"And there's no ground between here and Earth where we can take the fight to them," Locklear said. He unclenched his fist and dropped his gaze to the deck. "Sometimes," he whispered, "I really hate this war."
Sergeant Johnson worked his mouth but said nothing. He set his hand on Locklear's wide shoulder and whispered, "Stand tall, Marine. Try to—"
The Sergeant's gaze fell on the data pad and the star map.
"Hang on a second. What was it you said about no ground to fight on between here and there?" He grinned and picked up the data pad. "What's this?" He tapped a dot on the map, squinted, and read the tiny words. "This... 'Uneven Elephant'?"
"Unyielding Hierophant," the Chief corrected. "According to Cortana, it's a command-and-control center, a mobile space platform where the Covenant fleet will rendezvous before their final jump to Earth."
"Well, there's your ground," Sergeant Johnson said. "On this 'elephant'thing."
Will got up and walked over to the data pad. "It fits with the timetable. This station is on the way to Earth."
Fred offered, "We can drop out of Slipspace in a smaller craft.
Go in and—"
"And do what you Spartans do best," Locklear said. "Infil- trate, kill, and blow shit up. If there's room in this operation for an ODST, pencil me in."
The Master Chief looked to the data pad, then to his team, Locklear, and the Sergeant. They were right: For the first time, they'd know when and where the Covenant would be. If they hit the enemy hard enough, they could stop them before the Cove- nant hit Earth... and delay Armageddon.
The Master Chief gave rapid-fire orders: "Fred, Will: Get Linda's suit back together ASAP.
"Locklear, you're on weapons detail again. Scrounge every pistol, rifle, ammo bag, and scrap of explosives on this vessel and haul it to Ascendant Justice's launch bay.
"Grace, Linda, and Sergeant Johnson: Get that Covenant drop-ship ready for its last flight. Reinforce the hull for a Slipspace-to-normal-space transition.
"And I'll take this plan to Admiral Whitcomb—make him see that it's the only way. We're going to take this fight to the Cove- nant. We're going to launch a first strike."
CHAPTER THIRTY
0440 hours, September 13,2552 (revised date, Military Calendar)\Aboard hybrid vessel Ascendant Justice-Gettysburg, station-keeping in Eridanus system.
Time was running out.
Dr. Halsey could feel the Covenant nearly upon them and her window of opportunity shrinking to a pinpoint. Only a few more things to take care of before she could go—before she started something she couldn't stop.
Someone approached the clean room, heavy footfalls that could only be a Spartan in MJOLNIR armor. Kelly appeared and waved from the other side of the glass partition that separated the clean room from the rest of Medical Four. Dr. Halsey buzzed her in.
"Reporting for treatment, Doctor," she said.
Kelly hesitated a moment as she glanced about at the unsterile environment the doctor had been working in: Styrofoam cups littered the surgical instrument trays, thermal printout paper curled from the biomonitors—and the radiation-emitting crystal they had found on Reach sat on a nearby instrument tray.
"I thought that crystal was in the reactor room," Kelly said.
"Behind plenty of radiation shielding."
"It's perfectly safe," Dr. Halsey said, "as long as we're in normal space." She picked up the crystal and slipped it carelessly into her lab coat pocket.
"Lie down please, Kelly." The doctor gestured to the con- toured treatment chair. "Just a few more injections and we're done with your burn therapy."
Kelly sighed and eased herself onto the reclined chair.
Dr. Halsey removed a cloth covering a pair of injectors. She clicked them into the ports on Kelly's MJOLNIR armor ports that threaded directly into her subclavian and femoral veins.
"Keep doing your physical therapy, and the dermacortic steroids will remove most of the scarring and restore your full mobility within another week," she explained.
"A week?" Kelly growled and struggled to rise. "Doctor, I need to be one hundred percent ASAP. The Chief has a mission—"
Dr. Halsey activated the injectors, and they hissed their con- tents into Kelly's body. She relaxed and slumped back on the ta- ble, unconscious.
"No, Kelly," Dr. Halsey whispered. "You're not going on the Chief's mission. You're going on mine."
The sedative in her bloodstream would knock out an ODST in peak condition for the better part of a day. Halsey estimated that Kelly would be unconscious for a little more than two hours. By that time they'd both be far enough along that there'd be no turning back.
