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　　CHAPTER  TWENTY
　　TIME:DATE  RECORD  ANOMALY\Estimated  0610  hours,  September  23,2552  (Military  Calendar)\  Aboard  captured  Covenant  dropship,  Epsilon  Eridani  system,  en  route  to  surface  of  Reach.
　　Polaski  accelerated  the  captured  dropship  to  its  maximum  velocity—just  under  Mach  1.  The  craft  arced  up  and  joined  the  long  convoy  of  Covenant  ships—troop  transports,  scavenger  drones,  and  Seraph  fighters—as  they  descended  from  a  higher  orbit  down  to  the  surface.  The  formation  of  alien  vessels  headed  straight  toward  Menachite  Mountain.
　　Covenant  communiques  scrolled  across  a  screen  next  to  the  pilot's  seat  and  then  ceased.
　　"Incoming  transmissions  from  the  convoy  ...  I  guess  they  don't  like  strays,"  Polaski  muttered  calmly,  looking  at  the  Cove?nant  calligraphy.
　　"They're  not  shooting,"  the  Admiral  said,  gripping  the  back  of  Polaski's  seat.  "We're  fine.  Just  fly,  Warrant  Officer."  He  turned  to  the  Master  Chief.  "Get  'em  ready,  son."
　　The  Chief  nodded  and  moved  aft  to  the  rest  of  the  squad.  His  three  Spartans  as  well  as  Lieutenant  Haverson,  Locklear,  and  Sergeant  Johnson  stood  over  an  array  of  weapons  laid  out  on  the  deck.  Anton  ticked  off  the  inventory:  "Shotguns,  a  fuel  rod  gun,  Jackhammer  rocket  launchers,  plasma  and  HE  pistols,  and  every  type  of  grenade—take  your  pick."
　　The  Chief  picked  up  five  clips  of  ammunition  for  his  MA5B  assault  rifle,  three  frag  grenades,  and  a  shotgun  for  close  work.  Nothing  fancy—he  wanted  to  keep  it  simple  so  he  could  keep  one  eye  on  the  rest  of  his  team.
　　184 HALO:  FIRST  STRIKE
　　Locklear  hefted  the  fuel  rod  gun,  grunting  from  the  exertion.  The  weapon  glowed  an  eerie  green  along  its  fuel  casing.
　　Grace  relieved  him  of  the  too-heavy  weapon  and  shouldered  it  with  ease.
　　"Make  sure  you  get  a  handgun,"  the  Chief  told  Locklear.  "We'll  be  in  close  quarters  underground."
　　"Roger  that,"  Locklear  said.
　　"We're  close,"  the  Admiral  called  out.
　　The  Master  Chief  moved  up  to  the  cockpit  to  watch.  The  line  of  dropships  and  drones  maneuvered  toward  a  pile  of  truck-sized  stones  that  had  been  carved  from  the  mountain.  A  spiraling  hole,  ten  kilometers  across,  sat  where  Menachite  Mountain  had  once  risen  majestic  and  impregnable,  covered  with  forests  and  glaciers.
　　It  was  only  a  strip  mine  now,  with  a  single  shaft  drilled  down  its  center.  A  Covenant  cruiser  hovered  over  the  shaft,  and  the  purple  glow  of  a  grav  lift  knifed  into  the  hole.
　　"That's  our  LZ,"  Whitcomb  announced.  "Polaski,  I  want  you  to  drive  this  crate  straight  down—but  ease  up  a  tad  on  the  en?gines  and  let  their  grav  beam  do  the  work.  It'll  take  us  all  the  way  down  to  whatever's  at  the  bottom."
　　"With  respect,  Admiral,"  Polaski  said,  "I'm  not  sure  we'll  fit."
　　The  Admiral  squinted  at  the  hole.  "We'll  fit,"  he  said.  "I  have  every  confidence  in  you,  Warrant  Officer.  Now  make  it  quick.  I  don't  think  anyone  topside  is  going  to  think  us  going  down  there  is  a  good  idea."
　　"Yes,  sir!"  Her  eyes  locked  onto  the  hole.  "No  problem,  sir."
　　The  Master  Chief  marveled  at  the  Admiral's  lack  of  fear.  He  trusted  the  man's  judgment;  he  had  been  criticized  during  his  campaigns  for  unorthodox  tactics  and  strategies,  but  his  insight  had  been  proven  correct  each  time.  The  Master  Chief,  however,  also  had  observed  that  the  higher  up  the  chain  of  command  you  received  your  orders,  the  more  likely  those  orders  would  de?mand  the  near  impossible.