by Troy Denning
“I can see why you wouldn’t want it to,” Crowther said. “But deploying child soldiers is a violation of about six articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. When the Judge Advocate General hears about this, you’re going to confinement for a very long time, Doctor.”
“The Spartans are the UNSC’s best hope of stopping the aliens,” Halsey said. “Do you really think my superiors will let the Judge Advocate General hear about this?”
“Is that a threat, Dr. Halsey?”
“All right, that’s enough.” Ascot shot them each a warning scowl, then turned her gaze on John. She spent several moments studying his two-meter bulk—no doubt trying to reconcile his size and physical development with that of a fifteen-year-old boy. Finally, she exhaled and seemed to conclude there might be some aspects of the SPARTAN program she was better off not knowing. “I’ll discuss the legal aspects with Admiral Stanforth personally. But outside this room, no one breathes a word about the Spartans’ age. Clear?”
Crowther’s face reddened, but he said, “Very well—as long as I’m allowed to take it into consideration when making assignments. I won’t be a party to sending children into combat.”
“They’re not children,” Halsey retorted. “That should be rather obvious from looking at them.”
“Nevertheless . . . Colonel Crowther will have autonomy over his personnel assignments.” Ascot paused, then added, “I’m not quite sure what you’ve involved us in, Dr. Halsey. But until I am, we’ll be playing this by the book.”
“And losing the war.”
Halsey’s voice was bitter, and John shared her sentiment. The Spartans were being excluded from the operation—not because John had made a mistake, but because their true age gave Crowther an excuse to sideline them. He just hoped Halsey was wrong about the consequences. Humanity’s destruction seemed a high price to pay for one man’s vanity.
Ascot’s reply was surprisingly calm. “I hope you’re wrong, Dr. Halsey, but it’s my decision to make.”
“Then you should reconsider.”
“I won’t.”
Halsey sighed. “Of course not.”
John’s stomach sank, and he sneaked a glance toward Johnson, half expecting to find a gleam in the sergeant’s eye that suggested he had already figured a way around Ascot’s decision. Instead, all John saw were arched brows and soft eyes, a battle-hardened soldier watching him as if John had just taken a Vulcan round to the gut, as if all that remained was the bleeding out.
It was a look of pity.
John snapped his gaze away. That was the last thing he wanted from Avery Johnson. Hector Nyeto seemed to be the only soldier in the room who respected him and his Spartans, who could see beyond their age and enhancements to what they really were.
But Hector Nyeto did not command Task Force Yama. Halima Ascot did, and if she wanted the Spartans to stand down, then that’s what would happen. They were soldiers—even if only three people in the room actually realized it—and soldiers obeyed orders.
Just when John was starting to think the long silence meant the meeting was drawing to a close, Dr. Halsey gave another disgruntled sigh and looked past Ascot to address Crowther.
“Now that you’ve secured your scapegoat, Colonel,” she said, “perhaps we should examine the underlying reason for Alpha Company’s high casualty rate?”
“By all means, Doctor.” Crowther’s tone was surprisingly open. “The initial situation certainly wasn’t John’s fault.”
“The initial situation was a mess.” Avery Johnson’s tone was reasonable, but firm. “Alpha Company was going to take casualties dropping into that. There’s no way around it.”
“Precisely.” Halsey nodded toward Nyeto. “As the lieutenant commander pointed out earlier, whether or not the insurrectionists were expecting us, they were certainly ready.”
“I’m not sure I see the distinction,” Ascot said.
“Expecting means they knew we specifically were coming,” Nyeto said. “Somebody would have had to tell them before we entered slipspace.”
“That’s hardly impossible,” Johnson said. “The innies have spies everywhere.”
“Which is why we take extraordinary precautions with movement orders,” Ascot said. “The number of people who knew we were headed to Biko was substantial. But the number who knew we intended to stage out of the Seoba ice quarry? I can count that number on my hands.”
“I didn’t even know myself until we were in-system,” Nyeto said. “And the orders came with a comm-lockdown directive. No way anyone on Seoba knew we were coming.”
It seemed to John the discussion was focusing on the wrong thing. Even if the insurrectionists had known that Task Force Yama intended to stage out of the ice quarry, it didn’t make any sense for them to be there when the prowlers arrived. Alpha Company might have had a 32 percent casualty rate, but between KIAs and captures, the insurrectionists had suffered a 100 percent rate. If they had known a task force full of crack space-assault troops was headed their way, why would they have stuck around to take that kind of punishment?
Simple answer: They wouldn’t have.
But John kept his thoughts to himself. He was keenly aware that most of the people at the table now saw him as nothing more than a supersized version of the “kidmando” from back on Reach, and he didn’t want to say anything that might contribute to that impression—at least, not until it grew clear they couldn’t figure out the situation themselves.
“What about intercepts?” Hamm asked. “Anything there to suggest they knew we were coming?”
Ascot shook her head. “They were keeping their comm traffic light,” she said. “We intercepted a few unattributed comm clicks and some encrypted line-of-sight messages, mostly from a few supply transports they were using as recon boats. It’s obvious they were mapping Guards positions, but there was no alert from the quarry about us. Just a couple of standard acknowledgments and a directive about the next surveillance target.”