Dr. Halsey swiveled one of the displays to face her. She exe- cuted the memory-erase command—wiping clean Cortana's recollection of the research they had done on old ONI lockdown codes. She folded the printout of their results and stuffed it into her pocket.
"Cortana?"
"Yes, Doctor?" she replied. Her voice through the room's speakers sounded distracted.
"Locate Corporal Locklear and have him report immediately, please."
"Done, Doctor Halsey."
"Thank you, Cortana. That will be all." She added in a whisper so low that only she heard: "Take good care of them all for me."
Dr. Halsey adjusted the examination table so it lay flat, and then loaded medical supplies and equipment onto its undercar- riage. She placed a bag with four submachine guns and sixteen full clips of ammunition on top of the supplies.
She found a lukewarm cup of stale coffee and gulped it down to the dregs.
Corporal Locklear appeared at the open entrance to the prep room. "Hey, Doc. Cortana said you needed me?" he said tersely.
He smoothed his hand over his shaved head. "I'm kind of busy right now, so if this can wait—"
"Whatever you're doing," Dr. Halsey told him, "this is more important." She nodded to Kelly's prone form. "I need your help getting SPARTAN-087 to the launch bay."
"Is she okay?" he asked and took a step toward her.
"She's fine, but I have to transfer her to the asteroid base. They have a piece of equipment necessary to complete her treatment."
Locklear appeared unconvinced. "But I just saw her—"
"She's fine," Dr. Halsey assured him. "Just sedated. This procedure is. . . unpleasant, even for a Spartan."
Locklear looked into Dr. Halsey's eyes and then nodded, ac- cepting this explanation. He moved the head of the table and wheeled it through the doors, the med bay, and out into the waiting elevator.
Dr. Halsey followed on his heels.
When the elevator doors closed, she turned to the Corporal.
"Your hand, please."
He looked puzzled but held out his hand.
Dr. Halsey took it and turned it palm-up. She set the long, lu- minous blue artifact in his grasp. The light emitted by the alien artifact shone onto their faces and made the interior of the eleva- tor colder. "This is what the Covenant so desperately want. They tore up Reach to get it. They followed us into Slipspace. And Po-laski died protecting this thing."
She watched Locklear carefully, gauging his reaction, and saw that he pulled away slightly at this last remark; it had hit home.
"And what the hell am I supposed to do with it?"
"Keep it safe," she told him. "Guard it with your life, because if the Covenant ever get it, they'll be able to jump through Slipspace a hundred times faster than they can now. Do you understand?"
Locklear closed his large fist around the crystal. "Not really, Doc. But I can take care of it." He paused and wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "But why me? Why not ask one of your Spartans?"
" 'My' Spartans," Dr. Halsey replied in a whisper, "could be ordered to hand it over to Lieutenant Haverson. And he'd risk getting it back to ONI Section Three—even if he had to gamble that the Covenant might get it."
Locklear snorted. "Well, as much as I don't like El-Tee White-bread, I'd hand it over if ordered, too. What's the big deal, anyway? We're almost home."
"Almost," Dr. Halsey repeated, and she gave him a slight smile. "But the moment you jump, this crystal emits radiation like a signal flare. The Covenant will find this ship ... and maybe this time they'll win the battle in Slipspace."
Locklear grimaced.
She held his steely gaze a moment and then finally let go of his hand. "So I know you'll do whatever it takes to prevent this object from falling into enemy hands."
He nodded grimly. "I read you, Doc. Loud and clear." There was a hint of respect in his voice. "I know what I have to do . . .
count on it."
"Good," she said.
The elevator doors parted. Locklear stuffed the crystal into his ammunition vest, and Locklear wheeled the table into the Gettysburg's launch bay. "Where do you want her?"
The bay was a beehive of activity: A hundred of Governor Jiles's crew jogged to and from passages carrying data pad schematics and field multiscanners; robotic dollies carried fat Archer missiles, spiderlike Antilon mines, and slender pods of deuterium fuel for the Gettysburg's auxiliary reactors; three Longsword fighter craft were being repaired; exoskeletons thudded along the deck, carrying plates of titanium and welding them in place.
