Halo_ The Fall of Reach - Eric Nylund [69]
“Jesus.” He dropped the binoculars. “We’re bugging out, right now!” he said. “Turn this beast around, Fincher.” “But—” “They’re gone,” Harland whispered. “They’re all dead.” Walker whimpered and rocked back and forth. “We’ll be dead, too, unless you move,” Harland said. “We already got lucky once today. Let’s not push
it.” “Yeah.” Fincher reversed the Warthog. “Yeah, some luck.” He sped back down the hillside and hopped the Warthog off the embankment and back into the
streambed. “Follow the river,” Harland told him. “It’ll take us all the way to HQ.” A shadow crossed their path. Harland twisted around and saw a pair of stubby-winged Covenant
Banshees swooping down after them.
“Move it!” he screamed at Fincher.
Fincher floored the Warthog and plumes of water sprayed in their wake. They bounced over rocks and fishtailed across the stream. Bolts of plasma hit the water next to them—exploding into steam. Rock shards pinged off the armored
side of the vehicle. “Walker!” Harland shouted. “Use those Jackhammers.” Walker huddled, doubled over in his seat. Harland fired the chain-gun. Tracers cut through the air. The fliers nimbly dodged them. The heavy
machine gun was only accurate at reasonably short ranges—and not even that with Fincher bouncing the Warthog all over the place.
“Walker!” he cried. “We are gonna die if you don’t get those missiles into the air!” He would have ordered Fincher to grab the launcher—but he’d have to stop to grab it . . . that, or try to drive with no hands. If the Warthog stopped, they’d be sitting ducks for those fliers.
Harland glanced at the riverbanks. They were too steep for the Warthog. They were stuck in the river with no cover.
“Walker, do something!” Corporal Harland fired the chain-gun again until his arms went numb. It was no good; the Banshees were too far away, too quick.
Another plasma bolt hit—directly in front of the Warthog. Heat washed over Harland. Blisters
pinpricked his back. He screamed but kept shooting. If they hadn’t been in water, that plasma would have melted the tires . . . probably would have flash-fried them all.
A burst of heat and a plume of smoke erupted next to Harland.
For a split second he thought the Covenant gunners had found their mark—that he was dead. He screamed incoherently, his thumbs jamming down the chain-gun’s trigger buttons. The Banshee he was aiming at flashed, and then became a ball of flame and falling shrapnel.
He turned, his breath hitching in his chest. They hadn’t been hit.
Cochran knelt next to him. One arm clutched his stomach, and the other arm hefted the Jackhammer launcher on his shoulder. He smiled with bloodstained lips and pivoted to track the other flier. Harland ducked, and another missile whooshed directly over his head. Cochran laughed, coughing up blood and foam. Tears of mirth or pain—Harland couldn’t tell—streamed
from his eyes. He collapsed backward, and let the smoldering launcher slip from his hand. The second Banshee exploded and spiraled into the jungle. “Two more klicks,” Fincher shouted. “Hang on.” He cranked the wheel and the Warthog swerved out of
the streambed and bounced up the hillside, up and over, and they slid onto a paved road.
Harland leaned over and felt Cochran’s neck for a pulse. It was there, weak; but he was still alive. Harland glanced at Walker. He hadn’t moved, his eyes squeezed shut. Harland’s first impulse was to shoot him right then and there—the goddamned, goldbricking, cowardly
bastard almost cost them all their lives— No. Harland was half amazed he hadn’t frozen up, too. HQ was ahead. But Corporal Harland’s stomach sank as he saw smoke and flames blazing on the
horizon.
They passed the first armed checkpoint. The guardhouse and bunkers had been blasted away, and in the mud were thousands of Grunt tracks. Farther back, he saw a circle of sandbags around a house-size chunk of granite. Two Marines waved to
them. As they approached in the Warthog, the Marines stood and saluted. Harland jumped off and returned their salute. One of the Marines had a patch