Inside the Pelican dropship;
The engine's roar was low and powerful, the cabin lights flickering slightly, casting glints across John and the other Spartans' armor.
Cortana's voice echoed in his ear: "John, the 5th Breach Platoon under the direct command of the Primarch is currently spearheading the main assault on Mos Eisley. The current situation is as follows—"
As she spoke, John's helmet HUD displayed a high-altitude overhead view, revealing the full extent of Mos Eisley.
The largest spaceport on Tatooine was now engulfed in flames and smoke, like a burning inferno.
Next to the map, Cortana pulled up detailed intel on nearby towns, villages, and farms. Every landmark was clearly marked.
One location immediately caught John's attention: a small town named "Anchorhead."
Situated southeast of Mos Eisley, it wasn't large but occupied a strategically vital position—serving as a hub connecting nearby settlements, and also functioning as a key outpost for the Galactic Empire.
John's gaze lingered on the Anchorhead marker as he quickly evaluated its tactical value.
Cortana continued her report: "The 5th Breach Platoon is advancing with overwhelming momentum. Imperial forces stationed in Mos Eisley are estimated at between fifty to seventy thousand. However, against over two hundred Imperial Fists and twenty thousand auxiliaries, the Empire would need at least two hundred thousand elite stormtroopers and significant heavy armor to stand a chance of resisting."
John nodded slightly, still staring at the HUD map.
After a brief pause, Cortana brought up a new display—information on a particular shuttlecraft.
This ship, named the Millennium Falcon, had a distinct, heavily modified exterior—its streamlined design betraying numerous custom enhancements.
On the right side of the display, she also brought up profiles for two individuals.
One was a human male named Han Solo; the other, a Wookiee named Chewbacca.
Han Solo was a middle-aged man with a rugged face and confident, roguish eyes.
Chewbacca was a tall, burly Wookiee with thick fur and a gaze full of wild loyalty.
Cortana added, "These two are the known pilot and co-pilot of the Millennium Falcon. Intelligence identifies both as high-value 'recovery targets' from Universe-17—Star Wars."
"Their piloting skills are exceptional—particularly in hyperspace jumps and evasive maneuvers. They're considered legendary."
"Reportedly, their luck is unbelievable. They've escaped from hopeless situations on multiple occasions—performance not unlike you Spartans. That alone makes them worth recruiting into Imperial control."
There was a touch of excitement in her voice, as if she could already see the moment of their successful capture. Then she continued:
"Latest intel suggests Han Solo and Chewbacca are active on Tatooine, and currently may be in a bar somewhere in Mos Eisley. I've already advised Commander Sigismund to monitor their movements closely, and the fleet has deployed a tight interception grid in orbit to ensure no craft can escape the atmosphere."
"So, once we reach Mos Eisley, we should support the 5th Breach Platoon's continued assault. In addition to eliminating Imperial forces, we must also capture Han Solo and Chewbacca. That way, the Spartans will have completed two high-value recovery objectives."
"And beyond that—"
"We should divert to Anchorhead," John interrupted calmly before she could finish.
His tone was steady and decisive, indicating his judgment was already made. "Reports indicate the local civilians there are being attacked by Tusken Raiders. And the 5th Breach Platoon isn't covering that area."
His statement cut Cortana off.
Her holographic display flickered slightly within John's helmet as if rapidly analyzing his proposal.
After a brief pause, she responded, "Intel does confirm Tusken Raiders are raiding and slaughtering the local population in Anchorhead."
Then, as if to test John's resolve, she countered, "However, our primary mission remains Mos Eisley—and the capture of Han Solo. Diverting forces could weaken our operational strength and affect mission success rates. Are you sure you want to split your forces now?"
John's gaze remained calm. He replied slowly, "The civilians in Anchorhead are innocent. Their safety matters too. If we focus only on mission objectives and ignore those who need help, then what is the meaning of this war?"
"Besides, the Tusken activity—even if it's unlikely to affect our consolidation in Mos Eisley—will impact our long-term reputation. Any stain, however small, will undermine future stability."
"Diverting to Anchorhead allows us to save lives and ensure stable governance moving forward."
In truth, Cortana had already noticed the situation in Anchorhead.
She had analyzed the Tusken Raiders' behavior in detail and reported the attack to Sigismund, requesting a squad of Imperial Fists to deal with the threat.
But as the Spartans' mentor, she had hoped John would make that decision on his own.
Because Spartans were not just "next-gen" super-soldiers. Their mission wasn't only to fight—but to protect, and to carry responsibility.
Both Cortana and Dr. Halsey had always demanded this from them—not just peak physical ability through genetics and technology, but a guiding belief in humanity first.
Cortana fell silent briefly, pretending to weigh his proposal.
Then her voice returned, tinged with approval: "Your reasoning is sound. I have no objections. The civilians in Anchorhead do need our help, and your decision reflects the duty expected of a Spartan."
