by Troy Denning
“Spartan Leader, what’s the holdup?” The leader of Gold Team, Joshua-029, was using SQUADCOM, a channel open to all twelve Spartans on Task Force Yama. “I thought we wanted to get these prisoners out of here before the aliens arrived?”
“Spotted one we need to hold for ONI,” John said. He switched back to his external speaker and pointed at Garvin. “You there. Present yourself for inspection.”
The cluster of bodies surrounding Garvin milled about and tried to look confused. Meanwhile, the Spartans flanking the column stepped back and checked their spacing, ready to respond if the order drew any resistance from the prisoners.
“Even on Seoba, this armor weighs”—John paused until the onboard computer displayed the number on his HUD—“fifty-six kilograms. If I have to wade through the column to retrieve you, there will be a lot of broken toes.”
The cluster rippled; then a thin, olive-skinned woman emerged and began pushing her way toward John. She had a broad mouth, bright blue eyes, and a mocking smirk. John gave her a quick appraisal, checking for the possibility of a bomb or other undetected weapon, then motioned her to stop at the bottom of the loading ramp.
“What are you doing?”
“Presenting myself as ordered.” The woman craned her neck to look up at his faceplate. “But I got to warn you, I’m not into robots.”
A chorus of nervous chuckles.
“I’m not a robot,” John said.
“Sorry, big boy,” the woman said. “You want me to believe that, you got to lose the armor.”
More laughter.
Kelly-087’s voice sounded over SQUADCOM. “John, that’s not real flirting. She’s trying to—”
“Distract me. Affirmative.” He looked back toward the cluster of prisoners shielding Garvin. Of course, the general had vanished into their midst. Deciding to use the “robot” image to his advantage, John said, “All teams, stand ready.”
The Spartans brought their assault rifles up. John lashed out; before the woman could react, her tunic lapels were knotted inside his gauntlet.
“John, do you need assistance?” This from Kurt-051, the leader of Green Team. “I don’t see the threat.”
Rather than waste one of the eight minutes remaining before the Covenant arrived, John ignored him and spoke through his external helmet speaker.
“The UNSC Military Code of Conduct authorizes the summary execution of any prisoner interfering with a guard while on the field of combat. As you are engaged in an ongoing effort to conceal the presence of General Harper Garvin from the imprisoning authority—”
“Let her go, soldier.” Garvin emerged from the back of the transport and, pushing past a crowd of insurrectionists who were trying to block his way, started down the ramp. His gaze dropped to the woman in front of John. “Thanks for trying, Petora. But we never stood a chance against those things.”
John waited until Garvin had presented himself at the bottom of the ramp, then released the woman. “The prisoners will resume loading.”
When the insurrectionists were slow to obey, Garvin looked over his shoulder. “Don’t give them an excuse, people.” Once the embarkation column had started up the ramp again, he turned back to John. “How did you identify me, soldier?”
Seizing the initiative was a classic counterinterrogation technique, one that John’s instructors on Reach had hammered home when he was ten years old. Rather than go with the standard response of ordering the prisoner to shut up—which would tell Garvin only a little less about the SPARTAN training program than an honest answer—John checked the general’s personnel file on his HUD and selected something misleading.
“In 2508, you lectured on quelling planetary insurrections at Luna OCS.” John had not even been born in that year, so the misinformation would cause Garvin nothing but trouble if he tried to use it later. “It was memorable.”
Garvin’s brow rose. “You were a student there?”
“You ask a lot of questions, General.” John checked the chronometer on his HUD; the ETA was now seven minutes. “Let’s just say I was disappointed you turned traitor.”
The major general’s lips tightened and his gaze slid away. “As you like, soldier. I’m in your—”
The last few words of the sentence were swallowed by the deafening rumble of an artillery strike; then the air was filled with ice flakes fluttering down from the darkness above.
Another rumble shook the grotto, and ice blocks began to tumble down from the ceiling and bounce off heads and shoulders. Several prisoners were struck and fell to the ground, clearly injured.
Ascot’s voice came over the Task Force Yama command channel. “Launch-launch-launch! Emergency protocol. The aliens have opened fire. Repeat: Emergency protocol. Launch—”
The transmission ended in a crash of static, and a constant growl filled the grotto as distant strikes began to shudder through the surrounding ice. As the static faded, a cacophony of chatter filled the void left by Ascot’s absence, but Nyeto’s voice stood out.
“Starry Night was hit on launch and downed.” That would be Ascot’s prowler. “Intact. She dropped in the quarry—”
Crowther’s calm voice cut in: “Thank you, Commander. That’s enough for now. Will advise if we need more information.”
“Will advise?” Nyeto sounded livid. “They could be alive! They could need—”
“We’ll do what we can, Commander,” Crowther said. “Please proceed as planned and use Protocol Echo for all communications.”
Protocol Echo was an instruction to regard a communication mode as nonsecure. In this case, Crowther seemed to be reminding Nyeto—and everyone else on the channel—that the extent of Covenant eavesdropping capabilities was unknown, so it was safer to assume that even encrypted comm channels were compromised. John thought the precaution was probably overkill, but the colonel had a point. There was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.
