第15页

　　Fred  saw  a  tiny  amber  light  flashing  on  his  heads-up  display.  His  biomonitor  indicated  an  elevation  in  his  blood  pressure  and  heart  rate.  He  noticed  his  hands  shook,  almost  imperceptibly.
　　ERIC  NYLUND 23
　　He  controlled  the  shaking  and  keyed  the  COM.  "Acknowl?edged,  sir.  Is  air  support  available?"
　　"Negative.  Covenant  craft  took  out  our  fighter  and  bomber  cover  in  the  first  wave."
　　"Very  well,  sir.  We'll  get  you  out."
　　"Step  on  it,  Chief."  The  COM  snapped  off.
　　Fred  wondered  if  Admiral  Whitcomb  was  responsible  for  the  hundreds  of  dead  Marines  who'd  been  trying  to  guard  the  gener?ators.  No  doubt  he  was  an  excellent  ship  driver.  .  .  but  Fleet  offi?cers  running  ground  ops?  No  wonder  the  situation  was  FUBAR.
　　Had  he  pressured  a  young  and  inexperienced  lieutenant  to  flank  a  superior  enemy?  Had  he  sent  in  air  support  with  orders  to  saturate-bomb  the  area?
　　Fred  didn't  trust  the  Admiral's  judgment,  but  he  couldn't  ig?nore  a  direct  order  from  him,  either.
　　He  ran  his  team  roster  up  onto  his  heads-up  display:  twenty-two  Spartans,  six  wounded  so  badly  they  could  barely  walk,  and  four  battle-fatigued  Marines  who'd  been  through  hell  once  al?ready.  They  had  to  repel  a  massive  Covenant  force.  They  had  to  extract  Admiral  Whitcomb,  too.  And  as  usual,  their  survival  was  at  best  a  tertiary  consideration.
　　He  had  weapons  to  defend  the  installation:  grenades,  chain-guns,  and  missiles—
　　Fred  paused.  Perhaps  this  was  the  wrong  way  to  look  at  the  tactical  situation.  He  was  thinking  about  defending  the  installa?tion  when  he  should  have  been  thinking  about  what  Spartans  were  best  at—offense.
　　He  keyed  the  SQUADCOM.  "Everyone  catch  that  last  transmission?"
　　Acknowledgment  lights  winked  on.
　　"Good.  Here's  the  plan:  We  split  into  four  teams.
　　"Team  Delta—"  He  highlighted  the  wounded  Spartans  and  the  four  Marines  on  the  roster.  "—fall  back  to  this  location."  He  uploaded  a  tactical  map  of  the  area  and  set  a  NAV  marker  in  a  ravine  sixteen  kilometers  north.  "Take  two  Warthogs,  but  leave  them  and  stealth  it  if  you  encounter  any  resistance.  Your  mission  is  to  secure  the  area.  This  will  be  the  squad's  fallback  position.  Keep  the  back  door  open  for  us."
　　They  immediately  acknowledged.  The  Spartans  knew  that
　　24 HALO:  FIRST  STRIKE
　　ravine  like  the  backs  of  their  hands.  It  wasn't  marked  on  any  map,  but  it  was  where  they'd  trained  for  months  with  Dr.  Halsey.  Beneath  the  mountain  were  caverns  that  the  Office  of  Naval  In?telligence  had  converted  into  a  top-secret  facility.  It  was  fortified  and  hardened  against  radiation,  and  could  probably  withstand  anything  up  to  and  including  a  direct  nuclear  strike.  A  perfect  hole  to  hide  in  if  everything  went  sour.
　　"Team  Gamma."  Fred  selected  Red-Twenty-one,  Red-Twenty-two,  and  Red-Twenty-three  from  the  roster.  "You'll  extract  the  Admiral  and  his  staff  and  bring  them  back  to  the  generators.  We'll  need  the  extra  crew."
　　"Affirmative,"  Red-Twenty-one  replied.
　　Technically  Fred  was  following  Whitcomb's  order  to  extract  him  from  his  current  position.  What  the  Admiral  didn't  realize,  though,  was  that  he  would  have  probably  been  safer  staying  put.