D+58:36:31 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock) /Pelican Echo 419, approaching Covenant arms cache.

Echo 419’s engines roared as the Pelican descended through the darkness andrain into the swamp. The surrounding foliage whipped back and forth inresponse to the sudden turbulence, the water beneath the transport’s metalbelly was pressed flat, and the stench of rotting vegetation flooded theaircraft’s cargo compartment as the ramp splashed into the evil-lookingbrew below.

Foehammer was at the controls and it was her voice that came over the radio.

“The last transmission from the Captain’s ship was fromthis area. When youlocate Captain Keyes, radio in and I’ll come pick you up.”

The Master Chief stepped down off the ramp and immediately found himselfcalf-deep in oily-looking water. “Be sure to bring me a towel.”

The pilot laughed, fed more fuel to the engines, and the ship pushed itselfup out of the swamp. In the three hours since she had plucked the Spartanoff the top of the pyramid, he’d scarfed a quick meal and a couple hours ofsleep. Now, as Foehammer dropped her passenger into the muck, she was gladto be an aviator. Ground-pounders worked too damn hard.

Keyes floated in a vacuum. A gauzy white haze clouded his vision, though hecould occasionally make out images in lightning-fast bursts—a nightmaretableau of misshapen bodies and writhing tentacles. A muted gleam of lightglinted from some highly polished, engraved metal. In the distance, he couldhear a droning buzz. It had an odd, musical quality, like Gregorian chantslowed to a fraction of its normal speed.

He realized with a start that the images were from his own eyes. Theknowledge brought back a flood of memory—of his own body. He struggled, andrealized in mounting horror that he could just barely feel his own arms.

They seemed softer somehow, as if filled with a spongy, thick liquid.

He couldn’t move. His lungs itched, and the effort of breathing hurt.

The strange droning chant suddenly sped into an insect buzz, painfullyechoing through his consciousness. There was something . . . distant,something definitivelyother about the sound.

Without warning, a new image flashed across his mind, like images on a videoscreen.

The sun was setting over the Pacific, and a trio of gulls wheeled overhead.

He smelled salt air, and felt gritty sand between his toes.

He felt a sickening sensation, a feeling of indescribable violation, and thecomforting image vanished. He tried to remember what he was seeing, but thememory faded like smoke. All he could feel now was a sense of loss.

Something had been taken from him . . . butwhat ?

The insistent buzz returned, painfully loud now. He could sense tendrils ofawareness—hungry for data—wriggling through his confused mind likediseased maggots. A host of new images filled him.

. . . the first time he killed another human being, during the riots onCharybdis IX. He smelled blood, and his hands shook as he holstered thepistol. He could feel the heat of the weapon’s barrel . . .

. . . the pride he felt after graduating at the Academy, then a hitch—as ifa bad holorecord was being scrolled back—then a knot in his gut. Fear thathe wouldn’t be able to meet the Academy’s standards . . .

. . . the sickening smell of lilacs and lilies as he stood over hisfather’s coffin . . .

Keyes continued to float, mesmerized by the parade of memories that began topile on him, each one appearing faster than the last. He drifted through thefog. He didn’t notice, or indeed care, that as soon as the bursts of memoryended, they disappeared entirely.

The strangeotherness receded from his awareness, but not entirely. He couldstill sense theother probing him, but he ignored it. The next burst ofmemory passed . . . then another . . . then another . . .

The Chief checked his threat indicator, found nothing of concern, andallowed the swamp to close in around him. “Make friends with yourenvironment.” That’s what Chief Mendez had told him many years ago—andthe advice had served him well. Bylistening to the constant patter of therain,feeling the warm humid air via his vents, andseeing the shapes naturalto the swamp, the Spartan would know what belonged and what didn’t.

Knowledge that could mean the difference between life and death.

Satisfied that he was attuned to the environment around him, and hopeful ofgaining a better vantage point, he climbed a slight rise. The payoff wasimmediate.

The Pelican had gone in less than sixty meters from the spot where Echo 419had dropped him off—but the surrounding foliage was so thick Foehammer hadbeen unable to see the crash site from the air.

