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"All squads," Kurt ordered. "Counter incoming enemy vectors."
Ash and Olivia moved closer to Kurt at his seven o'clock position. Kelly, Will, Holly, and Lucy clustered at four o'clock. Chief Mendez, Fred, Mark, and Tom took position at twelve o'clock.
"At fifty meters," Kurt continued, "pitch grenades to break those lines, plasma first to drain shields, then the frags. Ignore the Hunters. Follow up with sniper fire. When they're close enough, use rifles."
"How close, sir?" Holly asked. There was a quaver in her voice—not fear, but anticipation.
"When they're on the stairs," Kurt told her. "Kelly, stand ready with the LOTUS mines."
Kurt knew they couldn't stop them all. Some would get to the
base of the hill. And some would climb the stairs. How many depended on their skill, timing, and a great deal of luck.
Green acknowledgment lights flashed, and the Spartans tensed.
The advancing Elites were two hundred meters away. They hadn't fired a single shot yet. Whoever commanded them showed uncommon restraint.
Kurt searched for the glistening gold armor of a Ship or Fleet Master, but only saw the red battle gear of Covenant Majors on the field.
One hundred meters.
The SPARTAN-IIIs shifted from foot to foot, a nervous gesture not mirrored in the battle-hardened SPARTAN-IIs whose bio signs on Kurt's tactical display barely showed a flutter.
Chief Mendez caught Kurt's assessing look and gave him a confident nod.
This was what he and Mendez had trained the Spartans for their entire lives. They would survive this. They had to.
At fifty meters he spotted Elite soldiers opening and closing their four hinged jaws as if anticipating human blood.
"Throw—now," Kurt ordered.
Blurred trajectories of burning blue plasma zipped through the air, followed by fragmentation grenades.
The advancing Elites hesitated, and a ripple distorted through their precise lines. The plasma grenades hit; there was a flash of blue-white that drained clusters of overlapping Jackal shields and knocked many Elites to their knees. Fragmentation grenades hit, bounced, and rolled into their ranks—and exploded.
Bodies and splashes of blood flew through the air; blue and red armor tumbled from the center of the blast.
Kurt hefted his sniper rifle and targeted Elites still dazed, their overshields weakened and flickering.
The Elite Majors growled orders, and the lines struggled to close.
Kurt squeezed off a shot, and the round tore through one Elite's open helmet, emerging out the back in a spray of blue.
To Kurt's right and left came the popcorn crackle of single shots, and more Elites in the broken line fell.
Three Elites stood their ground and returned fire.
Plasma bolts impacted on the stone near Kurt's head. He felt the heat wash over his SPI armor plates.
This was what he had hoped for: chaos. He'd happily exchange fire at this range when he had a scope, cover, and a superior angle.
A Hunter bellowed in rage, lumbered to one of the Elites returning fire instead of re-forming the line, and hammered that Elite with one massive fist—crushing its spine. Turning, the Hunter screamed at the other two Elites and they quickly closed ranks.