Silent Storm: A Master Chief Story

by Troy Denning

  On the near side of the holograph stood fifteen aides and plotters, all busy conversing with each other and pretending they had not noticed ‘Szatulai’s arrival. Fleetmaster ‘Kvarosee was alone on the far side of the compartment, glaring at the holograph as he paced back and forth. The fleet’s San’Shyuum magistrate, the Minor Minister of Artifact Survey, sat in his antigrav chair by the corner behind ‘Kvarosee, stroking his chin wattles and swinging his long neck from side to side as he watched the fleetmaster pace.

  When Survey noticed ‘Szatulai approaching, he floated his chair forward and extended a spindly finger toward ‘Kvarosee. “He’s been like that since the attack on Outpost Three.”

  ‘Szatulai felt his hand dropping toward his energy sword and tried to go around. Survey blocked his way, and ‘Szatulai found himself glancing around the compartment, wondering if anyone would be troubled enough by the San’Shyuum’s death to report it and risk the Silent Shadow’s retaliation.

  “Perhaps you can make him see what a mistake this was,” Survey said.

  “Mistake?”

  “That.” Survey flung a slender hand toward the holograph. “Surely you see what the humans are doing?”

  “Launching a stealth attack on Zhoist, as I predicted,” ‘Szatulai said. “What do you see?”

  “A diversion!” Survey said. “A small force sent to hold us here while they attack High Charity!”

  That illogical nonsense again. ‘Szatulai sidestepped Survey’s chair. When the San’Shyuum tried to block his way once more, the Sangheili pushed the chair aside and continued toward ‘Kvarosee. He noticed that his hand had returned to the hilt of his energy sword and did not remove it.

  ‘Kvarosee continued to pace and did not stop until ‘Szatulai placed himself squarely in front of the fleetmaster.

  “You summoned me, Fleetmaster.” ‘Szatulai’s tone was intentionally flat and hard. “I was in the middle of a combat vigil.”

  ‘Kvarosee’s gaze finally swung from the holograph, and ‘Szatulai was not surprised to see that the fleetmaster’s eyes had gone soft with uncertainty. It was clear that Survey had been working on him, filling his head with reasons to return the fleet to High Charity.

  “I may have made a critical error in strategy, Blademaster.” ‘Kvarosee turned and pointed toward the tactical holograph. “The humans have attacked only our outposts.”

  “So far,” ‘Szatulai said. It had appalled him to see the doubt in ‘Kvarosee’s eyes, but now he found himself awed by the fleetmaster’s honor. It had been ‘Szatulai who argued for a retreat to defend Zhoist, yet ‘Kvarosee was blaming only himself. “More attacks will come.”

  “And how long must we wait?” Survey demanded, floating up behind ‘Szatulai. “Until High Charity itself has fallen?”

  When ‘Szatulai did not reply, ‘Kvarosee allowed his mandibles to gape ever so slightly in amusement. He pointed his finger at the holograph again, this time wagging it so ‘Szatulai would look.

  “The humans are making only minor attacks with a small force,” he said. “Three of their vessels have already withdrawn, and there are only a handful engaging now.”

  ‘Szatulai looked and saw one apparent engagement, where flights of Banshees and Seraphs were dropping down from the Ring of Mighty Abundance to engage a human craft in a lower orbit. He pointed at the fight.

  “What is happening there?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Survey said. “Another diversion.”

  “It was a surface raid,” ‘Kvarosee said, seeming to sense ‘Szatulai’s alarm. “A handful of stealth craft made comet-strike entries over the poles. Two of them survived long enough to attack sky lifts.”

  “And?”

  “And it was a feint,” Survey insisted. “They destroyed some equipment and killed some drudges.”

  “But the sky lifts were unaffected?”

  “Is that not what I just said?” Survey asked.

  ‘Kvarosee shot Survey a look that suggested he wanted to tie the San’Shyuum’s long neck into a knot, then turned back to ‘Szatulai.

  “What troubles you, Blademaster?”

