by Eric Nylund
He turned to Kelly—the fastest Spartan—and yelled: “Grab it!”
The box fell—
—and Kelly leaped.
In a single bound, she caught the rock as the case dropped, she tucked, rolled, and got to her feet, the rock safely held in one hand. She handed it to the Master Chief.
The rock was a piece of granite and glittered with a few jewel-like inclusions. What was as so special about it? He stuffed it into his ammunition sack and then kicked over the Covenant transmission beacon.
Outside, the Master Chief heard the clattering and squawking of the army of Jackals and Grunts.
“Let’s get out of here, Spartans.”
He threw his arm around James and helped him along. They ran into the basement, making sure to give the pinned giants under the stone a wide berth, then jumped through the storm drain and into the sewers.
They jogged thought the muck and didn’t stop until they had cleared the drain system and emerged in the rice paddies on the edge of Côte d’Azur.
Fred rigged the ground-return relay to the pipes overhead and ran a crude antenna outside.
The Master Chief looked back at the city. Banshee fliers circled through the skyscrapers. Spotlights from the hovering Covenant transport ships bathed the streets in blue illumination. The Grunts were going crazy; their barks and screams rose to an impenetrable din.
The Spartans moved toward the coast and followed the tree line south. James collapsed twice along the way and then finally slipped into unconsciousness. The Master Chief slung him over him shoulder and carried him.
They paused and hid when they heard a patrol of a dozen Grunts. The aliens ran past them—they either didn’t see the Spartans, or they didn’t care. The animals sprinted as fast as they could back to the city.
When they were a click away from the rendezvous point, the Master Chief opened the COM link. “Green Team Leader, we’re on your perimeter, and coming in. Signaling with blue smoke.”
“Ready and waiting for you, sir,” Linda replied. “Welcome back.”
The Master Chief set off one of his smoke grenades and they marched into the clearing.
The Pelican was intact. Corporal Harland and his Marines stood post, and the rescued civilians were safely inside the ship.
Blue and Red Teams were hidden in the nearby brush and trees.
Linda approached them. She motioned for her team to take James and get him onto the Pelican. “Sir,” she said. “All civilians on board and ready for liftoff.”
The Master Chief wanted to relax, sit down, and close his eyes. But this was often the most dangerous part of any mission... those last few steps when you might let down your guard.
“Good. Take one more look around the perimeter. Let’s make double sure nothing followed us back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Harland approached and saluted. “Sir? How did you do it? Those civilians said you got them out of the city—past an army of Covenant, sir. How?”
John cocked his head quizzically. “It was our mission, Corporal,” he said.
The Corporal stared at him and then at the other Spartans. “Yes, sir.”
When Green Team Leader reported that the perimeter was clear, the last of the Spartans boarded the Pelican.
James had regained consciousness. Someone had removed his helmet and propped his head on a folded survival blanket. His eyes watered from the pain, but he managed to salute the Master Chief with his left hand. John gestured at Kelly; she administered a dose of painkiller, and James lapsed into unconsciousness.
The Pelican lifted into the air. In the distance, the suns were warming the horizon, and Côte d’Azur was outlined against the dawn.
The dropship suddenly accelerated at full speed straight up, and then angled away to the south.
“Sir,” the pilot said over the COM channel. “We’re getting multiple incoming radar contacts... about two hundred Banshees inbound.”
“We’ll take care of it, Lieutenant,” John replied. “Prepare for EMP and shock wave.”
The Master Chief activated his remote radio transceiver.
He quickly keyed in the final fail-safe code, then sent the coded burst transmission on its way.
A third sun appeared on the horizon. It blotted out the light of the system’s stars, then cooled—from amber to red—and darkened the sky with black clouds of dust.
“Mission accomplished,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
0500 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar)
UNSC Iroquois, military staging area in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV
Captain Keyes leaned against the brass railing on the bridge of the Iroquois and surveyed the devastation. The space near Sigma Octanus IV was littered with debris: the dead hulks of Covenant and UNSC ships spun lazily in the vacuum, surrounded by clouds of wreckage: jagged pieces of decimated armor plate, shattered single-ship fuselages, and heat-blackened metal fragments created a million radar targets. The debris field would clutter this system and make for a navigational hazard for the next decade.
They had recovered nearly all the bodies from space.
Captain Keyes’ gaze caught the remnants of the Cradle as the blasted space dock spun past. The kilometer-wide plate was now safely locked in a high orbit around the planet. She was slowly being torn apart from her own rotation; girders and metal plates warped and bent as the gravitational stresses on the ship increased.
The Covenant plasma weapons had burned through ten decks of super-hard metal and armor like so many layers of tissue paper. Thirty volunteers on the repair station had died piloting the unwieldy craft.
Admiral Stanforth had gotten his “win”... but at a tremendous cost.
Keyes brought up the casualty figures and damage estimates on his data pad. He scowled as the data scrolled across his screen.
The UNSC had lost more than twenty ships, and those that survived had all suffered heavy damage; most would require months of time-consuming repair at a shipyard. Nearly one thousand people were killed in the battle, and hundreds more were wounded, many critically. Add to that the sixteen hundred Marine casualties on the surface—and the three hundred thousand civilians murdered in Côte d’Azur at the hands of the Covenant.
