Cochran laughed, coughing up blood and foam. Tears of mirth or pain—Harland couldn’t tell—streamed from his eyes. He collapsed backward, and let the smoldering launcher slip from his hand.

The second Banshee exploded and spiraled into the jungle.

“Two more klicks,” Fincher shouted. “Hang on.” He cranked the wheel and the Warthog swerved out of the streambed and bounced up the hillside, up and over, and they slid onto a paved road.

Harland leaned over and felt Cochran’s neck for a pulse. It was there, weak; but he was still alive. Harland glanced at Walker. He hadn’t moved, his eyes squeezed shut.

Harland’s first impulse was to shoot him right then and there—the goddamned, goldbricking, cowardly bastard almost cost them all their lives—

No. Harland was half amazed he hadn’t frozen up, too.

HQ was ahead. But Corporal Harland’s stomach sank as he saw smoke and flames blazing on the horizon.

They passed the first armed checkpoint. The guardhouse and bunkers had been blasted away, and in the mud were thousands of Grunt tracks.

Farther back, he saw a circle of sandbags around a house-size chunk of granite. Two Marines waved to them. As they approached in the Warthog, the Marines stood and saluted.

Harland jumped off and returned their salute.

One of the Marines had a patch over his eye and his head was bandaged. Soot streaked his face. “Jesus, sir,” he said. “It’s good to see you guys.” He approached the Warthog. “You’ve got a working radio in that thing?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Corporal Harland said. “Who’s in charge here? What happened?”

“Covenant hit us hard, sir. They had tanks, air support—thousands of those little Grunt guys. They glassed the main barracks. The Command Office. Almost got the munitions bunker.” He looked away for a moment and his one eye glazed over. “We pulled it together and fought ’em off, though. That was an hour ago. I think we killed everything. I’m not sure.”

“Who’s in charge, Private? I have a critically wounded man. He needs evac, and I have to make my report.”

The Private shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The hospital was the first thing they hit. As far as who’s in command... I think you’re the ranking officer here.”

“Great,” Harland muttered.

“We’ve got five guys back there.” The Private jerked his head toward the columns of smoke and wavering heat in the distance. “They’re in fire-fighting suits to keep from burning up. They’re recovering weapons and ammo.”

“Understood,” Harland said. “Fincher, try the radio again. See if you can link up to SATCOM. Call in for an evac.”

“Roger that,” Fincher said.

The wounded Private asked Harland, “Can we get help from Firebase Bravo, sir?”

“No,” Harland said. “They got hit, too. There’s Covenant all over the place.”

The Private slumped, bracing himself with his rifle.

Fincher handed Harland the radio headset. “Sir, SATCOM is good. I’ve got the Leviathan on the horn.”

“This is Corporal Harland.” He spoke into the microphone. “The Covenant has hit Firebase Bravo and Alpha HQ... and wiped them out. We’ve repelled the enemy from Alpha site, but our casualties have been nearly one hundred percent. We have wounded here. We need immediate evac. Say again: we need evac on the double.”

“Roger, Corporal. Your situation is understood. Evac is not possible at this time. We’ve got problems of our own up here—” There was a burst of static. The voice came back online. “Help is on the way.”

The channel went dead.

Harland looked to Fincher. “Check the transceiver.”

Fincher ran the diagnostic. “It’s working,” he said. “I’m getting a ping from SATCOM.” He licked his lips. “The trouble must be on their end.”

Harland didn’t want to think of what kind of trouble the fleet could be having. He’d seen too many planets glassed from orbit. He didn’t want to die here—not like that.

He turned to the men in the bunker. “They said help is on the way. So relax.” He looked into the sky and whispered, “They better send a whole regiment down here.”

A handful of other Marines returned to the bunker. They had salvaged ammunition, extra rifles, a crate of frag grenades, and a few Jackhammer missiles. Fincher took the Warthog and a few men to see if he could transport the heavier weapons.

They filled Cochran with more biofoam and bandaged him up. He slipped into a coma.

They hunkered down inside the bunker and waited. They heard explosions at an extreme distance.

Walker finally spoke. “So... now what, sir?”

Harland didn’t turn toward the man. He covered Cochran with another blanket. “I don’t know. Can you fight?”

“I think so.”

He passed Walker a rifle. “Good. Get up there and stand watch.” He got out a cigarette, lit it, took a puff, and then handed it to Walker.

Walker took it, shakily stood, and went outside.

“Sir!” he said. “Dropship inbound. One of ours!”

Harland grabbed his signal flares. He ran outside and squinted at the horizon. High on the edge of the darkening sky was a dot, and the unmistakable roar of Pelican engines. He pulled the pin and tossed the smoker onto the ground. A moment later, thick clouds of green smoke roiled into the sky.

The dropship turned rapidly and descended toward their location.

Harland shielded his eyes. He searched for the rest of the dropships. There was only one.

“One dropship?” Walker whispered. “That’s all they sent? Christ, that’s not backup—that’s a burial detail.”

The Pelican eased toward the ground, spattering mud in a ten-meter radius, then touched down. The launch ramp fell open and a dozen figures marched out.

For a moment Harland thought they were the same creatures he had seen earlier—armored and bigger than any human he’d ever laid eyes on. He froze—he couldn’t have raised his gun if he had wanted to.

They were human, though. The one in the lead stood over two meters tall and looked like he weighed two hundred kilograms. His armor was a strange reflective green alloy, and underneath matte black. Their motions were so fluid and graceful—fast and precise, too. More like robots than flesh and blood.

The one that first stepped off the ship strode toward him. Though his armor was devoid of insignia, Harland could see the insignia of a Master Chief Petty Officer in his helmet’s HUD.

“Master Chief, sir!” Harland snapped to attention and saluted.

“Corporal,” it said. “At ease. Get your men together and we’ll get to work.”

“Sir?” Harland asked. “I’ve got a lot of wounded here. What work will we be doing, sir?”

The Master Chief’s helmet cocked quizzically to one side. “We’ve come to take Sigma Octanus Four back from the Covenant, Corporal,” he said calmly. “To do that, we’re going to kill every last one of them.”

1800 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Sigma Octanus IV, grid nineteen by thirty-seven

The Master Chief surveyed what was left of Camp Alpha. There were only fourteen Marine regulars left—balanced against the four hundred men and women who had been slaughtered here.

He said to Kelly, “Post a guard on the dropship, and put three on patrol. Take the rest and secure the LZ.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned to face the other Spartans, pointed, made three quick hand gestures, and they dispersed like ghosts.

The Master Chief turned to the Corporal. “Are you in command here, Corporal?”

The man looked around. “I guess so... yes, sir.”

“As of 0900 Standard Military time, NavSpecWep is assuming control of this operation. All Marine personnel now report through our chain of command. Understand, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, Corporal, brief me on what happened here.”