0458 hours, April 14, 2526 (military calendar)

UNSC Point Blank–class Stealth Cruiser Vanishing Point

Covenant Space, Slipspace Transit Node Bhadra, Muruga Sector

Nobody knew what the Covenant called sectors in their part of the galaxy, or what terms they used for slipspace transit nodes, or how they described the vast emptiness that separated one star system from another. But Halima Ascot had named Task Force Yama for the Hindu god of death, so in her honor, Dr. Halsey had chosen Hindu names for the alien territory that Task Force Yama was invading. The transit node, where one slipspace route ended and another began, she had named Bhadra, after the goddess of the hunt. And their current sector she had named Muruga, after the god of war.

They were good references, and John hoped they would prove prophetic.

It had been just under four weeks since Halima Ascot’s death at the Seoba ice quarry, but it felt like months. After observing the arrival of the alien relief convoy at Etalan, Dr. Halsey had used their captured starholo to retrace the convoy’s route into enemy space and identify the likely location of the enemy supply depot. Even with the improved slipspace efficiencies due to Dr. Halsey’s understanding of the alien starholo, it had taken the task force two weeks to arrive at Slipspace Transit Node Bhadra—a pocket of star-flecked space more than two hundred light-years beyond humanity’s farthest known exploration. And now the task force was preparing to launch an attack that would show the Covenant just how mistaken it had been to declare war on humanity.

John would have been confident of success, had it not been for one man: Hector Nyeto.

He was still the task force commander, thanks to Dr. Halsey and Colonel Crowther, who claimed they were using him to mislead the enemy. Maybe that was the truth, or maybe Nyeto was playing them. Either way, John didn’t like it.

He knew from his own interactions just how gutsy and deceptive the commander could be, and Dr. Halsey had made an interesting discovery by researching Nyeto’s personnel records. Early in his career, he had apparently spent a lot of time on missions with the infamous traitor Robert Watts, whom Blue Team had captured on their very first mission. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think that one of them had radicalized the other, and that Nyeto was aware of the part the Spartans had played in his old friend’s apprehension.

And right now, Nyeto was standing across the hangar, waiting at the foot of the Ghost Song’s boarding ramp while John received some last-minute guidance from Crowther and Johnson. It was hard to concentrate, because John was about 90 percent certain that Nyeto was going to sabotage the mission in an effort to get all of Task Force Yama’s Spartans killed—and never mind who else died, or how much it set back humanity’s fight against the aliens.

“Smile.” Avery Johnson’s voice was low enough to avoid carrying across the fifty meters of deck that separated Nyeto’s Ghost Song from the Black Widow, which John would soon be boarding. “Wave.”

“Why do I have to smile?” John raised his hand and waved. “I’m wearing a helmet.”

“Body therapy,” Johnson said. Like John, he was wearing his assault armor, but his helmet and weapons had already been stowed aboard the Ghost Song. “You’re so damn mad that even your armor looks tense. Smiling will relax you.”

John attempted to do so inside his helmet. Meanwhile, Nyeto raised his hand back to John and smiled as well.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John said. “Can’t I just kill him now?”

“And alienate every prowler crew in the task force?” Crowther shook his head. “I wish you could, especially given how many Black Daggers his treason cost us at Seoba and Biko. But Nyeto is a very popular commander. You kill him, you have to kill his people.”

“So you’re saying it’s a bad idea?”

Crowther chuckled. Apparently, he had grown accustomed to John’s dry sense of humor over the past week of clandestine planning sessions. More importantly, it had become apparent that Avery Johnson had not been exaggerating when he told John that Crowther had experienced a change of heart about the Spartans and no longer seemed to consider their age a detriment.

The colonel had hardly apologized about his earlier treatment of John and his squad—far from it. But he had been careful to consult John about every aspect of the upcoming mission, and had even designed much of it to take advantage of Spartan capabilities.

And John too had done some reevaluating. He had come to recognize that the colonel’s original reticence had been warranted, that the Spartans’ relative lack of field experience was a weakness that needed correcting before they could be expected to survive as many special ops missions as had Crowther’s oldest Black Daggers. John was actually feeling guilty for the motivations he had recently attributed to the colonel.

It had been a strange week, for certain.

Crowther said, “I’m saying we can’t fly those prowlers ourselves.” He pointed up the ramp behind John toward the boarding vestibule of the Black Widow, which would be serving as Sierra Force’s command vessel on this mission. “Let’s talk in private for a minute. There’s something I need to do, and I don’t want a lot of eyes on us.”

