In the meantime, thanks to a dead officer’s personal initiative, Wellsley had a 50mm surprise waiting for the incoming dropships. Though effective against Banshees, the Shades lacked the power necessary to knock a dropship out of the sky, something the Covenant had clearly known in advance.
But, just as an Elite couldn’t withstand fifty rounds of 7.62mm armor-piercing ammo, the enemy transports proved vulnerable to the 50mm high explosive shells that suddenly blasted their way. Not only that, but the fifties were computer-controlled – which was to say Wellsley controlled, which meant that nearly every round went exactly where it was supposed to.
Control had been delegated too late for the AI to nail the first dropship, but the second was right where he wanted it to be. It exploded as a dozen rounds of HE went off inside the fuselage. Ironically, the compartments that held the troops preserved most of their lives so they could die when the aircraft hit the foot of the butte.
But there were only two of the guns, one to the west, and one to the east, which meant that the surviving transports were safely through the eastern MLA’s field of fire before the AI could fire on them. Still, the destruction of that single ship had reduced the assault force by one sixth, which struck Wellsley as an acceptable result.
Machine-generated death stabbed the top of the mesa as the Covenant dropships made use of their plasma cannons to strafe the landing zone. A fire team was caught out in the open and cut to shreds even as a barrage of shoulder-fired rockets lashed up to meet the incoming transports. There were hits, some of which inflicted casualties, but none of the enemy aircraft was destroyed.
Then, hovering like obscene insects, the U-shaped dropships turned down-ring, and spilled troops out their side slots, scattering them like evil seeds across the top of the mesa. McKay did the mental math. Five remaining transports, times roughly thirty troops each, equaled an assault force of about one hundred and fifty troops.
“Hit ’em!” Lister shouted. “Kill the bastards before they can land!”
The response was a steady crack! crack! crack! as the company’s snipers opened fire, and Elites, Grunts, and Jackals alike tumbled to the ground dead.
But there were plenty left – and McKay steeled herself against the coming assault.
The lights had gone off for reasons that the Grunt could only guess at, a factor which added to the fear he felt. Unable to do anything more, Yayap listened to the muffled sounds of battle, and wondered which side to root for. He didn’t like being a prisoner but was starting to wonder if he wouldn’t be better off with the humans. For a while at least, until–
A blob of light appeared, slid down the opposite wall, crossed the floor, and found its way into the cell. “Yayap? Are you in there?”
There were other lights now, and the Grunt saw the air shimmer in front of him. It was ’Zamamee! Much to Yayap’s amazement, the Elite had kept his word and actually come looking for him. Realizing that the breathing apparatus made it difficult for others to tell his kind apart, the Grunt pushed his face up against the bars.
“Yes, Excellency, I am here.”
“Good,” the Elite said. “Now stand back so we can blow the door.”
All of the Grunts in the cell retreated to the back of the room while one of the commandos attached a charge to the door lock, backed away, and made use of a remote to trigger it. There was a small flash of light, followed by a subdued bang! as the explosive was detonated. Hinges squeaked as Yayap pushed the gate out of the way.
“Now,” ’Zamamee said eagerly, “lead us to the human. We’ve been through most of the complex, but haven’t run into him yet.”
So, Yayap thought to himself, the only reason you came looking for me was to find the human. I should have known. “Of course, Excellency,” the Grunt replied, surprised by his own smoothness. “The aliens captured some of our Banshees. The human was assigned to guard them.”
Yayap expected ’Zamamee to challenge the claim, to ask how he knew, but the Elite took him at his word. “Very well,” ’Zamamee replied. “Where are the aircraft kept?”
“Up on the mesa,” Yayap answered truthfully, “west of the landing pads.”
“We will lead the way,” the Elite said importantly, “but stay close. It would be easy to become lost.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the Grunt replied, “whatever you say.”
Unable to land on or near the pads as originally planned, Field Master ’Putumee had been forced to drop his assault team on the area up-spin of the Forerunner complex. That meant that his troops would have to advance across open ground, with very little cover, and without benefit of heavy weapons to clear the way.
The wily field officer had a trick up his sleeve, however. Rather than release the dropships, he ordered them to remain over the LZ, and strafe the ground ahead of his steadily advancing troops. It wasn’t what the transports had been designed for, and the pilots didn’t like it, but so what? ’Putumee, who saw all aviators as little more than glorified chauffeurs, wasn’t especially interested in how they felt.
So, the U-shaped dropships drifted down toward the human fortifications, plasma cannons probing the ground below, while volleys of rockets lashed upward, exploding harmlessly against their flanks.
The field officer, who advanced along with the second rank of troops, waved his Jackals forward as the humans were forced to pull out of their firing pits, and withdraw to their next line of defense.
’Putumee paused next to one of the now empty pits and looked into it. Something about the excavation bothered him, but what? Then he had it. The rectangular hole was too neat, too even, to have been dug during the last half unit. What other preparations had the aliens made, the officer wondered?
The answer came in a heartbeat. McKay said, “Fire!” and the Scorpion’s gunner complied. The tank lurched under the officer’s feet as the shell left the main gun and the hull started to vibrate as the machine gun opened up. The explosion, about six hundred meters downrange, erased an entire file of Grunts. The other MBT, one of two which Silva had ordered his battalion to bring topside, fired two seconds later. That round killed an Elite, two Jackals, and a Hunter.
Marines cheered and McKay smiled. Though doubtful that the Covenant would try to put troops on the mesa, the Major was a careful man, which was why he ordered the Helljumpers to dig firing pits up-ring of the installation, and create bunkers for the tanks.
Now, firing with their barrels nearly parallel to the ground, the MBTs were in the process of turning the area in front of them into a moonscape as each shell threw half a ton of soil up into the air, and carved craters out of the plateau.
Unbeknownst to McKay, or any other human, for that matter, the third shell to roar down range blew Field Master ’Putumee in half. The assault continued, but more slowly now, as lower-ranked Elites assumed command, and tried to rally their troops.
Though pursuing his own sub-mission, ’Zamamee had been monitoring the command net, and knew that the assault had stalled. It was only a matter of time before the dropships would be ordered to swoop in, pick up those who could crawl, walk, or run to them, and leave for safer climes.
That meant that he should be pulling out, looking for a way to slip through the human lines, but the session with the Prophet continued to haunt him. His best chance, no, his only chance, was to find the human and kill him. He would keep his head, all would be forgiven, and who knew? A lot of Elites had been killed – so there might be a promotion in the offing.