by Troy Denning
“To maintain operational security, we’ll identify ourselves to any insurrectionist captives and survivors as Chancellor’s Guards Battalion Five. Your accents won’t sound right, but do it anyway. Our primary concern is keeping our nature hidden from the aliens, so once the prisoners are no longer in our hands, we want them confused about our identity. And the more confused, the better.”
Crowther’s voice deepened. “I cannot emphasize this enough: humanity itself may depend on our success today. We must capture Seoba, and we must do it without revealing our presence to anyone offmoon. Do not hesitate to act with extreme prejudice against anyone who opens fire on you. I mean it—do not think twice. You must not fail.”
The message ended.
And John began to think about how far he could push his orders without actually violating them.
After training with the Black Daggers for the last week, he had no doubts about their ability to eliminate a force of Biko Independence Army irregulars. But improvised operations had a way of exploding in an attacker’s face—especially since UNSC commanders tended to underestimate insurrectionist capabilities—and something was bound to go wrong. When that happened, John would be ready to move his Spartans out front, where they would be able to use their speed and power to disrupt any enemy counterattack before it developed.
If the Spartans could do that, they would save a lot of Black Dagger lives—and Crowther would be forced to trust their judgment under fire. He might even be grateful for the lesson.
The drop bay’s rear access hatch hissed open, and John looked over to see Ghost Flight Leader stepping into the drop bay. A square-faced officer with a bushy black mustache hanging over a heavy-lipped mouth, Hector Nyeto wore a half-headset over curly hair and a rumpled gray service uniform with a lieutenant commander’s gold oak leaves on the collar tabs.
“Listen up, people.” Nyeto’s voice came over the First Platoon comm net. “Ghost Flight is dropping Alpha Company at the docks as planned, but there’s a hitch. The insurrectionists have a comm center at the top of the mass driver. The prowlers will hit it hard on the way in, but you know how that goes. The bad guys could have it transmitting again in thirty minutes. Alpha Company’s job is to prevent that.”
No one looked toward him—the drop bay was packed too tight for turning around—but the voice of the First Platoon lieutenant, Nelly Hamm, replied over the same comm net.
“Thanks, Commander. How does that affect First Platoon’s objectives?”
Nyeto spread his hands in a gesture that only John and Avery Johnson—standing adjacent to Nyeto’s far shoulder on the opposite side of the access hatch—could see.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “Colonel Crowther’s message wasn’t specific. Maybe your captain will fill you in once you’ve hit the ice.”
“Sure,” Hamm said. The company captain was with Third Platoon aboard Ghost Flight’s number three prowler, Ghost Wind. “If our own comms aren’t being jammed.”
“You worry too much, Lieutenant,” Nyeto said. “It’s just rebels down there. They don’t have jamming equipment.”
Nyeto crooked a finger at John, then backed out through the access hatch. John glanced over at Johnson, who was outfitted in the same Black Dagger space assault armor as everyone but John, and cocked his helmet in inquiry. Though Johnson was not technically above John in the chain of command, it had been made clear to him by both Captain Ascot and Dr. Halsey that John should give the sergeant’s advice a lot of weight—especially when navigating the vagaries of protocol inherent in the Spartans’ attachment to the 21st.
Johnson merely spread his hands and gave a sharp nod toward the hatch. Whatever Nyeto wanted, it was never wise to keep the commander of a prowler flight waiting.
John ducked through the access hatch and found the lieutenant commander standing in the passageway. He came to attention, banging his helmet against the overhead, and saluted.
“You wanted to speak with me, sir?”
Nyeto returned the salute with a casual hand flip and waited for the hatch to close, then motioned John to remove his helmet. “This shouldn’t go over any comms.”
It would have been simpler to deactivate his communications system, but John felt certain that a lieutenant commander would realize that. He checked the chronometer on his HUD again, then broke the airtight seal on his skinsuit and removed his helmet.
