by Troy Denning
“Thank you, sir.”
Crowther motioned that he wasn’t finished. “And you’re a good leader. Your Spartans would follow you into a fusion reactor if you asked them to.”
“I’d do the same for them.”
“I know you would,” Crowther said. “And that’s the problem. Sometimes a good commander can’t be a hero. You have to be willing to send your people into that reactor alone, if that’s what it takes. And I honestly haven’t seen that ability in you—not once.”
John glanced toward Johnson, wondering if it was Crowther’s words or Johnson’s he was hearing. Both of them had been on him about “leading from the front” since the day his squad was attached to the 21st.
“I’ve lost Spartans in battle before,” John said. “I just try not to make it a habit.”
“And I’m not encouraging you to,” Crowther said. “But that armor doesn’t make you invincible. If you’re always the first one in, and the one who takes the biggest chances, sooner or later, you’re going to get hit. What happens to the unit then?”
“Fred takes over.”
Crowther rolled his eyes. “And command continuity suffers. Even if Fred is as good as you are, it will take your people a couple of seconds to adjust.”
“And a lot can happen in two seconds,” Johnson added. “A unit can get wiped out.”
John didn’t reply. He knew they were right. But he just didn’t like the idea of ordering his friends to take risks in his place. It seemed cowardly.
But so did getting his squad wiped out because he was afraid to let somebody else take point. Johnson was right about that much—you could lose your entire unit in two seconds of combat.
“The commander of an elite unit has to trust his people as much as he trusts himself,” Crowther said. “You don’t have that yet—and I’m not sure if it’s something that you’ll ever be comfortable with. But you’re still young—an understatement, to be sure—and that level of trust is something you need to think about if you’re going to live up to that insignia on your collar.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
Crowther studied him for a moment, then finally nodded. “You do that, Master Chief.”
He gave a curt nod to Johnson, then left the boarding vestibule and crossed the hangar to the Ghost Song, which would be serving as Dagger Force’s command vessel. John was tempted to offer a salute, but he knew Nyeto would be trying to see what was happening inside the vestibule, and he didn’t want an unnecessary show of respect to tip their hand.
Johnson stepped in front of John. “I guess this is good-bye, then, Master Chief.” He was making a good show of smiling, but his eyes were stoic, and John knew he believed they would not be meeting again. “You just remember what the colonel said. Do what you have to.”
The sergeant extended his hand.
“I will.” John took the offered hand in his gauntlet and shook. “Thanks for showing me how much I didn’t learn on Reach. I needed the lessons.”
Johnson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Anytime.”
He tried to withdraw his hand, but John held tight. “I’m going to hold you to that, Sergeant Johnson.”
Johnson grew more somber. “Then make it through this,” he said. “Listen to Crowther—and trust your people.”
The sergeant withdrew his hand and left the vestibule, then walked across the deck to board the Ghost Song.
John returned to the hatch and watched for a second, trying to digest what had just happened. He was flattered by the promotion, of course, and proud that he had earned Crowther’s respect to such an extent. But he was also keenly aware of the heavy responsibility that had just been laid on his shoulders. A four-rank bump was so unheard-of that it was bound to draw as much scrutiny from inferior ranks as it did from his equals and superiors. From that moment forward, John knew, he would have to prove in everything he did that he was worthy of such an honor.
Linda-058 stepped into the vestibule behind him. When he turned around, her helmet tipped slightly, and he knew she was looking at the rank insignia affixed over his collar.
“Nice bling,” she said over TEAMCOM.
“Crowther’s idea,” John replied. “He says I need the cred.”
“Can’t hurt,” Linda said. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“Thanks. I’ll try not to.”
“All prowlers have checked in clean.”
“Anybody find anything?” John asked. Sierra Force had four prowlers divided into two half-strength flights, and he had put Spartans aboard all of them, with orders to sweep for eavesdropping devices and keep a subtle eye on the crews. Aboard the Widow, that duty had fallen to Linda, while Fred and Kelly were in the drop bay, watching Third Platoon, Delta Company. “Or take any guff?”
