0816 hours, March 19, 2526 (military calendar)

Assembly Chamber 4L430, Abandoned Habitat, Seoba Ice Quarry

Moon Seoba, Biko Planetary System, Kolaqoa System

With portable stand-lights flanking a folding conference table and a UNSC flag hung on rough polycrete-coated walls, the subsurface assembly chamber looked more like the venue of an impromptu court-martial than of an after-action debriefing. John-117 advanced to the front of the room and presented himself to the task force commander, then selected a seat on the respondent’s side of the table, as far as possible from Nelly Hamm. Like all ODST personnel present, she wore plain grays—a fire-retardant working uniform with a four-pocket shirt and cargo pants. On her collar tips, she now sported the double bars of a Marine Corps captain—a field promotion that could only mean Alpha Company’s previous captain had been killed during yesterday’s assault on the quarry dockyards.

John hated to see that, and not only because Hamm had it in for him. Captain Zelos Cuvier had impressed him as an intelligent, commonsense commander who cared more about getting the job done than protecting his turf. The Spartans had only been integrating with the regular military for a few months, but John had already come to understand how rare that was.

Once John was seated, Captain Ascot folded her hands on the table and leaned forward, her gaze drifting between John and Captain Hamm. Situated between Dr. Halsey and Colonel Crowther, Ascot wore naval utilities in star-pattern camouflage—a not-so-subtle reminder that she was the task force commander, which meant this was an ONI operation first, UNSC second.

John hoped it also meant she had a soft spot for Spartans.

“I’ll begin by reminding everyone here that this informal debriefing is not a disciplinary action,” she said. “Our purpose is not to assess blame, but merely to determine what went wrong with Ghost Flight’s drop on the dockyards yesterday.”

“Who says anything went wrong?” Halsey asked. “The dockyards were captured in less than an hour.”

“And Alpha Company took fifty-two KIAs,” Crowther said. “Including Captain Cuvier and his staff. That’s a thirty-two percent casualty rate. The rest of the battalion took six percent, without losing any captains.”

“Taking out the comm center was a mission-critical assignment,” Avery Johnson said. He was seated at the end of the table, adjacent to Crowther. “To do it, Alpha Company had to drop blind into a kill zone against an enemy who was expecting us. We’re lucky we didn’t lose seventy-two percent.”

“The enemy was expecting us?” Halsey said. “How do we know that?”

“The bunkers,” John said. “That’s not something you can put together on the fly. It takes hours to dig in and camouflage like that.”

“Doesn’t mean they were expecting us,” Nyeto said. “Just that they were ready when we showed up.”

“You weren’t in the drop bay when the jump hatches opened, when those Vulcans started firing,” Hamm said. “It sure felt like they were expecting us.”

“And yet you dismounted anyway,” Crowther said. “Explain that.”

“Not my idea.” Hamm looked down the table toward John. “Spartan-117 acted on his own.”

Crowther let his gaze slide toward John. “And how did that happen from the back of the drop bay?”

“I wasn’t in the back.” John was pretty sure Crowther already knew the answers to his questions, but if a colonel asked, you answered. “When First Platoon started taking casualties, I moved forward to assist.”

“With the casualties?”

“With stopping them,” John said. “As the designated fire-support soldier, I carried the platoon’s heavy weapons. Upon reaching the jump hatch, I observed Vulcan fire coming from six camouflaged bunkers. It was clear that Alpha Company would not be able to complete its dismount until those positions were eliminated.”

“So, naturally, you reported your observation to the platoon commander.” Crowther’s tone was sarcastic. “Because, even after leaving your assigned position, that would have been the proper way to handle a battlefield intelligence report.”

“Captain Hamm was tending to a casualty,” John said.

“I’d like to clarify that,” Hamm said. “I was tending a casualty because Spartan-117 had dumped one into my lap. I believe he was trying to keep me busy.”

“Don’t be silly,” Halsey said. “You can’t possibly know someone else’s motivations.”

“We can find out,” Ascot said. She looked to John. “Spartan, why did you hand a casualty to your platoon leader?”

“Because I wanted to assess the situation,” John said. “And to do that, I needed to keep Captain Hamm busy for a minute.”

Nyeto sighed and pressed his palms to his brow.

Ascot looked to him. “Is something wrong, Commander Nyeto?”

“You call this a debriefing?” Nyeto flung a hand toward John. “This kid saved our asses at the dismount, and you’re hanging him out to dry? Are you crazy?”

“That’s not our intent here,” Crowther said. “We’re trying to determine why Alpha Company’s casualties were so high.”

“Your casualties were high because you ordered a hot dismount without recon,” Nyeto shot back. “What the hell did you expect?”

“What I didn’t expect was a petty officer to start freelancing.” Crowther was speaking between clenched teeth now, and he turned his glare directly on John. “His team was carrying most of the heavy weaponry, so when they went, the rest of the company had to follow—and the Black Daggers don’t have titanium-alloy power armor.”

The anger drained from Nyeto’s face, and even John began to see how he might have forced Alpha Company’s hand by ignoring his platoon commander’s abort order.

“I was just trying to support the boots on the ground, sir,” John said. “I didn’t expect the rest of Alpha Company to follow.”

“What did you think we’d do?” Hamm demanded. “Leave you alone down there?”

“That’s what you were doing,” John said. “Alpha Company already had a dozen troopers down there, being chewed apart by the Vulcans.”

