Eric Nylund - Halo - First Strike

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FIRST

STRIKE

ERIC NYLUND

BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

Other books based on Xbox games:

HALO: THE FLOOD by William C. Dietz

HALO: THE FALL OF REACH by Eric Nylund

BRUTE FORCE: BETRAYALS by Dean Wesley Smith

CRIMSON SKIES by Eric Nylund, Michael B. Lee, Nancy

Berman, and Eric S. Trautmann

Books published by The Random House Publishing Group

are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for

premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use.

For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this

book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold

or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have re-

ceived payment for it.

Halo: First Strike is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents

either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey® Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House

Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and si-

multaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,

Toronto.

Bungie, Halo, Xbox, the Xbox logo and the Microsoft Game Studio logo

are either registered trademarks or trademarks of Microsoft Corporation

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trade-

mark of Random House, Inc.

www.delreydigital.com

ISBN 0-345-46781-7

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: December 2003

OPM 10 9 8 7 6

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I would like to thank the personnel at Central

Command: Syne Mitchell and the newest officer on our team,

Kai Nylund.

The Intel Officers at Microsoft's Franchise Development Group:

Doug Zartman, Nancy Figatner, and Edward Ventura, and most

notably Eric S. Trautmann (Special Ops field agent).

The people in Section Two, a.k.a. Microsoft's User Experience

Group: Jo Tyo, Matt Whiting, Dana Fos, and Jason Groce.

Logistics officers at Ballantine/Del Rey: Keith Clayton, Nancy

Delia, Betsy Mitchell, and Steve Saffel.

And the Bungie troopers who are slugging it out on virtual

battlefields across the universe to bring you the best game ever:

Jason Jones, Peter Parsons, and, of course, Joe Staten, Jaime

Griesemer, and Lorraine McLees.

SECTION

REACH

CHAPTER ONE

0622 hours, August 30,2552 (Military Calendar)\ UNSC

Vessel Pillar of Autumn, Epsilon Eridani system near

Reach Station Gamma.

SPARTAN-104, Frederic, twirled a combat knife, his fingers

nimble despite the bulky MJOLNIR combat armor that encased

his body. The blade traced a complicated series of graceful arcs

in the air. The few remaining Naval personnel on the deck turned

pale and averted their eyes—a Spartan wielding a knife was gen-

erally accompanied by the presence of several dead bodies.

He was nervous, and this was more than the normal pre-mission

jitters. The team's original objective—the capture of a Covenant

ship—had been scrubbed in the face of a new enemy offensive.

The Covenant were en route to Reach, the last of the United Na-

tions Space Command's major military strongholds.

Fred couldn't help but wonder what use ground troops would

be in a ship-to-ship engagement. The knife spun.

Around him, his squadmates loaded weapons, stacked gear,

and prepped for combat, their efforts redoubled since the ship's

Captain had personally come down to the mustering area to brief

the team leader, SPARTAN-117—but Fred was already squared

away. Only Kelly had finished stowing gear before him.

He balanced the point of the knife on his armored finger. It

hung there for several seconds, perfectly still.

A subtle shift in the Pillar of Autumn's gravity caused the

knife to tip. Fred plucked it from the air and sheathed it in a single

deft move. A cold feeling filled his stomach as he realized what

the gravity fluctuation meant: The ship had just changed

course—another complication.

ERIC NYLUND

Master Chief SPARTAN-117—John—marched to the nearest

COM panel as Captain Keyes's face filled the screen.

Fred sensed a slight movement to his right—a subtle hand sig-

nal from Kelly. He opened a private COM freq to his teammate.

"Looks like we're in for more surprises," she said.

"Roger that," he replied, "though I think I've had enough sur-

prises for one op."

Kelly chuckled.

Fred focused his attention on John's exchange with Keyes.

