Silent Storm: A Master Chief Story

by Troy Denning

  “Biko?” It was a barrel-chested man with a long red beard—Erland Booth of the Biko Independence Army—who blurted the question. “That can’t happen!”

  “I doubt anyone here has a say in the matter, Commandant.” Garvin turned to Petora and raised a querying brow. “Do they?”

  “Not anyone the GLF knows, General. Our agent isn’t that high up.” In truth, the spy’s identity was known only to Arlo Casille, a thirty-year-old Ministry of Protection clerk who was running half of the GLF out of his cramped little office, right under the CMA’s nose. But she didn’t want to weaken her position by admitting there were some secrets that Arlo didn’t trust her with. She shot a sympathetic look in Booth’s direction, then added, “Perhaps Biko won’t suffer much. If the UNSC plan works, the battle should be in orbit.”

  “That’s a big if,” Booth grunted.

  “Not as big as you may think. The Spartans have already boarded and destroyed two vessels themselves.” Petora did not mention that, at Netherop, the Spartans had succeeded despite a deliberate attempt to get them killed. Until she knew that Garvin and the other envoys supported the GLF tactic of using the aliens to eliminate the Spartans, some things were better left unsaid. “And in this operation, they’ll be using three teams supported by the 21st ODST Space Assault Battalion.”

  “The Black Daggers.” Garvin seemed more impressed by the ODSTs than by the Spartans. “They’re a dangerous outfit. They captured our resupply depot at Bomogin before anyone realized they were coming.”

  “Which is why our agent thinks the attack may work.” Petora turned back to Booth. “Whether that would save Biko or get it annihilated is anyone’s guess.”

  “And not a question we should be asking,” said Reza Linberk.

  Booth’s face grew as red as his beard. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because we have no control over the situation,” Linberk replied. Venezia was only nine light-years from Gao, so Petora had worked with Linberk on a few joint missions. The woman was a cunning foe and a dangerous ally, someone who was so utterly cold-hearted that she would betray even her closest comrade to complete an assignment. “What we need to be discussing is how the Insurrection can benefit from the situation.”

  “Benefit?” Nanci Ander was aghast. “From an alien invasion?”

  “Exactly,” Linberk said. “If we coordinate our reaction, there are any number of ways to turn this to our advantage.”

  “I am in complete favor of this,” said Nemesio Breit. The vice counselor of the People’s Occupation on Reach, he was a tall man with a gaunt build and—as someone who lived on a planet with a major UNSC base—an infinite hatred of colonial authority. “We need to prepare now, so we’re ready to finish the Unified Earth Government after the Covenant has crippled it.”

  “What makes you think we’ll be around as well?” Castilla asked. “As far as we know, the aliens aren’t playing favorites here.”

  “Not so far,” Garvin agreed. “According to my sources, they glassed the Galodew Emancipation base on Redstow VI. The entire cadre was wiped out.”

  “What do you mean, glassed?” asked Ander.

  “Orbital plasma bombardment,” Petora said. “So hot it fuses a planet’s surface silica. The ground literally turns into glass.”

  The color drained from Ander’s face. “Oh my God. Is that what happened to Harvest?”

  If Ander had not heard what had become of her world after the evacuation, Petora didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Instead, she looked to Garvin. “What have you heard from your FLEETCOM spy?”

  “Glassed, yes.” Garvin turned to Ander. “I’m so sorry, Nanci.”

  Ander slumped back in her chair, her lips trembling.

  “Okay, then—we have to throw in with the UNSC,” Booth said. His face had gone as pale as Ander’s. “It sucks, but what choice do we have? Let the Covenant glass everything?”

  “We could educate them,” Petora said. “The aliens probably don’t understand how many humans hate the UNSC. If we can enlighten them, they may see us as an ally instead of an enemy.”

  “In time to save Biko?” Booth asked.

  “Would you rather rely on the UNSC?” Petora asked. “Your Independence Army has tried to overthrow their chancellor six times.”

