Ackerson waved them closer.
A woman sat with her back to them; opposite her sat a middle-aged gentleman.
The man was gray and balding. The woman appeared older than regs permitted before mandatory retirement. Her osteoporotic slump, slender frail arms, and thinning white hair indicated extreme age.
Kurt froze as he spotted the one- and three-star rank insignia on their collars and snapped off a salute. "Vice Admiral, ma'am," he said. "Rear Admiral, sir."
The Vice Admiral ignored Mendez and scrutinized Kurt. "Sit," she said, "both of you."
Kurt didn't recognize either of these high-ranking officers, and they didn't bother to introduce themselves.
He did as he was ordered, as did Mendez. Even sitting, though, his back was ramrod straight, his chest out, and eyes forward.
"We were reviewing the record of your SPARTAN-IIIs since they went operational nine months ago," she said. "Impressive."
The Rear Admiral gestured at floating holographic panes that contained after-action reports, still shots of battlefields filled with Covenant corpses, and ship damage-assessment profiles. "The insurrection of Mamore," he said "that nasty business at New Constantinople, actions in the Bonanza asteroid belt and the Far-gone colony platforms, and half a dozen other engagements—this reads like the campaign record of a cracking good battalion, not a company of three hundred. Dammed impressive."
"That was only a fraction of the SPARTAN-III program potential," Colonel Ackerson said. His eyes stared at some distant point.
"I'm sorry, sir," Kurt said. " 'Was'?"
The Vice Admiral stiffened. It was clear that she was not accustomed to her junior officers asking questions.
But Kurt had to. These were his men and women they were talking about. He'd kept his eyes and ears open for news on Alpha Company, and had cultivated intelligence sources outside ONI, Section Three, and Beta-5. Being Commandant of Camp Currahee had its privileges, and he had learned how to use them. He had managed to track his Spartans during the last seven months, until his sources had mysteriously gone silent six days ago. Only the AI Deep Winter had given a clue as to their whereabouts: Operation PROMETHEUS.
"Tell me about the selection process for the next class of SPARTAN-IIIs," the Vice Admiral asked Kurt.
"Ma'am," Kurt said, "we are operating under Colonel Acker-son's expanded selection criteria, but there are not enough age-appropriate genetic matches to meet the larger second-class target number."
"There are sufficient genetic matches," Colonel Ackerson corrected. His face was an impassive mask. "What's missing are data to find additional matches. We need to proscribe mandatory genetic screening in the outer colonies. Those untapped populations are—"
"That's the last thing we need in the outer colonies," the Rear Admiral said. "We're just getting a handle on a near civil war. You tell an O.C. they got to register their kids' genes, and they'll all be reaching for their rifles."
The Vice Admiral steepled her withered hands. "Say it is part of a vaccine program. We take a microscopic sample as we inject the children. Inform no one."
The Rear Admiral looked dubious, but offered no further comment.
"Go on. Lieutenant," she said.
"We have identified 375 candidates," Kurt said. "Slightly less than we started with for Alpha Company, but we have learned from our mistakes. We will be able to graduate a much higher percentage this time."
He nodded toward Mendez to give the Chief the credit he richly deserved. Mendez sat completely still and Kurt saw he wore his poker face.
Every instinct Kurt had screamed that something was wrong here.
"But," the Rear Admiral said, "that's nowhere near the one thousand projection for the second wave."
A brief scowl played over Ackerson's lip. "No, sir."
The Vice Admiral set her hands flat on the table and leaned closer to Kurt. "What if we loosen the new genetic selection criteria?"
Kurt took note of the "we" in her question. There was a subtle shift in the power structure at the table. With a single word, the Vice Admiral had made Kurt a part of their group.
"Our new bioaugmentation protocols target a very specific genetic set. Any deviation from that set would geometrically increase the failure rate," Kurt said. The thought of dozens of Spartans being tortured and ultimately crippled as they lay helpless in a medical bay filled him with revulsion. He managed to contain the feeling.
The Vice Admiral raised one threadbare brow. "You've done your homework. Lieutenant."