The discussion on the command channel continued in a guarded manner, with references to direction and location relayed in terms relative to the ice caves where the prowler wing had been berthing when the scramble order came.
John listened with one ear, in case the Spartans were given a new assignment, but stayed focused on the prisoners. The insurrectionists were holding their arms over their heads to protect themselves from falling ice blocks, and many were eyeing their injured comrades with worried looks.
“Grab your wounded and load up,” John ordered over his helmet’s external speaker. “Anyone not aboard the transport in one minute dies here.”
The prisoners broke into action, grabbing their hurt companions and ascending the loading ramp into the Banta’s troop hold. The internal hatches had been secured from the other side and the emergency escape pods could only be armed from the flight deck, so there was little chance of any rebels mounting another escape attempt from inside the vessel. They would be going nowhere but Biko, where they would face the consequences of their planned coup.
Garvin dodged an ice block as it bounced off John’s armor, then cast a concerned look into the darkness above.
“What’s happening?”
“The aliens opened fire,” John said. On the command channel, Crowther was asking for a response from the Starry Night and receiving none, which could indicate anything from the prowler’s destruction to a disabled antenna. “Guess they weren’t interested in making friends with you after all.”
Garvin’s eyes widened. “So that’s what you’re doing here,” he said. “How did you know?”
“Dumb question.” John knew a nonanswer would leave Garvin’s imagination running wild and make him an easier target for the interrogation team later. “How do you think ONI knew where to find Colonel Watts?”
Garvin’s face went pale.
Now Crowther was asking about availability, trying to find a Black Dagger unit in position to reach the downed prowler. He wasn’t receiving any positive responses. Most of the 21st had departed before the alien barrage started, and the final
company had launched aboard the four prowlers of Ascot’s own Night Flight. The survivors were eager to assist, but they would be forced to turn back into a plasma barrage that was growing more intense by the moment.
“Negative,” Crowther said over the command channel. “The last thing we need is more bats down.”
From what John was hearing, the only unit still in position to check on the Starry Night’s status was his own squad of Spartans.
Responding to the crash site would mean leaving the prisoners locked inside the Banta’s troop hold without guards, but a breakout would be impossible—all Nyeto’s flight crew had to do was depressurize everything between the troop hold and the flight deck. The biggest drawback was that Garvin wasn’t wearing a pressure suit, so John couldn’t take him along on the rescue attempt. Instead, the general would have to remain with the other prisoners and go to Biko. With any luck, ONI would be able to extract the general before the colonial authority executed him—but even if that didn’t happen, the thought of a prowler falling into Covenant hands was a far more troubling possibility.
John pointed Garvin up the loading ramp. “Go join your people.”
“What?” Garvin looked confused for a second, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You can’t let us launch into an alien—”
“Now.” John grabbed a fistful of shirt and tossed him up the ramp into the troop hold. “Enjoy Biko, General.”
He commed Nyeto’s flight crew. “Sierra-117 to Banta transport,” he said. Sierra was a comm code for Spartan. “Change of plans. You’re on your own.”
“No way.” The pilot seemed almost panicked. “You can’t send us up without an onboard escort.”
“I can and I am.” John was puzzled by the alarm in the woman’s voice—she had already been informed that the hold hatches were secured from the outside, and any military pilot who had been through even a basic ship security course would realize that all she had to do to secure the bridge was depressurize the main cabin. “Just follow flight deck isolation protocols. You’ll be fine.”
“But Commander Nyeto wanted you—”
“Not going to happen,” John said. “We’re the only unit available to go after Captain Ascot and the Starry Night. Have a good trip.”
John closed the channel, then motioned for his eleven Spartans to follow him toward the airlock. He didn’t contact Crowther because that would only be putting the colonel in a bad spot, forcing him to choose between abandoning a downed prowler and violating military law by sending fifteen-year-olds into harm’s way. Given the colonel’s tendency to cover his own ass first, it seemed pretty clear he would abandon the prowler.
“Okay, I’ll ask.” It was Joshua-029, speaking over SQUADCOM. “What are we doing?”
“Going after the Starry Night.”
“Funny,” Kurt-051 said, “I didn’t hear Colonel Crowther authorize that.”
“He didn’t need to,” John said. “We’re all that’s left.”
“Maybe so,” Kelly said. “But we’re still going to need a ride out of here when we’re done.”
She had a point, but John wasn’t sure how to handle things. If he asked Crowther for permission to respond to the Starry Night, the prowler’s crew would be abandoned and any survivors left to their fates. But Kurt and Joshua were right to be concerned. This kind of rescue operation required coordination, and undertaking it without informing the rest of the task force would expose his people to a lot of unnecessary risk. It would have been nice to have Avery Johnson here to consult, but he’d disappeared right after the debriefing.
Maybe he didn’t like working with fifteen-year-olds either.
“Let’s see what we see,” John said. “The first thing he’ll want is a sitrep.”