Some “win,” Keyes thought bitterly.
Côte d’Azur was now a smoldering crater—but Sigma Octanus IV was still a human-held world. They had saved everyone else on the planet, nearly thirteen million souls. So perhaps it had been worth it.
So many lives and deaths had been measured in this battle. Had the balance of the odds tipped slightly against them—everything could have been lost. That was something he had never taught any of his students at the Academy—how much victory depended on luck as well as skill.
Captain Keyes saw the last of the Marine dropships returning from the planet surface. They docked with the Leviathan, and then the huge carrier turned and accelerated out of the system.
“Sensor sweep complete,” Lieutenant Dominique reported. “I think that was the last of the lifeboats we picked up, sir.”
“Let’s make certain, Lieutenant,” Keyes replied. “One more pass through the system please. Ensign Lovell, plot a course and take us around again.”
“Yes, sir,” Lovell wearily replied.
The bridge crew was exhausted, physically and emotionally. They had all pulled extended shifts as they searched for survivors. Captain Keyes would rotate shifts after this next pass.
As he looked at this crew he noticed that something was different. Lieutenant Hikowa’s movements were crisp and determined, as if everything she did now would decide their next battle; it made a startling contrast to her normally lethargic efficiency. Lieutenant Hall’s false exuberance had been replaced by genuine confidence. Dominique almost seemed happy—his hands lightly typing a report to FLEET- COM. Even Ensign Lovell, despite his exhaustion, stepped lively.
Maybe Admiral Stanforth was right. Maybe the fleet needed this win more than he had r
ealized.
They had beaten the Covenant. Although not widely known, there had been only three small engagements in which the UNSC fleet had decisively defeated the Covenant. And not since Admiral Cole had retaken Harvest colony had there been an engagement on this scale. A complete victory—a world saved.
It would show everyone that winning was possible, that there was hope.
But, he mused, was there really? They won because they had gotten lucky—and had twice as many ships as the Covenant. And, he suspected, they had beaten the Covenant because the Covenant’s real objective hadn’t been to win.
Naval Intelligence officers had come aboard the Iroquois immediately after the battle. They congratulated Captain Keyes on his performance... and then copied and purged every single bit of data they had intercepted from the Covenant planetside transmission.
Of course, the ONI spooks left without offering any explanation.
Keyes toyed with his pipe, replaying the battle in his mind. No. The Covenant had lost because they were really after something else on Sigma Octanus IV—and the intercepted message was the key.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Dominique said. “Incoming orders from FLEETCOM.”
“Put it through to my station, Lieutenant,” Captain Keyes said as he sat in his command chair. The computer scanned his retina and fingerprints and then decoded the message. He read on the small monitor:
United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission 09872H-98
Encryption Code: Red
Public Key: file /lightning-matrix-four/
From: Admiral Michael Stanforth, Commanding Officer, UNSC Leviathan/ USNC Sector Three Commander/ (UNSC Service Number: 00834-19223-HS)
To: Captain Jacob Keyes, Commanding officer UNSC Iroquois/ (UNSC Service Number: 01928-19912-JK)
Subject: ORDERS FOR YOUR IMMEDIATE CONSIDERATION
Classification: SECRET (BGX Directive)
/start file/
Keyes,
Drop whatever you’re doing and head back to the barn. We’re both wanted for immediate debriefing by ONI at REACH Headquarters ASAP.
Looks like the spooks at Naval Intelligence are up to their normal cloak-and-dagger tricks.
Cigars and brandy afterward.
Regards,
Stanforth
/end file/
“Very well,” he muttered to himself. “Lieutenant Dominique: send Admiral Stanforth my compliments. Ensign Lovell, generate a randomized vector as per the Cole Protocol, and make ready to leave system. Take us out for an hour in Slipstream space, then we’ll reorient and proceed to the REACH Military Instillation.”
“Aye, sir. Randomized jump vector ready—our tracks are covered.”
“Lieutenant Hall: start organizing shore leave for the crew. We’re heading back for repairs and some well-deserved R and R.”
“Amen to that,” Ensign Lovell said.
That wasn’t technically in his orders, but Captain Keyes would make sure his crew got the rest they deserved. That was the least he could do for them.
The Iroquois slowly accelerated on an out-system vector.
Captain Keyes took one long last look at Sigma Octanus IV. The battle was over... so why did he feel like he was headed into another fight?
The Iroquois plowed through a haze of titanium dust—condensed from a UNSC battleplate vaporized by Covenant plasma. The fine particles caught the light from Sigma Octanus and sparkled red and orange, making it look like the destroyer sailed through an ocean of blood.
When there was time, a HazMat team would sweep the area and clean up. In the meantime, junk—ranging in size from microscopic up to thirty-meter sections of Cradle—still drifted in the system.
One piece of debris in particular floated near the Iroquois.
It was small, almost indistinguishable from any of a thousand other softball-sized blobs that cluttered radar scopes and polluted thermal sensors.
