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Onyx is to remain classified, code-word top secret. All materials and files have been redesignated under the nomenclature KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN.
Pursuant to order 178.8.64.007 any breach of code-word classification confidentiality is punishable by the death penalty AS PER UNSC MIL-JAG 4465/LHG, the Wartime Articles of Secrecy, and the amended Articles of the Homeland Security Act of 2162.
A skeleton crew and one ai will continue to probe the mysTERIES OF Zone 67. Maybe they'll hit pay dirt.
In the meantime, the rest of us have a war to fight.
/end/
Kurt never finished reading Endless Summer's flash transmission.
An explosion darkened the horizon with a mushroom cloud of fire and dust, and the holographic page dissolved before Kurt
could scan the rest of the files. The projector sputtered, sparked, and died.
The intel Endless Summer had just sent swam through his mind. Alien ruins? Possible Covenant invasion? What did the AI mean by possible non-Covenant vectors?
"We have to get out of here," Kurt said.
Chief Mendez continued to stare at the distant blast. "Artillery. Maybe a missile strike?"
Kurt scrutinized the shape of the blast cloud. "No, it's highly asymmetric. There are uneven heat blooms. I'd guess a directed energy weapon."
The Chief picked up the radio and again tried to raise the Agincourt. "This is Camp Currahee C and C. Come in, over?"
Static.
"Try the squads," Kurt said.
Mendez nodded. "Saber, come in. Katana? Report, this is Chief Mendez. Gladius." He clicked the mic. This time, there wasn't even static, only dead air. "You think"—Mendez looked up at the sky—"the Agincourt did something?"
The Chief crinkled his silver brows together, worried. It was an emotion Kurt had never before seen on the old man's features.
Another detonation shook Zone 67. What had been a distant granite bluff turned into a disintegrating rain of dust.
"We've received orders to defend Zone 67," Kurt said.
Mendez sighed and shrugged. "I've got my M6 sidearm." He patted his holster. "And a knife in my boot. You?"
Kurt held out his hands.
"Should be a fair fight then," Mendez remarked. He tried the radio again. "Come in, Saber."
His voice filtered through the speaker, crackling with pops and static.
Kurt shook his head. "Something's jamming the transmission. Our Spartans aren't going to fight with stun rounds and flash-bang grenades. They'll head to the armory at Camp Currahee."
"Tom and Lucy should already be there," Mendez said. He moved to the zip line that stretched from the tree house top to the jungle floor. He grabbed the line, wrapped slide casing on, and then jumped over the edge.
For a man pushing sixty, the Chief moved like a soldier thirty years younger. It wasn't the first time Kurt had wondered what kind of Spartan he would have made.
Kurt followed down the zip line, free-falling for a moment, then squeezing the line to brake; he landed hard.
They ran for the Warthog parked on the dirt track at the base of the tree house.