“I hope we can make this fast, Commander. It will take a couple of minutes for me to reseal, and Lieutenant Hamm will vac the drop bay five minutes before—”
“She’ll vac it when I tell her to.” Nyeto grinned up at John. “So don’t worry, okay?”
“I’m infantry,” John replied. “I worry or I die.”
“Yeah, but not when it comes to getting left behind,” Nyeto said. “At least aboard my boats. I see how valuable you Spartans are.”
“Very kind of you to say so,” John said. “It still wouldn’t be good if I were the reason the dismount was delayed.”
Nyeto waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about Crowther. He can’t cause you any serious trouble—not with Mike Stanforth backing you.”
“You say ‘don’t worry’ a lot,” John observed.
“Worry interferes with clear thought.” Nyeto’s grin broadened, and he added, “But then again, you’re infantry. Maybe clear thought isn’t an advantage.”
“Ha-ha, sir,” John said. “Very funny. Can we get to the point?”
Nyeto gave a hearty laugh. “And not worried about me at all, I see.” He took a second to collect himself; then the mirth drained from his face, and he craned his neck back so he could look John square in the eye. “Actually, I wanted to apologize—to you and the other Spartans.”
“Apologize for what, sir?”
“For the snafu at Netherop,” Nyeto said. “The open transmission. That was one of my people, so it’s on me.”
“I see,” John said. He had complained to Captain Ascot, of course, but that had been primarily to mollify Daisy-023 and some of the other Spartans who had been angered by the mistake. He had not really expected to hear anything more about the matter, as such things were usually handled far above a petty officer’s pay grade. “Thank you, then. I’ll pass the word on to the rest of the squad.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Nyeto said. “But I hope you won’t let Spartan-023 anywhere near my crewman. He’s actually a pretty good sensor operator, and I can’t afford to lose him.”
John recalled what Daisy had wanted to rip off, and it was his turn to be embarrassed. “You heard the playback of our mission?”
“Yes. The crewman did too,” Nyeto said. “But just that part. Dr. Halsey wanted to be sure we appreciated the gravity of the situation.”
John wasn’t happy about having TEAMCOM downloads being shared, but he knew that Halsey was just trying to protect her Spartans. She could be a little extreme about that.
“Dr. Halsey expects perfection.”
“That she does.” Nyeto chuckled. “By the time she let us go, my petty officer was so sick about it that he was volunteering to find Spartan-023 and introduce himself.”
“That would be a mistake,” John said. “Tell him I’ll pass his apologies along. No reason it has to go any further than that . . . as long as it doesn’t happen again.”
“It won’t,” Nyeto said. “I was yelling at him louder than Halsey did. I thought he’d gotten you all killed, but I guess I’d forgotten who you guys are.”
John frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know . . . how good you are,” Nyeto said. “I guess that’s what happens when you start training at five.”
“Five?” John blurted. Actually, they hadn’t even been conscripted until they were six . . . but Nyeto’s information was closer to the mark than it should have been. “Where did you hear that?”
Nyeto’s gaze slid away. “I can’t remember,” he said. “Just around.”
“Well, that information is wrong.” It seemed pr
etty clear that Nyeto was lying, and John realized that his own kneejerk reaction had only convinced the commander that the rumblings he’d heard were true. “And even if it wasn’t, it’s classified.”
Nyeto gave a wry smile. “They must have been talking about somebody else, then,” he said. “I had a buddy in the ODSTs who used to train against these eight-year-old kids on Reach. They kept kicking his company’s ass in jungle maneuvers. It was probably them.”
“Who is this buddy?”
“Nobody important,” Nyeto said. “The thing is, that was seven years ago, so these kids would only be about . . . fifteen right now, I guess?”
“Seriously, sir—who is this buddy?” In any military organization, no program was immune to rumors, and the more classified it was, the juicier the stories would be. But the intel that Nyeto’s friend had disclosed was far too accurate to be the result of casual speculation. It was coming from someone on the inside, someone who was working with the Spartans themselves. “He clearly can’t be trusted with classified material.”
