Halo: Alien Senses

Chapter Four

October 21st, 2552
1845 hours
Earth, New Mombasa Plaza, Kenya

Reynolds bounded from car to car, trying to avoid an imaginary line of sight that he had pictured being somewhere within the central plaza as she neared her insertion point. His path to the alley was a clear, straight shot, which he deemed all but safe as he observed it, poking his head around the bumper of the Genet that was shielding him from plain sight. He double-checked the 3-dimensional mini-map in his VISR NAV; it yielded a solitary red diamond inching along the solid blue line representing the alleyway. In a few short moments, the source emerged at the mouth of the alley: a lone Unggoy sentry.

The specialist inched his head back behind the Genet. The Grunt simply stuck its muzzled snout to the air, sniffed a few times, then started to hobble back down the alley. On cue, Reynolds rose out of cover and followed in a low sprint, putting the brakes on just before he collided with the wall. He peered around the corner, noting that the Grunt was half way back to the plaza's interior by now, waddling toward open ground on its stubby legs. Before it could come any closer to finishing its rounds, Reynolds turned the corner with his borrowed M7S ready-low, barely making a sound as he caught up with the grunt.

Matching the Grunt's pace (close enough to hear him murmuring under his mask) he reached out for the point on its angular methane tank, leveled his weapon's suppressed barrel at the base of its neck, and then squeezed the trigger. The alien barely made a sound as the shot exited the other side with a misty spray of blue gore. Reynolds caught the body, yanking it back with his free hand before it hit the asphalt.

"Lieutenant-one down," he hissed into his mic as he lowered the Unggoy by its heavy methane tank. From afar they didn't seem like much in size or weight, but up close was a different story.

"Copy," came Derek's reply, and just on schedule. "I just got to my floor and I'm about to set up. Over."

That meant the next step was making sure Bowski got on his position without trouble, a step which, according to Reynolds IFF tags, was slowly progressing as he and another ODST were rushing side by side to the apartment complex just off a few meters from the entrance of the plaza. Step three could never come fast enough, he thought, lowering himself to a knee behind the Unggoy corpse and facing front toward the objective.

His hands were shaking now, as they always would at the start of a plan. At the very beginning of an operation there was so little room for error; so much that had to be done before a team had enough space to maneuver comfortably and have less risk imposed upon them. One slip up-one footstep, one scrape or scuff, one misplaced shot-and the whole plan could be compromised.

A heavy hand fell on Reynolds shoulder, causing her to clench her teeth in surprise. "Tag," Bowski whispered, emerging into his peripheral and kneeling down beside her. "You're it."

Reynolds took a breath and lowered her SMG. "Funny," he said with a forced smile. "How's Derek doing?"

"He's on his way-shouldn't be long now."

On his HUD's overhead map, the chevron representing the demo specialist kept zig-zagging against the apartment wall, seemingly going nowhere. That's not right, he thought while shooting a glance at Bowski l, his furrowed brow and inquisitive shrug asking the question for him.

The other ODST slacked his shoulders. "Fire escape."

Reynolds couldn't help but smile at the notion-like a hulking crab trying to climb a set of stairs. He turned his head to the side and chinned his comm. "Hey, Derek. You okay?"

"I hate stairs," he said flatly.

"It's good cardio. Keep it up, you're almost there."

"Thanks, mom."

Reynolds concluded the exchange with a quiet yet perky chuckle before ceasing traffic. From the corner of his eye, he could see Bowski and the other shock trooper shaking their heads at the specialist's joking demeanor-a shimmer of his former self as a pre-enlistee, that tender, caring role he loved to play.

From early schooling to boot camp and field work, he took it upon himself to make sure his friends were at their best, a feat that did well in carrying the team during past hardships. One operation shouldn't be any different, he kept telling himself. Sergeant Clyde's absence was an unnerving void in team efficiency. Simply knowing that he was dead made him feel like the floor was coming out from beneath him, that reality shifted once again. And his death was worse, he knew, for Reynolds to take in and move past his admiration for Clyde was hard, since it had bordered father-son level admiration, and being third in line with rank made things harder. For as great a soldier that the Lance Corporal proved himself to be, Ryan simply wasn't ready for a leadership role.

Reynolds blackened his visor once again, hefting his m90 CAWS shotgun in one hand while slapping Bowski's arm with the other. "Come on. Let's go save the world."

"Oh, joy."