“Negative on the guff,” Linda reported. “But I found a bug in the Widow’s wardroom, and Kurt found one in the Quiet Man’s.”
John thought for a moment, then said, “I guess that’s a good thing. It means Nyeto isn’t counting on our flight commanders for updates.”
“It doesn’t mean they’re going to trust you when things start getting . . . weird.”
John tapped his new rank insignia. “That’s why I have the bling.”
As they spoke, a crewman was raising the ramp and securing exterior hatches for immediate launch. The Vanishing Point and its escort complement would be staying behind at Transit Node Bhadra. But the rest of the task force, or what remained of it after losing half its strength—over four hundred troopers and seven prowlers at the battles at Seoba and Biko—was clustered in two nearby formations, awaiting the two command prowlers.
Led by Nyeto—at least temporarily—Dagger Force was the larger of Yama’s two strike forces, with three prowler flights carrying three half-strength space assault companies that numbered only two hundred and forty-three troopers between them. The mission plan called for it to depart first and approach the night side of the Covenant supply world, a planet they were designating “Naraka.” This attack was designed to draw out the defensive flotilla stationed at Libration Point Three. Sierra Force would follow a few minutes later and approach from the same side of the planet. Their primary objective was to infiltrate the remaining defenses and storm the orbital facilities that ringed Naraka.
That was the plan, anyway. John didn’t think the coming battle would actually unfold that way, and neither did Crowther or Johnson. They were expecting Nyeto to try to get the Spartans killed somewhere along the way. But how the traitorous commander would do that—and what would happen when Crowther and Johnson tried to stop him—was anyone’s guess.
The launch alarm sounded, and the Black Widow rose off her struts and exited the hangar. John barely noticed the acceleration anymore. He started forward toward the flight deck, while Linda remained amidship to keep a quiet eye on the crew. Fred and Kelly were in the drop bay with Third Platoon.
John knew the bay wouldn’t be as crowded as it had been when he and Avery Johnson had dropped with First Platoon Alpha back at Seoba, which now seemed so long ago. While Delta Company had suffered less attrition than most of the battalion during the Battle of Biko, it had lost forty-three troopers, and Third Platoon’s strength had dropped from forty ODSTs to thirty-two. Still, he hoped that Third Platoon’s lieutenant didn’t take offense at what he was about to do. Thirty-two ODSTs would be a tall order for a pair of Spartans to neutralize—especially if they were trying to avoid a lot of casualties.
And the odds would be even worse for the Spartans on Sierra Force’s other prowlers. In most cases, there would be a single Spartan on the flight deck and one in the drop bay. John had four prowlers and only twelve Spartans. That meant the vessels with a full team were the two flight-leads, the Black Widow with John’s Blue Team, and the Quiet Man with Kurt-051’s Green Team. Gold Team was split among the two remaining prowlers, with a pair of Spartans aboard each craft.
John reached the Widow’s flight deck and stepped into the compartment withou
t asking permission. It was a terrible breach of shipboard decorum, and Esme Guayte—the naval lieutenant who commanded the flight—shot him a fiery scowl.
John pretended not to notice and remained beside her command chair, studying her through the anonymity of his mirrored faceplate. She was a compact woman with black hair, brown eyes, and a round face. Like the Quiet Flight commander, Lim Jinwoo, Guayte had actually been raised on Earth, and she had attended the Luna OCS Academy in Mare Nubium—which was about 90 percent of the reason John had chosen them for Sierra Force. Of all the flight commanders in Task Force Yama, they seemed least likely to be harboring hidden insurrectionist sympathies. But they were also Nyeto’s subordinates, and John would be fooling no one—including himself—if he tried to pretend the orders he was about to relay didn’t border on mutiny.