“Of course, sir.” John led Crowther and Avery up the ramp into the small vestibule, then turned and said, “Before we begin, I’d like to apologize for how I reacted to your reservations about our age and experience.”

Crowther waved him off. “Never apologize for making yourself clear, John. I don’t.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “I have something for you, but first I want to make something clear. After what you did at Seoba and Etalan, you deserve these—and you deserve the full ceremony, on the bridge of the largest ship in the fleet. But . . . that’s not what you’re getting. There are going to be some very experienced Black Daggers in your group wondering why you’re in command and they aren’t, so we need to act now. This will remind them it’s because I said so.”

He extended his hand and displayed a metal armor insignia with three chevrons capped by a rocker. The UNSC eagle was perched atop the rocker, and above each of the eagle’s upraised wingtips was a star.

John wasn’t sure he understood. “Sir . . . that’s the rank insignia of a master chief petty officer.”

Crowther smiled. “I’m aware of that, John.” He used a thumb to tap the down-turned dagger that sat between the chevrons and the rocker. “I couldn’t find anything without a space assault rating, but what the heck . . . we’re all special ops.”

John still did not take the insignia. “That’s a four rank jump, sir.”

“And I’m going to catch ten kinds of hell for it from FLEETCOM,” Crowther said. “Maybe even from Admiral Cole. But he’s the one who told me to do whatever’s needed . . . and this is needed.”

“Colonel, I . . . I can’t accept that.”

“Not your choice,” Avery Johnson said. “Colonel Crowther and I talked this over at length. We decided it’s the best thing for the mission.”

“Exactly,” Crowther said. “Consider yourself under orders.”

Crowther reached up and affixed the insignia high on John’s chest plate, over the left collarbone where ODSTs wore their rank when under armor. “You’re now going to be leading two companies of my Black Daggers in Sierra Force. That means two captains and a fistful of lieutenants who outrank you, and a bunch of gunnery sergeants who think they do. All of them are older than you, most nearly twice your age . . . and a handful three times.”

He jammed a finger against the insignia, then continued, “That’s the only reason they’re going to listen to you. A four-rank bump is unheard-of, so you better believe they’ll know I’m standing behind you. Are we clear on that, Master Chief?”

“Yes, sir,” John said. “I understand.”

“Good. I was starting to think it was a mistake to put you in charge.”

“It isn’t. Sierra Force will get the job done.” John paused, then said, “But I worry about the risks that you and Sergeant Johnson are taking with Dagger Force. I wish there was another way.”

“There’s always another way,” Crowther said. “But not always more time or resources. Especially now. We’re at war. And we work with what we have.”

John nodded. “All the same, I wish I could trade places with you and Sergeant Johnson today.”

Crowther chuckled. “So do I.” He let his gaze drift to the insignia on John’s armor, then grew more serious. “John, there’s something that goes with that rank that you still don’t have—and you need to get it straight, and fast.”

John’s stomach tightened. “I’m listening, sir.”

“You should know that you earned a lot of respect at Seoba, and not just from me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Crowther motioned that he wasn’t finished. “And you’re a good leader. Your Spartans would follow you into a fusion reactor if you asked them to.”

“I’d do the same for them.”

“I know you would,” Crowther said. “And that’s the problem. Sometimes a good commander can’t be a hero. You have to be willing to send your people into that reactor alone, if that’s what it takes. And I honestly haven’t seen that ability in you—not once.”

John glanced toward Johnson, wondering if it was Crowther’s words or Johnson’s he was hearing. Both of them had been on him about “leading from the front” since the day his squad was attached to the 21st.

“I’ve lost Spartans in battle before,” John said. “I just try not to make it a habit.”

“And I’m not encouraging you to,” Crowther said. “But that armor doesn’t make you invincible. If you’re always the first one in, and the one who takes the biggest chances, sooner or later, you’re going to get hit. What happens to the unit then?”

“Fred takes over.”

Crowther rolled his eyes. “And command continuity suffers. Even if Fred is as good as you are, it will take your people a couple of seconds to adjust.”

“And a lot can happen in two seconds,” Johnson added. “A unit can get wiped out.”

John didn’t reply. He knew they were right. But he just didn’t like the idea of ordering his friends to take risks in his place. It seemed cowardly.

But so did getting his squad wiped out because he was afraid to let somebody else take point. Johnson was right about that much—you could lose your entire unit in two seconds of combat.

“The commander of an elite unit has to trust his people as much as he trusts himself,” Crowther said. “You don’t have that yet—and I’m not sure if it’s something that you’ll ever be comfortable with. But you’re still young—an understatement, to be sure—and that level of trust is something you need to think about if you’re going to live up to that insignia on your collar.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

Crowther studied him for a moment, then finally nodded. “You do that, Master Chief.”