  “Seven,” Booth replied. “And last time, we held Mandelam for two months.”

  “So you’re getting stronger,” Petora said. “And now the UNSC is busy fighting aliens, and not us.”

  “I like how you think,” Booth said, his smile widening. “It really is the perfect opportunity, isn’t it?”

  “And one you must seize,” Garvin added.

  “I’ll take it up with the Chamber.” A note of resentment crept into Booth’s tone. “But keep in mind: nobody tells the Biko Independence Army what to do.”

  “He wasn’t,” Petora said. “The BIA literally has no choice, Commandant. Biko has always been a thorn in the UNSC’s side.”

  “So?”

  “So even if the UNSC could save it, why would they?” Petora shook her head. “Biko takes more resources for them to hold than it’s worth to them.”

  “I agree,” Garvin added. “If the aliens attack, Biko is on its own. The chancellor will resist with the planetary forces available to her, but it won’t be enough.”

  “You have only one hope,” Petora said. “Take control of the planetary government before the Covenant arrives—and try to make them see that you’re not their enemy.”

  Booth dropped his eyes and nodded. “Okay, but we’re going to need help.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange support,” Garvin said. His eyes were bright with excitement. No doubt this was exactly the outcome he had hoped for when he called the meeting—the birth of an insurrectionist coalition. “What will you need?”

  “Troops and transport,” Booth said. “We can assemble on Seoba, then take the orbital facilities before the Chancellor’s Guards—that’s the planetary militia—know what hit them.”

  “Where’s Seoba?” Garvin asked.

  “Third moon,” Booth said. “There’s an old ice quarry there we can use as a mustering zone. The Chamber’s been eyeing it as a staging area for our next try.”

  “Good.” Garvin looked around the table, then asked, “Who’s in?”

  Petora was the first to raise a hand . . . then Linberk spoke.

  “Aren’t we moving rather fast on this?” It was more of a complaint than a question. “Maybe we should consider another option.”

  “Like what?” Petora asked. “Leaving Biko to get glassed?”

  “Like doing what the commandant first suggested,” Linberk said. “Offering our help to the UNSC instead of continuing to harass them.”

  Castilla shook her head. “Our support wouldn’t convince the UNSC to defend Biko,” she said. “The Insurrection has, at best, several dozen outdated frigates and a few hundred corvettes. Putting them at the UNSC’s disposal wouldn’t affect their strategic thinking at all.”

  “But it would give them one less problem to worry about,” Linberk said. “If the aliens are as powerful as we’re hearing, that might be enough to negotiate independence for all of our worlds. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

  “And get us all glassed, chica.” Petora was being deliberately dismissive. The suggestion would be a tempting one to her fellow envoys—a quick way to achieve what the insurrectionists had been pursuing for decades—and she didn’t want it undermining the idea she was about to offer. “Why would the UNSC defend us if we’re independent? They’re going to have enough problems defending their own worlds.”

  “Señora Zoyas is right,” Garvin said. He gave Petora an approving nod. “We’d be doing the UNSC a favor by giving their fleets that much less to defend.”

  “Then we make defending our worlds a condition,” Linberk said. “If the UNSC can’t stop the Covenant now, we’re signing our own death warrants by continuing to harass them.”

  Petora clucked her ton
gue. “Don’t be so dramatic, my friend. You make it hard to think clearly.”

  Booth scowled. “You have a better idea?”

  “One that has a greater chance of saving our worlds, yes.” She shifted her gaze to the rest of the table. “We should offer the aliens a separate peace—one that will deliver us independence, no matter who wins.”

  “Nice in theory.” The doubt in Linberk’s voice was exaggerated, no doubt a reprisal for Petora’s putdown earlier. “But why should the Covenant accept? Can we even communicate with them?”

  “Probably,” Garvin said. “My source in FLEETCOM says they sent a message at Harvest . . . in English: ‘Your destruction is the will of the gods, and we are their instrument.’ ”

  “Oh, that makes them sound like they’re open to an alliance,” Linberk said, unable to hide her sarcasm. “And the way they’re rolling over the UNSC, they can’t be worried about an attack from us.”

