Halo: The Fall of Reach - Page 25/38

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

1100 Hours, August 12, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach, Camp Hathcock The Master Chief steered the Warthog to the fortified gate and ignored the barrel of the chain-gun that was not quite pointed in his direction. The guard on duty, a Marine Corporal, saluted smartly when John handed over his identification card.

“Sir! Welcome to Camp Hathcock,” the Corporal said. “Follow this road to the inner guardpost and present your credentials there. They’ll direct you to the main compound.”

John nodded. The Warthog’s tires crunched on gravel as the massive metal gate swung open.

Nestled in the Highland Mountains of Reach’s northern continent, Camp Hathcock was a top-level retreat; heads of state, VIPs, and top brass were the facility’s normal occupants—these and a division of veteran, battle-hardened Marines.

“Sir, please follow the Blue Road to this point here,” the Corporal at the inner gate instructed, gesturing at a point on a wall-mounted map, “and park in the Visitors’ Parking area.”

Minutes later, the main facility was in sight. John parked the Warthog and strode across the pleasantly familiar compound. He and the other Spartans had covertly made their way up here during their training.

John suppressed a smile as he remembered how many times the young Spartans had commandeered food and supplies from the base. He inhaled deeply, smelling piñon pines and sage. He missed this place. He had been away from REACH for far too long.

Reach was one of the few places that John considered “safe” from the Covenant. There were a hundred ships and twenty Mark V MAC guns on the orbital stations overhead. Those guns were powered by fusion generators, buried deep within REACH. Each Mark V could propel a projectile so massive, and with such velocity, he doubted if even Covenant shields could withstand a single salvo from them.

His home would not fall.

Tall fences and razor wire encircled the inner compound of Camp Hathcock. The Master Chief stopped at the inner gate and saluted the MP there.

The Marine MP looked over the Master Chief in his dress uniform. He snapped to attention—his mouth dropped open and he stared unblinkingly. “They’re waiting for you, Master Chief, sir. Please go right on in.”

The guard’s reaction to the Master Chief—and the medals on his chest—was not uncommon.

First word of the Spartans and their accomplishments had spread despite the cloak of secrecy ONI had tried to surround them with. Three years ago the information had gone public at Admiral Stanforth’s insistence—for morale purposes.

It was hard to mistake the Master Chief for anything other than a Spartan. He stood just over two meters tall and weighed in at 130 kilos of rock-hard muscle and iron-dense bone.

There was a special insignia on his uniformed as well: a golden eagle poised with its talons forward—

ready to strike. The bird clutched a lightning bolt in one talon and three arrows in the other.

The Spartan insignia was not the only thing about his dress uniform that called attention to him.

Campaign ribbons and medals covered the left side. Chief Mendez would have been proud of him, but John had long ago stopped keeping track of the honors that had been heaped upon him.

He didn’t like the flashy ornamentation. He and the other Spartans preferred to be inside their MJOLNIR

armor. Without it, he felt exposed somehow, like he’d left his quarters without his skin. He had grown used to the enhanced speed and strength, to his thought and actions melding instantaneously.

The Master Chief marched into the main building. Outwardly, it had been designed to look like a simple log cabin, albeit a large one. Its inner walls were lined with Titanium-A armor plate, and underground were bunkers and plush conference rooms that extended a hundred meters below the earth and into the mountain of rock.

He rode the elevator to Subbasement III. There, he was instructed by the Military Police attendant to wait in the debriefing lounge for the committee to summon him.

Corporal Harland sat in the lounge, reading a copy of STARS magazine, nervously tapping his foot. He immediately stood and saluted as the Master Chief entered the room.

“At ease, Corporal,” the Master Chief said. He glanced disapprovingly at the thickly padded couches and decided to stand.

The Corporal stared at the Master Chief’s uniform, nervous. Finally he straightened and said, “May I ask you a question, sir?”

The Master Chief nodded.

“How do you get to be a Spartan? I mean—” His gaze fell to the floor. “I mean, if someone wanted to join your outfit. How would they do that?”

Join? The Master Chief pondered the word. How had he joined? Dr. Halsey had picked him and the other Spartans twenty-five years ago. It had been an honor . . . but he had never actually joined . In fact, he had never seen any other Spartans other than his class. Once, shortly after he’d “graduated” from the training, he had overheard Dr. Halsey mention that Chief Mendez was training another group of Spartans. He had never seen them—or the Chief.

“You don’t join,” he finally told the Corporal. “You are selected.”

“I see,” Corporal Harland said, and wrinkled his brow. “Well, sir, if anyone ever asks, tell them to sign me up.”

The Military Police attendant appeared. “Corporal Harland? They’re ready for you now.” A set of double doors opened on the far wall. Harland gave John another salute, and nodded.

As the Corporal got up and strode toward the doors, he passed an older man on his way out. He wore the uniform of a UNSC Naval officer, a Captain. John sized the man up quickly—polished shoulder insignia, new material. The man was a newly ordained Captain.

John stood at attention and snapped a precision salute. “Officer on the deck,” John barked.

The Captain paused, and looked John up and down. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he returned the salute. “As you were, Master Chief.”