He gave a curt nod to Johnson, then left the boarding vestibule and crossed the hangar to the Ghost Song, which would be serving as Dagger Force’s command vessel. John was tempted to offer a salute, but he knew Nyeto would be trying to see what was happening inside the vestibule, and he didn’t want an unnecessary show of respect to tip their hand.

Johnson stepped in front of John. “I guess this is good-bye, then, Master Chief.” He was making a good show of smiling, but his eyes were stoic, and John knew he believed they would not be meeting again. “You just remember what the colonel said. Do what you have to.”

The sergeant extended his hand.

“I will.” John took the offered hand in his gauntlet and shook. “Thanks for showing me how much I didn’t learn on Reach. I needed the lessons.”

Johnson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Anytime.”

He tried to withdraw his hand, but John held tight. “I’m going to hold you to that, Sergeant Johnson.”

Johnson grew more somber. “Then make it through this,” he said. “Listen to Crowther—and trust your people.”

The sergeant withdrew his hand and left the vestibule, then walked across the deck to board the Ghost Song.

John returned to the hatch and watched for a second, trying to digest what had just happened. He was flattered by the promotion, 0458 hours, April 14, 2526 (military calendar)

UNSC Point Blank–class Stealth Cruiser Vanishing Point

Covenant Space, Slipspace Transit Node Bhadra, Muruga Sector

Nobody knew what the Covenant called sectors in their part of the galaxy, or what terms they used for slipspace transit nodes, or how they described the vast emptiness that separated one star system from another. But Halima Ascot had named Task Force Yama for the Hindu god of death, so in her honor, Dr. Halsey had chosen Hindu names for the alien territory that Task Force Yama was invading. The transit node, where one slipspace route ended and another began, she had named Bhadra, after the goddess of the hunt. And their current sector she had named Muruga, after the god of war.

They were good references, and John hoped they would prove prophetic.

It had been just under four weeks since Halima Ascot’s death at the Seoba ice quarry, but it felt like months. After observing the arrival of the alien relief convoy at Etalan, Dr. Halsey had used their captured starholo to retrace the convoy’s route into enemy space and identify the likely location of the enemy supply depot. Even with the improved slipspace efficiencies due to Dr. Halsey’s understanding of the alien starholo, it had taken the task force two weeks to arrive at Slipspace Transit Node Bhadra—a pocket of star-flecked space more than two hundred light-years beyond humanity’s farthest known exploration. And now the task force was preparing to launch an attack that would show the Covenant just how mistaken it had been to declare war on humanity.

John would have been confident of success, had it not been for one man: Hector Nyeto.

He was still the task force commander, thanks to Dr. Halsey and Colonel Crowther, who claimed they were using him to mislead the enemy. Maybe that was the truth, or maybe Nyeto was playing them. Either way, John didn’t like it.

He knew from his own interactions just how gutsy and deceptive the commander could be, and Dr. Halsey had made an interesting discovery by researching Nyeto’s personnel records. Early in his career, he had apparently spent a lot of time on missions with the infamous traitor Robert Watts, whom Blue Team had captured on their very first mission. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think that one of them had radicalized the other, and that Nyeto was aware of the part the Spartans had played in his old friend’s apprehension.

And right now, Nyeto was standing across the hangar, waiting at the foot of the Ghost Song’s boarding ramp while John received some last-minute guidance from Crowther and Johnson. It was hard to concentrate, because John was about 90 percent certain that Nyeto was going to sabotage the mission in an effort to get all of Task Force Yama’s Spartans killed—and never mind who else died, or how much it set back humanity’s fight against the aliens.

“Smile.” Avery Johnson’s voice was low enough to avoid carrying across the fifty meters of deck that separated Nyeto’s Ghost Song from the Black Widow, which John would soon be boarding. “Wave.”

“Why do I have to smile?” John raised his hand and waved. “I’m wearing a helmet.”

“Body therapy,” Johnson said. Like John, he was wearing his assault armor, but his helmet and weapons had already been stowed aboard the Ghost Song. “You’re so damn mad that even your armor looks tense. Smiling will relax you.”

John attempted to do so inside his helmet. Meanwhile, Nyeto raised his hand back to John and smiled as well.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John said. “Can’t I just kill him now?”

“And alienate every prowler crew in the task force?” Crowther shook his head. “I wish you could, especially given how many Black Daggers his treason cost us at Seoba and Biko. But Nyeto is a very popular commander. You kill him, you have to kill his people.”

“So you’re saying it’s a bad idea?”

