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Her eyes widened in horror. “The Covenantfound something , buried in this ring, somethinghorrible . Now they’re afraid.”
“Something buried?”
Cortana looked off into the distance as if she could actually see Keyes. “Captain—we’ve got to stop the Captain. The weapons cache he’s looking for, it’s not really—we can’t let him get inside.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s no time!” Cortana said urgently. Her eyes were neon pink and they focused on the Spartan like twin lasers. “I have to remain here. Get out, find Keyes, stop him. Before it’s too late!”
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SECTION IV
343 GUILTY SPARK
CHAPTER EIGHT
D+58:36:31 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock) /
Pelican Echo 419, approaching Covenant arms cache.
Echo 419’s engines roared as the Pelican descended through the darkness and rain into the swamp. The surrounding foliage whipped back and forth in response to the sudden turbulence, the water beneath the transport’s metal belly was pressed flat, and the stench of rotting vegetation flooded the aircraft’s cargo compartment as the ramp splashed into the evil-looking brew below.
Foehammer was at the controls and it was her voice that came over the radio. “The last transmission from the Captain’s ship was fromthis area. When you locate Captain Keyes, radio in and I’ll come pick you up.”
The Master Chief stepped down off the ramp and immediately found himself calf-deep in oily-looking water. “Be sure to bring me a towel.”
The pilot laughed, fed more fuel to the engines, and the ship pushed itself up out of the swamp. In the three hours since she had plucked the Spartan off the top of the pyramid, he’d scarfed a quick meal and a couple hours of sleep. Now, as Foehammer dropped her passenger into the muck, she was glad to be an aviator. Ground-pounders worked too damn hard.
Keyes floated in a vacuum. A gauzy white haze clouded his vision, though he could occasionally make out images in lightning-fast bursts—a nightmare tableau of misshapen bodies and writhing tentacles. A muted gleam of light glinted from some highly polished, engraved metal. In the distance, he could hear a droning buzz. It had an odd, musical quality, like Gregorian chant slowed to a fraction of its normal speed.
He realized with a start that the images were from his own eyes. The knowledge brought back a flood of memory—of his own body. He struggled, and realized in mounting horror that he could just barely feel his own arms. They seemed softer somehow, as if filled with a spongy, thick liquid.
He couldn’t move. His lungs itched, and the effort of breathing hurt.
The strange droning chant suddenly sped into an insect buzz, painfully echoing through his consciousness. There was something . . . distant, something definitivelyother about the sound.
Without warning, a new image flashed across his mind, like images on a video screen.
The sun was setting over the Pacific, and a trio of gulls wheeled overhead. He smelled salt air, and felt gritty sand between his toes.