Halo_ First Strike - Eric S. Nylund [4]
"Gotta shake 'em," the pilot screamed. "Hang on!"
The Pelican pitched forward, and her engines blasted in full overload. The dropship's stabilizers tore away, and the craft rolled out of control.
The Spartans grabbed on to cross beams as their gear was flung about inside the ship.
"It's going to be a helluva hot drop, Spartans," their pilot hissed over the COM. "Autopilot's programmed to angle. Reverse thrusters. Gees are takin' me out. I'll—"
A flash of light outlined the cockpit hatch, and the tiny shockproof glass window shattered into the passenger compartment.
The pilot's biomonitor flatlined.
The rate of their dizzying roll increased, and bits of metal and instruments tore free and danced around the compartment.
SPARTAN-029, Joshua, was closest to the cockpit hatch. He pulled himself up and looked in. "Plasma blast," he said. He paused for a heartbeat, then added: "I'll reroute control to the terminal here." With his right hand, he furiously tapped commands onto the keyboard mounted on the wall. The fingers of his left hand dug into the metal bulkhead.
Kelly crawled along the starboard frame, held there by the spinning motion of the out-of-control Pelican. She headed aft of the passenger compartment and punched a keypad, priming the explosive bolts on the drop hatch.
"Fire in the hole!" she yelled.
The Spartans braced.
The hatch exploded and whipped away from the plummeting craft. Fire streamed along the outer hull. Within seconds the compartment became a blast furnace. With the grace of a high-wire performer, Kelly leaned out of the rolling ship, her armor's energy shields flaring in the heat.
The Covenant Seraph fighters fired their lasers, but the energy weapons scattered in the superheated wake of the dropping Pelican. One alien ship tumbled out of control, too deep in the atmosphere to easily maneuver. The others veered and arced up back into space.
"Too hot for them," Kelly said. "We're on our own."
"Joshua," Fred called out. "Report."
"The autopilot's gone, and cockpit controls are offline," Joshua answered. "I can counter our spin with thrusters." He tapped in a command; the port engine shuddered, and the ship's rolling slowed and ceased.
"Can we land?" Fred asked.
Joshua didn't hesitate to give the bad news. "Negative. The computer has no solution for our inbound vector." He tapped rapidly on the keyboard. "I'll buy as much time as I can."
Fred ran over their limited options. They had no parasails, no rocket-propelled drop capsules. That left them one simple choice: They could ride this Pelican straight into hell... or they could get off.
"Get ready for a fast drop," Fred shouted. "Grab your gear. Pump your suits' hydrostatic gel to maximum pressure. Suck it up, Spartans—we're landing hard."
"Hard landing" was an understatement. The Spartans—and their MJOLNIR armor—were tough. The armor's energy shields, hydrostatic gel, and reactive circuits, along with the Spartans' augmented skeletal structure, might be enough to withstand a high-speed crash landing... but not a supersonic impact.
It was a dangerous gamble. If Joshua couldn't slow the Pelican's descent—they'd be paste. "Twelve thousand meters to go," Kelly shouted, still leaning over the edge of the aft door.
Fred told the Spartans: "Ready and aft. Jump on my mark."
The Spartans grabbed their gear and moved toward the open hatch.
The Pelican's engines screamed and pulsed as Joshua angled the thruster cams to reverse positions. The deceleration pulled at the Spartan team, and everyone grabbed, or made, a handhold.
Joshua brought what was left of the craft's control flaps to bear, and the Pelican's nose snapped up. A sonic boom rippled through the ship as its velocity dropped below Mach 1. The frame shuddered and rivets popped.
"Eight kilometers and this brick is still dropping fast," Kelly called out.
"Joshua, get aft," Fred ordered.
"Affirmative," Joshua said.
The Pelican groaned and the frame