaching Warthogs and raised its weapon. The 'hogs bore right down on the trio.
Sullivan fired several bursts across the hood at the Elites until he noticed the barrel of the ALIM swivel into place directly above his head, then he quickly dropped down into the scorched seat and braced himself. Palmer lined up the lead Ghost and fired. The slug from the M68 left the muzzle at just under mach forty and penetrated the lead Ghost's plasma containment vessel—after it had passed through the red Elite's lower abdomen. The vehicle detonated and spiraled into the air, five-thousand-degree plasma erupting through its shattered armor. The Elite rider was almost entirely incinerated; what remained of its right arm, however, spiraled through the air alongside the wreckage of the vehicle. The other rider boosted out through the bluish flames and roared in pain as the flexible material of its armored suit bubbled and cracked. A second shot from the M68 was high and late, punching a basketball-sized hole through the park's entrance archway. Palmer swung the turret farther to take a third shot.
"It's B Team's problem now," John said to her over the private channel. "We need your eyes forward to keep the path clear."
"But I can-" Palmer spat.
"Now, Corporal," the Spartan admonished. "At least trust your squadmates enough to handle one Ghost with a wounded rider."
As the turret swung back around John heard Corporal Palmer grunt. He could picture the look on her face. It would be the same look of anger and frustration he had seen on innumerable humans when they were reminded of what they were and weren't capable of—or where their real responsibilities lay.
Humans—what had prompted that? He never thought of himself as anything other than human. But that wasn't exactly true. He may have thought of himself as having been human, perhaps even that he was still human, but no one ever let him forget that he was a Spartan. That was definitely true.
"Chief, I believe that I've located our errant Scarab—there are two of them in the city proper, another three in Old Mombasa across Kilindini Harbor to the south—but only one of them is in the immediate vicinity. That one has to be ours. My best guess is that it's looking for a clear shot at the tether," Cortana rattled off into John's ear.
"When you say ours ," John whispered, "am I to understand that you want me to capture it?"
"Don't be silly, Chief. I said ours because it figures into our plan to get us onto that ship - so we can get our hands onto the Hierarch. And before you ask any other silly questions - our plans are more complicated than that."
The Warthog slid sideways through the smoking remains of the Kilindini Park gate and into the Mwatate Street Transit Center. It was abandoned: no taxis or buses and no private vehicles of any kind. They had all fled or were pressed into service to aid the evacuation efforts hours ago, but they had not escaped. The bridge connecting the island to the mainland had been littered with the burning, gutted carcasses of all those vehicles.
Chunks of concrete and sputtering blobs of aluminum came raining down from above as two Ghosts sailed off of the elevated roadway above the transit center - their riders bracing in anticipation of the impact on the ground far below. Palmer fired up at the nearer of the two rapidly descending craft and its starboard wing tore away in a shower of sparks. The Ghost tumbled violently and the rider was thrown as the two vehicles collided in the air. The Spartan spun the steering wheel all the way to lock, attempting to keep clear of the Ghosts' most likely point of impact. The intact Ghost landed upside down, its carapace splintering on contact - the Elite rider still astride the vehicle. The Ghost that Palmer had hit came right down on top of the wreckage of the other Ghost and its rider—both vehicles erupting into a whirlwind of bluish flames.
"For the love o' Mike," wailed Sullivan as the Elite from the second Ghost slammed down onto the hood of the Warthog. Just as it began to slide off, it managed to catch hold of a pillar and swing itself in a tight arc, smashing into the side of the vehicle.
"Shit shit shit," Sullivan began screaming, firing his MA5 even before it was pointed at the huge alien, which was scrambling to get its feet inside the door frame. Charred plastic and splinters of sheet metal exploded from the dashboard as Sullivan desperately tried to maneuver his weapon within the cabin of the vehicle.
"Duck," Palmer shouted, followed by a quick, "Sorry," as she swung the M68 directly over Sullivan's head.
The Elite stripped the rifle from Sullivan's hands and sent it flying just as the muzzle of the gauss cannon came in line with the top of its helmet. Sullivan glanced up and cried out, "Ah no!"
With a flash and a bone-jarring snap, the Elite's head, neck, and shoulder area transformed into a broken, spinning torus of meat, bone, and metal raised to near incandescence by terrific acceleration.
The remainder of the corpse fell to the roadway below with a scraping clatter, a ruined eight-foot-tall tumbling rag doll.