“So when did they realize an attack was coming?” Halsey asked.
“If they were good, when we started to jam their outgoing communications,” Ascot said. “Their operators nearly broke through before Commander Nyeto downed the antenna, so I’d say they were decent. They probably sounded the alert right after we started jamming.”
“Perhaps you could put that in chronological terms,” Halsey suggested. “For those of us who aren’t intimately familiar with the timing of an insertion run.”
Ascot smiled. “Of course. The jamming would have started on final approach, about five minutes out.”
Halsey looked surprised. “That little?”
“The sooner the jamming starts, the longer you need to hold it before taking out the comm facilities,” Ascot said. “Five minutes is about the maximum you can count on.”
“More to the point, it’s plenty of time for a unit to reach its gunnery positions,” Crowther said. “But only if those positions are preassigned and the personnel have been well drilled.”
“Of course, five minutes isn’t enough time to build those bunkers,” Hamm added. “Or even to move the Vulcans into position. Those defenses were prepared long before the innies knew we were coming. Probably even before we knew we were coming.”
Silence filled the room, and John tried to be patient and avoid looking bored. They were thinking from the top down—like the officers and intelligence operators they were—and he had studied enough planning histories to know that their approach usually produced good results . . . sooner or later.
“What about after the jamming started?” Halsey asked. “How soon did they start firing on you?”
“Right after we launched against the comm center,” Nyeto said. “And it was fast. Our second missile hadn’t even hit before they opened up with those Vulcans.”
Ascot frowned. “They didn’t fire on you during approach?”
“That’s what I just said,” Nyeto said. “Not until we launched.”
“Then why did you mi
ss?”
Nyeto flushed and dropped his chin. “We didn’t miss, exactly,” he said. “We just didn’t score a direct hit.”
“And that’s a miss,” Crowther said. What he didn’t say—though his tone made it clear—was that Nyeto’s miss had cost the lives of a lot of Alpha Company soldiers. “Why was there no second run?”
“There was a second run, when we came back to finish the drop.” Nyeto was starting to sound testy. “That’s when we lost the Ghost Star.”
Another pause settled over the table, and John began to wonder how long it would take them to reach the obvious conclusion.
The insurrectionists had been expecting someone—just not the UNSC.
“John?”
John blinked and looked down the table to see Avery Johnson leaning back in his chair, tugging at his mustache and appearing expectant.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” he said. “I didn’t realize I had missed something.”
“Relax, son. You didn’t miss anything.”
John was really beginning to hate that—being called son—but nothing good would come of complaining about it. They would probably just dismiss him as a moody teenager. He swallowed his irritation and sat a little straighter in his chair.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“Why don’t you tell us what you think,” Johnson said. “You were in the thick of things, same as me. Did it seem like they were expecting us?”
“Not us,” John said. He wasn’t sure what to make of the prodding. Was Johnson still feeling sorry for him—or trying to give him a chance to win Ascot’s confidence? “They had to realize they couldn’t win. If they had known we were coming, they would have been long gone when we arrived.”
Only Johnson’s eyes did not light with realization. He was infantry—he understood what happened when someone started a fight they couldn’t win. They got killed.
“But you know that as well as I do, Sergeant.”
Johnson shrugged. “Never hurts to confirm your range.”
It was an old sniper saying, a reminder to check your assumptions before taking the shot.
“You seem certain of your assessment, John.” Crowther sounded more intrigued than challenging. “But maybe the enemy thought they could win?”
John shook his head. “Sorry, sir, but no. If they had built the bunkers to defend against us, they would’ve had to know we were coming before we entered slipspace. And if they had that kind of intelligence, they would have known we were coming heavy and they were going to die. So why stay?”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with John on this, sir,” Hamm said reluctantly. She did not quite sound like she was in physical pain, but close. “They had nothing to gain by staying.”
Crowther nodded, but kept his attention fixed on John. “Go on, son.”
John let out a breath, then continued, “What if they were waiting for someone else?”
Crowther nodded more vigorously. “That makes sense,” he said. “The rebels we captured yesterday are from all over—Eridanus Secundus, Jericho VII, Venezia, even Reach. Maybe they were waiting for more reinforcements.”
“Yeah,” Nyeto said. “Like maybe from Gao.”
“Gao?” Ascot asked. “Isn’t that where you’re from?”
“That’s right,” Nyeto said. “Place is filthy with insurrectionists.”
“So what are they doing on Seoba?” Halsey’s question had a rhetorical ring to it. “Not the Gaos in particular—all of them?”
“This is bad.” Johnson was no longer leaning back in his chair. In fact, he looked like he was about ready to spring out of it. “It’s the coup attempt. The insurrectionists are unifying their command.”
The officers exchanged uneasy glances, and Nyeto seemed more shaken than anyone, with a queasy expression and beads of sweat forming on his brow.
“But they’ve got to know the aliens are glassing Etalan.” As Nyeto spoke, a terrible thought—an unbelievable possibility—was forming in John’s mind. “Why take Biko when it’s next—”
“Wait,” John said. “I know who the innies were expecting.”
