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He yanked the Jackal's gun arm, hard, and then twisted. The Jackal struggled as its own weapon was forced into the mottled, rough skin of its neck.
Fred squeezed, and he could feel the alien's bones shatter. The plasma pistol discharged in a bright, emerald flash. The Jackal flopped over on its back, minus its head.
Fred picked up the fallen weapons as Kelly emerged from the trees. He tossed her one of the plasma pistols, and she plucked it out of the air.
"Thanks. I'd still prefer my rifle to this alien piece of junk," she groused.
ERIC NYLUND 17
Fred nodded, and clipped the other captured weapon to his harness. "Beats the hell out of throwing rocks," he replied.
"Affirmative, Chief," she said with a nod. "But just barely."
"Red-One," Joshua's voice called over the SQUADCOM. "I'm a half-klick ahead of you. You need to see this."
"Roger," Fred told him. "Red Team, hold here and wait for my signal."
Acknowledgment lights winked on.
In a half crouch, Fred made his way toward Joshua. There was light ahead: The shade thinned and vanished because the forest was gone. The trees had been leveled, every one blasted to splin?ters or burned to charred nubs.
There were bodies, too; thousands of Covenant Grunts, hun?dreds of Jackals and Elites littered the open field. There were also humans—all dead. Fred could see several fallen Marines still smoldering from plasma fire. There were overturned Scor?pion tanks, Warthogs with burning tires, and a Banshee flier. The flier had snagged one canard on a loop of barbed wire, and it pro?pelled itself, riderless, in an endless orbit.
The generator complex on the far side of this battlefield was intact, however. Reinforced concrete bunkers bristling with ma?chine guns surrounded a low building. The generators were deep beneath there. So far it looked as if the Covenant had not man?aged to take them, though not for lack of trying.
"Contacts ahead," Joshua whispered.
Four blips appeared on his motion sensor. Friend-or-foe tags identified them as UNSC Marines, Company Charlie. Serial numbers flashed next to the men as his HUD picked them out on a topo map of the area.
Joshua handed Fred his sniper rifle, and he sighted the con?tacts through the scope. They were Marines, sure enough. They picked through the bodies that littered the area, looking for sur?vivors and policing weapons and ammo.
Fred frowned; something about the way the Marine squad moved didn't feel right. They lacked unit cohesion, with their line ragged and exposed. They weren't using any of the available cover. To Fred's experienced eye, the Marines didn't even seem to be heading in a specific direction. One of them just ambled in circles.
18 HALO: FIRST STRIKE
Fred sent a narrow-beam transmission on UNSC global fre?quency. "Marine patrol, this is Spartan Red Team. We are ap?proaching your position from your six o'clock. Acknowledge."
The Marines turned about and squinted in Fred's direction, and brought their assault rifles to bear. There was static on the channel, and then a hoarse, listless voice replied: "Spartans? If you are what you say you are ... we could sure use a hand."