  “That I was not told of this sooner.” ‘Szatulai turned and started toward the exit. “I hope there is still time.”

  “Time for what?” ‘Kvarosee fell in at his side. “Three of their attack craft have been turned away or destroyed already, and the last will not make it out of orbit.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” ‘Szatulai said. “Their ploy succeeded.”

  ‘Kvarosee grabbed ‘Szatulai by the shoulder—a liberty he survived only because of the honor he had shown earlier, when he had assumed sole responsibility for his imaginary mistake.

  “Explain yourself, Blademaster.”

  “As you wish, but listen well—I have no time to repeat myself.”

  ‘Kvarosee clacked his mandibles for ‘Szatulai to continue.

  “The humans were not trying to destroy the sky lifts,” he said. “They wanted to use them.”

  ‘Kvarosee’s nostrils flared so wide they looked like a second set of eyes. “What?”

  “Confirm it with the Planetary Lord, if you wish.” ‘Szatulai pulled free of the fleetmaster’s grasp and headed for the exit again. “But I must go. The humans are already in the sky lifts.”

  “Then there is no problem,” Survey said. “Simply reverse the lifts.”

  “And return them to the surface of a holy world? To defile it further?” ‘Kvarosee was clearly aghast. Zhoist was the sacred abode of the Ten Cities of Edification, which had once been a home to the Forerunners themselves. The entire planet was viewed as holy to the Covenant because so much of the knowledge that empowered its starship and weapons technology had been recovered from the ancient guild halls dominating the hallowed cities, and there were still thousands of artisans and engineers hard at work trying to understand the wonders that the Forerunners had left for them to discover—wonders that no infidel could ever be permitted to see. “I cannot believe a Minor Minister would utter such blasphemy.”

  “I am only suggesting a way to undo your incompetence,” Survey replied. “The Hierarchs will punish you less for defilement than for losing an entire fleet station.”

  “It would be more than defilement,” ‘Szatulai said. “If we reverse the sky lifts now, the Spartans will escape across Zhoist and bathe in the forbidden light of the Forerunners’ divine knowledge, and then who will be to blame?”

  “Not I.” ‘Kvarosee motioned ‘Szatulai toward the exit. “Go and kill them while you still can.”

  CHAPTER 27

  * * *

  * * *

  1615 hours, April 15, 2526 (military calendar)

  Upper Terminus, Unidentified Covenant Space Elevator

  Geostationary Orbit, Planet Naraka, Agni System

  Through the wall of the antigravity beam, John-117 could see Naraka’s horizon falling swiftly away. The distant stars were shifting parallax so fast they seemed to be sinking behind the planet, and above him the elevator terminus was finally coming into view—a tiny yellow oval at the moment.

  But John was beginning to think it had been a mistake to assume that a Covenant lift beam would be as fast as a human space elevator.

  He had told Small Bear to set a forty-minute delay on the Fury she had left at the bottom, and the countdown on his HUD had just dropped to five minutes.

  Normally, that wouldn’t worry him, since Third Platoon was tens of thousands of kilometers above ground zero. Normally, that would be more than a safe distance. But John had no idea how the electromagnetic pulse of a one-megaton thermonuclear explosion might affect an alien antigravity beam, or how much of the shockwave would be funneled straight up the narrow column toward the platoon.

  The countdown on John’s HUD reached 4:45. The terminus above continued to swell larger, and a tiny black dot appeared in the center. The dot was probably the portal where the elevator entered the installation. He kept his eyes fixed on it until the count on his HUD reached 4:
30; it was doubling in size every five seconds. The elevator beam was about twenty meters across. . . .

  His onboard computer did the calculations, and an ETA of sixty seconds appeared on John’s HUD. That gave them a safety margin of three and a half minutes between portal arrival and the detonation of the Fury left with Chavez. Plenty of time. John was relieved.

  Then they began to decelerate.

  The onboard computer did another set of calculations, and a new ETA appeared on his HUD: 3:05.

  Then it helpfully posted the new safety margin in blinking yellow. Twenty-two seconds.

