A new video feed appeared.
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-meter-long 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."
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?
Alpha Company had lost their team cohesion on Operation PROMETHEUS. Kurt vowed that would not happen with Beta Company.
Deep Winter ruffled his cape, and a flurry of illusionary snow swirled about the control room. The AI was likely programmed with human safety protocols, so it was natural for it to be concerned.
"We don't know what they're capable of," Kurt finally told Deep Winter. "Stick with the by-the-book drills and we'll never find out, either. But put them in an impossible situation, and maybe they'll surprise us."
"Short definition of a Spartan," Mendez remarked.
That's what people had said about the SPARTAN-IIs who were the genetic cream of the crop and wore MJOLNIR armor. They could do the impossible, and do it alone. The SPARTAN-IIIs, though, would have to work together to survive. Be more family than fire team.
"Still," Deep Winter whispered. "This is cruel. They will break."
"I'd rather break them," Kurt said, "than let them go out into the field without ever experiencing an intractable tactical situation."
"Personally I don't think these kids can be broken," Mendez said more to himself than to Kurt or Deep Winter. His gaze now firmly fixed on Tom and Lucy. "Ten years old and these two have so much grit they scare the bejesus out of even me."
"Look," Deep Winter said. "What are those two doing now?"
Kurt smiled. "I think… the impossible."
"Let's go over the plan one more time," Tom said.
Lucy huddled next to him in the mud hole. "Why? You think I'm stupid?"
Tom didn't say anything for a moment, then: "Those turrets are probably using radar to target. So we fool them."
"And if they're using thermals?" Lucy asked.
Tom shrugged. "Then I hope they nail you first."
Lucy grimly nodded and hefted a muddy rock. "So we throw these."
"Into their cone of fire," Tom said. "The small angle will make them hard to track. Maybe tie up their brains for a fraction of a second more."
"Then we run."
"Evasive maneuvers. Try not to step on Adam and Min."
"Got it," Lucy said.
Tom grasped his rock tighter and pumped it once, working up his courage. He and Lucy knocked their fists together.
They stood at the same time—hucked both rocks.
Tom heard gunfire, but didn't pause to look; he ran right, then left, he rolled and tumbled and then sprinted like crazy for the tree line.
He felt the dirt near him exploding with tiny puffs.
Fire cut into his thigh and his leg lost all feeling. He pushed off with his good foot, and landed hard on his stomach in the tall grass by the acacia trees.
Staccato bullets dotted in the ground centimeters from his prone body… but missed him.
He laughed. He was just inside their minimum angle of fire. Stupid machines.
He rolled over and spotted Lucy, panting and crouched in the grass. Tom waved to her, and then pointed up into the treetops. Lucy gave a thumbs-up signal.
Tom hopped on one leg. Some of the feeling was coming back… mostly the feeling of pain. He stomped it out. He couldn't let it slow him down. The drill instructors might show up at any second.
He pulled himself up into the lower branches of one of the acacias that shook with gunfire. He used great care to avoid the spines in the tree's trunk. He climbed up ten meters.
On a platform sat an old M202 XP machine gun hooked up to an automated fire control.
It twitched back and forth, waiting for a target to present itself.
Tom reached up and disconnected the wires from the radar array, and then the power supply. The gun froze.
He climbed onto the platform and unscrewed the securing bolts. He pushed the gun off the platform. It made a satisfying thud as it impacted the muddy ground.
Tom climbed down. He grabbed the machine gun, cleared the barrel, and stripped off the remaining autofire control. He test-fired a burst of three rounds into the tree trunk. "Awesome," he said.