If anyone had been looking close enough, however, they would have seen that this particular piece of metal drifted in the opposite direction from all the other masses nearby. It trailed behind the accelerating Iroquois... and edged closer, moving with purpose.
When it was close enough, it extended tiny electromagnets that guided it to the baffles at the base of the Iroquois’ number-three engine shield. It blended in perfectly with the other vanadium steel components.
The object opened a single photo eye and gazed at the stars, collecting data to reference its current position. It would continue to do this for several days. During that time it would slowly build up a charge. When it reached critical energy, a tiny sliver of thallium nitride memory crystal would be ejected at nearly the speed of light, and a minute Slipstream field would generate around it. If its trajectory was perfect, it would intercept a Covenant receiver located at precise coordinates in the alternate space.
... and the tiny automated probe would reveal to the Covenant every place the Iroquois had been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1100 Hours, August 12, 2552 (Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach, Camp Hathcock
The Master Chief steered the Warthog to the fortified gate and ignored the barrel of the chain-gun that was not quite pointed in his direction. The guard on duty, a Marine Corporal, saluted smartly when John handed over his identification card.
“Sir! Welcome to Camp Hathcock,” the Corporal said. “Follow this road to the inner guardpost and present your credentials there. They’ll direct you to the main compound.”
John nodded. The Warthog’s tires crunched on gravel as the massive metal gate swung open.
Nestled in the Highland Mountains of Reach’s northern continent, Camp Hathcock was a top-level retreat; heads of state, VIPs, and top brass were the facility’s normal occupants—these and a division of veteran, battle-hardened Marines.
“Sir, please follow the Blue Road to this point here,” the Corporal at the inner gate instructed, gesturing at a point on a wall-mounted map, “and park in the Visitors’ Parking area.”
Minutes later, the main facility was in sight. John parked the Warthog and strode across the pleasantly familiar compound. He and the other Spartans had covertly made their way up here during their training. John suppressed a smile as he remembered how many times the young Spartans had commandeered food and supplies from the base. He inhaled deeply, smelling piñon pines and sage. He missed this place. He had been away from REACH for far too long.
Reach was one of the few places that John considered “safe” from the Covenant. There were a hundred ships and twenty Mark V MAC guns on the orbital stations overhead. Those guns were powered by fusion generators, buried deep within REACH. Each Mark V could propel a projectile so massive, and with such velocity, he doubted if even Covenant shields could withstand a single salvo from them.
His home would not fall.
Tall fences and razor wire encircled the inner compound of Camp Hathcock. The Master Chief stopped at the inner gate and saluted the MP there.
The Marine MP looked over the Master Chief in his dress uniform. He snapped to attention—his mouth dropped open and he stared unblinkingly. “They’re waiting for you, Master Chief, sir. Please go right on in.”
The guard’s reaction to the Master Chief—and the medals on his chest—was not uncommon.
First word of the Spartans and their accomplishments had spread despite the cloak of secrecy ONI had tried to surround them with. Three years ago the information had gone public at Admiral Stanforth’s insistence—for morale purposes.
It was hard to mistake the Master Chief for anything other than a Spartan. He stood just over two meters tall and weighed in at 130 kilos of rock-hard muscle and iron-dense bone.
There was a special insignia on his uniformed as well: a golden eagle poised with its talons forward—ready to strike. The bird clutched a lightning bolt in one talon and three arrows in the other.
The Spartan insignia was not the only thing about hi
s dress uniform that called attention to him. Campaign ribbons and medals covered the left side. Chief Mendez would have been proud of him, but John had long ago stopped keeping track of the honors that had been heaped upon him.
He didn’t like the flashy ornamentation. He and the other Spartans preferred to be inside their MJOLNIR armor. Without it, he felt exposed somehow, like he’d left his quarters without his skin. He had grown used to the enhanced speed and strength, to his thought and actions melding instantaneously.
The Master Chief marched into the main building. Outwardly, it had been designed to look like a simple log cabin, albeit a large one. Its inner walls were lined with Titanium-A armor plate, and underground were bunkers and plush conference rooms that extended a hundred meters below the earth and into the mountain of rock.
He rode the elevator to Subbasement III. There, he was instructed by the Military Police attendant to wait in the debriefing lounge for the committee to summon him.
Corporal Harland sat in the lounge, reading a copy of STARS magazine, nervously tapping his foot. He immediately stood and saluted as the Master Chief entered the room.
“At ease, Corporal,” the Master Chief said. He glanced disapprovingly at the thickly padded couches and decided to stand.
The Corporal stared at the Master Chief’s uniform, nervous. Finally he straightened and said, “May I ask you a question, sir?”
The Master Chief nodded.
“How do you get to be a Spartan? I mean—” His gaze fell to the floor. “I mean, if someone wanted to join your outfit. How would they do that?”
Join? The Master Chief pondered the word. How had he joined? Dr. Halsey had picked him and the other Spartans twenty-five years ago. It had been an honor... but he had never actually joined. In fact, he had never seen any other Spartans other than his class. Once, shortly after he’d “graduated” from the training, he had overheard Dr. Halsey mention that Chief Mendez was training another group of Spartans. He had never seen them—or the Chief.
