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In addition to the weapons, there was a single smoke canister—blue smoke to signal for pickup. Johnwould carry that. “Let’s go,” he said.
Blue Team moved out. They quickly entered the jungle, in a simple single-file line with Blue-Four in thelead; James had an instinct for walking point. The line was slightly staggered, with John and Kellyslightly to the left of James. Fred brought up the rear.
They moved cautiously. Every hundred yards, James signaled the group to halt while he methodicallysurveyed the area for any sign of the enemy. The rest of Blue Team crouched, and disappeared into thethick jungle foliage.
John checked his HUD; they were one-quarter of the way to the city. The team made good time despitethe cautious pace. The MJOLNIR assault armor allowed them to push their way through the thick junglelike it was a stroll through the woods.
As the team moved on, the thin mist that permeated the jungle gave way to a hard, pelting rain. Thedamp ground gradually turned to mud, forcing the team to slow.
Blue-Four stopped dead and raised his fist—the signal to halt and freeze. John stopped in his tracks, hisrifle raised and sweeping slowly back and forth, searching for any sign of enemy movement.
Normally, the Spartans relied on their armor’s detection gear to locate enemy troops. But their motionsensors were useless—everything moved in the jungle. They had to rely on their eyes and ears and theinstincts of their point man.
“Point to Team Leader: enemy contact.”James’ calm voice crackled across the COM channel. “Enemytroops within one hundred meters of my position, ten degrees left.”
With exaggerated slowness, Blue-Four indicated the danger area by pointing.
“Affirmative,” John replied. “Blue Team: hold position.”
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Although the motion trackers were of no use here, thermal proved effective. Through the thick sheets ofrain, the Master Chief spotted three cold spots: Grunts in their chilled environmental suits.
“Blue Team: enemy contact confirmed.” He added the enemy position to his HUD. “Estimated enemy
strength, Point?”
“Lead, I make ten, say again, ten Covenant troops. Grunts, sir. They’re moving slowly. Double-fileformation. They haven’t spotted us. Orders?”
John’s orders said to minimize contact with the enemy where possible—the Spartans were spread too
thinly across the battle area to risk a prolonged engagement. But the Grunts were heading right for the
Marine bunker . . .
“Let’s take them out, Blue Team,” he said.
The team of Grunts slogged through the mud. The vaguely simian aliens wore shiny red-trimmed armor.
Craggy, purple-black hide was visible beneath the environmental suits. Breath masks provided
supercooled methane—the aliens’ atmosphere. There were ten of them, moving in two columns and
spaced roughly three meters apart.
John noted with satisfaction that they seemed bored—only the point man and the pair on rear guard had
their plasma rifles at the ready. The rest chattered at each other in a weird combination of high-pitched