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HAVOK ARMED, flashed across his HUD. AWAITING DETONATION SIGNAL.
The device—a clean thirty-megaton explosive—could only be detonated by a remote signal . . . aproblem here in the sewers. Even the powerful communications package on a starship would be unableto penetrate the steel and concrete overhead.
John quickly rigged a ground-return transceiver, placing it on the pipes overhead. He’d have to set upanother unit outside to relay the signal underground . . . a hot line that would trigger a nuclear firestorm.
Technically, his mission parameters had been fulfilled. Green and Red Teams would have the civiliansevacuated soon. They had scouted the region and discovered a new Covenant species—the strangefloating creature that disassembled and reassembled human machinery, like a scientist or engineerstripping down a device to learn its secrets.
He could leave and destroy the Covenant occupation force. Heshould leave—there was an army ofJackals and Grunts—including at least a platoon of the black-armored veterans—on the streets above.There were three medium Covenant dropships hovering in the air as well. The advance Marine strikeforces had been slaughtered, leaving the Spartans no backup. His responsibility now was to make surehis team got out intact.
But John’s orders had an unusual amount of flexibility . . . and that made him uncomfortable. He hadbeen told to reconnoiter the region and gather intelligence on the Covenant. He was positive there wasmore to be learned here.
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Certainly they were up to something in Cote d’Azur’s museum. The Covenant had never before beeninterested in human history—or indeed, in humans or their artifacts of any kind. He had seen a disarmedJackal fight hand to hand rather than pick up a nearby human assault rifle. And the only thing theCovenant had ever used human buildings for was target practice.
So finding out the reason they seized and were protecting the museum definitely qualified as intelligencegathering in his book.
Was it worth exposing his team to find out? And if they died, would he be wasting their lives . . . orspending them for something worthwhile?
“Master Chief?” Kelly whispered. “Our orders, sir?”
He opened Blue Team’s COM channel. “We’re going in. Use your silencers. Don’t engage the enemyunless absolutely necessary. This place is too hot. We’ll just poke our noses in—see what they’re up toand bug out.”
Three acknowledgment lights winked on.
The Master Chief knew they implicitly trusted his judgment. He just hoped he was worthy of that trust.
The Spartans checked their gear and threaded silencers onto their assault rifles. They slipped silentlydown a wide side passage of the sewer.
A rusty ladder ran up to the ceiling, and a steel plate had been welded in place.
“Thermite paste already set up,” Fred reported.
“Burn it.” The Master Chief stepped to the side and looked away.
The thermite sputtered as bright as an electric arc welder, casting harsh shadows into the chamber. Whenit finished there was a jagged, glowing red circle in the steel.