The Chief moved in to inspect the wreckage. Judging from appearances, andthe fact that there weren’t many bodies lying around, the ship had crashedduring takeoff, rather than on landing. The impression was confirmed when hediscovered that while they were dressed in fatigues, all of the casualtieswore Naval insignia.

That suggested that the dropship had landed successfully, discharged all ofits Marine passengers, and was in the process of lifting off when amechanical failure or enemy fire had brought the aircraft down.

Satisfied that he had a basic understanding of what had taken place, theChief was about to leave when he spotted a shotgun lying next to one of thebodies, decided it might come in handy, and slipped the sling over his rightshoulder.

He followed a trail of bootprints away from the Pelican and toward the glowof portable work lights—the same kind of lights he’d seen in the areaaround theTruth and Reconciliation . The aliens were certainly industrious,especially when it came to stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.

As if to confirm his theory regarding Covenant activity in the area, itwasn’t long before the Spartan came across asecond wreck, a Covenantdropship this time, bows down in the swamp muck. Aside from swarms ofmothlike insects and the distant chirp of swamp birds, there were no signsof life.

Cargo containers were scattered all around the crash site, which raised aninteresting question. When the transport nosed in, were the aliens trying todeliver something, weapons perhaps, or taking material away? There was noway to be certain.

Whatever the case, there was a strong likelihood that Keyes had beenattracted to the lights, just as he had, followed them to the crash site,and continued from there.

With that in mind, he swung past a tree that stood on thick, spiderlikeroots, followed a trail up over a rise, and spotted a lone Jackal. Withouthesitation, he snapped the assault rifle to his shoulder and brought thealien down with a burst.

He crouched, waiting for the inevitable counterattack—which never came.

Curious. Given the lights, the crash site, and the scattering of cargomodules, he would have expected to run into more opposition.

Alot more.

So where were they? It didn’t make sense. Just one more mystery to add tohis growing supply.

The rain pattered against the surface of his armor, and swamp water sloshedaround his boots as the Master Chief pushed his way through some foliage andsuddenly came under fire. For one brief moment it seemed as if his latestquestion had been answered, that Covenant forceswere still in the area, butthe opposition soon proved to be little more than a couple of haplessJackals, who, upon hearing the sound of gunfire, had come to investigate. Asusual they came in low, crouching behind their shields, so it was almostimpossible to score a hit from directly in front of them.

He shifted position, found a better angle, and fired. One Jackal went down,but the other rolled, and that made it nearly impossible to hit him. TheSpartan held his fire, waited for the alien to come to a stop, and cut himdown.

He worked his way up the side of a steep slope, and Chief spotted a Shadesited on top of the ridge. It commanded both slopes, or would have, hadsomeone been at the controls. He paused at the top of the ridge andconsidered his options. He could jump on the Shade, hose the ravine below,and thereby let everyone know that he had arrived, or slip down the slope,and try to infiltrate the area more quietly.

The Chief settled on the second option, started down the slope in front ofhim, and was soon wrapped in mist and moist vegetation. Not toosurprisingly, some red dots appeared on the Spartan’s threat indicator.

Rather than go around the enemy, and expose his six, the Master Chiefdecided to seek them out. He slung the MA5B and drew out the shotgun—bettersuited for close-up work. He pumped the slide, flicked off the safety, andmoved on.

Broad variegated leaves caressed his shoulders, vines tugged at the barrelof the shotgun, and the thick half-rotten humus of the jungle floor gave wayunder the Chief’s boots as he made his way forward.

The Grunt perhaps heard a slight rustling, debated whether to fire, and wasstill in the process of thinking it over when the butt of the shotgundescended on his head. There was a solidthump! as the alien went down,followed by two more, as more methane breathers rushed to investigate.

Satisfied with his progress so far, the Spartan paused to listen. There wasthe gentle patter of rain on wide, welcoming leaves, and the constant soundof his own breathing, but nothing more.

Confident that the immediate perimeter was clear, the Master Chief turnedhis attention to the Forerunner complex that loomed off to his right. Unlikethe graceful spires of other installations, this one appeared squat andvaguely arachnid.

He crept down onto the flat area immediately in front of it. He decided thatthe entrance reminded him of a capital A, except that the top was flat, andwas bracketed by a pair of powerful floodlights.

