第9页

　　One  hundred  meters  to  go.  His  shield  flickered  as  he  brushed  the  tops  of  the  tallest  of  the  trees.
　　He  took  a  deep  breath,  exhaled  as  deeply  as  he  could,  grabbed
　　14 HALO:  FIRST  STRIKE
　　his  knees,  and  tucked  into  a  ball.  He  overrode  the  hydrostatic  sys?tem  and  overpressurized  the  gel  surrounding  his  body.  A  thou?sand  tiny  knives  stabbed  him—pain  unlike  any  he'd  experienced  since  the  SPARTAN-II  program  had  surgically  altered  him.
　　The  MJOLNIR  armor's  shields  flared  as  he  broke  through  branches—then  drained  in  one  sudden  burst  as  he  impacted  dead-center  on  a  thick  tree  trunk.  He  smashed  through  it  like  an  armored  missile.
　　He  tumbled,  and  his  body  absorbed  a  series  of  rapid-fire  im?pacts.  It  felt  like  taking  a  full  clip  of  assault  rifle  fire  at  point-blank  range.  Seconds  later  Fred  slammed  to  a  bone-crunching  halt.
　　His  suit  malfunctioned.  He  could  no  longer  see  or  hear  any?thing.  He  stayed  in  that  limbo  state  and  struggled  to  stay  con?scious  and  alert.  Moments  later,  his  display  was  filled  with  stars.  He  realized  then  that  the  suit  wasn't  malfunctioning...  he  was.
　　"Chief!"  Kelly's  voice  echoed  in  his  head  as  if  from  the  end  of  a  long  tunnel.  "Fred,  get  up,"  she  whispered.  "We've  got  to  move."
　　His  vision  cleared,  and  he  slowly  rolled  onto  his  hands  and  knees.  Something  hurt  inside,  like  his  stomach  had  been  torn  out,  diced  into  little  pieces,  and  then  stitched  back  together  all  wrong.  He  took  a  ragged  breath.  That  hurt,  too.
　　The  pain  was  good—it  helped  keep  him  alert.
　　"Status,"  he  coughed.  His  mouth  tasted  like  copper.
　　Kelly  knelt  next  to  him  and  on  a  private  COM  channel  said,  "Al?most  everyone  has  minor  damage:  a  few  blown  shield  generators,  sensor  systems,  a  dozen  broken  bones  and  contusions.  Nothing  we  can't  compensate  for.  Six  Spartans  have  more  serious  injuries.  They  can  fight  from  a  fixed  position,  but  they  have  limited  mobil?ity."  She  took  a  deep  breath  and  then  added,  "Four  KIA."
　　Fred  struggled  to  his  feet.  He  was  dizzy  but  remained  upright.  He  had  to  stay  on  his  feet  no  matter  what.  He  had  to  for  the  team,  to  show  them  they  still  had  a  functioning  leader.
　　It  could  have  been  much  worse—but  four  dead  was  bad  enough.  No  Spartan  operation  had  ever  seen  so  many  killed  in  one  mis?sion,  and  this  op  had  barely  begun.  Fred  wasn't  superstitious,  but  he  couldn't  help  but  feel  that  the  Spartans'  luck  was  running  out.
　　"You  did  what  you  had  to,"  Kelly  said  as  if  she  were  reading  his  mind.  "Most  of  us  wouldn't  have  made  it  if  you  hadn't  been  thinking  on  your  feet."
　　ERIC  NYLUND 15
　　Fred  snorted  in  disgust.  Kelly  thought  he'd  been  thinking  on  his  feet—but  all  he'd  done  was  land  on  his  ass.  He  didn't  want  to  talk  about  it—not  now.  "Any  other  good  news?"  he  said.
　　"Plenty,"  she  replied.  "Our  gear—munitions  boxes,  bags  of  extra  weapons—they're  scattered  across  what's  passing  for  our  LZ.  Only  a  few  of  us  have  assault  rifles,  maybe  five  in  total."
　　Fred  instinctively  reached  for  his  MA5B  and  discovered  that  the  anchoring  clips  on  his  armor  had  been  sheared  away  in  the  impact.  No  grenades  on  his  belt,  either.  His  drop  bag  was  gone,  too.