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McKay heard a Marine say, “What the hell wasthat?” over the command freq, then heard Lister tear a strip off him.
She couldn’t help but wonder the same thing herself. The truth was that while the officer knew the vehicles existed, she’d never seen a Wraith tank in action, and wasn’t sure if that was what she faced. It didn’t matter much, though, because the weapon in question was quite clearly lethal, and would cause havoc in the close quarters of the pass. She keyed her radio.
“Red One to Green One: Those ‘energy bombs’ originated from those hilltops. Let’s give the bastards a haircut. Over.”
“This is Green One,”Lister acknowledged.“Roger that, over.”
There was a burst of static as Lister switched to his platoon’s freq, though McKay could hear every word on the command channel.
“Green One to Foxtrot One and Two: lay some high explosive on the hill to the left. Over.”
“Green One to Foxtrot Three and Four: ditto the hill to the right. Over.”
Banshees wheeled, turned, and poured fire down on the hapless humans as one of the pilots fired his fuel rod cannon and scored a direct hit. A trailer full of precious ammo exploded, wrapped the Warthog in a fiery embrace, and took the LRV with it. Covenant forces watching from the hilltops felt a sense of exultation, and more than that, the pleasure of revenge.
’Mortumee was there to document the battle, not celebrate it, though he watched in fascination as two of the tank turrets swiveled to his left in order to fire on First Hill, while two turned in the opposite direction and seemed to point directly athim .
The Elite wondered if he should seek cover, but before the message to move could reach his feet, he heard a reverberating roar as the 105mm shell passed through the intervening air space, followed by a loudcraack! as the shell landed about fifty units away. A column of bloody dirt flew high into the air. Body parts, weapons, and pieces of equipment continued to rain down as the half-deafened ’Mortumee recovered his composure and ran for cover.
Field Master ’Putumee laughed out loud and pointed to show a member of his staff where ’Mortumee had taken shelter behind some rocks. That was when the second round detonated just below the summit of the hill and started a small landslide. “This,” the Elite said happily, “is areal battle. Keep an eye on the spy.”
Stung by the loss of a Warthog, a trailer-load of ammo, and three Marines, McKay was starting to question the division of labor she had imposed, and was just about to free her platoon’s gunners to fire on the Banshees, when her driver said, “Uh-oh, look at that!”
A series of plasma bolts stitched a line along the ’Hog’s side, scorched the vehicle’s paint, and kicked up geysers of dirt as the officer followed the pointing finger. A force of Ghosts skittered into the pass.
“Red One to all Romeo units . . . follow me!” McKay yelled into her mike, and tapped the driver’s arm. “Go get ’em, Murphy—let’s clear that gap.”
No sooner had the officer spoken than the Marine put his foot into it, the gunner whooped, and the LRV leapt forward.