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Locklear squelched his COM. "Enough chatter, lady," he murmured. "The bar just opened."
The location for MED34-CH3CH2OH popped on screen.
"B-I-N-G-O,"hesang.
Locklear jumped up. "Come on, amigo. You and me are going to throw a party."
The deck lurched under Locklear's feet. "What the?... We're moving?" He turned the inventory display to face him and tapped in a command to switch to external camera mode.
Craggy asteroids moved past them—no, it was the Gettysburg that was moving. Locklear squinted and saw a flash of blue. He magnified that part of the screen and found a dozen blurry blue flares from engine cones and the pulsing lateral lines filled with plasma. Covenant ships.
"Ah hell," he said and backed away from the desk. "So much for happy hour."
Something moved in his vest. Locklear reached in his pocket and pulled out the crystal Dr. Halsey entrusted to his care. The elongated stone rippled, facets moved and rearranged like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
He spied the same blue color on the inventory monitor—
284 HALO: FIRST STRIKE
pinpricks of stretched space, the first indication of a Slip-space jump.
"I'm not going through another Slipspace fight," Locklear said through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to let them follow us. Or let this thing shoot off a signal flare to every Covenant ship in the galaxy."
He grabbed a can of C-7 off the dolly and dropped Dr. Halsey's crystal on the deck. He quickly covered the thing with the foam?ing explosive. It hardened to a stiff resin in a matter of seconds. Locklear grabbed a detonator, inserted it into the foam, and con?nected it to a timer.
Why had the doc given him this to guard? She said because the ONI spooks wouldn't have the guts to get rid of it if they had to ... would maybe even let it fall into Covenant hands. That made sense, but, at the same time, there was something not quite right with that explanation.
Locklear looked at the monitor and the pinpoints of light that now almost blotted out the stars.
Screw it.
He had his own reasons to blow this thing up—like not want?ing to die in another space battle. Like maybe getting some pay?back for Polaski's death. The Covenant rat-bastards wanted it so bad? Well, screw them, too.
"This one's for you, Polaski," he whispered.
Locklear set the timer for three seconds, and punched the countdown. He dived for cover behind the robotic dolly and cov?ered his head.
The brilliant flash of sapphire light was the last thing he ever saw.
SECTION 6
OPERATION: FIRST STRIKE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
0510 hours, September 13,2552 (revised date, Military Calendar) \ Aboard hybrid vessel Gettysburg-Ascendant Justice, in Slipspace.
The Master Chief and his team, which now consisted of Grace, Linda, Will, and Fred, had been ordered to report to the Officers' Club—normally forbidden territory to NCOs. Of course, nothing about their circumstances had been normal for a long, long time.
The Gettysburg's O-Club had a massive table of oak, scored with numerous gouges and scorches from a hundred cigars casu?ally set upon its surface. There was a bar stocked with bottles containing a rainbow collection of liquors, dusted with shattered crystal. The room's walnut-paneled walls were polished to a rich glow. Hung along those walls was the UNSC gold-fringed blue flag. There were also gold and silver citation plaques for merito?rious gallantry. There were photos of officers and past Captains of the Gettysburg. And most interesting to the Master Chief were tin Civil War daguerreotypes that displayed battlefields full of charging men and cavalry and cannons belching flash and thunder.