  “If they even know who we are,” Ander added. “They probably think all humans are the same. That seems more likely.”

  “They won’t when they see what we can offer them,” Petora said. “Fear is not the only way to bring an enemy to the bargaining table. Need often works as well.”

  “And what do we have that they need?” Linberk asked.

  “Intelligence, of course.” Garvin’s voice was enthusiastic. “It’s what every invading force needs.”

  Petora smiled. “Exactly,” she said. “The Covenant will spare our worlds not because they’re afraid of us, but because they need us.”

  “Need us for what, exactly?” Breit asked. “To tell them where to find Earth?”

  His proposal was received in silence.

  Breit looked around the table. “Come on,” he said. “This is how we win. We tell the aliens where to find Earth, then poof—our colonial masters are out of the picture!”

  “And afterward?” Castilla asked. “We just hope the aliens understand that we’re the good humans and leave us alone?”

  “We are the good humans!”

  “All the same, I’m not sure we should start with destroying humanity’s birthplace,” Garvin said. “Let’s offer something smaller and see if they can be trusted.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Noti said. “While you’re dancing around with the Covenant, we’re being slaughtered by the Spartans on Jericho VII.”

  “Then we start by using the Covenant to get rid of the Spartans, okay?” Petora said. “That’s what we offer the aliens first—intelligence on the prowler ambush at Biko.”

  “Works for me,” Booth said. “But only if saving Biko is part of the deal.”

  Garvin smiled. “I like it.” He turned to Castilla. “Lyrenne?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s worth a try,” she said. “The intelligence is valuable enough that the aliens will want to keep it coming, so it’s the perfect chance for us to see if they can actually be trusted.”

  “Does it matter whether they can be trusted?” asked Noti. “Every Spartan they kill means a thousand of our brothers and sisters will still be alive to keep fighting when the aliens are gone.”

  “And what if they’re not gone?” Ander said. “If they just turn around and glass us too, we’re cutting our own throats by helping them get rid of the Spartans.”

  “Which is all the more reason to see if they can be trusted now,” Garvin said. He turned to Petora. “How many Spartans does the UNSC have?”

  “Our agent says there are three teams with Task Force Yama.” Petora spread her hands. “But in the entire UNSC? There could be three platoons, or three divisions. He doesn’t say.”

  “Not three divisions, no way,” Garvin said. “If there were that many, my guy in FLEETCOM would have warned me about that.”

  “So, maybe a battalion, then?” Castilla suggested. “If there are Spartans on Jericho VII, they’re probably on other worlds too.”

  Garvin thought for a moment, then said, “I imagine a battalion at the most. I can’t see them keeping it secret if the program’s any larger than those numbers.”

  “A battalion would only be about a thousand Spartans—if that many,” said Breit. “What happens when we run out? We’re gonna need to keep feeding the aliens valuable intelligence, and Earth’s location—”

  “Is the last thing we reveal.” Garvin’s voice was firm. “We hold that back until we know they can be trusted.”

  “Agreed,” Petora said. “That information will be worth more to us when we know which side is likely to win. If the Covenant gets the upper hand, we can use Earth’s location to buy their goodwill. If the UNSC is winning, we’ll have the leverage to strike a deal for our independence. Either way, we win.”

  Garvin remained silent for a moment, his gaze sliding slowly from Petora to the other envoys, pausing on each for a confirming nod. When he finally received one from Castilla, he smiled and drew himself up straight.

  “Then it looks like we have a plan, folks,” he said. “And the UNSC be damned.”

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  * * *

  1426 hours, March 18, 2526 (military calendar)

  UNSC Razor-class Prowler Ghost Song

  Insertion Approach, Moon Seoba, Biko Planetary System, Kolaqoa System

  The drop bay of a Razor-class prowler could hold a full forty-member ODST platoon in vacuum-rated armor and thruster packs, but just barely. With an ONI special ops advisor and a Spartan in Mjolnir power armor attached to the unit, the bay was packed so tight that John-117 stood with his back pressed against the rear bulkhead. When he looked forward, all he saw between him and the jump hatch was a black pond of helmet-tops.