"There," Dr. Halsey told Locklear. "Take her to that ship." She pointed to Governor Jiles's Chiroptera-class vessel. It sat on the deck looking like a sleeping bat. Its oddly angled stealth surfaces blended into the shadows.
Locklear shrugged and pushed the loaded gurney.
Dr. Halsey halted by the ship's port hatch. It was sealed so tightly that no seam could be discerned.
She retrieved the thermal printout from her coat and rechecked its contents. She then touched a recessed button on the hull, and a tiny plate slid aside revealing an alphanumeric keyboard. Dr.
Halsey typed in a long string and pressed ENTER.
The hatch parted with a hiss.
She smiled. "Not even Cortana could crack their crypto, in- deed." She waved Locklear inside.
Locklear obliged her and pushed the gurney into the ship. Dr.
Halsey followed, secured the examination table, and escorted Locklear outside. She turned and headed back into the vessel.
He started back toward the elevator, then halted. "Doc, when we were talking... you said when 'you'jump to Slipspace. You meant when 'we'jump to Slipspace, didn't you?"
Dr. Halsey locked eyes with him for a moment. Then she touched a button inside the ship, and the hatch hissed closed be- tween them.
The Master Chief stepped off the elevator and onto the bridge of the Gettysburg. Lieutenant Haverson and Admiral Whitcomb stared at the displays at Weapons Station One and Engineering.
"Sirs," the Chief said.
The Admiral waved him forward without bothering to look up.
The Chief had two tasks. First, he would inform the Admiral of his first-strike mission plan. He had to convince him there was no risk to their primary goal of returning to Earth—and a huge payoff if they succeeded. The only thing Admiral Whitcomb might object to was the high risk to his team.
The Chief's second task would be more difficult. He touched the belt pouch containing Dr. Halsey's data crystals. One was her analysis of the Flood infection mechanism and a possible way to block it. The second data crystal contained the source files of that discovery, and according to Dr. Halsey it would lead to Sergeant Johnson's undignified, and unnecessary, death.
And yet, if it gave Section Three a better chance to stop the Floods—if indeed that threat had any meaning after the destruc- tion of Halo—maybe it was worth one man's life. Maybe if Sergeant Johnson knew, he'd volunteer.
The Chief's duty was clear: He had to hand over all files to the Lieutenant—but deep down, he had to admit that it didn't feel right.
"Cortana." Admiral Whitcomb crossed his arms over his bar- rel chest. "Give me an update on our power."
Cortana's tiny image flickered to life on the holopad near the NAV station. She crossed her arms over her chest much as he had, and minute red symbols raced over her glowing lavender skin. "Status is nearly identical to my last report five minutes ago, Admiral. Tests on Ascendant Justice's reactor and the Gettysburg's engines are in synch, and will be completed in forty minutes."
"Hurry," the Admiral growled. "I don't want to get stuck without power when unfriendlies show up. I want to get under way to Earth. Weapons status?"
"Aye, sir," Cortana said. "Plasma turret one is obliterated; no possibility of repair. Plasma turrets two, three, and four are repaired, and although I'm waiting for power to test them, I have run three hundred twelve virtual test-firings without incident.
Turrets five, six, and seven, however, require parts Governor Jiles does not have in his inventory. Two Archer missile pods on the Gettysburg have been refilled. That gives us sixteen missiles hot and ready to go, sir."
"I'd like to know where Jiles got those missiles," Lieutenant Haverson muttered. "They're UNSC military contraband."
"He is zpirate, Lieutenant," Cortana said.
"Good work," the Admiral told Cortana. "Keep me posted."
He turned toward the Chief. "You had something, Master Chief?"
Before the Master Chief could speak his mind, Haverson said, "Admiral." He pointed at the forward screens and at the Chiroptera-class ship accelerating away from the Gettysburg's launch bay. "I thought Jiles was staying on board to oversee repairs."
"So did I," the Admiral said. "Cortana, did you catch Jiles leaving on surveillance?"
"No, sir, but you might be interested in this." On the screen a grainy video appeared of Locklear, Dr. Halsey, and a Spartan on a gurney boarding the ship. "Locklear left them at the ship, sir.
Doctor Halsey and SPARTAN-087 departed."
"Cortana," the Admiral barked. "Hail that ship. Now."