Wasthis what Keyes had been looking for? Something caught his eye—a pair oftwelve-gauge shotgun shells, and a carelessly discarded protein bar wrapper,tossed near the entrance.

He must be getting closer.

Once through the door he came across a half dozen Covenant bodies lying in apool of commingled blood. Struck once again by the absence of seriousopposition, the Master Chief knelt just beyond the perimeter established bythe blood, and peered at the bodies.

Had the Marines killed them? No, judging from the nature of their wounds itappeared as if the aliens had been hosed withplasma fire. Friendly fireperhaps? Humans armed with Covenant weapons? Maybe, but neither explanationreally seemed to fit.

Perplexed, he stood, took a long, slow look around, and pushed deeper intothe complex. In contrast with the swamp outside, where theconstantdrip ,drip,dripof the rain served to provide a constant flow ofsound, it was almost completely silent within the embrace of the thickwalls. The sudden sound of machinery startled him, and he spun and broughtthe shotgun to bear.

Summoned by some unknown mechanism, a lift surfaced right in front of him.

With nowhere else to go, the Master Chief stepped aboard.

As the platform carried him downward a group of overlapping red blobsappeared on his threat indicator, and the Spartan knew he was about to havecompany. There was a screech of tortured metal as the lift came to a stop,but rather than rush him as he expected them to, the blobs remainedstationary.

They had heard the lift many times before, the Chief reasoned, and figuredit was loaded with a group of their friends. That suggested Covenant,stupidCovenant.

His favorite kind, in fact—apart from the dead kind.

Careful to avoid the sort of noise that might give him away, he completed afull circuit of the dimly lit room, and discovered that the blobs wereactually Grunts and Jackals, all of whom were clustered around a hatch.

The Chief suppressed a grin, slung the shotgun, and unlimbered the assaultrifle.

Their punishment for not guarding the lift consisted of a grenade, followedby forty-nine rounds of automatic fire, and a series of shorter bursts tofinish them off.

The hatch opened onto a large four- or five-story-high room. The MasterChief found himself on a platform along with a couple of unsuspectingJackals. He immediately killed them, heard a reaction from the floor below,and moved to the right. A quick peek revealed a group of seven or eightCovenant, milling around as if waiting for instructions.

The noncom dropped an M9 HE-DP calling card into their midst, took a stepback to avoid getting hit by the resulting fragments, and heard a loudwham!

as the grenade detonated. There were screams, followed by wild firing. TheSpartan waited for the volume of fire to drop off and moved forward again. Aseries of short controlled bursts was sufficient to silence the lastCovenant soldiers.

He jumped down off the platform to check the surrounding area.

Still looking for clues as to where Keyes might have gone, the Master Chiefconducted a quick sweep of the room. It wasn’t long before he picked upsome plasma grenades, circled a cargo container, and came across the bodies.

Two Marines, both killed by plasma fire, their weapons missing.

He cursed under his breath. The fact that both dog tags had been takensuggested that Keyes and his team had run into the Covenant just as he had,taken casualties, and pushed on.

Certain he was on the right trail, the Spartan crossed the troughlikedepression that split the room in two, and was forced to step over andaround a scattering of Covenant corpses as he approached the hatch. Oncethrough the opening he negotiated his way through a series of rooms, allempty, but painted with Covenant blood.

Finally, just as he was beginning to wonder if he should turn back, heentered a room and found himself face-to-face with a fear-crazed Marine. Hiseyes jerked from side to side, as if seeking something hidden within theshadows, and his mouth was twisted into a horrible grimace. There was nosign of the soldier’s assault weapon, but he had a pistol, which he firedat a shadow in the corner. “Stay back! Stay back! You’re not turning meinto one of those things!”

The Master Chief raised a hand, palm out. “Put the weapon down,Marine . . . we’re on the same side.”

But the Marine wasn’t having any of that, and pressed his back against thesolidity of the wall. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me, you freak! I’lldie first!”

The pistol discharged. The Spartan felt the impact as the 12.7mm slug rockedhim back onto his heels, and decided that enough was enough.

Before the Marine had time to react, the Chief snatched the M6D out of hishand. “I’ll take that,” he growled. The Marine leaped to his feet, butthe Chief planted his feet and gently but firmly shoved the soldier back tothe floor.

