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Thousands of Covenant clashed with two hundred Spartans in open combat. Tracer rounds, crystal shards, plasma bolts, and flaring shields made the scene a blur of chaos.
The SPARTAN-IIIs moved with speed and reflexes no Covenant could follow. They dodged, snapped necks and limbs, and with captured energy swords they cut through the enemy until the field ran with rivers of gore and blue blood.
Tom hesitated, torn between moving deeper into the factory complex and executing the mission and running back to help his comrades. You didn't leave your friends behind.
The sky darkened, clouds overhead turning steel gray.
Tom's COM crackled to life: "Omega three. Execute now! NOW!"
That stopped him cold. Omega three was the panic code, an order to break and run no matter what the cost.
Why? They were winning.
Tom then saw the clouds move. Only… they weren't clouds.
Everything was clear to him now. Why there were so many Covenant here. And why Seraph single ships, craft designed for space combat, were bombing them.
Seven Covenant cruisers sank from the clouds. Over a kilometer long, their bulbous oblong hulls cast shadows over the entire field. If these ships had been parked in formation, refueling over the complex, the STARS might have mistaken such large structures as part of the factory.
"We have to help them," Lucy whispered over the TEAMCOM.
"No," Min said, making a short cut motion with his hand. "The Omega order."
"We're not running," Adam broke in.
"No," Tom agreed. "We're not. The order is… in error." Despite the environmental controls in his SPI armor, he felt chilled.
Seraph fighters dropped from the cruisers, dozens of them, and gathered into swarms. Darkly luminescent shafts of light appeared from the belly of each cruiser, transport beams, and from them marched hundreds of Elites onto the field.
"But we can't help them either," Tom whispered to his team.
Half of Beta Company turned to face the new threat. Impossible odds, even for Spartans, but they would buy time for the rest of them to find cover.
Finding cover was a futile tactic, though. Seven Covenant cruisers had enough firepower to neutralize even two hundred
Spartans. They could pin them down, send in ground reinforcements by the thousands, or if they wanted to, glass the entire moon from orbit.
That left only one option.
"The core," Tom told them. "It's still our mission, and our only effective weapon."
There was a heartbeat pause, and then three green acknowledgment lights winked on his display. His friends knew what he was asking.
Team Foxtrot moved as one, running into the factory at top speed, dodging pipes and supply pods.
A squad of six Elites was ahead, hunkered behind a tangle of ducts.
Tom tossed a handful of concussive grenades to disorient them, but his team kept running. Any delay—even to engage an enemy who could take shots at their backs—might rob them of their one chance.
The surviving Elites recovered and fired.
Adam fell, one hand clutched at the crystal shards that penetrated his armor and punctured his lower spine.