  That was the first problem with Colonel Crowther’s assault plan. It would take a minimum of four seconds to deploy forty-two soldiers, so even a standard drop-and-go would leave the platoon strewn across thirty kilometers of space—a real problem when they couldn’t break comm silence to locate each other and assemble. And slingshot maneuvers were out of the question. Any attempt to simultaneously launch that many people through a jump hatch would end with personnel ricocheting off each other like billiard balls.

  The second problem with Crowther’s plan was that the Spartans were still bringing up the rear. That meant they would be dismounting last and unable to provide support if the platoon came under fire as it was forming up. It was a poor use of their speed and power, but even Avery Johnson had been unable to convince the colonel to change his mind. Crowther was obviously impressed with the Spartans’ abilities, but with their comparative lack of experience in the field, he didn’t trust their judgment. His most-seasoned Black Daggers had hundreds of engagements under their belts, and when his platoons entered combat, those were the people he wanted in front.

  He was wrong, of course.

  But John didn’t see how he could prove that. Today’s exercise was supposed to be a rehearsal for dismount-under-fire, but there wouldn’t be any fire, and the enemy hadn’t even arrived yet. Task Force Yama was simply slipping into an abandoned ice quarry on the moon Seoba and taking cover until the aliens arrived in the Biko planetary system. Crowther had decided to use the opportunity to practice a full-scale landing. The drill would probably expose a few logistical problems, but it wasn’t going to convince anyone that the colonel was making a mistake.

  John was still considering his options—just brooding, really—when the husky voice of the Ghost Song’s female communications officer came over the prowler’s internal communications net.

  “First Platoon Alpha Company, stand by for Top Urgent burst from Dagger Actual.”

  Dagger Actual was the comm designation for Colonel Crowther, and a burst transmission was an encrypted, prerecorded message compressed into a millisecond-long signal. The idea was to minimize the chance of interception by an unintended party, but even burst transmissions could be detected by an alert enemy about a third of the time. There was no way Crowther would be taking that kind of risk just to throw a curve into the drill. Something was wrong.r />
  A moment later, Crowther’s voice sounded inside John’s helmet. “All personnel: Operation: ICE DANCE is no longer a drill. Repeat, no drill. Post-slip comm intercepts indicate the Biko Independence Army is preparing a coup against the colonial chancellor. Under normal circumstances, we would share our intelligence with the chancellor and place ourselves at her disposal.

  “Circumstances are now anything but normal. Our mission against the Covenant still takes precedence. Captain Ascot and I agree that our original plan still offers the best chance of success, so Task Force Yama will occupy the Seoba ice quarry as planned.

  “Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones to recognize an abandoned quarry’s value as a staging area. An insurrectionist force has already occupied Seoba and appears to be using our quarry as a mustering area.”

  John smiled inside his helmet. The 21st was going into battle under perilous conditions . . . and perilous conditions were what Spartans did best. Once Crowther saw how they performed under pressure, he’d be falling over himself to move them to the front of the attack.

  Crowther’s message continued—the entire Uniform Code of Military Justice could have been compressed and transmitted in a single microburst—and John paid close attention, looking for opportunities for the Spartans to shine.

  “The key to this operation will be isolating local forces before they can report they’re under attack. To that end, the Vanishing Point will be jamming insurrectionist communications on Seoba. But we don’t know what kind of anti-jamming or delayed transmission technology they may have, so if you happen across anything that looks like a portable comm station . . . take it out.

  “When the insurrectionist commanders lose contact with their force on Seoba, they’ll probably assume the chancellor’s militia discovered their base and took it out. With any luck, that will force them to abandon their coup and fade back into hiding. But it could also push them into an early attack. Either way, they won’t have any reason to return to Seoba—and if they do, our prowlers will make sure that none of their vessels get anywhere near us.