第109页
"Understood." Polaski inverted the ship, executed a reversed roll, and dropped into the canyon. When she righted the drop-ship, sculpted rock walls raced past them only thirty meters to either side.
The Lieutenant reached for the backpack COM system they had removed from the Pelican. He fine-tuned the frequency of the unusual signal they were homing in on; a six-tone message played, followed by a two-second pause, and then it repeated.
"Open a channel on that E-band, Lieutenant," the Master Chief said. "I'll need to send the countersignal."
"Channel open, Chief. Go ahead."
The Master Chief linked his COM and encrypted the channel so only those people sending the signal would hear him. "Oly Oly Oxen Free," he spoke into his microphone. "All out in the free. We're all free."
The beeping over the backpack COM speaker suddenly stopped.
"Signal's gone." Lieutenant Haverson snapped his head around and stared at the Master Chief. "I'm not sure what you just told them, but whatever it was, they heard you."
"Good," the Master Chief replied. "Set us down somewhere safe. They'll find us."
"There's an overhang ahead," Polaski said. She moved the ship toward a deep shadow along the starboard side where the cliff angled out from the canyon. "I'll put us down there." She spun the ship, backed into the darkness, and set it down light as a feather.
"Open the side hatch," the Chief told Polaski. "I'll go out alone and make sure it's safe."
"Alone?" Lieutenant Haverson asked. He rose from his seat. "Are you certain that's wise, Chief?"
"Yes, sir. This was my idea. If it's a trap, I want to be the one to set it off. You stay here and back me up."
ERIC NYLUND 177
Haverson drummed his long fingers across his chin, thinking. "Very well, Chief."
"I got your six, Master Chief," Locklear said and unslung his assault rifle.
The Spartan nodded to Locklear and marched down the ramp. The Chief wanted them on board the dropship for two reasons. First, if this was a trap and they were all caught out in the open, he wouldn't have time to save them and himself. Second, if the Covenant were here, waiting, then Haverson and the others had to get away and get Cortana back to Earth. He could buy them the time to make it out alive.
At the bottom of the ramp, he hesitated as his motion tracker pinged off a single signal. There—thirty meters ahead, just be?hind a large boulder: The friend-or-foe identification system tagged the contact as neither Covenant nor UNSC.
The Chief drew his pistol, crouched, and crept forward.
A private COM channel snapped on: "Master Chief, relax. It's me."
Another Spartan stepped out from the cover of the rock. His armor—while not as battered as John's—was covered with scuffs and burns; the left shoulder pauldron had been dented.
The Master Chief felt a surge of relief. His teammates, his family, hadn't all been killed. He recognized the Spartan from his voice and the subtle way he glanced right and left. It was SPARTAN-044, Anton. He was one of the unit's best scouts. The two stood there a moment and then Anton moved his hand, mak?ing a quick, short gesture with his index and forefinger over the faceplate of his helmet where his mouth would be. That was their signal for a smile—the closest any Spartan got to an emo?tional outburst.