Each Spartan—selected from an early age and trained to the pin-

nacle of military science—had undergone multiple augmenta-

tion procedures: biochemical, genetic, and cybernetic. As a

result, a Spartan could hear a pin drop in a sandstorm, and every

Spartan in the room was interested in what the Captain had to

say. If you 're going to drop into hell, CPO Mendez, the Spartans'

first teacher, had once said, you may as well drop with good intel.

Captain Keyes frowned on the ship's viewscreen, a

nonregula-tion pipe in his hand. Though his voice was calm, the

Captain's grip on the pipe was white-knuckle tight as he outlined

the situation. A single space vessel docked in Reach's orbital

facilities had failed to delete its navigational database. If the

NAV data fell into Covenant hands, the enemy would have a map

to Earth.

"Master Chief," the Captain said, "I believe the Covenant will

use a pinpoint Slipspace jump to a position just off the space

dock. They may try to get their troops on the station before the

Super MAC guns can take out their ships. This will be a difficult

mission, Chief. I'm... open to suggestions."

"We can take care of it," the Master Chief replied.

Captain Keyes's eyes widened and he leaned forward in his

command chair. "How exactly, Master Chief?"

"With all due respect, sir, Spartans are trained to handle diffi-

cult missions. I'll split my squad. Three will board the space dock

and make sure that NAV data does not fall into the Covenant's

hands. The remainder of the Spartans will go groundside and re-

pel the invasion forces."

Fred gritted his teeth. Given his choice, he'd rather fight the

Covenant on the ground. Like his fellow Spartans, he loathed

off-planet duty. The op to board the space dock would be fraught

HALO: FIRST STRIKE

with danger at every turn—unknown enemy deployment, no

gravity, useless intel, no dirt beneath his feet.

There was no question, though: The space op was the toughest

duty, so Fred intended to volunteer for it.

Captain Keyes considered John's suggestion. "No, Master

Chief. It's too risky—we've got to make sure the Covenant don't

get that NAV data. We'll use a nuclear mine, set it close to the

docking ring, and detonate it."

"Sir, the EMP will burn out the superconductive coils of the

orbital guns. And if you use the Pillar of Autumn's conventional

weapons, the NAV database may still survive. If the Covenant

search the wreckage—they may obtain the data."

"True," Keyes said and tapped his pipe thoughtfully to his

chin. "Very well, Master Chief. We'll go with your suggestion.

I'll plot a course over the docking station. Ready your Spartans

and prep two dropships. We'll launch you—" He consulted with

Cortana."—in five minutes."

"Aye, Captain. We'll be ready."

"Good luck," Captain Keyes said, and the viewscreen went

black.

Fred snapped to attention as the Master Chief turned to face

the Spartans. Fred began to step forward—

—but Kelly beat him to it. "Master Chief," she said, "permis-

sion to lead the space op."

She had always been faster, damn her.

"Denied," the Master Chief said. "I'll be leading that one.

"Linda and James," he continued. "You're with me. Fred,

you're Red Team leader. You'll have tactical command of the

ground operation."

"Sir!" Fred shouted and started to voice a protest—then

squelched it. Now wasn't the time to question orders. . . as much

as he wanted to. "Yes, sir!"

"Now make ready," the Master Chief said. "We don't have

much time left."

The Spartans stood a moment. Kelly called out, "Attention!"

The soldiers snapped to and gave the Master Chief a crisp salute,

which was promptly returned.

Fred switched to Red Team's all-hands freq and barked, "Let's

move, Spartans! I want gear stowed in ninety seconds, and final

ERIC NYLUND

prep in five minutes. Joshua: Liaise with Cortana and get me

current intel on the drop area—I don't care if it's just weather

satellite imagery, but I want pictures, and I want them ninety

seconds ago."

Red Team jumped into action.

The pre-mission jitters were gone, replaced with a cold calm.

There was a job to do, and Fred was eager to get to work.

Flight Officer Mitchell flinched as a stray energy burst streaked

into the landing bay and vaporized a meter-wide section of bulk-

head. Red-hot, molten metal splattered the Pelican dropship's

viewport.

