0558 hours, March 8, 2526 (military calendar)

UNSC Point Blank–class Stealth Cruiser Vanishing Point

Deep Space, Polona Sector

Even on a vessel as large as the UNSC stealth cruiser Vanishing Point, John-117 was too tall to stand upright inside the tactical planning center. He must have been an astonishing sight, because as he followed Dr. Catherine Halsey toward the conference table, all eyes swung toward him and remained fixed there. He was wearing his khaki service uniform rather than his Mjolnir armor, but in cramped spaces like the TPC, standard clothing only seemed to emphasize his size.

Dr. Halsey took the first open chair, but John stopped two steps from the table and drew himself into a hunched-over version of attention. There was more brass in the compartment than he usually saw in a month, with Vice Admiral Preston Cole standing at the far end of the table between Halima Ascot and a marine colonel John didn’t recognize.

Seated at the table, three chairs from the end, was a grim-faced staff sergeant with dark skin and a short-trimmed mustache. He was pretty old—about forty, John guessed—with crow’s-feet around his eyes and permanent frown lines flanking his mouth.

The colonel wore the flaming-skull ODST crest on the breast of his combat utilities, and the Black Dagger emblem of the 21st Space Assault Battalion on his shoulder. The sergeant wore no unit emblem at all—an indication that he either had just transferred into the battalion or was attached to an ONI black ops unit.

Cole returned John’s salute. “Have a seat, Petty Officer.” He pointed to a chair next to the one Dr. Halsey had selected. “No need to kink that thick neck of yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

John slipped into the indicated chair and found himself directly across from the mustached staff sergeant. Above the breast pocket, the sergeant wore a name label that read A. JOHNSON, but John knew better than to assume it was the man’s real name. It was exactly the kind of generic alias ONI might assign to an operator it didn’t want to acknowledge.

Whatever his real name, the sergeant studied John with an air of unabashed appraisal, as though he couldn’t quite decide whether John was a real soldier or just some oversize pretender. John didn’t take offense. With clear blue eyes and thin brown eyebrows set in an oval face, John still looked like a teenager, and he knew that made him appear less capable than he was.

Cole waited until Ascot and the marine colonel had taken their seats, then nodded toward a control booth in the back of the compartment. “That’s everyone.”

The TPC’s door slid shut, then a hush settled over the compartment and all eyes turned toward the admiral. Well, almost all eyes—Johnson continued to study John.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” Cole said. “We’re holding this briefing aboard the Vanishing Point, rather than my flagship, for operational security. There are a lot of clever people aboard the Everest, and if they saw this group reporting to my conference suite, tongues would start wagging.”

John looked around the table and realized Cole was right. The captain of a prowler squadron . . . the commander of a space assault battalion . . . a veteran black-ops sergeant. Even before he considered himself and Dr. Halsey, it seemed obvious to him that a force was being assembled to board another Covenant vessel. Probably a big one.

“Now, introductions.” Cole gestured to Ascot. “Captain Halima Ascot, commander of Task Force Yama.”

Ascot’s eyes widened at the statement—a sign that the possibility had still been under discussion when John and Dr. Halsey entered the room. Recovering quickly, she tucked a lock of short blond hair behind an ear, then turned her gray eyes on the others.

“At this point . . . I don’t know much more than you do,” she said. “All I can add is that Task Force Yama will be an all-prowler force consisting of three squadrons of Eclipse- and Razor-class prowlers, each led by a Sahara-class prowler. The Vanishing Point will serve as our logistics-support ship.”

John frowned. Three squadrons was overkill for a capture mission—even if they were prowlers. Stealthy or not, that many vessels would raise the boarding party’s chances of being spotted as it moved into position.

Cole extended a hand toward the marine colonel. “Colonel Marmon Crowther, commander of the 21st Black Daggers Space Assault Battalion.”

“Thank you, Admiral.” A short and slender man of about fifty, Crowther had black hair, olive skin, and eyes the color of blued steel. “The Black Daggers consist of eight hundred elite Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, trained and equipped for zero-g operations. We have yet to engage the Covenant, but last year alone we stormed and seized eighteen insurrectionist facilities in locations ranging from low planetary orbit to deep transitional space. With advice from those who have fought the aliens before, I’m sure we’ll be able to adapt our tactics to the mission . . . whatever it may be.”

