by Troy Denning
“Take your time, Commander Nyeto,” the chaplain said. “I think a moment of silence is appropriate before committing so many of our brothers and sisters to the stars.”
“Thank you, Major Ojombo,” Hector said, genuinely grateful for the hint about the Committal. “I’ll just miss them so damn much.”
And he would. Despite his hatred of the UNSC, many of the people represented by those capsules had considered Hector a friend. Most had trusted him with their lives at one time or another, and betraying them had not been easy. There was even a part of him that pitied John-117 and his Spartans for what Halsey and her ONI masters had done to them—not a big part, but it was there.
Hector looked across the enlisted formation to Avery Johnson, who was the senior sergeant present. “Call the formation to attention, Staff Sergeant.”
Johnson snapped his gaze to dead-center. “Honor company, atten-hut!”
Both sides of the formation shifted from parade rest to attention, bringing their feet together and their arms to their sides.
“Raise the pressure barrier, Staff Sergeant.”
Johnson called the order for the hangar crew. A transparent AlON barrier rose out of the deck to separate the burial detail from the interment capsules. Nyeto brought his hand up in salute, and the entire formation followed his lead.
“Open the outer hatch, Staff Sergeant.”
Johnson gave the order. The hatch retracted into the overhead, and the decompression wave lifted the interment capsules and carried them out through the portal and into the void. The Vanishing Point was at the apogee of its parabolic orbit, so the extra momentum would be enough for the cylinders to break orbit and continue into deep space.
Hector held his salute and recited the Committal he had prepared. “From stardust we came, and to stardust we return. Our fallen brothers and sisters are not gone from our hearts, for they have left us only to scout ahead, and we know that when our time comes to follow, they will be waiting to show us the way. May they rest in peace, for they have fought valiantly and died nobly. No commander could ask for more.”
Hector finished his salute with a snap, then added, “Farewell.”
He waited for the formation to follow his lead, then turned back to Johnson. “Close the outer hatch, Staff Sergeant.”
Johnson called the order, and the outer hatch came down.
“Dismiss the honor company, Staff Sergeant.”
Johnson’s gaze returned to dead-center. “Company, dismissed.”
And, in typical military fashion, that was the end of it. No long eulogies, no post-service gatherings. The AlON pressure barrier simply sank back into the deck, and the personnel in attendance departed to return to their duty stations and get on with the next thing. Only Avery Johnson, the Spartans, Colonel Crowther, and a handful of senior officers lingered, no doubt waiting for the new commander of Task Force Yama to give them some idea what the next thing was going to be.
Hector was not surprised to see John-117 studying him with a gaze that was both obvious and intense, and he could almost see the wheels turning as the young Spartan contemplated the amount of time it had taken to answer his call for support. Clearly, Hector had some work to do if he wanted to recapture the kid’s trust. Giving Crowther and the other officers no chance to corner him, he put an approving smile on his face, then crossed to John and clapped a hand on the Spartan’s huge arm.
“You and the Spartans did a great job yesterday, Petty Officer. There were heavy casualties, but you saved everyone who could be saved.” Hector cast a meaningful glance at Johnson, who still looked just a bit glassy-eyed from his concussion, then turned back to John. “And you kept the enemy from capturing one of our prowlers.”
“They did more than that,” Dr. Halsey said, stepping to Hector’s side. Halsey was dressed in a white lab smock that was probably as close to dress whites as a civilian scientist working for ONI could come. “They eliminated an alien ship. Their third.”
“And recovered that thing out of the flight deck’s cinders,” Hector added with enthusiasm. Halsey was always bragging on about her Spartans like a proud mother—and getting on her good side would probably go a long way toward keeping John’s trust. “That was a lucky break for us. Maybe you’ll figure out something important.”
The smile Halsey gave him was more calculated than flattered. “Maybe, Commander. I am making progress.”