“And Ghost Flight was getting ready to come around for a missile run,” Ascot said. “Until you decided to do something else, Petty Officer.”

John did not know how to respond. He had been trained to take the initiative and operate independently, but he was beginning to think that those qualities weren’t valued in the 21st. Worse, it seemed to him that officers like Hamm and Crowther actually considered them liabilities.

Hoping to find some hint of support—or at least an indication of how he should respond—John looked toward Avery Johnson. But the staff sergeant was deep in thought, his gaze fixed on Nyeto, his brow lowered in contemplation.

When John made no attempt to defend himself, Nyeto stepped in. “Look, maybe he got excited—”

“Oh, it wasn’t excitement,” Hamm said. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“And he got the job done,” Nyeto said. “Maybe not the way you would have done it, but cut the kid some slack, okay? I’ll bet you took a few shortcuts when you were that young.”

Hamm’s eyes narrowed. “I’m twenty-two,” she said. “Just three years older than Spartan-117.”

Nyeto smirked and started to correct her, then suddenly looked away. Everyone fell silent and watched Nyeto with expectant expressions, and John knew better than to hope the slip had gone unnoticed.

Crowther asked, “You were going to say something, Commander?”

“No, it was nothing,” Nyeto said. “I just thought a captain in your outfit would be a little older.”

“Captain Hamm graduated first in her class at Luna OCS and in ODST school,” Crowther replied. “She’s been a Black Dagger for three years. And she’s the one who salvaged the mess at the dockyards yesterday. Does her promotion meet with your approval now?”

“Sure thing.” Nyeto caught Hamm’s eye. “I didn’t mean any offense. You just look, uh, mature for twenty-two.”

Hamm gave him a frosty glare. “No offense taken.” Her voice grew ten degrees cooler as she added, “Sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” Nyeto looked back toward Crowther. “Now maybe we can talk about what really went wrong with yesterday’s dismount.”

“I’m dying to hear your thoughts,” Crowther replied. “But since you’ve broached the subject of age . . . your reaction a few moments ago has made me curious. Is there something about Spartan-117 that we should know?”

Nyeto shrugged. “I don’t really know what you mean.”

“Commander . . . how old is he really?”

“I don’t see what John’s age has to do with this debriefing,” Halsey said. “Perhaps we should stick to the subject at hand.”

“John-117’s judgment is at issue in this discussion,” Ascot said. “And his age certainly has a bearing on that. If he’s not actually nineteen, I’d like to know his true age—and why the DOB in his personnel jacket would have been falsified.”

“All I can tell you is that the true age of any Spartan is compartmentalized, and classified Top Secret Level One,” Halsey said. “But, I assure you, a few years at the Luna OCS doesn’t compare to John-117’s training. His tactical judgment is beyond reproach.”

Ascot did not quite roll her eyes. “I need more than the assurances of a proud mother, Dr. Halsey.” She turned to Nyeto. “And I won’t be kept in the dark by a specious top-secret designation. Commander Nyeto, have you been read-in on the Spartans’ ages by a proper authority?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you do know John-117’s real age?”

Nyeto sighed and shot a glance toward John. “Sorry, son.”

Halsey’s jaw fell. “John, you didn’t tell—”

“Of course not, ma’am,” John said. “He had a friend who trained against us on Reach. Commander Nyeto worked out our age from there.”

Ascot’s glare remained fixed on Nyeto. “Is that so?”

“It was just scuttlebutt,” Nyeto said. “I didn’t realize he was breaching security, or I would have shut him down.”

“We’ll worry about your friend’s security violations later,” Ascot said. “Just give me the math.”

Nyeto looked at the tabletop and sighed. “I had a buddy who used to get his unit’s butt rightly kicked when training against a bunch of eight-year-old ‘kidmandos’ on Reach,” he said. “He was bellyaching about it seven years ago, so when you add it up . . . the kidmandos would be about fifteen now.”

Halsey leaned forward, placing her upper body between Ascot and Nyeto, then asked, “And what makes you think these kidmandos—as you call them—are my Spartans?”

It was a clever move, John realized, designed to make Nyeto feel shielded from Ascot and reinforce the out she was giving him. From what he had said so far, there was no way he could be certain the children his friend described had grown up to become Spartans.

But, apparently, Nyeto was not comfortable deceiving his superior. He merely nodded at John, then said, “Spartan-117 has a lot of skills, but lying isn’t one of them. I had him pegged as one of those kidmandos the first time he denied it.”

“So figuring this out was just an accident?” Avery Johnson asked. He was staring down the length of the table, watching Nyeto with unblinking attention. “Just one of those things that comes up in a conversation?”

“Yeah.” Nyeto met Johnson’s gaze evenly. “How’d you find out?”

“Who says I did?” Avery flashed a tight smile that left John wondering what he was missing between the two men. “I’m not even sure I believe you.”

Nyeto shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell anyone their age anyway.”

“But you did.” Halsey looked around the table, then added, “And it’s an unfortunate disclosure that can’t leave this room.”

“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 miss?”

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 started 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.”

“Very good.” John raised his hand to salute, then said, “Colonel Crowther . . . with all due respect, sir, I’d like to make a request.”

“What is it?”

“Please stop calling me son,” John said. “I’ve been a soldier for so long I can’t even remember what my father looked like, but I’m pretty sure you aren’t him.”

Crowther’s eyes went wide—then he nodded. “Very well, Spartan—consider it done.” He raised a hand and returned John’s salute. “I think you’ve earned that much.”