Crowther chuckled. Apparently, he had grown accustomed to John’s dry sense of humor over the past week of clandestine planning sessions. More importantly, it had become apparent that Avery Johnson had not been exaggerating when he told John that Crowther had experienced a change of heart about the Spartans and no longer seemed to consider their age a detriment.

The colonel had hardly apologized about his earlier treatment of John and his squad—far from it. But he had been careful to consult John about every aspect of the upcoming mission, and had even designed much of it to take advantage of Spartan capabilities.

And John too had done some reevaluating. He had come to recognize that the colonel’s original reticence had been warranted, that the Spartans’ relative lack of field experience was a weakness that needed correcting before they could be expected to survive as many special ops missions as had Crowther’s oldest Black Daggers. John was actually feeling guilty for the motivations he had recently attributed to the colonel.

It had been a strange week, for certain.

Crowther said, “I’m saying we can’t fly those prowlers ourselves.” He pointed up the ramp behind John toward the boarding vestibule of the Black Widow, which would be serving as Sierra Force’s command vessel on this mission. “Let’s talk in private for a minute. There’s something I need to do, and I don’t want a lot of eyes on us.”

“Of course, sir.” John led Crowther and Avery up the ramp into the small vestibule, then turned and said, “Before we begin, I’d like to apologize for how I reacted to your reservations about our age and experience.”

Crowther waved him off. “Never apologize for making yourself clear, John. I don’t.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “I have something for you, but first I want to make something clear. After what you did at Seoba and Etalan, you deserve these—and you deserve the full ceremony, on the bridge of the largest ship in the fleet. But . . . that’s not what you’re getting. There are going to be some very experienced Black Daggers in your group wondering why you’re in command and they aren’t, so we need to act now. This will remind them it’s because I said so.”

He extended his hand and displayed a metal armor insignia with three chevrons capped by a rocker. The UNSC eagle was perched atop the rocker, and above each of the eagle’s upraised wingtips was a star.

John wasn’t sure he understood. “Sir . . . that’s the rank insignia of a master chief petty officer.”

Crowther smiled. “I’m aware of that, John.” He used a thumb to tap the down-turned dagger that sat between the chevrons and the rocker. “I couldn’t find anything without a space assault rating, but what the heck . . . we’re all special ops.”

John still did not take the insignia. “That’s a four rank jump, sir.”

“And I’m going to catch ten kinds of hell for it from FLEETCOM,” Crowther said. “Maybe even from Admiral Cole. But he’s the one who told me to do whatever’s needed . . . and this is needed.”

“Colonel, I . . . I can’t accept that.”

“Not your choice,” Avery Johnson said. “Colonel Crowther and I talked this over at length. We decided it’s the best thing for the mission.”

“Exactly,” Crowther said. “Consider yourself under orders.”

Crowther reached up and affixed the insignia high on John’s chest plate, over the left collarbone where ODSTs wore their rank when under armor. “You’re now going to be leading two companies of my Black Daggers in Sierra Force. That means two captains and a fistful of lieutenants who outrank you, and a bunch of gunnery sergeants who think they do. All of them are older than you, most nearly twice your age . . . and a handful three times.”

He jammed a finger against the insignia, then continued, “That’s the only reason they’re going to listen to you. A four-rank bump is unheard-of, so you better believe they’ll know I’m standing behind you. Are we clear on that, Master Chief?”

“Yes, sir,” John said. “I understand.”

“Good. I was starting to think it was a mistake to put you in charge.”

“It isn’t. Sierra Force will get the job done.” John paused, then said, “But I worry about the risks that you and Sergeant Johnson are taking with Dagger Force. I wish there was another way.”

“There’s always another way,” Crowther said. “But not always more time or resources. Especially now. We’re at war. And we work with what we have.”

John nodded. “All the same, I wish I could trade places with you and Sergeant Johnson today.”

Crowther chuckled. “So do I.” He let his gaze drift to the insignia on John’s armor, then grew more serious. “John, there’s something that goes with that rank that you still don’t have—and you need to get it straight, and fast.”

John’s stomach tightened. “I’m listening, sir.”

“You should know that you earned a lot of respect at Seoba, and not just from me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Crowther motioned that he wasn’t finished. “And you’re a good leader. Your Spartans would follow you into a fusion reactor if you asked them to.”

“I’d do the same for them.”

“I know you would,” Crowther said. “And that’s the problem. Sometimes a good commander can’t be a hero. You have to be willing to send your people into that reactor alone, if that’s what it takes. And I honestly haven’t seen that ability in you—not once.”