“Impressive, without question,” Hector said. “And between my prowlers and your Spartans, just yesterday we downed three enemy vessels. It’s too bad that the recovery teams weren’t able to capture any live aliens, but if you can figure out anything at all from the Covenant equipment they brought back, I’d say that makes the Battle of Seoba the UNSC’s best showing against the Covenant thus far.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, sir,” John said. “And now that you’re in command of the task force, I hope that means you’ll reconsider Captain Ascot’s decision to sideline us.”
Hector did not need to fake his smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You and your Spartans are going to be seeing all the action you can handle. Trust me on that.”
“That decision isn’t yours to make,” Crowther said, pushing in between Hector and John. “The Spartans report to me.”
“And you report to me now.” Hector turned to face Crowther. “We can talk chain of command later, but the Covenant fleet will be arriving to attack Biko at any time—and when it does, we need John and the Spartans leading our ambush. They have as many ship-kills as the rest of the task force combined.”
“They’re still fifteen,” Crowther said.
“I’m sure Admiral Cole was well aware of their age when he assigned them to Task Force Yama.” Hector was growing impatient with Crowther’s stubbornness. It almost seemed that the colonel really did view the Spartans as a threat to his Black Daggers, as Hector had suggested to John in a calculated attempt to manipulate him. “I’m sorry, Marmon, but you’ve seen what the Spartans can do. I’m going to have to overrule you on this one.”
“To send kids into battle?” Crowther’s tone grew sharp. “That would be a mistake, Commander Nyeto. A big one.”
“Are you threatening me, Colonel?”
“Take it as you like.” Crowther’s eyes hardened. “But I’m serious about this. You won’t be sending underage soldiers into battle with my Black Daggers—and if you try to, you’ll find yourself explaining your actions to a court of inquiry.”
Hector’s pulse began to pound in his ears—but the threat was one he couldn’t afford to ignore. A court of inquiry was an investigative proceeding to determine whether the facts of a situation warranted further action—and the last thing Hector wanted was a team of JAG officers sniffing around his prowlers. He had worked hard to recruit high-quality agents for his sleeper crews, and they all had airtight cover legends. But he couldn’t risk trained investigators digging into him and his people. Too much could go wrong.
“Very well, Colonel. We’ll run this Biko ambush by the book.” Hector turned to leave. “But your Black Daggers had better be up to the job—or we won’t even have time for a court of inquiry.”
The hangar began to empty in a tense and astonished silence, Nyeto and the Prowler Corps leaving by the port exit and the Black Daggers by the starboard. Avery Johnson found himself thinking that maybe he should have listened to the medics and stayed in his bunk. The only reasonable explanation for what he had just witnessed was that his concussion was a lot worse than the docs thought. There was no way the task force’s two senior officers would have argued like that in front of their subordinates. He had to be hallucinating.
Avery was still pondering this possibility when he saw Dr. Halsey grab John by the arm, then redirect him and the rest of the Spartans toward the starboard exit being used by the Black Daggers. At least that made sense. John was a hell of a soldier, but when it came to military politics, he was still just a kid. The Spartan was letting his frustration with Crowther blind him to Nyeto�
�s manipulations, and Halsey was guarding John like a mother hen, keeping him clear of the quagmire of a contested chain of command.
As Avery turned to follow, Colonel Crowther fell in at his side. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Sergeant.”
“I’ve seen worse, sir.” Avery was only being half-truthful; he had seen shouting matches between commanding officers before—just not one where they openly threatened each other with career-ending charges. “But with all due respect, I wouldn’t make a habit of it. This isn’t a pissing match you’re going to win.”
Crowther looked amused. “Is that so?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Avery said. Crowther hadn’t been at Avery’s initial meeting with Halsey and the two vice admirals, so he probably didn’t realize that it was ONI’s Section Three sending young Spartans into battle—and colonels who butted heads with Section Three didn’t stay colonels for very long. “Look . . . I understand your reservations about sending underage soldiers into battle. I mean, who in their right mind wouldn’t? But those Spartans aren’t children, believe me—and that decision was made way above your pay grade.”
