Halo_ Evolutions - Essential Tales of the Halo Universe - Eric Nylund [147]
Sullivan fired several bursts across the hood at the Elites until he noticed the barrel of the ALIM swivel into place directly above his head, then he quickly dropped down into the scorched seat and braced himself. Palmer lined up the lead Ghost and fired. The slug from the M68 left the muzzle at just under mach forty and penetrated the lead Ghost’s plasma containment vessel—after it had passed through the red Elite’s lower abdomen. The vehicle detonated and spiraled into the air, five-thousand-degree plasma erupting through its shattered armor. The Elite rider was almost entirely incinerated; what remained of its right arm, however, spiraled through the air alongside the wreckage of the vehicle. The other rider boosted out through the bluish flames and roared in pain as the flexible material of its armored suit bubbled and cracked. A second shot from the M68 was high and late, punching a basketball-sized hole through the park’s entrance archway. Palmer swung the turret farther to take a third shot.
“It’s B Team’s problem now,” John said to her over the private channel. “We need your eyes forward to keep the path clear.”
“But I can—” Palmer spat.
“Now, Corporal,” the Spartan admonished. “At least trust your squadmates enough to handle one Ghost with a wounded rider.”
As the turret swung back around John heard Corporal Palmer grunt. He could picture the look on her face. It would be the same look of anger and frustration he had seen on innumerable humans when they were reminded of what they were and weren’t capable of—or where their real responsibilities lay.
Humans—what had prompted that? He never thought of himself as anything other than human. But that wasn’t exactly true. He may have thought of himself as having been human, perhaps even that he was still human, but no one ever let him forget that he was a Spartan. That was definitely true.
“Chief, I believe that I’ve located our errant Scarab—there are two of them in the city proper, another three in Old Mombasa across Kilindini Harbor to the south—but only one of them is in the immediate vicinity. That one has to be ours. My best guess is that it’s looking for a clear shot at the tether,” Cortana rattled off into John’s ear.
“When you say ours,” John whispered, “am I to understand that you want me to capture it?”
“Don’t be silly, Chief. I said ours because it figures into our plan to get us onto that ship—so we can get our hands onto the Hierarch. And before you ask any other silly questions—our plans are more complicated than that.”
The Warthog slid sideways through the smoking remains of the Kilindini Park gate and into the Mwatate Street Transit Center. It was abandoned: no taxis or buses and no private vehicles of any kind. They had all fled or were pressed into service to aid the evacuation efforts hours ago, but they had not escaped. The bridge connecting the island to the mainland had been littered with the burning, gutted carcasses of all those vehicles.
Chunks of concrete and sputtering blobs of aluminum came raining down from above as two Ghosts sailed off of the elevated roadway above the transit center—their riders bracing in anticipation of the impact on the ground far below. Palmer fired up at the nearer of the two rapidly descending craft and its starboard wing tore away in a shower of sparks. The Ghost tumbled violently and the rider was thrown as the two vehicles collided in the air. The Spartan spun the steering wheel all the way to lock, attempting to keep clear of the Ghosts’ most likely point of impact. The intact Ghost landed upside down, its carapace splintering on contact—the Elite rider still astride the vehicle. The Ghost that Palmer had hit came right down on top of the wreckage of the other Ghost and its rider—both vehicles