“Now,” he said, “where is Captain Keyes, and the rest of your unit?”

The private turned fierce, his features contorted, spittle flying from hislips. “Find your own hiding place!” he screamed. “The monsters areeverywhere! God, I can still hear them! Justleave me alone .”

“Whatmonsters?” the Spartan asked gently. “The Covenant?”

“No!Not the Covenant.Them! ”

That was all the Spartan could get from the crazed Marine. “The surface isback that way,” the Master Chief said, pointing toward the door. “Isuggest that you reload this weapon, quit wasting ammo, and head topside.

Once you get there hunker down and wait for help. There’ll be a dust-offlater on. Do you read me?”

The Private accepted the weapon, but continued to blather. A moment later hecurled into a fetal ball, whimpered, then fell silent. The man would nevermake it out alone.

One thing was clear from the Marine’s ramblings. Assuming that Keyes andhis troops were still alive, they were in a heap of trouble. That left theChief with little choice; hehad to put the greatest number of lives first.

The young soldier had clearly been through the wringer—but he’d have towait for help until the Master Chief completed his mission.

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to investigate the rest of the room. Theremains of a badly shattered ramp led up over a small fire toward thewalkway on the level above. He felt heat wash around him as he stepped overa dead Elite, took comfort from the fact that the body had been riddled withbullets, and made his way up onto a circular gallery. From there, the MasterChief proceeded through a series of doorways and mysteriously empty rooms,until he arrived at the top of a ramp where a dead Marine and a large poolof blood caused him to pause.

He had long ago learned to trust his instincts—and they nagged at him now.

Something feltwrong . It was quiet, with only a hollow booming sound todisturb the otherwise perfect silence. He was close to something, hecouldfeel it, but what?

The Chief descended the ramp. He arrived on the level spot at the bottom,and saw the hatch to his left. Weapon at the ready, he cautiously approachedthe metal barrier.

The door sensed his presence, slid open, and dumped a dead Marine into hisarms.

The Spartan felt his pulse quicken, as he bent slightly to catch the bodybefore it crashed into the ground. He held the MA5B one-handed and coveredthe room beyond as best he could, searching for a target. Nothing.

He stepped forward, then spun on his heel and pointed the gun back the wayhe’d come.

Damn it, it felt like eyes bored into the back of his head. Someone waswatching him. He backed into the room, and the door slid shut.

He lowered the body to the ground, then stepped away. The toe of his boothit some empty shell casings which rolled away. That’s when he realizedthat there werethousands of empties—so many that they very nearly carpetedthe floor.

He noticed a Marine helmet, and bent to pick it up. A name had beenstenciled across the side. JENKINS.

A vid cam was attached, the kind worn by the typical combat team so theycould critique the mission when they returned to base, feed data to theghouls in Intelligence, and on occasions like this one, provideinvestigators with information regarding the circumstances surrounding theirdeaths.

The Spartan removed the camera’s memory chip, slotted the device into oneof the receptacles on his own helmet, and watched the playback via a windowon his HUD.

The picture was standard quality—which meant pretty awful. The night-visionsetting was active, so everything was a sickly green, punctuated by whiteflares as the camera panned across a light source.

The picture bounced and jostled, and intermittent spots of static marred theimage. It was pretty routine stuff at first, starting with the moment thedoomed dropship touched down, followed by the trek through the swamp, andtheir arrival in front of the A-shaped structure.

He spooled ahead, and the video became more ominous after that, startingwith the dead Elite, and growing even more uncomfortable as the team openedthe final door and went inside. Not justany door, but the same door throughwhich the Master Chief had passed only minutes before, only to have a deadMarine fall into his arms.

He was tempted to kill the video, back his way through the hatch, and scrubthe mission, but he forced himself to continue watching as one of theMarines said something about a “. . . bad feeling.” A badly garbled radiotransmission came in, odd rustling noises were heard, a hatch gave way, andhundreds of fleshy balls rolled, danced, and hopped into the room.

That was when the screaming started, when the Master Chief heard Keyes saythat they were “surrounded,” and saw the picture jerk as something hitJenkins from behind, and the video snapped to black.

For the first time since parting company with the AI back in the ControlRoom, he wished that Cortana were with him. First, because she mightunderstand what the hell was going on, but also because he had come to relyon her company, and suddenly felt very much alone.