John glanced toward Johnson, wondering if it was Crowther’s words or Johnson’s he was hearing. Both of them had been on him about “leading from the front” since the day his squad was attached to the 21st.

“I’ve lost Spartans in battle before,” John said. “I just try not to make it a habit.”

“And I’m not encouraging you to,” Crowther said. “But that armor doesn’t make you invincible. If you’re always the first one in, and the one who takes the biggest chances, sooner or later, you’re going to get hit. What happens to the unit then?”

“Fred takes over.”

Crowther rolled his eyes. “And command continuity suffers. Even if Fred is as good as you are, it will take your people a couple of seconds to adjust.”

“And a lot can happen in two seconds,” Johnson added. “A unit can get wiped out.”

John didn’t reply. He knew they were right. But he just didn’t like the idea of ordering his friends to take risks in his place. It seemed cowardly.

But so did getting his squad wiped out because he was afraid to let somebody else take point. Johnson was right about that much—you could lose your entire unit in two seconds of combat.

“The commander of an elite unit has to trust his people as much as he trusts himself,” Crowther said. “You don’t have that yet—and I’m not sure if it’s something that you’ll ever be comfortable with. But you’re still young—an understatement, to be sure—and that level of trust is something you need to think about if you’re going to live up to that insignia on your collar.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

Crowther studied him for a moment, then finally nodded. “You do that, Master Chief.”

He gave a curt nod to Johnson, then left the boarding vestibule and crossed the hangar to the Ghost Song, which would be serving as Dagger Force’s command vessel. John was tempted to offer a salute, but he knew Nyeto would be trying to see what was happening inside the vestibule, and he didn’t want an unnecessary show of respect to tip their hand.

Johnson stepped in front of John. “I guess this is good-bye, then, Master Chief.” He was making a good show of smiling, but his eyes were stoic, and John knew he believed they would not be meeting again. “You just remember what the colonel said. Do what you have to.”

The sergeant extended his hand.

“I will.” John took the offered hand in his gauntlet and shook. “Thanks for showing me how much I didn’t learn on Reach. I needed the lessons.”

Johnson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Anytime.”

He tried to withdraw his hand, but John held tight. “I’m going to hold you to that, Sergeant Johnson.”

Johnson grew more somber. “Then make it through this,” he said. “Listen to Crowther—and trust your people.”

The sergeant withdrew his hand and left the vestibule, then walked across the deck to board the Ghost Song.

John returned to the hatch and watched for a second, trying to digest what had just happened. He was flattered by the promotion, of course, and proud that he had earned Crowther’s respect to such an extent. But he was also keenly aware of the heavy responsibility that had just been laid on his shoulders. A four-rank bump was so unheard-of that it was bound to draw as much scrutiny from inferior ranks as it did from his equals and superiors. From that moment forward, John knew, he would have to prove in everything he did that he was worthy of such an honor.

Linda-058 stepped into the vestibule behind him. When he turned around, her helmet tipped slightly, and he knew she was looking at the rank insignia affixed over his collar.

“Nice bling,” she said over TEAMCOM.

“Crowther’s idea,” John replied. “He says I need the cred.”

“Can’t hurt,” Linda said. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

“Thanks. I’ll try not to.”

“All prowlers have checked in clean.”

“Anybody find anything?” John asked. Sierra Force had four prowlers divided into two half-strength flights, and he had put Spartans aboard all of them, with orders to sweep for eavesdropping devices and keep a subtle eye on the crews. Aboard the Widow, that duty had fallen to Linda, while Fred and Kelly were in the drop bay, watching Third Platoon, Delta Company. “Or take any guff?”

“Negative on the guff,” Linda reported. “But I found a bug in the Widow’s wardroom, and Kurt found one in the Quiet Man’s.”

John thought for a moment, then said, “I guess that’s a good thing. It means Nyeto isn’t counting on our flight commanders for updates.”

“It doesn’t mean they’re going to trust you when things start getting . . . weird.”

John tapped his new rank insignia. “That’s why I have the bling.”

As they spoke, a crewman was raising the ramp and securing exterior hatches for immediate launch. The Vanishing Point and its escort complement would be staying behind at Transit Node Bhadra. But the rest of the task force, or what remained of it after losing half its strength—over four hundred troopers and seven prowlers at the battles at Seoba and Biko—was clustered in two nearby formations, awaiting the two command prowlers.

Led by Nyeto—at least temporarily—Dagger Force was the larger of Yama’s two strike forces, with three prowler flights carrying three half-strength space assault companies that numbered only two hundred and forty-three troopers between them. The mission plan called for it to depart first and approach the night side of the Covenant supply world, a planet they were designating “Naraka.” This attack was designed to draw out the defensive flotilla stationed at Libration Point Three. Sierra Force would follow a few minutes later and approach from the same side of the planet. Their primary objective was to infiltrate the remaining defenses and storm the orbital facilities that ringed Naraka.