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant.”
Crowther locked gazes, then glanced at the deck and stopped walking. Avery took the hint and did the same.
Crowther waited until the hangar was finally clear, then continued, “I can’t say I approve of the process, but there’s no denying the outcome. Those Spartans are magnificent soldiers. If they hadn’t saved our butts on Seoba, SILENT STORM would be over.”
Avery frowned. “And you still want to keep them sidelined?”
“Not exactly,” Crowther said. “They’re ready for battle. They convinced me of that by saving you and preventing the Starry Night’s capture.”
“Then I’m not following you, sir.” Avery frowned. “Maybe it’s the concussion.”
Crowther chuckled. “It’s not the concussion, Sergeant. It’s Nyeto.”
“Okay. Now I’m really confused.”
“Because you weren’t aboard the Ghost Song when John called for support,” Crowther said. “Commander Nyeto left him and the rest of the Spartans exposed . . . all just so he could spend eight full minutes maneuvering for the perfect attack on the enemy squadron.”
“Hold on. You think Nyeto was deliberately stalling?”
“I think he would have taken out the other two corvettes, had he attacked right away,” Crowther said. “And until I understand why he didn’t, I don’t want those Spartans anywhere near him. I don’t even want him to know where they are.”
Avery nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can understand that.”
He wasn’t as surprised as he might have been. Avery had his own reservations about Nyeto—the lieutenant commander’s efforts to befriend John already rubbed him the wrong way. And at the briefing where Nyeto had revealed the Spartan’s age, Nyeto had clearly been trying to drive a wedge between John and his commanders—and now Avery knew why. Nyeto was trying to set himself up as John’s only ally in the command structure.
After a moment, Avery said, “So what are we going to do about it?”
Crowther smiled. “How much have you studied Sun Tzu, Sergeant?”
Avery replied with what seemed appropriate for their current circumstances: “ ‘Great results can be achieved with small forces.’ ”
“Very impressive,” Crowther said. “May I take it that you remember what the general had to say about supply trains?”
“ ‘An army without its baggage train is lost,’ ” Avery said. “ ‘Without provisions it is lost; without bases of supply it is lost.’ ”
“Then I think you know what you’re going to do, Sergeant.”
“Me?”
“You and the Spartans,” Crowther said. “I assume you know where you’re going?”
Avery thought for a moment, then said, “I think so.” When large forces launched the kind of rapid-penetration attacks that the Covenant was using, they had little choice but to leave their supply trains at the site of their last victory. “At least, I know where to start looking.”
“And that is?”
“The planet they just glassed,” Avery said. “Etalan.”
Crowther grinned. “I’d say you’re over your concussion,” he said. “In fact, I’d say you’re thinking pretty damn clearly, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER 17
* * *
* * *
1534 hours, March 20, 2526 (military calendar)
UNSC Point Blank–class Stealth Cruiser Vanishing Point
Libration Point Three, Biko/Seoba, Kolaqoa System
The Covenant fleet appeared on the bulkhead monitor in a single instant—a hundred specks of blue-shifted light emerging from slipspace in the span of a heartbeat. They drifted toward Biko’s rosy crescent in a slow-swirling swarm, each blue speck sprouting dozens more as the alien ships launched their starfighter complements. But instead of streaking off to screen their fleet and harry the human defenses, the specks stayed close, swirling around their motherships in escort patterns so tight they melded into glowing, button-size smudges.
It was hardly the planetary assault doctrine John had been taught in his fleet tactics course back on Reach. Then again, the unspoken assumption had been that the Spartans were training for battles involving one human force confronting another, and that the attacker’s objective would be something more logical than the utter destruction of an entire planet. Certainly no thought had been given to situations that involved an enemy fleet whose energy-shielded vessels could bombard a populated world with plasma beams the size of skyscrapers.