John stood at ease. The Captain’s name—Keyes, J.—was embroidered on the dress-gray tunic. John recognized the name immediately: Captain Keyes, the hero of Sigma Octanus. At least, he thought, one of the surviving heroes.

Keyes glanced at the Master Chief’s uniform. His eyes lingered on the Spartan insignia, and then on the Master Chief’s serial-number tag just under the stripes of his rank emblem. A faint smile appeared on the Captain’s face. “It’s good to see you again, Chief.”

“Sir?” The Master Chief had never met Captain Keyes. He had heard of his tactical brilliance at Sigma Octanus, but he had never met the man face-to-face.

“We met a very long time ago. Dr. Halsey and I—” He stopped. “Hell. I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“Of course, sir. I understand.”

The Military Police attendant appeared in the hallway. “Captain Keyes, you’re wanted topside by Admiral Stanforth.”

The Captain nodded to the attendant. “In a moment,” he said. He stepped closer to the Master Chief and whispered, “Be careful in there. The ONI brass are—” He searched for the right word. “—irritated by the end results of our encounter with the Covenant at Sigma Octanus. I’d keep my head down in there.”

He glanced back toward the debriefing-chamber doors.

“Irritated, sir?” John asked, genuinely puzzled. He would have thought the UNSC top brass would be elated by the victory, despite its cost. “But we won.”

Captain Keyes took a step back and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Didn’t Dr. Halsey ever teach you that winning isn’t everything, Master Chief?” He saluted. “You’ll excuse me.”

John saluted. He was so confused by Captain Keyes’ statement that he kept saluting as the Captain walked out of the room.

Winning was everything. How could someone with Captain Keyes’ reputation think otherwise?

The Master Chief tried to recall if he had ever read anything like that in any military history or philosophy texts. What else was there other than winning? The only other obvious choice was losing . . .

and he had long been taught that defeat was an unacceptable alternative. Certainly, Captain Keyes didn’t mean that they should have lost at Sigma Octanus?

Unthinkable.

He stood silently for ten minutes mulling this over. Finally the Military Police attendant entered the waiting room. “They’re ready for you now, sir.”

The double doors opened and Corporal Harland came out. The young man’s eyes were glazed and he trembled slightly. He looked worse than he had looked when the Master Chief had found him on Sigma Octanus IV.

The Master Chief gave a curt nod to the Corporal and then entered the debriefing chamber. The doors closed behind him.

His eyes instantly adjusted to the dark room. A large, curved desk dominated the far end of the rectangular room. A domed ceiling curved over his head, cameras, microphone, and speakers positioned like constellations.

A spotlight snapped on and tracked the Master Chief as he approached the desk.

A dozen men and women in Navy uniforms sat in the shadows. Even with his enhanced eyesight, the Master Chief could barely make out their scowling features and the glistening brass oak leaves and stars through the glare of the overhead light.

He stood at attention and saluted.

The debriefing panel ignored the Master Chief and spoke among themselves.

“The transmission that Keyes intercepted only makes sense translated this way,” a man in the shadows said. A holotank hummed into operation. Tiny geometric symbols danced in the air above it: squares, triangles, bars, and dots.

To the Master Chief, they looked like either Morse code or ancient Aztec hieroglyphics.

“I will concede that point,” a woman’s voice in the darkness replied. “But translation software comes up empty. It’s not a new Covenant dialect that we’ve discovered.”

“Or a Covenant dialect at all,” someone else said.

Finally one of the officers deigned to notice the Master Chief. “At ease, soldier,” he said.

The Master Chief let his arm fall. “Spartan 117, reporting as ordered, sirs.”

There was a pause, then the woman’s voice spoke up, “We would like to congratulate you on your successful mission, Master Chief. You’ve certainly given us plenty to consider. We would like to pin down a few details of your mission.”

There was something in her voice that made John nervous. Not scared. But it was the same feeling he had going into combat. The same feeling he got when bullets started flying.

“You do know, Master Chief,” the first male voice said, “that not answering truthfully—or omitting any relevant details will lead to a court-martial?”

John bristled. As if he could ever forget his duty. “I will answer to the best of my abilities, sir,” he replied stiffly.

The holotank hummed again and images from a Spartan helmet recorder sprang into view. John noted the camera ID—it was his own. The images blurred forward, then stopped. A three-dimensional image of the floating creatures he had seen in Côte d’Azur hung in the air, motionless.

“Playback, loop bookmarks one through nine, please,” the woman’s voice called out.

Instantly, the holographic image animated—the alien quickly took apart and then reassembled a car’s electric motor.

“This creature,” she continued. “During the mission, did you see any other Covenant species—Grunts or Jackals—interact with them?”

“No, ma’am. As far as I could see, they were left alone.”

“And this one,” she said. The image changed to his firefight with the gigantic armored aliens. “At any time did you see these things interact with the other Covenant species?”

“No, ma’am—” The Master Chief reconsidered. “Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. If you could review the recording at time minus two minutes from this frame, please.”

The holo paused and then blurred backward.

“There,” he said. The video played forward as the Master Chief and Fred examined the crushed Jackal in the museum.