"However, as our augmentation technology improves," Ackerson said, "one day we will be able to expand the selection parameters, maybe to include the entire general population."
"But not today, Colonel," the Rear Admiral said, and sighed. "So we're back to about three hundred SPARTAN-IIIs. That will have to do then."
Kurt wanted to correct him—three hundred new Spartans plus those in Alpha Company.
"Let's move on to the review of Alpha and Operation PROMETHEUS," the Vice Admiral said, and her face darkened.
Colonel Ackerson cleared his throat. "Operation PROMETHEUS occurred on the Covenant manufacturing site designated as K7-49."
A holographic asteroid materialized drifting over the table, a rock with molten cracks that made a spiderweb pattern over its surface.
"K7-49 was discovered when the prowler Razor's Edge managed to attach a telemetry probe on an enemy frigate during the Battle of New Harmony," Ackerson said. "They then followed the craft through Slipspace, the first and only time this technology has actually worked, I might add, and they discovered this rock seventeen light-years past the UNSC outer boundary."
The image magnified, revealing midaltitude images of factories
on the surface that belched smoke and cinder, and showed that the volcanic fissures were canals of flowing molten metal. A gossamer lattice surrounded the asteroid, tiny lights winked on the filaments, and black specks drifted near.
"Spectral enhancement," the Rear Admiral said, "showed us what they're using all that metal for."
The view shifted closer. The latticework girders were hundred-meter-wide beams, and the black specks appeared to be the bones of whales in orbit over K7-49—a dozen partially constructed Covenant warships.
Kurt had a difficult time believing what he was seeing. So many ships. How large was the Covenant fleet? And only seventeen light-years from the UNSC frontier? It could be nothing less than a prelude to an all-out assault.
"K7-49 is one large orbital shipyard," Ackerson explained. "All the apparent volcanism is artificial, created by these." He tapped his tablet once more. Thirty infrared dots appeared on the surface of the asteroid. "High-output plasma reactors that Hquefy metallurgical components, which are refined, shaped, and then transported via gravity beams for final assembly."
"The PROMETHEUS op was a high-risk insertion onto the surface of K7-49," the Rear Admiral explained. "Three hundred Spartans hit dirt at 0700, July 27. Their mission was to disable as many of these reactors as possible—enough so the liquid contents of the facility would solidify and permanently clog their capacity to produce alloy."
Colonel Ackerson then tapped the holographic display. "STARS system and TEAMCAM recorded Alpha Company's process."
A handful of the hot infrared points on the asteroid's surface flared and then cooled to black.
"Initial resistance was light." Ackerson tapped a button and a new window opened.
On this display, Spartans in Semi-Powered Infiltration armor systems moved, their camouflaged patterns shifting imperfectly against the molten metal and black smoke of the factory Kurt wished his suggested upgrades for the SPI armor's software had been implemented before Alpha had graduated. There was a burp of suppressed submachine gun fire, and a pod of Grunt salve workers fell dead.
"After two days," the Admiral said, "seven rectors were rendered inoperative and a counterforce was finally organized by existing Covenant units."
A new video feed appeared.
&nbs
p; The vulturelike Jackals moved in squads through large courtyards, and filed over archways. They were more organized than their Grunt counterparts, and they worked in fire teams, methodically clearing section by section. But Kurt knew his Spartans wouldn't be cornered. They would be the hunters.
Thirty Jackals moved into a circular court, where Engineers tended a churning pool of molten steel. The Jackals cleared every hiding spot, and then started to cross, warily scanning the rooftops.
Flagstones exploded and sent the Jackals sprawling. Sniper fire took out the stunned aliens before they could get their shields in place.
"The Covenant counterresponse was neutralized," the Rear Admiral continued, "and over the next three days. Alpha Company destroyed thirteen more reactors."
The large infrared asteroid-wide view changed. Two-thirds of the surface had cooled to dull red.
"But," the Rear Admiral said, "a massive counterforce appeared in orbit and descended to the surface."
