"Not in this asteroid field," Admiral Whitcomb replied. "But you make a good point about staying maneuverable. Align our nose toward the center of mass of the planetoid, and back us up, one half reverse. Keep us out of the enemy's gunsights as long as you can."
"Firing ministers. Answering one half reverse," Fred said.
The ship slowly angled toward the center of the large asteroid and backed away.
"Cortana?" the Admiral asked. "Do we have a weapons turret or not?"
"Yes, sir," Cortana said, "but the turret's magnetic coils that shape and aim the plasma charge have overloaded."
The Admiral inhaled and sighed explosively. "Master Chief, you got anything on Weapons Station One?"
"Archer missile pods depleted," the Master Chief answered.
He scanned the display, hoping he had missed something. "No rounds for the MAC gun. All Shiva nuclear missiles fired as well, sir. The only things left in the tubes are three Clarion spy drones."
"No plasma and no missiles," Admiral Whitcomb said. "We might as well open an air lock and throw rocks at 'em."
Throw rocks? The Master Chief wondered if they could fash- ion a slug to shoot from the MAC cannon. Let its magnetic coils propel the mass to supersonic velocities and— Magnetic coils?
"Sir," the Master Chief said. "We may have a way to fire the plasma turret after all. The Gettysburg's MAC gun has seventeen superconducting coils. Cortana might be able to use them to shape and aim the plasma."
"Yes," the Admiral said, nodding.
"Maybe," Cortana amended and stared off into space, think- ing. "Calculating field strength drop-off now." The mathematic symbols scrolling across her body increased threefold. She frowned. "This would be easier if the Gettysburg was oriented bottom to Ascendant Justice's top. I'll have to guess at the interference from the intervening hulls, but it still might work.
Chief—power it up. I'll need to recalibrate the pulse generation to match the plasma output."
"MAC gun magnetic fields coming online," the Master Chief said as he tapped in commands. "Rerouting power from Ascen- dant Justice's reactor."
"We won't have enough power to move fast if we have to,"
Fred remarked, watching the energy fed to the Gettysburg's engines drop to nothing.
"That's okay." The Admiral absentmindedly tugged at the end ERIC NYLUNO 265 of his mustache. "We wouldn't be able to outrun that Covenant cruiser even if we had full power. Our only chance is to take them out before they take us out. Launch those Clarion spy drones, Chief. Target the region abeam that planetoid—so we can see around the corner."
The Master Chief kept one eye on the fluctuating magnetic field strengths of the superconducting coils as he programmed a course for the spy drones. Set to either side of the large asteroid, they'd effectively give them another set of eyes to see past the obstructing rock.
"Drones away," the Chief said and launched them; their feathery propellant trails vanished into the distance.
"Cortana," Admiral Whitcomb said, "slave your targeting system to the feed from those drones. I want a clean shot fired before the cruiser crosses that rock's shadow and shoots at us."
"Working," she replied. "Getting magnetic field variations from the Ascendant Justice-to-Gettysburg energy transfer."
"Drones in position and images online," the Master Chief said and pushed the video feed to the forward screen.
Doubled images of the Covenant cruiser appeared. Along its three bulbous sections, lateral plasma conduits glowed and every turret bristled with energy, ready to fire. Their laser batteries obliterated the large asteroids in their path, while the smaller ones simply bounced off their shields. The warship accelerated as it entered the gravitational influence of the planetoid between them.
"They're going to slingshot around," the Admiral said. "Cortana, give me your best targeting solution and fire at will!"
Cortana narrowed her eyes and calculations flashed across her body. "Extrapolating their course and speed," she breathed. "I got them."
On Weapons Station One the Master Chief saw the accelera- tion coils of the Gettysburg's MAC pulse—then redline with power. Magnetic field lines ballooned, overlapped, and distorted asymmetrically. Static washed across his MJOLNIR armor's shields, and every electrically conducting surface on the bridge sparked as the magnetic lines of force penetrated through the ship and toward the turret on Ascendant Justice.
Their only working turret heated, and plasma gathered at its tip; streamers looped upon themselves like tiny solar flares, vi- brated, intensified to orange and then blue-white.