“That’s an odd formation,” said Fred.
He was standing next to John in one of the Vanishing Point’s smaller maintenance hangars. Their Mjolnir armor was in the support module for maintenance and repair, so they were currently wearing black utilities with no identifying insignia or badges. Kelly and Linda were on either side of them, also attired in black utilities. There were four more Spartans in a back corner of the hangar, familiarizing themselves with some of the Covenant weapons recovered on Seoba. The other four members of the squad were still in the infirmary with injuries ranging from decompression sickness to a ruptured spleen. Meanwhile, Dr. Halsey was locked in her lab with some kind of Covenant holoprojector, recovered from the wreckage of the vessel that the Starry Night had downed when she self-destructed.
When no one responded, Fred added, “You’d think their commanders have never been to fleet warfare school.”
“Different weapons, different tactics,” John replied.
“True, but you fight to your weapon’s advantage,” Kelly said. “If I were the Covenant, I’d stand off behind a fighter screen. I’d use those badass plasma cannons to attack the orbital defenses and make the Biko fleet come to me.”
“That would be the smart thing to do,” Linda agreed. “But it would also be predictable.”
A flotilla of white slivers began to gather on Biko’s daylight side as the planet’s small space navy positioned itself to give battle. There were about fifty vessels, but John knew most of those would be patrol frigates designed to disable smuggling boats—not go nose-to-nose with energy-shielded capital ships. There was no way they could hope to stop the invasion fleet. But if they bided their time and employed wolf-pack tactics, the Bikon sailors might be able to take a few enemy ships with them.
UNSC doctrine dictated launching a fighter assault to disrupt such a formation before it could swarm a capital ship. Yet the alien fighters remained with their motherships, maintaining a tight-but-brittle defensive shell that could crack under the assault of even a couple of frigates, and the Covenant fleet seemed to be actually accelerating toward Biko’s defenders. The alien tactic didn’t make sense.
“What’s their hurry?” Fred asked, clearly coming to the same conclusion. “The Covenant will blow through that screen like a missile through a shower curtain, but they’re going to lose more than a few ships doing it.”
“Then they
must believe they’ll lose even more by taking their time,” Linda said. “They lost over half of their intrusion flotilla at Seoba. Perhaps our prowlers have earned their respect?”
Kelly shook her head. “Those were just scout corvettes. Nyeto was knocking them down with just a few lucky missile salvos.” She pointed at the monitor. “But that fleet is filled with cruisers and assault carriers. Their shields could absorb a half-dozen salvos and not even flicker.”
“Right,” John said. “If they’re worried, it’s not about prowlers.”
“Could it be about us?” Kelly asked. “Or, actually, about the Black Daggers?”
The correction was due to the Spartans’ still-uncertain standing. As the senior flight commander in Task Force Yama, Hector Nyeto was now in charge of Operation: SILENT STORM, and he wanted the Spartans returned to active status. But Crowther continued to resist, and not even Dr. Halsey had been able to convince him to change his mind. John and the rest of the Spartans were frustrated and angry at being sidelined, but what could they do? Orders were orders, and after the stunt John had pulled during the Seoba insertion, it was clear that he was not going to change Crowther’s mind by disobeying them now. The upshot was that the Black Daggers would be attempting to board the alien fleet on their own, and the Spartans would be watching from the Vanishing Point.
After a moment, John nodded to Kelly. “I think maybe you’re right. Being worried about a boarding attempt would explain why they’re keeping their fighters in close escort.”
“It would explain a lot of things,” Linda said. “Might have been one of the reasons why the Covenant was trying so hard to capture that prowler yesterday. If they know about the boarding at Netherop, they would want to know how we got close enough without being detected.”
“Makes sense,” Fred said. “Except for the part about knowing there were prowlers at Seoba. The innies never got a message off, and it’s pretty clear they weren’t expecting us to show up.”