That was the plan, anyway. John didn’t think the coming battle would actually unfold that way, and neither did Crowther or Johnson. They were expecting Nyeto to try to get the Spartans killed somewhere along the way. But how the traitorous commander would do that—and what would happen when Crowther and Johnson tried to stop him—was anyone’s guess.

The launch alarm sounded, and the Black Widow rose off her struts and exited the hangar. John barely noticed the acceleration anymore. He started forward toward the flight deck, while Linda remained amidship to keep a quiet eye on the crew. Fred and Kelly were in the drop bay with Third Platoon.

John knew the bay wouldn’t be as crowded as it had been when he and Avery Johnson had dropped with First Platoon Alpha back at Seoba, which now seemed so long ago. While Delta Company had suffered less attrition than most of the battalion during the Battle of Biko, it had lost forty-three troopers, and Third Platoon’s strength had dropped from forty ODSTs to thirty-two. Still, he hoped that Third Platoon’s lieutenant didn’t take offense at what he was about to do. Thirty-two ODSTs would be a tall order for a pair of Spartans to neutralize—especially if they were trying to avoid a lot of casualties.

And the odds would be even worse for the Spartans on Sierra Force’s other prowlers. In most cases, there would be a single Spartan on the flight deck and one in the drop bay. John had four prowlers and only twelve Spartans. That meant the vessels with a full team were the two flight-leads, the Black Widow with John’s Blue Team, and the Quiet Man with Kurt-051’s Green Team. Gold Team was split among the two remaining prowlers, with a pair of Spartans aboard each craft.

John reached the Widow’s flight deck and stepped into the compartment without asking permission. It was a terrible breach of shipboard decorum, and Esme Guayte—the naval lieutenant who commanded the flight—shot him a fiery scowl.

John pretended not to notice and remained beside her command chair, studying her through the anonymity of his mirrored faceplate. She was a compact woman with black hair, brown eyes, and a round face. Like the Quiet Flight commander, Lim Jinwoo, Guayte had actually been raised on Earth, and she had attended the Luna OCS Academy in Mare Nubium—which was about 90 percent of the reason John had chosen them for Sierra Force. Of all the flight commanders in Task Force Yama, they seemed least likely to be harboring hidden insurrectionist sympathies. But they were also Nyeto’s subordinates, and John would be fooling no one—including himself—if he tried to pretend the orders he was about to relay didn’t border on mutiny.

The slipspace formation appeared ahead, a band of dark voids hanging against the veil of stars beyond the forward viewport. There were no running lights or illuminated viewports to help define their shapes more precisely—this deep in alien space, it was not wise to increase the risk of being spotted by a passing patrol.

Nyeto’s Ghost Song was moving into formation with the most distant cluster of vessels, its thrust nozzles a triangle of barely visible purple disks. Guayte looked away from her command screen long enough to glance up at John, no doubt intending to make a pointed inquiry about what he needed on her flight deck, then noticed the new insignia at the top of his chest plate and raised her brow.

“Where did that come from?”

John tipped his helmet down toward her. “Colonel Crowther wanted to see how it looked on a suit of Mjolnir armor, ma’am.” He turned his gaze forward again. “I guess he liked it.”

Nyeto’s voice sounded over the flight-deck speakers. “Dagger Force, bring all weapons and power to battle-ready. Execute slip in five, four . . .”

The stars beyond Dagger Force began to dance and twinkle as long tongues of efflux shot from the thrust nozzles of a dozen vessels; then the prowlers were gone, a field of bright purple disks shrinking to a thumb-size dot in the duration of a blink, the dot vanishing into the blue crackle of a slipspace vortex.

Guayte extended a finger toward the comm selector on the arm of her chair.

“Not yet, ma’am.”

Guayte glanced at him in puzzlement and left her finger on the selector. “The timing of this operation is intricate, Master Chief. If Sierra Force doesn’t enter slipspace as scheduled—”

“Not yet,” John repeated. He pulled a data chip from an equipment pouch and handed it to her. “New orders.”

Guayte’s eyes narrowed, but she accepted the data chip and slipped it into a reader slot. Colonel Crowther’s face appeared on her command screen.

“Lieutenant Guayte, I am sure you will recall the conversation we had about operational security,” the image said. “It pains me to say that was not idle speculation. Operation: SILENT STORM has been compromised, and as of this moment, you will consider Commander Nyeto relieved of command.”

