“Blue Team: enemy contact confirmed.” He added the enemy position to his HUD. “Estimated enemy strength, Point?”

“Lead, I make ten, say again, ten Covenant troops. Grunts, sir. They’re moving slowly. Double-file formation. They haven’t spotted us. Orders?”

John’s orders said to minimize contact with the enemy where possible—the Spartans were spread too thinly across the battle area to risk a prolonged engagement. But the Grunts were heading right for the Marine bunker...

“Let’s take them out, Blue Team,” he said.

The team of Grunts slogged through the mud. The vaguely simian aliens wore shiny red-trimmed armor. Craggy, purple-black hide was visible beneath the environmental suits. Breath masks provided supercooled methane—the aliens’ atmosphere. There were ten of them, moving in two columns and spaced roughly three meters apart.

John noted with satisfaction that they seemed bored—only the point man and the pair on rear guard had their plasma rifles at the ready. The rest chattered at each other in a weird combination of high-pitched squeaks and guttural barks.

Easy, relaxed targets. Perfect.

He gave a series of slow hand signals to the rest of the team; they faded back until they were well away from the Grunts’ field of view.

The Master Chief opened the squadwide COM channel. “They’re seventy meters from this depression—” He keyed a NAV point into the team’s topographic display. “They’re heading for the western hill and will probably follow the terrain to the top. We’ll fall back now, and take concealed positions along the eastern hill.

“Blue-Four, you’re our scout—stay near the bottom and let us know when the rear guard passes you. Take them out first—they seem alert.

“Blue-Two, you have overwatch at the top of the hill.

“Blue-Three, back me up. Silenced weapons only—no explosives, unless things go bad.”

He paused, then gave the order: “Move out.”

The Spartans crept back along their path and spread out along the hill.

John—in the center of the line—readied his assault rifle. The team was virtually invisible in the thick foliage, and covered by the barrelwide tree trunks of the local flora.

One minute ticked by. Then two... three...

Blue-Four’s acknowledgment signal blinked twice in John’s HUD. Enemy detected. He relaxed his grip on the weapon, waiting—

—There. Twenty meters distant, the Grunt point man moved to the edge of the western hill, just downhill from John’s position. The alien paused, his plasma rifle sweeping the area—then moved slowly up the rise.

A moment later, the rest of the formation came into view, ten meters behind the point man.

Blue-Four’s indicator winked again. Now.

The Master Chief opened fire, a short, three-round burst. The weapon’s muffled cough was inaudible over the sound of jungle rainfall. The trio of armor-piercing rounds slashed through the alien’s throat protection, rupturing the environment suit. The Grunt clutched at his neck, emitted a brief, high-pitched gurgle—then fell to the mud, dead.

A moment later, the Grunt lines came to a clumsy halt, confused.

John spotted two strobe flashes, and the pair of Covenant rear guards dropped to the ground.

“Blue-Two to Lead: rear-guard eliminated.”

“Hit them!” John barked.

The four Spartans opened fire in short bursts. In less than a second, four more of the Grunt patrol were down, dead from head shots.

The remaining trio of Grunts unslung their plasma rifles, swinging them wildly back and forth, looking for targets and chattering loudly in their strange, barking language. John sighted on the alien closest to him and squeezed the trigger.

The alien splashed into the mud, methane bubbling from his shattered breath mask.

Another pair of sustained bursts and the last of the Grunts were down.

Kelly policed the Grunts’ weapons and handed a plasma rifle to each of the team; the Spartans had standing orders to seize Covenant weapons and technology whenever possible.

Blue Team fanned out and continued on their way. When they heard Banshees overhead, they hunkered down in the mud, and the fliers passed.

Ten more kilometers of rough terrain and then the jungle stopped and fields of rice paddies stretched out before them all the way to Côte d’Azur.

Crossing these would be more difficult than the jungle. They donned camouflage cloaks that masked their thermal signatures and crawled through the muck on their stomachs.

The Master Chief saw three larger ships hovering over the city. If they were troop transports, they could carry thousands of Covenant soldiers. If they were warships, any direct ground assault against the city would be futile. Either way it was bad news.

He made sure his vid and audio mission recorders got a good clear image of the vessels.

When they emerged from the mud, they were near the beach on the edge of the city. The Master Chief checked his map readings and made his way to the sewage outlet.

The two-meter diameter pipe was sealed with a steel grate. He and Fred easily bent the bars aside and entered.

They sloshed through hip-deep muck. The Master Chief didn’t like the cramped quarters. Their mobility was restricted by the narrow pipes; worse, they were bunched up and therefore easier to kill with grenades or massed fire. Motion sensors picked up hundreds of targets. The constant downpour from storm drains above made the sensors useless.

He followed his electronic map through the maze of pipes. Light filtered in from above—beams of illumination connected to the manhole-cover vent holes. Every so often something moved and blocked that light.

The Spartans moved quickly and quietly through the sludge and halted when they reached their final waypoint—directly under the center of Côte d’Azur’s “downtown.”

With a tiny jerk of his head, the Master Chief informed Blue Team to spread out and keep their eyes peeled. He snaked a fiber-optic probe up through the drain grate at street level and plugged it into his helmet.

The yellow light from the sodium vapor lamps washed everything topside in an eerie glow. There were Grunts positioned on the street corners, and the shadow of a Banshee flier circling overhead.

The electric cars parked on the street had been overturned, and the waste receptacles had been knocked over or set on fire. Every street-level window was broken. The Master Chief saw no human civilians, alive or otherwise.

Blue Team moved up and over a block. The Master Chief checked topside again.

There was more activity here: a pack of black-armored Grunts meandered down the streets. Two vulture-headed Jackals sat on the corner, squabbling over a hunk of meat.

Something else caught his attention, though. There were other aliens on the sidewalk—or rather, above the sidewalk. They were roughly man-size creatures—unlike any he had ever encountered. The creatures were vaguely sluglike, with pale, purple-pink skin. Unlike other Covenant forces, they were not bipeds. Instead they had several tentacular appendages sprouting from their thick trunks.

They floated a half meter above the ground, as if the odd, pink bladders on their backs kept them aloft. One alien used a slender tentacle to open the hood of a car. It began to disassemble the car’s electric engine, moving with startling speed.

Within twenty seconds all the parts had been neatly arranged in rows on the pavement. The creature paused, then reassembled the parts with blinding quickness, disassembled and rebuilt it several times into different arrangements. Finally, the creature simply reassembled the car and floated on its way.

The Master Chief made sure his mission recorder had gotten that. This was a Covenant race never documented before.