They proceeded to the maintenance grotto’s access vestibule, an oversize airlock that opened into the bottom of the vast quarry pit. The crew chamber was more than large enough to hold twelve Spartans, so John led the squad inside and sealed the inner hatch. Crowther was going to be pissed, but lives were at stake—and so was any high-risk intel aboard the prowler. If the Covenant captured Task Force Yama’s mission plan, it’d be the end of SILENT STORM. If they captured Earth’s coordinates, it would mean the end of the human species. The priorities were clear—John had to go after Halima Ascot and the Starry Night.
CHAPTER 14
* * *
* * *
0859 hours, March 19, 2526 (military calendar)
Exterior Maintenance Yard, Seoba Ice Quarry
Moon Seoba, Biko Planetary System, Kolaqoa System
John stepped out of the airlock into sublimation fog so thick he could barely see the end of his assault rifle. The clouds overhead were flashing bright with the constant arrival of plasma bolts, and it felt like walking into the heart of a thunderstorm. He led his squad of Spartans thirty meters forward, far enough from the quarry walls to escape the unending cascade of ice tumbling down from above, then stopped.
John opened the command channel. “Sierra-117 requesting waypoint to target location.”
If the rest of the task force was following standard rescue protocol—and John felt sure they would be—one of the surviving prowlers would be on station above Seoba, monitoring the surface situation via signal intercepts and tactical drones. They would know the locations of all twelve members of his squad from their Identification Friend-or-Foe codes. Most importantly, they would be able to guide the Spartans toward the Starry Night’s crash site.
Able, but possibly unwilling.
Crowther’s voice came over the channel. “What do you think you’re doing, so—er, Blue Leader?”
The colonel’s tone wasn’t entirely hostile, which John decided to take as a tacit authorization of his plan.
“We’re checking Starry Night’s status, sir. We seem to be the only unit available.”
John thought Avery Johnson would be proud of his tact. He was answering Crowther in a way that gave him plenty of cover—the Spartans were undertaking the assignment without asking for permission, so the colonel could easily deflect blame if something went wrong. Besides, there wasn’t any choice—the Spartans really were the only unit available.
John signaled his team leaders—Kurt-051 and Joshua-029—to deploy in a search line. That would create a hundred-meter-wide rank of Mjolnir-armored Spartans, with the four members of Green Team spaced every ten meters on the left flank and the four members of Gold Team spaced every ten meters on the right flank. Blue Team and its four members would remain in the center, gathered more tightly so he would have a ready reaction force.
When Crowther still hadn’t replied, John signaled the squad to advance at a trot, heading more or less away from the dockyards where Alpha Company had suffered so many casualties.
Over the command channel, he said, “We’ll take a look and report.”
“Affirmative.” Crowther sounded relieved. “But take action only if immediately warranted. Biko is responding to the plasma barrage in force. Commander Nyeto assures me the alien flotilla will be destroyed or in retreat within the hour.”
“More or less,” Nyeto added. “But don’t worry, Spartan. We’ve got your backs down there.”
“Acknowledged.” John hoped he sounded more impressed than he was. He liked Nyeto and truly appreciated his support—but in his experience so far, when the lieutenant commander told him not to worry, it was time to start thinking the opposite. Besides that, John knew humanity’s track record all too well: even if the local naval forces outnumbered the flotilla three-to-one, the alien ships were resilient and dangerous enough to nullify the advantage of superior numbers. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A waypoint appeared on John’s HUD, pointing about thirty degrees to the right of dead center. The distance was imprecise, four to eight kilometers.
“That’s a big help,” Fred remarked over SQUADCOM. “If we leave the quarry, we’ll know we’ve gone too far.”
“Adjust course,” John ordered.
He checked t
he Covenant ETA and cringed inwardly. Two minutes, and the sublimation fog was thicker than ever. His motion tracker showed Blue Team in a diamond formation with five-meter spacing between its members, but he had no visuals on anyone. All he saw in any direction was a featureless white veil so thick that it blurred the gauntlets at the ends of his own arms, strobing silver from the constant flashing of the plasma barrage overhead.
“Advance at a full run,” John announced. The Spartans were now using SQUADCOM to communicate among themselves, so they were the only ones who would be able to hear the exchanges—along with Avery Johnson, if he was in range. “Keep your eyes on your feet. That’s all you can see anyway, and if the Starry Night disintegrated on the way down, the first thing we’ll find will be debris on the quarry floor.”
“Didn’t Commander Nyeto say she went down intact?” asked Kelly.
“That’s what he said,” John replied. “Doesn’t mean he saw what happened once she dropped into the quarry.”
The Banta’s temporary crew announced their departure over the command channel. A moment later, the vessel passed low over the Spartans’ heads, opening small tunnels of visibility as it burned through the swirling fog. John caught glimpses of the surrounding terrain—his squad stretched across the quarry floor and, in the distance, stacked terraces of ice rising two kilometers high. Then the transport lifted its nose and left the quarry atop a trio of spear-shaped efflux columns.
The alien plasma barrage trailed off, plunging the area into a gauzy twilight as the enemy vessels changed targets. Moments later, they resumed fire, and a flashing cone of silver flame chased the Banta over Seoba’s horizon. John traced the individual trajectories back to five different points.
