The counterthreat, if that’s what it was, would come from the armored behemoths which rolled along at the very center of the human formation. They looked powerful, but never having seen one in action, and having found precious little data on them within the Intel files, ’Mortumee wasn’t sure what to expect.
“So,” a voice said from behind him, “the Council of Masters has sent me a spy. Tell me, spy, who are you here to watch: the humans or me?”
’Mortumee turned to find that Field Master Noga ’Putumee had approached him from behind, something he did rather quietly for such a large being. Though known for his bravery, and his leadership in the field, ’Putumee was also famous for his blunt, confrontational, and paranoid ways. There was a good deal of truth in the officer’s half-serious suggestion, however, since ’Mortumee had been sent to watch both the Field Master and the enemy.
’Mortumee ignored the field commander’s blunt tone, and clicked his mandibles. “Someone has to count all the human bodies, write the report celebrating your latest victory, and lay the groundwork for your next promotion.”
If there was a chink in ’Putumee’s psychological armor it was in the vicinity of his ego, and ’Mortumee would have sworn that he saw the other officer’s already massive chest expand slightly in response to the praise.
“If words were troops you would lead a mighty army indeed. So, spy, are the Banshees ready?”
“Ready and waiting.”
“Excellent,” ’Putumee replied. The gold-armored Elite turned his own monocular on the approaching convoy. “Order the attack.”
“As you order, Excellency.”
’Putumee nodded.
McKay heard the incoming Banshees and the prospect of action banished her butterflies to a less noticeable sector of her stomach. The sound started as a low drone, quickly transformed itself into a buzz, then morphed into a bloodcurdling wail as the officer keyed her mike.
“This is Red One: We have hostile aircraft inbound. First Platoon is clear to engage. Everyone else will remain on standby. This is the warm-up, people, so stay sharp. There’s more on the way. Over and out.”
There were five flights of ten Banshees each, and the first group came through the pass so low that ’Mortumee found himself looking down on the wave of aircraft. Sun glinted off the burnished, reflective metal of the Banshees’ wings.
It was tempting to jump into his own aircraft and join them, thrilling to the feel of the low altitude flight, as well as the steady booming of outgoing plasma fire. Such pleasures were denied the spy if he was to maintain the objectivity required to carry out his important work.
Eager to have the first crack at the humans, and determined to leave nothing for subsequent flights to shoot at, the pilots of the first wave fired the moment they came within range.
First Platoon’s Marines saw the aircraft appear low on the horizon, watched the blobs of lethal energy blip their way, and knew better than to engage individual targets. Not yet, anyway. Instead, consistent with the orders that Lieutenant Oros had given, the Helljumpers aimed their M41 LAAGs at a point just west of the pass, and opened fire all at once. The Banshees didn’t have brakes, and the pilots had just started to turn, when they ran right into the meat grinder.
’Mortumee understood the problem right away, as did ’Putumee, who ordered the following waves to break up and attack the convoy independently.
The orders came too late for eight of the first ten aircraft, which were ripped into thousands of pieces, and fell like smoking snow.
A pair of the flyers got through the storm of gunfire. One of the Banshees managed to hit a Warthog with a burst of superheated plasma, killing the gunner, and slagging his weapon. The LRV continued to roll, however – which meant that the trailer and its load of supplies did as well.
Once through the hail of bullets, the surviving Banshees turned and lined up for a second pass.
As the second flight of Covenant aircraft arrived from the east, split up, and launched individual attacks, Field Master ’Putumee barked an order into his radio. The mortar tanks on First and Second Hills fired in unison. Blue-white orbs of fire, trailing tendrils of energy, shot high into the sky, hung suspended for a moment, then began to fall.
The plasma mortars fell with a deliberate, almost casual slowness. They arced gracefully into the ground and a deafening thunderclap shook the ground. Neither round found a target, but these were ranging shots, and that was to be expected.
McKay heard a Marine say, “What the hell was that?” over the command freq, then heard Lister tear a strip off him.
She couldn’t help but wonder the same thing herself. The truth was that while the officer knew the vehicles existed, she’d never seen a Wraith tank in action, and wasn’t sure if that was what she faced. It didn’t matter much, though, because the weapon in question was quite clearly lethal, and would cause havoc in the close quarters of the pass. She keyed her radio.
“Red One to Green One: Those ‘energy bombs’ originated from those hilltops. Let’s give the bastards a haircut. Over.”
“This is Green One,” Lister acknowledged. “Roger that, over.”
There was a burst of static as Lister switched to his platoon’s freq, though McKay could hear every word on the command channel.
“Green One to Foxtrot One and Two: lay some high explosive on the hill to the left. Over.”
“Green One to Foxtrot Three and Four: ditto the hill to the right. Over.”
Banshees wheeled, turned, and poured fire down on the hapless humans as one of the pilots fired his fuel rod cannon and scored a direct hit. A trailer full of precious ammo exploded, wrapped the Warthog in a fiery embrace, and took the LRV with it. Covenant forces watching from the hilltops felt a sense of exultation, and more than that, the pleasure of revenge.
’Mortumee was there to document the battle, not celebrate it, though he watched in fascination as two of the tank turrets swiveled to his left in order to fire on First Hill, while two turned in the opposite direction and seemed to point directly at him.
The Elite wondered if he should seek cover, but before the message to move could reach his feet, he heard a reverberating roar as the 105mm shell passed through the intervening air space, followed by a loud craack! as the shell landed about fifty units away. A column of bloody dirt flew high into the air. Body parts, weapons, and pieces of equipment continued to rain down as the half-deafened ’Mortumee recovered his composure and ran for cover.
Field Master ’Putumee laughed out loud and pointed to show a member of his staff where ’Mortumee had taken shelter behind some rocks. That was when the second round detonated just below the summit of the hill and started a small landslide. “This,” the Elite said happily, “is a real battle. Keep an eye on the spy.”
Stung by the loss of a Warthog, a trailer-load of ammo, and three Marines, McKay was starting to question the division of labor she had imposed, and was just about to free her platoon’s gunners to fire on the Banshees, when her driver said, “Uh-oh, look at that!”
A series of plasma bolts stitched a line along the ’Hog’s side, scorched the vehicle’s paint, and kicked up geysers of dirt as the officer followed the pointing finger. A force of Ghosts skittered into the pass.
“Red One to all Romeo units... follow me!” McKay yelled into her mike, and tapped the driver’s arm. “Go get ’em, Murphy – let’s clear that gap.”
No sooner had the officer spoken than the Marine put his foot into it, the gunner whooped, and the LRV leapt forward.