However, even as one aspect of the Spartan’s mind sought comfort, anotherpart had directed his body to back toward the hatch, and was waiting to hearthe telltale sound as it opened. But the doordidn’t open, something whichthe Master Chief knew meant trouble. It caused a rock to form at the bottomof his gut.

As he stood there, gripped by a growing sense of dread, he saw a flash ofwhite from the corner of his eye. He turned to face it, and that was when hesaw one, then five, twenty, fifty of the fleshy blobs dribble into the room,pirouette on their tentacles, and dance his way. His motion sensor painted asudden blob of movement—speeding closer by the second.

The Spartan fired at the ugly-looking creatures. Those which were closestpopped like air-filled balloons, but there were more,many more, and theyrolled toward him over the floor and walls. The Spartan opened up inearnest, the obscene-looking predators threw themselves forward, and thebattle was joined.

It was dark outside. Only one mission had been scheduled for that particularnight, and it had returned to the butte at 02:36 arbitrary. That meant theNavy personnel assigned to the Control Center didn’t have much to do, andwere busy playing a round of cards when the wall-mounted speakers burpedstatic, and a desperate voice was heard.“This is Charlie 2-1-7, repeat 217,to any UNSC forces . . . Does anyone copy? Over.”

Com Tech First Class Mary Murphy glanced at the other two members of herwatch and frowned. “Has either one of you had previous contact with Charlie217?”

The techs looked at each other and shook their heads. “I’ll check withWellsley,” Cho said, as he turned toward a jury-rigged monitor.

Murphy nodded and keyed the boom-style mike that extended in front of herlips. “This is UNSC Combat Base Alpha. Over.”

“Thank God!”the voice said fervently.“We took a hit after clearing theAutumn,put down in the boonies, and managed to make some repairs. I’ve gotwounded on board—and request immediate clearance to land.”

Wellsley, who had been busy fighting a simulation of the battle of Marathon,materialized on Cho’s screen. As usual, the image that he chose to presentwas that of a stern-looking man with longish hair, a prominent nose, and ahigh-collared coat. “Yes?”

“We have a Pelican, call sign Charlie 217, requesting an emergency landing.

None of us have dealt with him before.”

The AI took a fraction of a second to check the myriad of data stored withinhis considerable memory and gave a curt nod. “There was a unit designatedas Charlie 217 on board theAutumn . Not having heard from 217 since weabandoned ship, and not having received any information to the contrary, Iassumed the ship was lost. Ask the pilot to provide his name, rank, andserial number.”

Murphy heard and nodded. “Sorry, Charlie, but we need some informationbefore we can clear you in. Please provide name, rank and serial number.

Over.”

The voice that came back sounded increasingly frustrated.“This is FirstLieutenant Rick Hale, serial number 876-544-321. Give me a break, I needclearance now .Over. ”

Wellsley nodded. “The data matches . . . but how would Hale know that AlphaBase even existed?”

“He could have picked up our radio traffic,” Cho offered.

“Maybe,” the AI agreed, “but let’s play it safe. I recommend you bringthe base to full alert, notify the Major, and send the reaction force to PadThree. You’ll need the crash team, the emergency medical team, and somepeople from Intel all on deck. Hale should be debriefedbefore he’s allowedto mix with base personnel.”

The third tech, a Third Class Petty Officer named Pauley, slapped the alarmbutton, and put out the necessary calls.

“Roger that,” Murphy said into her mike. “You are cleared for Pad Three,repeat, Pad Three, which will be illuminated two minutes from now. A medicalteam will meet your ship. Safe all weapons and cut power the moment youtouch down. Over.”

“No problem,”Hale replied gratefully. Then, a few moments later,“I seeyour lights. We’re coming in. Over.”

The pilot keyed his mike off and turned to his copilot. Bathed in the greenglow produced by the ship’s instrument panel, the Elite looked all the morealien. “So,” the human inquired, “how did I do?”

“Extremely well,” Special Operations Officer Zuka ’Zamamee said frombehind the pilot’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

And with that ’Zamamee dropped what looked like a circle of green lightover Hale’s head, pulled the handles in opposite directions, and buried thewire in the pilot’s throat. The human’s eyes bulged, his hands plucked atthe garrote, and his feet beat a tattoo against the control pedals.