Cole motioned toward the sergeant across from John. “Sergeant Avery Johnson, special tactics sniper. He was training the colonial militia on Harvest when the Covenant arrived, so he’s had plenty of alien-fighting experience.”

Johnson nodded to the officers. “Honored to be here.”

Cole gestured at Dr. Halsey next. “Dr. Catherine Halsey is leading the effort to analyze and reverse-engineer the alien technology. Seized equipment will go to her first, and you should try to fulfill her requests to capture specific items. For the UNSC to win this war, her work must succeed.”

What Cole did not say was that, as the originator and chief scientist of the SPARTAN-II program, Dr. Halsey was somewhere between a commanding officer and a mother to all of the Spartans. She had personally selected John and many of the others, she supervised their general education and kept a careful watch on their military training, she had overseen their biological augmentations, and she was the one who had designed their Mjolnir power armor. Although she had no military rank, most of the Spartans viewed her as their cardinal authority and treated her with a deference and respect that on rare occasion exceeded even what they showed to admirals and generals.

When Halsey chose not to add anything to her introduction, Cole moved on and pointed to John.

“And last, we have Petty Officer First Class John-117. He leads a squad of power-armored NavSpecWar operators known as Spartans. Their existence is classified top-secret, and you should emphasize to your subordinates that any mention of their unit to nonauthorized personnel will result in charges.”

Cole had been careful to omit any reference to ONI or Section Three when he introduced John and Dr. Halsey. It made John wonder what the admiral had neglected to mention about the other people in the compartment. He glanced across the table and found Johnson studying him again, openly watching him in a way that seemed almost a challenge.

John met the sergeant’s gaze and let his lips tighten in a faint smile. He had no idea what Johnson’s game might be—but whatever it was, John did not intend to lose it.

“As of now,” Cole continued, “you’re all attached to Task Force Yama for the duration of Operation: SILENT STORM. Your objective is to intercept the Covenant invasion fleet, then board as many capital ships as you can and detonate small-yield tactical nuclear devices inside their hulls.”

Ascot’s jaw dropped, and Crowther’s eyes bulged. Both looked at Cole as though he were a madman.

“I’m sorry, sir . . .” Crowther said. “Are you suggesting we launch our troops against the enemy like missiles?”

“I hope you’ll be a bit more subtle than that,” Cole said. “But anything you need to do.”

Crowther’s eyes shifted toward Ascot, but her gaze had grown distant, and John guessed she was thinking back to the tactical difficulties with the Netherop mission.

John found himself smiling broadly, the way he often did when he finally saw how to beat the opposition. “I think it’s a fine idea, sir. The aliens will never see it coming.”

“With good reason,” Crowther said. He turned to Cole. “Admiral, it’s difficult enough to sneak a single assault team onto a lone enemy ship. But using a whole battalion to board dozens of vessels in the middle of their fleet? I’m not sure it can be done.”

“I didn’t say you had to use the whole battalion,” Cole said. “Any way you can get the job done will be fine.”

Crowther refused to back down. “Sir, if I may speak freely—”

“You have been.” Cole’s glance slid toward John, then he continued, “You might want to include John in your planning sessions. From what I hear, Spartans are pretty good at doing what can’t be done.”

Crowther’s expression clouded over, but he dropped his gaze and nodded. “If those are my orders.”

“Your orders are to knock the hell out of the Covenant fleet any way you can.” Cole paused, and his tone grew conciliatory. “Marmon, if the UNSC can’t bloody the Covenant’s nose here, the war is already lost. I need you to find a solution.”

Halsey leaned toward Cole. “Then put John-117 in command. At least he believes in the mission.”

Cole looked less surprised by the suggestion than John felt, and the admiral quickly shook his head. “We discussed this, Dr. Halsey. John’s not ready to lead an operation of this scale.”

Halsey turned to Crowther. “How many engagements have you and the Black Daggers fought against the Covenant?”

“That’s not the point, Doctor,” Cole said. “John’s expertise is in small unit tactics. Commanding a battalion is seventy percent logistics.”

“I’m sure Colonel Crowther will be happy to assist—”

“Dr. Halsey, the Black Daggers don’t know me,” John said. “They’ll have more faith in their colonel.”