Guayte stopped the message and looked over at John. This was the critical moment, he knew. While Crowther’s rank was superior to her own, he was not actually in her chain of command. She would be well within protocol to ignore his instruction and carry on with the orders she had been given by Nyeto.

“You knew about this?” Guayte asked.

“We’re the ones he’s been trying to kill.”

“And that’s why there’s a Spartan standing on the flight deck of both my prowlers?”

“Yes, ma’am. And it’s why we swept them for eavesdropping devices as soon as we boarded,” John said. “Would you like to see what we found?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “How would I know they aren’t props you brought along to impress me?”

Guayte started the message again, and Crowther’s image continued: “I have provided an alternate vector through which you should exit slipspace. The transit specifications are embedded at the end of this message. As you know, John-117 has been given command of Sierra Force. I hope and expect you’ll honor that, no matter what your feelings are about Commander Nyeto.”

Crowther saluted, and the message ended.

Guayte sat staring at her blank command screen in silence, then turned and eyeballed John’s new rank insignia for a time.

Finally, she broke her reverie and said, “Very well, Master Chief. You’re in charge.” She began to tap the keypad on the arm of her command chair. “Please try not to get us killed.”of course, and proud that he had earned Crowther’s respect to such an extent. But he was also keenly aware of the heavy responsibility that had just been laid on his shoulders. A four-rank bump was so unheard-of that it was bound to draw as much scrutiny from inferior ranks as it did from his equals and superiors. From that moment forward, John knew, he would have to prove in everything he did that he was worthy of such an honor.

Linda-058 stepped into the vestibule behind him. When he turned around, her helmet tipped slightly, and he knew she was looking at the rank insignia affixed over his collar.

“Nice bling,” she said over TEAMCOM.

“Crowther’s idea,” John replied. “He says I need the cred.”

“Can’t hurt,” Linda said. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

“Thanks. I’ll try not to.”

“All prowlers have checked in clean.”

“Anybody find anything?” John asked. Sierra Force had four prowlers divided into two half-strength flights, and he had put Spartans aboard all of them, with orders to sweep for eavesdropping devices and keep a subtle eye on the crews. Aboard the Widow, that duty had fallen to Linda, while Fred and Kelly were in the drop bay, watching Third Platoon, Delta Company. “Or take any guff?”

“Negative on the guff,” Linda reported. “But I found a bug in the Widow’s wardroom, and Kurt found one in the Quiet Man’s.”

John thought for a moment, then said, “I guess that’s a good thing. It means Nyeto isn’t counting on our flight commanders for updates.”

“It doesn’t mean they’re going to trust you when things start getting . . . weird.”

John tapped his new rank insignia. “That’s why I have the bling.”

As they spoke, a crewman was raising the ramp and securing exterior hatches for immediate launch. The Vanishing Point and its escort complement would be staying behind at Transit Node Bhadra. But the rest of the task force, or what remained of it after losing half its strength—over four hundred troopers and seven prowlers at the battles at Seoba and Biko—was clustered in two nearby formations, awaiting the two command prowlers.

Led by Nyeto—at least temporarily—Dagger Force was the larger of Yama’s two strike forces, with three prowler flights carrying three half-strength space assault companies that numbered only two hundred and forty-three troopers between them. The mission plan called for it to depart first and approach the night side of the Covenant supply world, a planet they were designating “Naraka.” This attack was designed to draw out the defensive flotilla stationed at Libration Point Three. Sierra Force would follow a few minutes later and approach from the same side of the planet. Their primary objective was to infiltrate the remaining defenses and storm the orbital facilities that ringed Naraka.

That was the plan, anyway. John didn’t think the coming battle would actually unfold that way, and neither did Crowther or Johnson. They were expecting Nyeto to try to get the Spartans killed somewhere along the way. But how the traitorous commander would do that—and what would happen when Crowther and Johnson tried to stop him—was anyone’s guess.

The launch alarm sounded, and the Black Widow rose off her struts and exited the hangar. John barely noticed the acceleration anymore. He started forward toward the flight deck, while Linda remained amidship to keep a quiet eye on the crew. Fred and Kelly were in the drop bay with Third Platoon.

John knew the bay wouldn’t be as crowded as it had been when he and Avery Johnson had dropped with First Platoon Alpha back at Seoba, which now seemed so long ago. While Delta Company had suffered less attrition than most of the battalion during the Battle of Biko, it had lost forty-three troopers, and Third Platoon’s strength had dropped from forty ODSTs to thirty-two. Still, he hoped that Third Platoon’s lieutenant didn’t take offense at what he was about to do. Thirty-two ODSTs would be a tall order for a pair of Spartans to neutralize—especially if they were trying to avoid a lot of casualties.