“Don’t worry,” Nyeto said. “If I didn’t know how to keep a secret, I wouldn’t be a prowler commander.”
“And as a prowler commander, may I respectfully say that you know your friend has been breaking all kinds of security protocols,” John said. “He has no idea what he might be placing at risk . . . and neither do you. If you don’t report him, I have to report you. I have no choice. Sir.”
“You serious?” A sly look came to Nyeto’s eye. “Those eight-year-olds were you, weren’t they?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Nyeto retorted. “Huh. How about that. So . . . how long has the SPARTAN program been going on? How many of you are there, anyway?”
“I can’t talk about that. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by asking.”
Nyeto suddenly looked disappointed. “Sorry, John. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He shrugged and looked up the passageway. “You do what you have to. I’ll be okay.”
John began to feel guilty . . . and confused. He hadn’t violated any regulations. In fact, John had done everything by the book, but his denials only seemed to confirm the rumors Nyeto had already heard. It would have been better to keep quiet and report the conversation later.
But then ONI would start sniffing around, and Nyeto would be even more certain that his friend was telling the truth. John glanced back toward the drop bay and wished Avery Johnson was at his side. The sergeant had a knack for dealing with unofficial situations like this, a talent developed over two decades that allowed him to safely navigate the murky backwaters of special forces service. It was one of the skills John knew his superiors wanted him to pick up from the sergeant—and a skill that John realized he sorely needed to develop.
He looked back to Nyeto. “Maybe we should forget this conversation ever happened, sir. I’ll chalk it up to mere scuttlebutt, and you might want to tell your friend he talks too much.”
“No need,” Nyeto said. “He died during Operation: TREBUCHET. My wing inserted his company.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” John said. A lot of ODSTs had died during Operation: TREBUCHET, but he could at least confirm the basics of Nyeto’s story and see what Sergeant Johnson made of it. He looked toward the access hatch, then started to raise his helmet toward his head. “If that’s all, sir, I should probably seal up.”
“Of course,” Nyeto said. “And, just so you know, nobody in the prowler wing supports what Crowther is doing.”
John paused with his helmet at chest height. “Doing, sir?”
“To your Spartans,” Nyeto said. “It’s stupid to make you fight from the back. Everybody knows you tanks should be leading the charge.”
“I agree—it is an odd tactic,” John said. He was starting to think that he’d been too suspicious of Nyeto. “But the colonel hasn’t fought with us before. He doesn’t know our capabilities.”
Nyeto snorted in disgust. “The colonel is trying to protect his reputation. He doesn’t want his Black Daggers being shown up by a bunch of teenagers.”
“No . . . really?” John kept his helmet at chest height. “I can’t believe that, sir. He wouldn’t allow personal pride to affect his tactical planning. Not with an ODST command.”
“Oh, maybe not on purpose . . . but so what? Your Spartans are still fighting from the back. The operation is still going to suffer.”
John exhaled. “Yeah. What am I supposed to do about it?”
Before Nyeto could answer, the hatch slid open, and Avery Johnson stepped into the passageway. His reflective faceplate turned first in Nyeto’s direction, then in John’s.
“Everything all right out here?” Even through the external speaker of his assault armor, his voice sounded gravelly and familiar. “Lieutenant Hamm wants to vac the bay in two.”
“That will be fine, Sergeant. We’re done here.” As Nyeto spoke, his gaze remained fixed on John. “Just do what you do best, son. It’ll work out in the end.”
“I will, sir.” John raised his hand in a salute. “And thank you.”
“Anytime, John.”
Nyeto returned the salute and started up the passage.
Johnson watched him go, then turned to John and spoke over his external speaker. “What was that about?”
“Tell you later, Sarge.” John slipped his helmet on, then turned back toward the drop bay. “The bay vacs in two, remember?”