  Over the platoon channel, John said, “ETA three minutes. Once we enter the support ring, we’re going to have to move fast and keep moving fast. Ready your device fuses now, three-minute delay and sixty-minute auto.”

  The three-minute delay was stingy by design. It did not give an assault team much time to clear an area after activating the fuse, but they would be operating in a heavily populated environment, and a longer delay would give the enemy too much time to find the explosive device—whether a nuke or an octa—and toss it out an airlock.

  The sixty-minute automatic was simply a safety protocol to keep the device from falling into enemy hands if it was lost—or the trooper carrying it was killed. If the timer was not disengaged with an override code, the weapon would detonate automatically in an hour.

  John and the other Spartans entered the delays on the three devices they were carrying—the octas on their hips and the Havoks magclamped on their lower backs—while the Black Daggers worked in pairs to program the octas carried above their thruster packs. By the time everyone reported ready, the ETA had fallen to fifty seconds, and the entry portal overhead had grown so large it filled the sky.

  A sky packed with spinning alien bodies and slowly tumbling crates.

  “Bad sign,” Small Bear said. “There’s nobody pulling the cargo out of the elevator.”

  “We can’t wait,” John said. “Fred, go left. Kelly, go right. Lieutenant, they could use some support.”

  Small Bear assigned a fireteam to follow each Spartan; then Fred and Kelly hit their thrusters and led their support teams up the beam ahead of the rest of the platoon.

  Their progress could hardly be called swift, since they were working against the decelerating force of the beam itself. But they were able to move ahead of the rest of platoon, then gather in a loose formation beneath the lid of slowly swirling crates and corpses.

  Rather than alert the enemy to their presence by poking their heads out to look for trouble, Fred and Kelly simply grabbed the rim of the portal and pulled themselves up. They opened fire with rockets and bullets as soon as they were clear, then vanished into the terminus, their support teams rising out of the elevator beam into a torrent of return fire.

  Three troopers fell back into the beam on Fred’s side and two on Linda’s, missing limbs or heads, their assault armor puckered in front and blown out in back by large explosive rounds.

  “Kill zone!” Fred reported. Two more troopers tumbled into the portal. “Wedge-angle crossfire, at least two hundred hostiles at twenty meters, centered three o’clock off my exit bearing!”

  “Breakout options?” John asked.

  “Transit tube twelve o’clock!”

  The ETA on John’s HUD showed thirty-two seconds. The Fury left with Chavez would detonate twenty-two seconds after that. What that might mean for anyone still inside the antigravity beam was the last thing he wanted to find out. He pictured the situation Fred had described inside the terminus . . . and realized almost instantly what he had to do.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “I need to break out Blue Team to run bombs through that transit tube. Can you give us a rolling screen?”

  Small Bear hesitated, a sure sign she understood what John was asking of her, then finally answered in a thin voice: “Sure, Chief. We can do that.”

  She began to issue the necessary orders.

  John swapped his M90 for the MA5B and laid his finger on the trigger guard of the underslung grenade launcher, then switched to TEAMCOM. “Kelly, when we come out of here—”

  “I was listening, John.” She paused, then added, “I wish there was another way.”

  “Me too. Let me know if you have one.”

  “I don’t.”

  The ETA on John’s HUD read ten seconds. He and Linda used their thrusters to slip into position with Small Bear and her platoon. Sierra Force had not deployed any comm relay drones for fear of betraying its presence, but he knew from Lieutenant Guayte’s parting message that the two prowlers carrying Gold Team and First and Second Platoons Delta had been forced to abort their insertion run. Even more frustrating, there was no way to check with Kurt-051 and see whether Green Team had managed to recover and infiltrate the orbital fleet-support ring. With luck, they’d also made it this far, and there would be four more Spartans and another twenty-five space assault troopers helping Blue Team and Third Platoon destroy orbital facilities.

  But John knew better than to count on it. There was just as good a chance that Third Platoon would be the only team to reach orbit at all—and the Covenant would not be shaken by a raid that knocked out just one or two installations. To be sure of taking down the entire orbital ring, Blue Team needed to destroy all ten facilities themselves.