"Almost there," Cortana cried. "Hang on."
The ball of squeezed plasma imploded. It instantly boiled away a thirty-meter section of armor and hull from Ascendant Justice; the plasma vanished for a split second—then a bolt of coiled energy corkscrewed toward the edge of the planetoid.
The Covenant cruiser rounded the planetoid, targeted the Get- tysburg, and fired.
Cortana's single shot impacted on the nose of the enemy craft first. The cruiser's shield flashed solid silver for a moment and was gone. The supercompressed plasma tore into the hull of the warship—exploding the metal where it touched. The plasma forked and detonated outward as it chained through the vessel.
Secondary explosions rippled through the alien ship's hull.
Edges of its shattered hull glowed red and then white hot as their superheated atmosphere vented. The bolt ripped through the engineering compartment, shattered their reactors—and the entire warship blossomed into fire and ejected trails of golden sparks and dying flickers of static electricity.
The five plasma bolts that the Covenant cruiser fired at the Gettysburg dispersed into a red haze. There was no longer any magnetic force to shape and guide them to their intended target.
The bridge crew watched the explosions fade from the for- ward screens. The Admiral said, "Status?"
Fred tapped the screen of the Engineering station and re- ported: "Engines and reactor offline. That magnetic pulse did something to them."
Static washed over Weapons Station One as the Master Chief looked up and said, "MAC accelerating coils intact. Drone one destroyed. Retrieving drone two, sir."
Cortana's holographic presence was missing, but her voice sounded triumphantly through the bridge speakers: "Turret number three destroyed. But if we ever get any of the other six turrets in working order, we'll have a formidable arsenal."
"We may not get that chance," Lieutenant Haverson remarked as he bent over the NAV station. "Contacts inbound. Small ships.
Dozens of them. Transferring to the forward screens."
Armored Pelicans, exoskeleton welders, a handful of Long- sword singleships, and the odd stealth Chirvptera-class vessel appeared on screen.
"Jiles's fleet," Haverson stated. "And he has us exactly where he wants us—dead in the water."
"Incoming transmission," Cortana said. "Piping it through."
"Admiral Whitcomb?" Jiles's rich and resonant voice flooded the bridge. "Can I be of some assistance? A tow, perhaps, back to our base so we can expedite repairs to your ships?"
"That would be most kind of you," the Admiral said and eased back into the Captain's chair.
Two Laden-class cargo ships came alongside the Gettysburg and attached; their engines rumbled.
"I don't understand," Haverson whispered. "He had us."
"No, he didn't," Admiral Whitcomb replied. He scowled and added, "Governor Jiles may not like it, but he needs us now. The Covenant aren't going to send just one ship. After this one goes missing for a while, there'll be more. A lot more. This is only the start of the battle, son."
John and his six remaining teammates sat in the Gettysburg's machine shop. The room was large enough to fit a Longsword in- side, and the walls, ceilings, and deck had robotic arms tipped with welders, multitools, and hydraulic presses. Three of the arms had high-intensity spotlights directed onto the walls and provided a clear, cool, indirect illumination that the Master Chief found soothing after having one too many plasma blasts etch his retinas.
They were here because Admiral Whitcomb had ordered the Spartans to repair their equipment and get at least six hours of sleep. The machine shop was a solid room, reinforced, and un- likely to breach in case they were attacked again.
Linda sat in the corner with her helmet, back torso, and shoul- der MJOLNIR armor sections removed.
Fred and Will used two robotic arms to hold her armor in place.
They swapped out damaged plates and components with the spare parts they'd found in ONI's CASTLE facility on Reach.
Angry red scars crisscrossed Linda's pale body—the only external trace of her double transplant operation. Against Dr.
Halsey's advice for strict bed rest, Linda had hobbled down here with her team. She sat cross-legged before a disassembled SRS99C sniper rifle and selected gyro compensators, optics, and adaptive texture barrel sheaths. Linda proceeded to re- assemble the precision-made weapon with the care of a loving mother caressing her newborn child.