Screw this, he thought, and hit the Pelican's thrusters. The

gunmetal-green transport balanced for a moment on a column of

blue-white fire, then hurtled out of the Pillar of Autumn's launch

bay and into space. Five seconds later all hell broke loose.

Incoming energy bursts from the lead Covenant vessels cut

across their vector and slammed into a COMSat. The communi-

cations satellite broke apart, disintegrating into glittering shards.

"Better hang on," Mitchell announced to his passengers in the

dropship's troop bay. "Company's coming."

A swarm of Seraphs—the Covenant's scarablike attack

fighters—fell into tight formation and arced through space on an

intercept course for the dropship.

The Pelican's engines flared and the bulky ship plummeted

toward the surface of Reach. The alien fighters accelerated and

plasma bursts flickered from their gunports.

An energy bolt slashed past on the port side, narrowly missing

the Pelican's cockpit.

Mitchell's voice crackled across the COM system:

"Bravo-One to Knife Two-Six: I could use a little help here."

He rolled the Pelican to port to avoid a massive, twisted hunk

of wreckage from a patrol cutter that had strayed too close to the

oncoming assault wave. Beneath the blackened plasma scorches,

he could just make out the UNSC insigne. Mitchell scowled.

This was getting worse by the second. "Bravo-One to Knife

Two-Six, where the hell are you?" he yelled.

A quartet of wedge-shaped, angular fighters slotted into cover-

ing position on Mitchell's scopes—Longswords, heavy fighters.

HALO: FIRST STRIKE

"Knife Two-Six to Bravo-One," a terse, female voice crackled

across the COM channel. "Keep your pants on. Business is good

today."

Too good. No sooner had the fighters taken escort position

over his dropship than the approaching Covenant fighters opened

up with a barrage of plasma fire.

Three of the Pelican's four Longsword escorts peeled off and

powered toward the Covenant ships. Against the black of space,

cannons flashed and missiles etched ghostly trails; Covenant

energy weapons cut through the night and explosions dotted

the sky.

The Pelican and its sole escort, however, accelerated straight

toward the planet. It shot past whirling wreckage; it rolled and

maneuvered as missiles and plasma bolts crisscrossed their path.

Mitchell flinched as Reach's orbital defense guns fired in a

hot, actinic flash. A white ball of molten metal screamed directly

over the Pelican and its escort as they rocketed beneath the de-

fense platform's ring-shaped superstructure.

Mitchell sent the Pelican into the planet's atmosphere. Va-

porous flames flickered across the ship's stunted nose, and the

Pelican jounced from side to side.

"Bravo-One, adjust attack angle," the Longsword pilot ad-

vised. "You're coming in too hot."

"Negative," Mitchell said. "We're getting to the surface fast—

or we're not getting there at all. Enemy contacts on my scopes at

four by three o'clock."

A dozen more Covenant Seraphs fired their engines and an-

gled toward the two descending ships.

"Affirmative: four by three. I've got 'em, Bravo-One," the

Longsword pilot announced. "Give 'em hell down there."

The Longsword flipped into a tight roll and rocketed for the

Covenant formation. There was no chance that the pilot could

take out a dozen Seraphs—and Knife Two-Six had to know that.

Mitchell only hoped that the precious seconds Two-Six bought

them would be enough.

The Pelican opened its intake vents and ignited afterburners,

plummeting toward the ground at thirteen hundred meters per

second. The faint aura of flames around the craft roared from red

to blinding orange.

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FIRSTSTRIKEERICNYLUNDBALLANTINEBOOKS•NEWYORKOtherbooksbasedonXboxgames:HALO:THEFLOODbyWilliamC.DietzHALO:THEFALLOFREACHbyEricNylundBRUTEFORCE:BETRAYALSbyDeanWesleySmithCRIMSONSKIESbyEricNylund,MichaelB.Lee,NancyBerman,andEricS.TrautmannBookspublishedbyTheRandomHousePublishingGroupareavailableatquant...

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Eric Nylund - Halo - First Strike

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