The slipspace formation appeared ahead, a band of dark voids hanging against the veil of stars beyond the forward viewport. There were no running lights or illuminated viewports to help define their shapes more precisely—this deep in alien space, it was not wise to increase the risk of being spotted by a passing patrol.
Nyeto’s Ghost Song was moving into formation with the most distant cluster of vessels, its thrust nozzles a triangle of barely visible purple disks. Guayte looked away from her command screen long enough to glance up at John, no doubt intending to make a pointed inquiry about what he needed on her flight deck, then noticed the new insignia at the top of his chest plate and raised her brow.
“Where did that come from?”
John tipped his helmet down toward her. “Colonel Crowther wanted to see how it looked on a suit of Mjolnir armor, ma’am.” He turned his gaze forward again. “I guess he liked it.”
Nyeto’s voice sounded over the flight-deck speakers. “Dagger Force, bring all weapons and power to battle-ready. Execute slip in five, four . . .”
The stars beyond Dagger Force began to dance and twinkle as long tongues of efflux shot from the thrust nozzles of a dozen vessels; then the prowlers were gone, a field of bright purple disks shrinking to a thumb-size dot in the duration of a blink, the dot vanishing into the blue crackle of a slipspace vortex.
Guayte extended a finger toward the comm selector on the arm of her chair.
“Not yet, ma’am.”
Guayte glanced at him in puzzlement and left her finger on the selector. “The timing of this operation is intricate, Master Chief. If Sierra Force doesn’t enter slipspace as scheduled—”
“Not yet,” John repeated. He pulled a data chip from an equipment pouch and handed it to her. “New orders.”
Guayte’s eyes narrowed, but she accepted the data chip and slipped it into a reader slot. Colonel Crowther’s face appeared on her command screen.
“Lieutenant Guayte, I am sure you will recall the conversation we had about operational security,” the image said. “It pains me to say that was not idle speculation. Operation: SILENT STORM has been compromised, and as of this moment, you will consider Commander Nyeto relieved of command.”
Guayte stopped the message and looked over at John. This was the critical moment, he knew. While Crowther’s rank was superior to her own, he was not actually in her chain of command. She would be well within protocol to ignore his instruction and carry on with the orders she had been given by Nyeto.
“You knew about this?” Guayte asked.
“We’re the ones he’s been trying to kill.”
“And that’s why there’s a Spartan standing on the flight deck of both my prowlers?”
“Yes, ma’am. And it’s why we swept them for eavesdropping devices as soon as we boarded,” John said. “Would you like to see what we found?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “How would I know they aren’t props you brought along to impress me?”
Guayte started the message again, and Crowther’s image continued: “I have provided an alternate vector through which you should exit slipspace. The transit specifications are embedded at the end of this message. As you know, John-117 has been given command of Sierra Force. I hope and expect you’ll honor that, no matter what your feelings are about Commander Nyeto.”
Crowther saluted, and the message ended.
Guayte sat staring at her blank command screen in silence, then turned and eyeballed John’s new rank insignia for a time.
Finally, she broke her reverie and said, “Very well, Master Chief. You’re in charge.” She began to tap the keypad on the arm of her command chair. “Please try not to get us killed.”
CHAPTER 24
* * *
* * *
1458 hours, April 15, 2526 (military calendar)
UNSC Razor-class prowler Ghost Song
Libration Point Three, Naraka/Rudara, Agni System
The Covenant outpost came into view, a smudge of green light dead ahead of the Ghost Song’s hushed flight deck. It was blurred by the dust and detritus that always collected in libration points, those odd pockets in space where the gravity of two orbiting masses—in this case, a planet and its moon—interacted to create zones of equilibrium that could be used to “park” objects in a fixed relative position.
In the Naraka/Rudara system, the aliens had parked picket squadrons at Libration Points Three, Four, and Five. The deployment created an equilateral triangle that was perfect for defending the orbital facilities around the distant, pearl-colored marble of the alien supply world. And it was Dagger Force’s job to neutralize those picket squadrons so Sierra Force could stage a clean attack.