  John and Linda reached the top of the lift beam with Third Platoon, then pushed their weapons up through the blanket of drifting bodies and crates.

  Small Bear’s voice came over the platoon channel. “Now.”

  They blind-fired a volley of grenades and rockets in the general direction of the enemy and hit their thrusters, rising out of the portal into a firestorm. They were in a huge ovoid chamber stacked with crates, ingots, and bodies—all good cover for the enemy.

  And these guys were soldiers.

  John felt half a dozen spikes and needles glance off his armor and saw an ODST ahead of him separate into three parts. He fired a grenade toward a line of forms wearing the same red-black armor he had seen at Seoba.

  Then Small Bear yelled, “Go go go!” and Third Platoon—what remained of it—raced forward, pouring bullets and grenades and rocket fire into a line of Covenant crouched behind a makeshift breastwork of metal ingots.

  John fired another grenade over the troopers’ heads and started across the deck behind them, angling toward the mouth of the transit tube more than a hundred meters away. A trio of Brutes clambered over a stack of the metal ingots and tried to cut him off, but Fred stepped out from behind a stack of crates and hit them with a pair of SPNKR rockets. John took out the third Brute with a grenade, and he had a clear path all the way to the tube.

  He stopped halfway there, dropping to his butt behind a pile of toppled crates to reload his grenade launcher. The safety margin blinking on his HUD had changed to red. Ten seconds until the Fury detonated at the bottom of the space elevator.

  John finished the reload, spun to a knee, and stuck his head up to see an approaching Elite literally step through an ODST he had just split down the center with an energy sword. John opened up with his assault rifle. It took half a magazine to knock down the energy shield, but finally the alien’s torso armor puckered and began to seep blood. The alien kept coming and did not go down until John sprayed another dozen rounds into his knees.

  Linda and Kelly sprinted past and took positions inside the mouth of the transit tube. Third Platoon’s rolling screen had fallen to a handful of troopers, and the aliens were pouring out of cover to mount a charge.

  Five seconds.

  “Disengage!” John called over the platoon channel.

  He retreated toward the tube at a run, emptying his grenade launcher as he went. A handful of Third Platoon survivors sprinted past, so heavily laden with spare SPNKR barrels that they were barely keeping ahead of the Jackals and Elites that followed close on their heels. Fred and Kelly slowed the aliens with a couple of long MA5B bursts that left the second rank tripping over the bodies of the first; then Linda went t
o work with her M99, drilling Brute after Brute between the eyes and sending them tumbling into those behind.

  Zero and out of time.

  Nothing happened, except that Lieutenant Small Bear appeared ten meters away, a short figure in assault armor vaulting over a stack of ingots. A sword-wielding Elite followed close behind. John raised his assault rifle to cover her, then felt a hand grab his fission reactor.

  “Get in here!” Kelly said.

  She jerked John into the transit tube, and the Elite chasing Small Bear went flying backward as an M99 round blew his torso open. The lieutenant glanced back, then stumbled over the body of a dead Jackal . . . and was blown flat as the shockwave from the Fury detonation finally arrived, much reduced in power after climbing tens of thousands of kilometers up the elevator column, but still powerful enough to send bodies flying in every direction, knocking the remaining aliens off their feet and hurling them into the stacks of the breastwork.

  Miraculously, Small Bear wasn’t hit by anything. She looked up, her astonishment at her survival obvious in the way she held her helmet cocked to one side.

  John waved her forward, but as she rose, the decompression hit, sucking everything down through the empty elevator portal. Small Bear extended an arm, reaching for help, then went sliding back toward the center of the terminus.

  John tried to help, but even a Spartan’s arm was not that long.

  The transit tube’s emergency hatch irised shut, almost closing on John’s hand before he could pull it back. His helmet speakers filled with the startled cries and shouts of the wounded and the dying; then Small Bear’s voice sounded above the rest, her command status auto-dampening everything else on the channel.

  “Carry on, Chief. Make it count.”