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The Pelican opened its intake vents and ignited afterburners, plummeting toward the ground at thirteen hundred meters per second. The faint aura of flames around the craft roared from red to blinding orange.
ERIC NYLUND
The Pelican's aft section had been stripped of the padded crash seats that usually lined the section's port and starboard sides. The life-support generators on the firewall between pas?senger and pilot's compartment had also been discarded to make room. Under other circumstances, such modifications would have left the Pelican's troop bay unusually cavernous. Every square centimeter of space, however, was occupied.
Twenty-seven Spartans braced themselves and clung to the frame of the ship; they crouched in their MJOLNIR armor to ab?sorb the shock of their rapid descent. Their armor was half a ton of black alloy, faintly luminous green ceramic plates, and wink?ing energy shield emitters. Polarized visors and full helmets made them look part Greek hero and part tank—more machine than human. At their feet equipment bags and ammunition boxes were lashed in place. Everything rattled as the ship jostled through the increasingly dense air.
Fred hit the COM and barked: "Brace yourselves!" The ship lurched, and he struggled to keep his footing.
SPARTAN-087, Kelly, moved nearer and opened a frequency. "Chief, we'll get that COM malfunction squared away after we hit planetside," she said.
Fred winced when he realized that he'd just broadcast on FLEETCOM 7: He'd spammed every ship in range. Damn it.
He opened a private channel to Kelly. "Thanks," he said. Her reply was a subtle nod.
He knew better than to make such a simple mistake—and as his second in command, Kelly was rattled by his mistake with the COM, too. He needed her rock-solid. He needed all of Red Team frosty and wired tight.
Which meant that he needed to make sure he held it together. No more mistakes.
He checked the squad's biomonitors. They showed all green on his heads-up display, with pulse rates only marginally accel?erated. The dropship's pilot was a different story. Mitchell's heart fired like an assault rifle.
Any problems with Red Team weren't physical; the biomoni?tors confirmed that much. Spartans were used to tough missions; UNSC High Command never sent them on any "easy" jobs.
8 HALO: FIRST STRIKE
Their job this time was to get groundside and protect the gen?erators that powered the orbiting Magnetic Accelerator Cannon platforms. The fleet was getting ripped to shreds in space. The massive MAC guns were the only thing keeping the Covenant from overrunning their lines and taking Reach.
Fred knew that if anything had Kelly and the other Spartans rattled, it was leaving behind the Master Chief and his hand-picked Blue Team.
Fred would have infinitely preferred to be with Blue Team. He knew every Spartan here felt like they were taking the easy way out. If the ship-jockeys managed to hold off the Covenant as?sault wave, Red Team's mission was a milk run, albeit a neces?sary one.