John modulated the gas pedal and administered micro-adjustments to the steering wheel before accelerating straight toward Shimanzi Road—the broad divided highway that split the industrial district in two.
"We're less than a click from your unit now," the Chief stated. "Barring catastrophe I'll have you back with them in under five minutes."
"And then what?" Palmer asked.
He indicated the massive Covenant ship still dominating the sky with a flick of his head. "I'm going to board that ship and kill every living thing on it, minus one. As for what you'll be doing, that's up to your CO."
"Sure; so who's the lucky SOB?" she chuckled.
"You wouldn't know him," John said, with an air of finality.
"Hey, Palmer," Sullivan shouted as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "I think that last shot popped my eardrums."
The rest of the drive was completed in silence.
Even though the architects and city planners had tried their best to hide it, most people could tell at a glance that New Mombasa was a gigantic jigsaw puzzle of a city - rigorously sectioned off into recognizable, repeating parcels. It was a grim necessity for every tether city. If the unthinkable were to happen - well, another unthinkable, as at least one unthinkable thing was already happening - and catastrophe were to befall the Mombasa Tether, the expectation was that this compartmentalization of the city would keep the death toll and property damage to a minimum. It also made Beria Plaza a natural funnel. A trap. And it seemed that the local CO thought so too.
John maneuvered the 'hog into the cabstand of what less than three hours ago had been the rather elegant Palace Hotel, although now it looked a bit like a gigantic curio cabinet with its doors kicked off. Palmer keyed off the M68 and turned around, taking in the view from the bed of the LAAV.
When the second vehicle from their party arrived, seconds later, Palmer opened a private channel.
"Emerson, get that truck out of sight around the back of the hotel."
Sullivan hopped down onto the sidewalk and shouted over his shoulder, "It's been a real slice fightin' with you, Spartan, but I swear my ear's gone bust—I can't hear shit. Gonna find a medic!"
John swung out of his seat and onto the pavement, nodded to the Marine, and turned to face the hotel.
Up above, several pelican drop ships came into view and began to touch down in the plaza. They dropped a Platoon of Scorpio MBTs and multiple squads of heavily armed Marines began taking up positions on either side of the plaza, weather in the streets or on the elevated walkways that passed over the roads.
Chief recognized one of the Marines, a black man with an affinity with sweat william's cigars, hopping down from the troop bay, onto a tank, and onto the street. He and Palmer's squad walked over to him.
"Chief, lad you could join us." He said. The Chief nodded. Johnson looked at Palmer's men, and at the patches on their shoulders. "Kilo company, huh? Where's the rest of your company?"
"Wasted Sarge," Palmer said.
"And we will be too, Sir. If we don't get the hell out of here." One young marine said as he made to get aboard the pelican.
But Johnson would have none of it. He placed his hand on the young man's shoulder, forcing him to stop dead in his tracks. "You hit, Marine?"
"N-no sir."
"Then listen up! When I joined the Corps, we didn't have any fancy-shmancy tanks. We had sticks! Two sticks, and a rock for the whole platoon - and we had to share the rock! Buck up, boy, you're one very lucky Marine!"
The young man gulped, and Palmer intervened. "What about the Scarab?"
"We've all run the simulations. They're tough, but they ain't invincible." Johnson said before he stuck the lit cigar in the corner of his mouth and began to walk off. "Stick to your posts, and follow the Master Chief's lead. He'll know what to do."
"Yes Sir, Sergeant." She said before she looked at the Chief. "See ya 'round, big guy," Palmer said before biting her lip, flirtatiously.
The Spartan nodded once more and continued toward the hotel's main entrance - reflexively brushing at the side of his helmet as if some invisible insect was buzzing near his ear.
"Thanks for the tank," Cortana said to Johnson over a private comm channel.
"Hmph! Oh, I know what the ladies like." He said before his dropship took off to begin aerial recon.
The Chief turned on his heals and he made his way through the rubble-strewn lobby of the Palace Hotel, soldiers busied themselves turning furniture into cover and clearing lines of access between firing positions. The Marines John had arrived with spread out to help reinforce and camouflage the fighting positions. A lance corporal jogged up to the Spartan, tapping his throat mic—John locked on to the frequency and gave the Marine a thumbs-up.
"Sir Corporal Perez, A Company," the soldier said—signaling to one of his comrades that he was escorting the Spartan upstairs. "Our LT. got hit as soon as soon as we dropped in."
"Who's in charge now, Corporal?" Cortana asked.