“That impression in this Jackal’s back,” he said. “I believe it is the armored alien’s bootprint.”

“What do you mean, son?” a new man asked. His voice was older and rough.

“I can only offer my opinion, sir. I am not a scientist.”

“Offer it, Master Chief,” the same scratchy voice said. “I, for one, would be very interested to hear what someone with firsthand experience has to say . . . for a change.”

There was a rustle of papers in the shadows, then silence.

“Well, sir—it looks to me like this Jackal simply got in the larger creature’s way. There’s no attempt to move it, and no deviation in the path of the following footfalls. It simply walked over the smaller alien.”

“Evidence of a hierarchical caste structure perhaps?” the old man murmured.

“Let’s move on,” the woman again spoke, her voice now laced with irritation.

The holo image changed yet again. A stone object appeared—the rock the Master Chief recovered from the museum.

“This stone,” she said, “is a typical igneous granite specimen but with an unusual concentration of aluminum oxide inclusions—specifically rubies. It is a match for the mineral specimens recovered from grid thirteen by twenty-four.

“Master Chief,” she said, “you recovered this rock—” She paused. “From an optical scanner. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. The aliens had placed the rock in a red metallic box. Visible spectrum lasers were scanning the specimen.”

“And the infrared pulse laser transmitter was hooked up to this scanner?” she asked. “You are certain?”

“Absolutely, ma’am. My thermal imagers caught a fraction of the transmission scattered by the ambient dust.”

The woman continued. “The rock sample is roughly pyramidal. The inclusions in the igneous matrix are unusual in that all possible crystalline morphologies for corundum are present: bipyramidal, prismatic, tabular, and rhombohedral. Scanning from the tip to the base with neutron imagers, we produce the following pattern.”

Again, a series of squares, triangles, bars and dots appeared on the view screen—symbols that again reminded John of Aztec writing.

Déjà had taught the Spartans about the Aztecs—how Cortés with superior tactics and technology had nearly obliterated an entire race. Was the same thing happening between the Covenant and humans?

“Now, then,” the first male voice interjected, “this business with the detonation of a HAVOK tactical nuclear device . . . do you realize that any additional evidence of Covenant activity on Côte d’Azur has been effectively erased? Do you know what opportunities have been lost, soldier?”

“I had extremely specific orders, sir,” the Master Chief said without hesitating. “Orders that came directly from NavSpecWep, Section Three.”

“Section Three,” the woman muttered, “which is ONI . . . it figures.”

The old man in the darkness chuckled. The faint glow of a cigar tip flared near his voice, then faded.

“Are you insinuating, Master Chief,” the older man said, “that the destruction of all this ‘evidence,’ as my colleges would call it, happened because they ordered it?”

There was no good answer to that question. Whatever the Master Chief said was sure to irritate someone here.

“No, sir. I am simply stating that the destruction—of anything, including any ‘evidence’—is a direct result of the detonation of a nuclear weapon. In full compliance with my orders. Sir.”

The first man whispered, “Jesus . . . what do you expect from one of Dr. Halsey’s windup toy soldiers?”

“That’s quite enough, Colonel!” the older man snapped. “This man has earned the right to some courtesy . . . even from you.”

The older man lowered his voice. “Master Chief, thank you. We’re finished here, I think. We may wish to recall you later . . . but for now, you are dismissed. You are to treat all information you have heard or seen at this debriefing as classified.”

“Yes, sir!”

The Master Chief saluted, spun on his heel, and marched to the exit.

The double doors opened and then sealed behind him. He exhaled. It felt like he was being evac’d from the battlefield. He reminded himself that these last few steps were often the most dangerous.

“I hope they treated you well . . . or at least decently.”

Dr. Halsey sat in an overstuffed chair. She wore a long gray skirt that matched her hair. She rose and took his hand and gave it a small squeeze.

The Master Chief snapped to attention. “Ma’am, a pleasure to see you again.”

“How are you, Master Chief?” she asked. She stared pointedly at the hand pressed to his forehead in a tight salute. Slowly, he dropped his hand.

She smiled. Unlike everyone else, who greeted the Master Chief and stared at his uniform, medals, ribbons, or the Spartan insignia, Dr. Halsey stared into his eyes. And she never saluted. John had never gotten used to that.

“I’m fine, ma’am,” he said. “We won at Sigma Octanus. It was good to have a complete victory.”

“Indeed it was.” She paused and glanced about. “How would you like to have another victory?” she whispered. “The biggest we’ve ever had?”

“Of course, ma’am,” he said with no hesitation.

“I was counting on you to say that, Master Chief. We’ll be speaking soon.” She turned to the Military Police attendant waiting at the entrance to the lounge. “Open these damn doors, soldier. Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the MP said.

The doors swung inward.

She stopped and said to the Master Chief, “I’ll be speaking to you and the other Spartans, soon.” She then entered the darkened chamber and the doors sealed behind her.

The Master Chief forgot about the debriefing and Captain Keyes’ puzzling question about not winning.

If Dr. Halsey had a mission for him and his team, it would be a good one. She had given him everything: duty, honor, purpose, and a destiny to protect humanity.

John hoped she would give him one more thing: a way to win the war.