"Hm." John gave a slight nod and opened the comms channel, issuing his order in a calm, commanding tone:
"Red Team, Black Team, Gray Team, and Omega Squad—you are to proceed to Anchorhead, approximately eighty kilometers southeast of Mos Eisley. Eliminate all hostile elements attacking civilians. Move quickly and ensure their safety."
"Yes, Master Chief."
As always, the team leaders responded immediately, their replies full of unwavering obedience.
At the same time, Cortana relayed new coordinates to the Pelican pilots carrying the four squads.
John's gaze returned to the overhead map, where the Anchorhead marker now flashed—almost as if calling for his action.
Cortana's voice rang out again, no longer hiding her admiration: "John, your decision reflects a Spartan's true duty. The people of Anchorhead will be grateful, and the meaning of this war will be all the greater because of your protection."
—
At that moment, viewed from above, one Pelican and a Banshee fighter could be seen breaking off from the main formation, adjusting course and accelerating toward Anchorhead.
BOOM—!
Their engines flared pale blue, the roar of their passage sounding like predators diving upon prey.
The other two Pelicans, two Banshees, and one Vulture gunship continued on course, steadily advancing toward Mos Eisley.
Before long, the Pelican and Banshee bound for Anchorhead had closed to within ten kilometers of the target.
The Banshee pilot adjusted course, while the gunner opened the dorsal missile bay, revealing rows of air-to-ground missiles.
Each missile glowed faintly at the tip—pre-locked on target, waiting only for the final fire command.
WHOOSH~—WHOOSH~—!
With a press of a button, over a dozen missiles erupted from the bay like arrows, trailing smoke as they sped toward Anchorhead—far faster than the aircraft themselves.
They screamed through the air like whispers of death, heading straight for their targets.
Then, from the Banshee's left-side internal bay, a hardlight cannon unfolded.
CLACK—CLACK—!
With a rhythmic burst, the cannon fired pulsing red beams, precisely aimed at Tusken Raider targets below.
The gunner's helmet screen showed the missiles completing their destructive task—obliterating Tusken vehicles on Anchorhead's outskirts. Fireballs bloomed in the distance, smoke and dust rising in great columns.
Each hardlight beam struck true as well, vaporizing Tusken cover and vehicles with explosive force, kicking up waves of sand.
But these sights weren't visible to the naked eye.
The Banshee's beyond-visual-range attack was like the judgment of an invisible god—death raining down from the heavens without warning.
As the last missile was expended, the raiders finally realized something unseen was killing them from above.
Panic spread quickly.
The Tuskens scattered, diving into buildings to escape the merciless bombardment.
But now, the gunner could no longer fire freely.
He couldn't confirm whether civilians were inside those structures—firing recklessly would risk horrific collateral damage.
His eyes scanned for new targets, but after a moment, he ceased fire and resumed escort formation.
Soon, the outline of Anchorhead emerged in the pilots' and gunners' vision—its buildings a striking contrast to the desert around them, like an island in a sea of sand.
The Pelican began to descend, its rear bay door opening to reveal the scene within.
The Banshee held position at altitude, hardlight cannon still aimed at the town, ready to support the ground team.
Inside the Pelican, twenty Spartans from four squads were already on their feet.
Gathered at the rear hatch, they stared out into the sea of dunes.
WHOOOSH—!
Desert winds howled, whipping through the cabin.
But to the Spartans in their magnetic boots, the turbulence meant nothing. They stood unmoved—one with the aircraft.
Pew. Pew.
Boom. Boom.
Gunfire and explosions echoed faintly across the sand, carried by the wind into the cabin.
To most, the sounds would be faint and vague.
But to the Spartans, with superhuman hearing and enhanced HUDs, each gunshot and explosion was crisp and distinct—clear as if happening beside them.
Each shot, each rumble urged them to act.
So even though the Pelican was still 400–500 meters above the ground and descending, the Spartans were already springing into action—choosing to "hard land."
092 Jerome leapt first, followed by 042 Douglas and 130 Alice.
One after another, the Spartans jumped from the open hatch, their bodies cutting graceful arcs through the air.
Their landings were far less elegant—more like impacts.
BOOM! BOOM!
All twenty Spartans hit the sand north of Anchorhead, kicking up fountains of dust.
But to them, it was barely a warm-up.
With their Mjolnir armor, Spartan-I soldiers of the Human Empire were, by raw capability, fully capable of surviving reentry from orbit.
Their armor's protection and cushioning systems could withstand even the most extreme conditions.
Still, Dr. Halsey, creator of the Spartan program, had never allowed them to attempt such stunts.
After all, these Spartans were not just her creations—but the children she raised.
She couldn't bear to risk them unnecessarily.
So a 500-meter drop? Just a warm-up.
The instant they landed and kicked up sand, Jerome and the others adjusted their stances and formed up in pairs, sprinting toward Anchorhead.
Each held their own weapons—snapping instantly to targets like a player with auto-aim enabled, gunning down any Tusken who dared peek out.
Meanwhile, in the second floor of a nearby inn—
"Holy hell, Chewie, what the hell are those things…?"
"Rrrgh—!"
------------------
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Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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