All eyes turned toward him, and Crowther said, “How long are you going to keep us in suspense, son?”
John frowned. “I wish . . .” . . . you’d all stop calling me son. He caught himself, then said, “Never mind. They were expecting the Covenant.”
“They were going to ambush—” Crowther stopped in midsentence, and his brow rose in astonishment. “No. They were going to meet the aliens?”
“That’s my guess.” John was beginning to think he might have a chance of winning over Crowther after all. “It explains why they’re mounting a coup attempt at such a bad time. Surrendering Biko to the Covenant is the only way to save it—and overthrowing the chancellor is the only way to surrender it.”
“What if it isn’t surrendering?” Ascot asked. “What if it’s an offer?”
“An offer?” said Crowther.
“Exactly,” Ascot said. “We’re here because we know that if the aliens bypass Biko, they’re leaving an operating base in their rear. We can also assume their logistics lines are getting pretty long, so they could use a staging base of their own. What if the insurrectionists are trying to strike a deal to give it to them?”
John went cold inside. “Who would do that?” he asked. “Who would form an alliance against their own species?”
“Maybe the insurrectionists don’t see it that way,” Johnson said. “Maybe they see it as saving themselves from us.”
“That’s crazy,” Hamm said. “The Covenant will butcher them, same as the rest of us.”
“Agreed,” John said. “But would they know that?”
Crowther shook his head, then pointed a finger at John. “You’re right, son,” he said. “They wouldn’t.”
Son. John gritted his teeth and said nothing.
“And an alliance would save them . . . for a while,” Ascot added. “If the aliens are as smart as we think, they’ll know a good intelligence source when they see one. They’ll milk it for as long as they can.”
A chill seemed to settle over the room, and their collective eyes dropped to the table as they considered what came next, contemplating the inescapable danger and coming to the same terrible conclusion.
At last John said what everyone was thinking.
“If we’re right about this, the alien delegation must be coming soon.” He paused to swallow, then continued, “And we need to ambush it. We need to make the Covenant think the insurrectionists set them up.”
The nodding in agreement started at the other end of the table with Hamm, then Johnson, and down the far side of the table, Crowther, Ascot, and Halsey, and finally Nyeto, who said: “You know what that will mean for Biko, right? They’ll glass it in retaliation.”
“They’ll glass it anyway, when they’re ready,” Ascot said. “And until they are, the rebels will be helping them glass one loyal world after another.”
“It’s a simple equation,” Halsey said. “One world now, or a hundred later.”
“Then we go with John’s suggestion,” Ascot said. “We ambush the Covenant delegation.”
“With one proviso,” Crowther said. “We can’t abandon the original operation. We divide our force and still board the fleet.”
“Of course,” Ascot said, rising. “That goes without saying.”
When Crowther smiled and started to get up, John saw his chance and also stood.
“Colonel Crowther,” he said. “You’re going to—”
John stopped as a chorus of high-pitched alarms began to chirp from the tacpads everyone wore on their wrists. He glanced at his own and felt his throat go dry.
VANISHING POINT REPORTS:
COVENANT FLOTILLA INBOUND
FIVE VESSELS CORVETTE CLASS EQUIVALENT
ETA 22 MINUTES
“Damn,” Avery Johnson said. “That’s some delegation.”
“And not one I want catching us on the surface.” Ascot sta
rted around the table, already speaking into her tacpad microphone. “Load all prowlers and scramble, seventeen-minute maximum.”
Nyeto and Johnson turned to follow her out the door, but Crowther remained where he was, regarding John with a cocked brow.
“You had something to say, John?”
John glanced at Halsey, then swallowed hard and nodded.
“Yes, sir. You’re going to need all the Black Daggers you can get for the boarding action, and the alien ambush would be the perfect assignment for the Spartans.”
“It’s quite true, Colonel,” Halsey said. “This is exactly the sort of thing I created them for.”
Crowther shot her an uncomfortable frown, then started around the opposite end of the table toward John.
“I appreciate the offer, son,” he said. “But you’re fifteen.”
John’s heart sank, and he had to let his chin drop as he watched Crowther approach. “I understand, sir.”
Crowther stopped a step away, looking for a moment as though he wanted to reach up to lay a hand on John’s shoulder, then seemed to realize how awkward that would be and simply motioned him to follow.
“Besides, I have another assignment for the Spartans.”
“Of course, sir.” John knew better than to hope it would be important. Crowther probably wanted them to carry his bags or something. “Whatever you need.”
“I knew I could count on you.” They reached the assembly chamber door, and Crowther turned to face John. “When we took the quarry yesterday, we captured more than three hundred insurrectionists.”
“You want my Spartans to babysit prisoners, sir?”
Crowther allowed himself a small grin. “I was going to say guard,” he replied. “But look at it however you like—as long as you get them all loaded aboard an internment transport. We can’t have any falling into Covenant hands. The last thing we want is someone telling the enemy what really happened here. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” John said. “I think we can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can, son,” Crowther said. “I’ll ask Captain Ascot to assign a prisoner transport.”