Halo_ Evolutions - Essential Tales of the Halo Universe - Eric Nylund [144]
“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 mech-inf 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 ewe en es sea 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 tee forty two 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 one em eight three won that isn’t burning or otherwise busted all to hell is right near the main entrance of the structure, and the el ay ay vee is a good fifteen meters east-northeast of that, over by the fountain. Chief, if you’re planning on going for that em twelve gee, 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 em twelve gee; once we get it moving we’ll suppress what’s left of the local Covenant group until the em eight three won 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-Buddha 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