Ghost Flight was assigned to hit libration point three, on the opposite side of Naraka from its moon, Rudara—both names picked by Dr. Halsey, as she had not yet determined their Covenant names. According to the battle plan, that would be the side of the planet from which Sierra Force approached with the Spartans and a hundred and thirty-nine Black Daggers. And it was Avery Johnson’s job to make sure that when Lieutenant Commander Hector Nyeto tried to sabotage the mission, he would be exposed for the traitor he was.
The alien outpost grew from a green smudge to a thumb-size dust cloud with dozens of glowing points inside. Half of those lights were probably support stations rather than combat vessels, but still . . . Ghost Flight was outnumbered more than five to one. If they failed to attack with surprise, they stood no chance of neutralizing the picket squadron—or even surviving the effort.
A crisp female voice rose from the navigator’s station. “Five minutes, Commander.”
Nyeto, seated in his command chair near the back of the compartment, glanced over with a look that suggested Avery had no business being there. Fair enough. With five minutes to go before jump, Avery was standing on the flight deck in full assault armor. It certainly looked like he was supposed to depart with First Platoon Alpha.
Avery was actually there to back up Colonel Crowther, who stood next to him in Service Dress B, a formal working uniform with a khaki shirt and tie appropriate to the task at hand. Weapons weren’t allowed on the flight deck, so neither of them was openly carrying. But Avery had hardened cargo pouches on his thigh armor that could clearly hold concealed sidearms. Only a fool would not realize something was up.
When Avery made no move to depart, Nyeto frowned and turned to the Ghost Song’s sensor operator. “What is detection telling us?” he asked. “Any sign of Sierra Force yet?”
The operator, a senior petty officer, shook his head. “Negative, Commander. I should have had a tau surge from their transition sector by now. Nothing.”
Nyeto checked his chronometer, then rubbed his chin and made a point of not looking toward Johnson and Crowther. Prowlers could be difficult to detect even when their location was known, so the mission plan called for him to assault the libration point whether or not he confirmed Sierra Force’s arrival. Even from profile, Johnson could see Nyeto’s eyes narrowing as he struggled with his decision. Unless he knew the Spartans’ location before Ghost Flight attacked, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to make the Covenant look in that direction. But w
ith Johnson and Crowther present, he had to realize that any deviation from the plan would only confirm to them what he was really up to.
Finally, Nyeto said, “There’s no point in attacking if Sierra Force isn’t ready.”
Avery tried to remain relaxed. Nyeto was starting to go off-protocol now. Once he pushed too far, Crowther would have clear cause to relieve him of command and take over. Of course, there was a good chance that Nyeto recognized what was happening right in front of him and would stop just short of any clear violation.
That was okay too. The mission would be in less jeopardy.
But the traitor was nothing if not determined, and Nyeto seemed to realize that no matter how today turned out, this would be the last chance he had to eliminate the Spartans. He turned to his communications officer.
“Prepare a burst transmission requesting ready-confirmation.”
“And send it where, Commander?”
Burst transmissions were usually targeted, point-to-point communications that could be sent with only a small chance of detection. The drawback, of course, was that the target’s location had to be known.
Which it obviously wasn’t, which meant Nyeto was about to go too far.
The only question was, how would the crew react when Crowther relieved him of command?
A lot of Nyeto’s people came from Outer Colony worlds where insurrectionist sympathies were common, and the commander could not have single-handedly planted and monitored all the eavesdropping devices that had been discovered around the task force. There had to be at least a few loyalists aboard the Ghost Song working with Nyeto—and one or two might even be on the flight deck right now.
And that was the reason why Avery was standing next to Crowther with a pair of M6C pistols in his thigh pouches.
Nyeto checked his chronometer again, then said, “The Covenant will know they’re under attack in a few minutes anyway.” He tapped his fingertips on the arm of his chair three times, as though deep in thought, then sighed and said, “Broadcast it in the open.”