"Sergeant Banks ma'am." Perez said. "I'll bring you to him."
They ascended the wide, curving staircase that led to the mezzanine, and Lance Corporal Perez signaled security that they were coming up.
As John passed through the double doors, he could see the sergeant making some gestures over his TACPAD. He looked up and saw the Master Chief.
His eyebrows flared up very briefly. "When I asked for reinforcements, I didn't think they'd send a Spartan."
About ten minutes later, several wraiths rounded the corner down the road and were immediately set upon by the UNSC armored and infantry units.
Two Scorpion MBTs were dug in, and they fired. Files of Covenant troops disappeared with each blast, and the Wraiths were soon piles of flaming wreckage. But then came the Scarab.
It stomped into view and turned to face the hotel and the UNSC forces protecting it. The human forces cut loose with a barrage of 105 mm rockets and 90mm of depleted tungsten, and they blasted against the side of Scarab... harmlessly.
As it absorbed more UNSC rounds, its face began to light up brightly, before unleashing a beam of superheated plasma straight towards the UNSC positions. Both tanks were wiped away in seconds. Then it started to advance.
"See this look? It's terror!" Shouted a panicked marine, who was manning a 50. Cal.
"Marine, did I give you permission to bitch?" Banks asked, before the panicked marine cut loose with his machine gun. Every squad in the plaza was firing everything they had at the Scarab, but it ignored them like they were just gnats.
"I don't think it's stopping; get your heads down!"
Then it started to climb over the buildings, knocking a series of antennas over, which started to tip over their heads.
"Hit the deck!" Chief barked, before he and the men dove for cover.
The antenna fell over onto the balcony, nearly crushing Banks, but the antenna was caught on the ledge before he could get flattened. As everyone started to get up and dust themselves off, Sergeant Banks crawled out from under the antenna and looked out over the destroyed plaza before he looked up at the Scarab that just walked all over them... literally.
"That thing is really starting to PISS ME OFF!" He shouted. Then he took a deep breath and looked at his men. "Marines, time to kill us a Scarab!"
His men nodded, and Corporal Perez took point to lead the men towards the Scarab's location.
Banks looked at the Chief. "Got any other plans today Spartan?"
"Negative," Chief said as he started walking up the stairs to follow the other marines.
"Chief, I've allocated military assets in order to harass our Scarab—maneuvering it to a location more convenient for our purposes—closer to our current destination." Cortana's words rang out in the staccato rhythm of someone juggling one too many tasks. "I hope the five air assets I have en route will be enough. I've got two orbital assets on standby, but I would rather not use them unless absolutely necessary. And don't worry, I'll give you plenty of warning if I do."
"Any more good news?" He asked.
"Well, if my calculations are right, and they always are, our Scarab will have no choice but to pass through the nearby canals, which have catwalks high above, so we should have the high ground."
Sure enough, Master Chief and Sergeant Banks' squad followed the staircases up to the walkways, where there were more Marine fireteams lying in wait.
The Scarab was passing beneath them.
"Let 'em have it!" Banks ordered, and the Marine fireteams cut loose with everything they had. The Scarab was taking heavy fire from above, and the Covenant troops on her decks were facing fire from above, as they least expected. The grunt plasma gunners and the automatic shade turrets on the upper decks opened fire on the Marines, but they were soon silenced by rocket volleys.
Sniper teams and Machine gunners cut down anything on the decks that moved.
The whole time the Scarab was in the canal zone, it was being harassed by UNSC fire teams and it was powerless to do anything about it.
As it rounded the corner, it came face to face with several UNSC pelicans that unleashed a volley of pod rockets onto the Scarab's face, hull, and legs.
Soon, it's legs started to smoke and spark, too damaged to go any further.
"It can't go any further this way, we've got it trapped."
Chief and a handful of Marines ran up on the walkways that ran parallel to the damaged Scarab. Without thinking, the Spartan jumped straight onto the gore-covered deck, stepping over covenant corpses on his way down to the lower decks.
He ran into a silver armored elite and his red armored buddies and they began to exchange fire.
The silver Elite, which Cortana informed him was an 'Ultra', ducked behind a wall, ignited his energy sword and let out a battle cry before getting ready to charge. The Chief saw no reason to close with such a dangerous opponent if it could be avoided, and tossed a plasma grenade at him. He heard the startled reaction as the explosive device latched onto the Elite's armor and refused to let go. The alien emerged from hiding, and vanished in a flash of light.