CHAPTER 8
* * *
* * *
1433 hours, March 18, 2526 (military calendar)
UNSC Razor-class Prowler Ghost Song
Insertion Run, Mass Driver Launching Docks, Seoba Ice Quarry
John felt his weight sink as the Ghost Song pulled up, sweeping across Seoba toward the drop zone. The bulkhead alert lamps flashed one last time, flooding the crowded bay with steady green GO light, and the prowler decelerated hard. John could see nothing outside, but he knew they were entering the First Platoon dismount area. They would be a hundred meters above a kilometer-wide ice bench, with the vast quarry pit behind them and a ring of frozen slopes ahead. It was hardly an ideal drop zone, but they were infantry. They got out where they were told.
The jump hatch split down the center. Looking over the mass of ODST helmets ahead of him, John saw four troopers at the front of the platoon dive through the exit portal. Before he could blink, they began to trail plumes of crimson mist. Then a jet of vapor erupted from a thruster pack, and the entire four-trooper team vanished in a cloud of blood and flame.
The next team did not even hesitate. They stepped forward and spouted geysers of blood and tissue; then ricochets started to bounce off the overhead, and troopers began to drop everywhere in the bay.
John heard his own voice inside his helmet. “Damn it!”
Then he realized that this was the moment he had told himself to be ready for. It was a terrible moment, a tragic one, and he needed to fix it. He started forward, using his forearms to plow aside anyone in his way. The motion tracker on his HUD showed Avery Johnson following close behind.
Lieutenant Hamm’s voice came over the First Platoon comm channel. “Abort—emplacements! Abort!”
The Ghost Song began to glide forward. A trooper bounced off John’s thruster pack and went down with a hole twice the size of a thumb punched through the front of his helmet. John used his foot to roll him over and saw a star-shaped exit hole on the opposite side.
“John!” Johnson said over TEAMCOM. Although TEAMCOM was a Spartan-only channel, Dr. Halsey had given the sergeant access to facilitate his role as a Spartan-ODST liaison. “What the hell?”
“Look at the holes.” John maneuvered his boot to flip the trooper back over so Johnson could see the entry hole. “The same size. That means armor-piercing rounds—big ones. Probably depleted uranium.”
“Probably from Vulcans,” Johnson agreed. He was referring to the M41 light anti-aircraft gun, a cumbersome weapon that had to be either vehi
cle- or turret-mounted in order to fire accurately. “They were waiting for us.”
“I’ll buy they were ready,” John said. “But waiting? That would mean they knew—”
“I know what it means.”
The Ghost Song accelerated hard, climbing away from the Vulcan fire and leaving John’s stomach behind. He pushed forward another few steps and came to the jump hatch, where an injured trooper lay across the threshold, more outside the drop bay than inside it. Lieutenant Hamm and another ODST were holding the unconscious soldier by the arms, struggling against the prowler’s thrust to pull him back into the drop bay—and losing the fight.
John placed a boot in the guide track to keep the hatch from closing, then lifted the man inside and passed him to Hamm. Blood was frothing out of armor punctures in the soldier’s chest, abdomen, and hip. By dropping a casualty into the lieutenant’s lap, John hoped to buy a few moments to check the situation below. It worked. Hamm immediately hit the wounded man’s thruster pack quick-release and got busy saving his life.
John turned back to the portal. Two hundred meters below, a torrent of munitions strikes was spraying icy shards off the moon’s frozen surface. Seoba’s gravity was barely an eighth-g, so there was only a trace atmosphere, and the shards sublimated instantly into vapor and began to drift across the battlefield in banks of crystalline mist. In the milky twilight, John could see more than a dozen black-armored corpses scattered across the four drop zones beneath Ghost Flight’s prowlers. A like number of survivors were maneuvering through veils of glimmering fog, taking heavy fire from three sides as they tried to reach a row of ice-coated preparation docks.
It wasn’t easy to trace the enemy fire back to its sources, but a few heartbeats later, John spotted a series of bunkers dug into the steep slopes that ringed the dockyard. The emplacements had been carefully faced with layers of ice, camouflaged so perfectly that their locations were betrayed only by muzzle flashes blinking through their embrasures.