Without looking up from her rifle she said, "Now I know what you have to do to get a couple of days' R-and-R in this outfit."
"I heard," Fred remarked, "that you spent the whole time sleeping, too."
"That's why she likes to snipe," Will replied. "I caught her snoring last time she posted in that tower on Europa."
John was glad they could joke about her return from the dead.
He couldn't bring himself to join in, though. He had accepted the mantle of command, and CPO Mendez had taught him to re- press his external emotional reactions to preserve his authority.
Right now, he resented that.
Kelly rolled over and woke up. She nudged Grace, and they sat up, shaking their helmets. "0400," Kelly told them. "That was six hours."
"Felt like a fifteen-minute nap," Grace muttered. "I just closed my eyes. You're kidding, right?"
Kelly looked over to Linda and drew her two fingers across her helmet in the smile gesture. Linda returned a rare, bare smile to her.
The smile looked odd to John. He wanted to smile, too, but nothing much—apart from Linda—in a long time had given him cause: not the hordes of rebels crawling over and through the Gettysburg whom Admiral Whitcomb trusted too much, nor the imminent return of Covenant forces before their engines and weapons could be repaired. .. and certainly not the hundreds of dead crew members aboard the Gettysburg, whom they had col- lected and placed in cargo bay seven.
The slight click of metal on metal alerted every Spartan in the room. Pistols drew in a blur of motion and rifles leveled at the side hatch as it eased open with a squeak.
Sergeant Johnson and Corporal Locklear stood in the doorway— frozen.
"No one told me this was target practice," Locklear muttered.
"Else I woulda painted a bull's-eye on my chest."
"Master Chief," the Sergeant said. "Reporting as you requested."
John nodded and lowered his gun, as did the other Spartans.
"Come in, Marines."
As he holstered his weapon, John's hand brushed against the belt compartment that held Dr. Halsey's data crystals. He hadn't decided which to give to Lieutenant Haverson. Did he sacrifice the Sergeant to save billions from potential Flood infestation?
Did it even matter? He had every reason to believe that the Flood had been destroyed with Halo—but what if he was wrong?
"I wanted you both down here to help us discuss our tactical options," John told them.
The COM pulsed to life. Dr. Halsey said, "Master Chief?"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"I need Kelly to report to Medical Four," she said. "She requires one last injection of dermacortic steroids. And I could use her assistance on another matter."
John nodded to Kelly.
She slowly stretched, stood, sighed, and marched out of the room. "I'll be right back," she said, flexing her burned hands.
"Don't plan the overthrow of the Covenant Empire without me."
"She's on her way, Doctor."
The COM snapped off.
The Master Chief turned to his Spartans and the Marines.
"Let's go over what we know and see if we've missed anything— any way to exploit the enemy's plan." He set down a data pad with a star map glittering upon its surface.
"The Covenant are on their way to Earth," he told them. "They are gathering at a battle station and then jumping en masse to the Sol system."
"What happens then?" Fred asked.
"Assuming we get to Earth first," Linda answered, "our Fleet will be waiting for them, and"—she pulled back the bolt on her rifle with a clack—"they'll give them a warm reception."
"But what chance will our forces have?" Will asked. There was no fear in his voice, just cool logic. "You saw Cortana's report. There will be hundreds of Covenant warships. I don't think our Fleet or even Earth's orbital MAC platforms can repel a force that powerful."
"No," the Chief quietly said. "They can't win. They'll try. But the Covenant will eventually take down one of the orbital MACs, slip through, and pick off the ground-based generators.
Just like on Reach."
Fred visibly flinched.
Locklear twisted the red bandanna he had tied on his biceps.
"So we get to watch another fight in space?" he hissed. His fists trembled with barely checked rage. "There has to be a way to get to those bastards first—on the ground where we can win. Hell, I'd even take my chances in hand-to-hand combat. Anything but floating in zero gee and watching Earth get burned."
"What about our original mission?" Linda asked. "Find the Covenant home world?"
"Our priority has to be to warn Earth," the Chief answered.
"Admiral Whitcomb would insist... and he has the authority to scrub our mission."