Colonel Ackerson opened three more holographic windows: SPARTAN-IIIs engaged Elites on the ground, trading fire from cover. Banshee fliers swooped down from building tops—two
Spartans fired shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles and stopped the air assault cold.
"On day seven," the Admiral said, "additional Covenant reinforcements arrived."
The video from a helmet camera showed a dozen SPARTAN-IIIs limping and falling on a smoldering landscape of twisted metal. There was no unit cohesion. No two-man teams covering one another. In the heat-blurred background, Elites took up superior positions with good cover.
"By now," the Rear Admiral said, "Eighty-nine percent of the reactors had been destroyed. Sufficient cooling had occurred to permanently shut the operation down. Alpha Company was cut off from their Calypso exfiltration craft."
The window showing the SPARTAN-IIIs tilted sideways as the owner of the helmet cam fell.
Ackerson rotated the holographic display 90 degrees to rectify the image.
Three Spartans remained standing, firing suppressing bursts from their MA5Ks behind a crashed Banshee flier; then they broke from the cover and sprinted—a second before the flier was destroyed by an energy mortar. IFF tags at the bottom of the screen identified these Spartans as Robert, Shane, and, carried between them, Jane. She had been the first candidate to jump that first night of indoctrination.
TEAMBIO appeared in another window. Robert's and Shane's blood pressure was close to the hypertensive limit. Jane's bio signs were flatlined.
Seeing them like this… it felt like someone had driven a metal spike into Kurt's chest. A pair of hulking Covenant Hunters blocked the Spartans' retreat. They raised their two-meterlong fuel-rod arm cannons.
Robert unloaded his assault rifle at them, which hardly made the pair flinch as it spanged off their thick armor. Shane
switched to his sniper rifle and shot through one Hunter's unarmed midsection, and then pumped two rounds into the other's vulnerable abdomen. They both went down, but still moved, only momentarily incapacitated.
Elite fire teams, meanwhile, popped up on either side and unleashed a volley of needles and plasma shot.
Robert caught a blot of plasma in the stomach—it stuck there, burning through his SPI armor like paper. Screaming, he managed to reload and spray his MA5B on full auto at the Elite who had shot him. TEAMBIO showed his heart in full arrest, but he still grabbed a grenade, pulled the pin, and lobbed it at the enemy fire team… and then he fell.
Shane paused to look at Robert and Jane—then turned back to the Elite fire team, and shot in three-round controlled bursts.
More Elites appeared, surrounding the lone Spartan.
Shane's rifle clacked, empty. He pulled out his M6 pistol and continued to fire.
An energy motor detonated like a small sun two meters away.
Shane tumbled through the air, and landed prone, unmov-ing.
"And that's all we have," Colonel Ackerson stated.
Kurt continued to stare at the screen of static, his heart racing, half expecting the feed to go live again and show Shane gather up Robert and Jane, and together they'd limp off the battlefield, wounded, but alive.
Seven years Kurt had trained them, and grown to respect them. Now they were dead. Their sacrifice had saved countless human lives, and yet Kurt still felt like he'd lost everything. He wanted to look away from the screen, but couldn't.
This was his fault. He had failed them. His training hadn't prepared them. He should have rectified the flaws in their Mark-! PR suits and fixed them faster.
Mendez reached over and tapped the Colonel's tablet.
The display mercifully blanked and faded away.
Ackerson shot the Chief a glare, but Mendez ignored him.
"Recent drone recon shows the entire complex cold," the Rear Admiral said. "No more ships will be built at K7-49."
"Just to clarify," Kurt whispered, and then he paused to clear his throat. "There were no survivors of Operation PROMETHEUS?"
"It is regrettable." the Vice Admiral said with the slightest softness now in her voice. "But we would do it again if presented with a similar opportunity, Lieutenant. Such a facility within two weeks' journey of the UNSC outer colonies… your Spartans prevented the building of a Covenant armada that would have resulted in nothing less than the massacre of billions. They are heroes."
Ashes. That's all Kurt felt.
He glanced at Mendez. There was no emotion on his face. The man held his pain well.
"I understand, ma'am," Kurt said.