And the odds would be even worse for the Spartans on Sierra Force’s other prowlers. In most cases, there would be a single Spartan on the flight deck and one in the drop bay. John had four prowlers and only twelve Spartans. That meant the vessels with a full team were the two flight-leads, the Black Widow with John’s Blue Team, and the Quiet Man with Kurt-051’s Green Team. Gold Team was split among the two remaining prowlers, with a pair of Spartans aboard each craft.

John reached the Widow’s flight deck and stepped into the compartment without asking permission. It was a terrible breach of shipboard decorum, and Esme Guayte—the naval lieutenant who commanded the flight—shot him a fiery scowl.

John pretended not to notice and remained beside her command chair, studying her through the anonymity of his mirrored faceplate. She was a compact woman with black hair, brown eyes, and a round face. Like the Quiet Flight commander, Lim Jinwoo, Guayte had actually been raised on Earth, and she had attended the Luna OCS Academy in Mare Nubium—which was about 90 percent of the reason John had chosen them for Sierra Force. Of all the flight commanders in Task Force Yama, they seemed least likely to be harboring hidden insurrectionist sympathies. But they were also Nyeto’s subordinates, and John would be fooling no one—including himself—if he tried to pretend the orders he was about to relay didn’t border on mutiny.

The slipspace formation appeared ahead, a band of dark voids hanging against the veil of stars beyond the forward viewport. There were no running lights or illuminated viewports to help define their shapes more precisely—this deep in alien space, it was not wise to increase the risk of being spotted by a passing patrol.

Nyeto’s Ghost Song was moving into formation with the most distant cluster of vessels, its thrust nozzles a triangle of barely visible purple disks. Guayte looked away from her command screen long enough to glance up at John, no doubt intending to make a pointed inquiry about what he needed on her flight deck, then noticed the new insignia at the top of his chest plate and raised her brow.

“Where did that come from?”

John tipped his helmet down toward her. “Colonel Crowther wanted to see how it looked on a suit of Mjolnir armor, ma’am.” He turned his gaze forward again. “I guess he liked it.”

Nyeto’s voice sounded over the flight-deck speakers. “Dagger Force, bring all weapons and power to battle-ready. Execute slip in five, four . . .”

The stars beyond Dagger Force began to dance and twinkle as long tongues of efflux shot from the thrust nozzles of a dozen vessels; then the prowlers were gone, a field of bright purple disks shrinking to a thumb-size dot in the duration of a blink, the dot vanishing into the blue crackle of a slipspace vortex.

Guayte extended a finger toward the comm selector on the arm of her chair.

“Not yet, ma’am.”

Guayte glanced at him in puzzlement and left her finger on the selector. “The timing of this operation is intricate, Master Chief. If Sierra Force doesn’t enter slipspace as scheduled—”

“Not yet,” John repeated. He pulled a data chip from an equipment pouch and handed it to her. “New orders.”

Guayte’s eyes narrowed, but she accepted the data chip and slipped it into a reader slot. Colonel Crowther’s face appeared on her command screen.

“Lieutenant Guayte, I am sure you will recall the conversation we had about operational security,” the image said. “It pains me to say that was not idle speculation. Operation: SILENT STORM has been compromised, and as of this moment, you will consider Commander Nyeto relieved of command.”

Guayte stopped the message and looked over at John. This was the critical moment, he knew. While Crowther’s rank was superior to her own, he was not actually in her chain of command. She would be well within protocol to ignore his instruction and carry on with the orders she had been given by Nyeto.

“You knew about this?” Guayte asked.

“We’re the ones he’s been trying to kill.”

“And that’s why there’s a Spartan standing on the flight deck of both my prowlers?”

“Yes, ma’am. And it’s why we swept them for eavesdropping devices as soon as we boarded,” John said. “Would you like to see what we found?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “How would I know they aren’t props you brought along to impress me?”

Guayte started the message again, and Crowther’s image continued: “I have provided an alternate vector through which you should exit slipspace. The transit specifications are embedded at the end of this message. As you know, John-117 has been given command of Sierra Force. I hope and expect you’ll honor that, no matter what your feelings are about Commander Nyeto.”

Crowther saluted, and the message ended.

Guayte sat staring at her blank command screen in silence, then turned and eyeballed John’s new rank insignia for a time.

Finally, she broke her reverie and said, “Very well, Master Chief. You’re in charge.” She began to tap the keypad on the arm of her command chair. “Please try not to get us killed.”