The Elite who occupied the copilot’s position had already taken control ofthe Pelican and, thanks to hours of practice, could fly the dropshipextremely well.

’Zamamee waited until the kicking had stopped, released the wire, andsmelled something foul. That’s when the Elite realized that Hale had soiledhimself. He gave a grunt of disgust, and returned to the Pelican’s cargocompartment. It was crammed with heavily armed Elites, trained forinfiltration. They carried camouflage generators, along with their weapons.

Their job was to take as many landing pads as possible, and hold them untilsix dropships loaded with Grunts, Jackals, and more Elites could land on themesa.

The troops saw the officer appear and looked expectant.

“Proceed,” ’Zamamee said. “Youknow what to do. Turn on the stealthgenerators, check your weapons, and remember this moment. Becausethisbattle,this victory, will be woven into your family’s battle poem, and sungby generations to come.

“The Prophets have blessed this mission, have blessedyou , and want everysoldier to know that those who transcend the physical will be welcomed intoparadise. Good luck.”

A blur of lights appeared out of the darkness, the dropship shed altitude,and the warriors murmured their final benedictions.

Like most AIs, Wellsley had a pronounced tendency to spend more timethinking about what hedidn’t have rather than what he did, and sensors wereat the very top of his list. The sad truth was that while McKay and hercompany had recovered a wealth of supplies from theAutumn , there had beeninsufficient time to strip the ship of the electronics that would have giventhe AI a real-time, all-weather picture of the surrounding air space. Thatmeant he was totally reliant on the data provided by remote ground sensorswhich the patrols had planted here and there around the butte’s ten-kilometer perimeter.

All of the feeds had been clear during the initial radio contact withCharlie 217, but now, as the Pelican flared in to land, the package inSector Six started to deliver data. It claimed that six heavy-duty heatsignatures had just passed overhead, that whatever produced them was fairlyloud, and that they were inbound at a speed of approximately 350 kph.

Wellsley reacted with the kind of speed that only a computer is capable of—but the response was too late to prevent Charlie 217 from putting down. Evenas the AI made a series of strongly worded recommendations to his humansuperiors, the Pelican’s skids made contact with Pad 3’s surface, thirtynearly invisible Elites thundered down the ramp, and the men and women ofAlpha Base soon found themselves fighting for their lives.

One level down, locked into a room with three other Grunts, Yayap heard thedistant moan of an alarm, and thought he knew why. ’Zamamee had beencorrect: The human who wore the strange armor, and was believed to beresponsible for more than a thousand Covenant casualties,did frequent thisplace. Yayap knew that because he hadseen the soldier more than six unitsbefore, triggered the transmitter hidden inside his breathing apparatus, andthereby set the raid in motion.

That was thegood news. The bad news was that ’Zamamee’s quarry might verywell have left the base during the intervening period of time. If so, andthe mission was categorized as a failure, the Grunt had little doubt as towho would receive the blame. But there was nothing Yayap could do but gripthe crudely welded bars with his hands, listen to the distant sounds ofbattle, and hope for the best.

At this point, “the best” would likely be a quick, painless death.

All the members of the crash team, half the medics, and a third of thereaction team were already dead by the time McKay had rolled out of herrack, scrambled into her clothes, and grabbed her personal weapons. Shefollowed the crowd up to the landing area to find that a pitched battle wasunderway.

Energy bolts seemed to stutter out of nowhere, plasma grenades materializedout of thin air, and throats were slit by invisible knives. The landingparty had been contained, but just barely, and threatened to break outacross the neighboring pads.

Silva was there, naked from the waist up, shouting orders as he fired shortbursts from an assault weapon. “Flood Pad Three with fuel! But keep itinside the containment area. Do it now!”

It was a strange order, and civilians would have balked, but the soldiersreacted with unquestioning obedience and a Naval rating ran toward the Pad 3refueling station. He flipped the safety out of the way, and grabbed hold ofthe nozzle.

The air seemed to shimmer in the floodlit area off to the sailor’s right,and Silva fired a full clip into what looked like empty air. A commandoElite screamed, seemed to strobe on and off as ............