"Good," she said, all trace of pity had now evaporated from her tone. "I've put you in for a
promotion. Your Spartans performed well above the program's projected parameters. You are to be commended."
Kurt felt the only thing he deserved was a court-martial, but he said nothing.
"Now I want you to focus and accelerate the training of the Beta Company Spartans," she said. "We have a war to win."
CHAPTER
NINE
1620 HOURS, AUGUST 24, 2541 (MILITARY CALENDAR) ZETA DORADUS SYSTEM, NEAR CAMP CURRAHEE, PLANET ONYX (FOUR YEARS AFTER SPARTAN-III ALPHA COMPANY OPERATION PROMETHEUS)
Bullets peppered the dirt near Tom's head. He pushed farther back into the hole, hugging the ground, trying to be as flat as possible.
The irony was Team Foxtrot had done everything by the book. Maybe that was the lesson today: going by the book doesn't always work.
Tom had led them through the forest, evading snipers and patrols of drill instructors waiting to jump them. They made it too easy.
That should have been his first clue. The DIs never made things easy for them.
When they'd come to the open field he'd checked the perimeter. No one had been there. He'd waited, though, and checked and rechecked. DIs in their Mark-II Semi-Powered Infiltration armor were hard to spot even with the thermal imagers in his field binoculars.
Tom had then warily led his team onto the field and toward the pole with a bell. That was the mission: ring the bell. They had had two hours to find and ring the thing to qualify for continued Spartan training.
There were 418 candidates, and only three hundred slots. Not all of them could be Spartans.
His mistake had been leading his entire team into the clear. They'd all been too eager.
It got them ambushed.
Machine-gun fire from the treetops rained down on them. Adam and Min in flanking positions were immediately taken out.
Only Tom and Lucy had made it to the muddy hole. It was just deep enough to keep from getting shot.
"This is crazy," Lucy spat through her mud-covered face. "We gotta do something."
"They have to run out of ammo sooner or later," Tom told her. "Or one of the other teams will show up and get us out of this jam."
"Sure they will," Lucy said. "After they ring the bell." She squinted at the trees. "There has to be a way out of this. Automated gun turrets up there. That's why they didn't show up on the thermals."
&nbs
p; That's what the Lieutenant was always saying about machines: "They easily fool the unsuspecting… but they're also easy to break."
The guns wouldn't kill them—but they'd sure as heck stop them cold. With only gray sweat suits and light boots for protection, the stun rounds hit so hard they numbed whatever they hit: legs or arms or God help you if you got nailed in the head or groin or an eye.
"Nuts to this." Lucy rose into a crouching stance.
Tom grabbed her ankle, pulled her down, and punched her in the gut.
Lucy doubled, but she recovered fast—rolled over Tom and got him in a stranglehold.
Tom shrugged out of the lock and held up both hands. "Come on," he said. "Truce. There has to be a way out of this—a way with us not getting shot."
Lucy glared at him, but then said, "What do you have in mind?"
"What is the point of this 'exercise,' Lieutenant?" Deep Winter asked.
The AI holographic projection of an old man took a step toward the bank of monitors and touched the screen showing a boy and a girl pinned by machine-gun fire. A crackle of ice spread over the plastic.
Chief Mendez stood, and swatted at a mosquito, frowning as he glanced back and forth among the two dozen displays in Camp Currahee's control center. The air conditioner had broken, and both Mendez's and Kurt's uniforms were soaked with sweat.
Kurt said, "Our candidates are doing well in their studies?"
Deep Winter turned his glacier-blue gaze to the Lieutenant. "You've have seen my reports. You know they are. Since you announced their grades were a factor in the selection process, they practically kill themselves every night to learn everything before they pass out. Frankly, I don't see—"
"1 suggest," Kurt said, "you not worry about seeing the point of my battlefield drills, and focus on keeping the candidates on track with their studies."
What could an AI possibly know what it was like on a real mission? Bullets zinging so close over your head that you didn't so much as hear them hut felt them pass. Or what it was like to get hit, but still have to keep going, bleeding, because if you didn't everyone on your team would die?
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