The remaining elites were no push overs, but one by one, they all ceased to resist.
As the last bodies crumpled to the ground, the Spartan was free to explore the inner workings of the scarab, looking for anything that looked important.
That's when they located the central power junction. It looked like a large blue energy disk.
"See that?" Cortana asked, flashing several waypoints on the Spartan's HUD, and they all corresponded to the energy beams that fed from the reactor. "Those are the fiber-optic pathways that links the reactor to the scarab's systems," the A.I. explained. "If someone were to sever that connection, the power plants would run wild. There may be a bypass somewhere-"
That's when the Chief smashed the reactor with his fists and caused a small blue explosion that showered him with sparks and debris. He stood there unaffected, except for his suit's shield alarm.
"Okay that works too." Cortana said.
The Chief began to walk out of the walker, as it started to fall apart around him. By the time he got back to the upper deck, another powerful explosion ripped through the lower levels and caused the walker to collapse.
But the Chief was unaffected. The Marines that he left behind on the walkways let out a cheer.
That's when he looked off in the direction of the Carrier, which was still holding its position above the Uplift Wildlife Preserve. But something wasn't right. It's gravity lift was fading away and retracting into the hull. Then, the engines flared to life, and she was soon underway.
"That's right you mothers. RUN!" Sergeant Johnson called out over the comm.
"Not if we can help it, Sergeant." Commander Keyes responded, as her frigate began to roar over head. "Extract the Chief, and return to In Amber Clad."
UNSC FFG-142 In Amber Clad, holding position above New Mombasa.
Commander Miranda Keyes sat in the captain's chair on the bridge of the In Amber Clad. She sat up straight in her seat, hands grasping the arms of her seat. She surveyed the monitors and displays of engine status and power levels. The external cameras on the ship's hull showed that Johnson and Chief's pelican were back on board the ship.
Satisfied that everyone was on board, she clicked the intercom.
"General quarters: all hands to battle stations. Seal bulkheads. I repeat: all hands, battle stations. This is not a drill."
She turned to the two officers at the ship's helm. Nav Officer Remi, and Weapons Officer Pascal.
"Bring reactors to 70 percent. Bring us about to course three two zero." The bridge lights darkened to a red hue.
Pressure doors slammed shut and sealed them onto the bridge. She checked the security one of the ship's internal cameras. It looked like Chief and Johnson were trapped inside the ODST drop bay. They were forced to take their seats inside the pods for the duration of the coming action.
She paused at the data pad screen attached to her chair.
It flashed as a message was being beamed directly to her.
It read FLEET ADM T. HOOD.
She pressed it, and the Admiral's face appeared on the display. "Status?"
The Commander leaned down, pushing her back out of her face to look at the Admiral. "Sir, the Prophet is bugging-out. Request permission to engage!"
"Negative, Commander. I'll vector two heavies for starside intercept."
As the Assault Carrier began to pull away from the city, steadily accelerating north by northwest. A brilliant white glow appeared on the tip of the ship's bow.
"Ma'am, Slipspace rupture off the target's bow! It's going to jump, inside the city!" Officer Remi called out.
"There's no time, sir!"
Without hesitation, Lord Hood responded. "Green light! Green light to engage!"
"Bring reactors up to 120%! Get us close!"
The bridge officers looked at the Commander then exchanged glances with one another. But they did as she ordered, and soon, the ship was rocketing above the skyline of New Mombasa, passing through the space tether's base, and headed straight for the Carrier, which was starting to enter slip space.
"Reactor running hot, sir," Remi reported. "Now exceeding recommended operational parameters, and without a destination solution-"
"We are not losing that ship." She cut him off.
Commander Keyes sat with her hands on the arms of her chair with a death grip, trying to look calm. Not an easy thing to do when her ship was on a collision course with a Slips-pace portal. Inside, adrenaline raced through her blood and her pulse pounded. She had to at least appear in control for her crew. She was asking a lot from them . . . probably everything , in fact. Her junior officers watched their status monitors; they occasionally glanced nervously at her, but their gazes always drifted back to the center view screen, which was covered in a blinding white light that only got brighter the closer they got.
Then, the Carrier disappeared, and the In Amber Clad disappeared with them, along with half of the city, as a massive shockwave from the in atmosphere slipspace event ripped through the buildings and the space tether, blanketing Mombasa in a blinding white light.
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Well folks, that was the latest chapter.
Hope you enjoyed.
Until next time, Grubkiller out.