Halsey shot him a scowl, but he pretended not to notice. She might be a brilliant scientist, but she was no soldier. She despised the chain of command, didn’t understand how loyalty held a good unit together, and couldn’t see that Crowther was only trying to make sure he wouldn’t be sending his soldiers to die on a mission that had no chance of success. In the colonel’s position, John would have done the same thing.

He turned to Crowther. “I look forward to serving under you, Colonel. Feel free to call on me if you have questions about Spartan capabilities or our experiences fighting the aliens.”

Crowther’s frown did not quite vanish. “I’ve been fully briefed on both, Petty Officer. I’m sure you and your Spartans will prove a vital asset to the operation.”

It was not quite a promise to consult, but at least Crowther seemed to have some awareness of Spartan capabilities. Realizing he would only alienate the colonel by pressing for planning involvement now, John settled back in his chair—and noticed Johnson watching him again. This time, the sergeant nodded and looked away.

Cole allowed a silence to settle over the compartment, then braced his hands on the table and leaned forward.

“This is a desperate mission,” he said. “There’s no denying it. But the UNSC needs time to develop effective countermeasures against Covenant technology, and it’s your job to buy that time. You need to make the alien commanders afraid of us. You need to convince them that humans are crazy, that anytime a Covenant fleet outruns its support or fails to consolidate its advances, we will find a way to make it pay.”

“I get it, sir. Unconventional warfare,” said Crowther.

“Think of unconventional as your jump-off point,” Cole said. He drew himself upright again. “But I think we understand each other. Any questions about your objective?”

John shook his head, as did everyone else seated at the table.

“Good,” Cole said. “Just so you know . . . currently, the Covenant’s primary invasion fleet is glassing Etalan.”

“Why?” Johnson asked. “If that’s Etalan in the Igdras system, I was there on a recon once. It’s ten million nomads living in a hundred thousand camps. The place is so poor they share underwear.”

“That’s the world, Sergeant. And I don’t have an answer for you. Our analysts are still trying to figure out why the Covenant burns some planets and seems to ignore others.” Cole paused, then added, “What we do know is that Biko is only a short slip away.”

“And that’s where you think we should hit them,” Ascot surmised. An agricultural world with insurrectionist leanings, Biko was orbited by three resource-rich moons and a handful of shipyards. “If the aliens bypass Biko, they’re leaving us a potential operations base—in the middle of their invasion route.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Cole said. “The Covenant is unpredictable, but not stupid. They can’t skip Biko.”

Ascot pulled a datapad from her thigh pocket and tapped a few keys, then looked up. “We’ll be there waiting.”

Cole smiled. “I thought you might. Battle Group X-Ray will draw their attention by launching a high-intensity harassment campaign. It’ll be the real thing, and when we can deal damage, we will. But our main objective will be to keep them thinking about us until Yama can slip in close for the gut stab.”

“And afterward?”

“Disappear,” Cole said. “And do it again.”

“On our own initiative?” Crowther asked. He seemed a little surprised by the admiral’s instructions. “No coordination?”

“Correct,” Cole said. “If you succeed at Biko, our roles will be reversed—the aliens will be hunting Yama, and X-Ray will be gnawing at their heels. I don’t want any indirect intelligence out there that might give you away, so go dark. No message couriers, point-to-point comms only, no friendly contact. Commandeer your provisions when you can. If you need to make a depot stop, show up unannounced, grab what you need, and take off fast.”

“Understood,” Ascot said. “When do we stop?”

“When you have to.” Cole ran his glance around the table, pausing to make eye contact with each person present, then said, “You’ve all been on infiltration missions before, so you know the drill. Captain Ascot controls space operations. She’s in charge until a jump-off. Once an assault force goes EV, Colonel Crowther controls everything but the prowlers themselves.”

Crowther and Ascot nodded their understanding.

Cole turned to John. “John-117 will take orders from Colonel Crowther, but the Spartans report to him.”

“Very good, sir,” John said.

“Sergeant Johnson will serve as a training resource for the Black Daggers,” Cole said. “But his superiors want him attached to the Spartans. His qualifications and experience are more suited to their style of operation.”

Johnson tipped his head toward John. “Looking forward to working with you, Petty Officer.”

“Same here, Staff Sergeant.” It did not escape John’s notice that Cole had been careful to avoid identifying Johnson’s superiors—a sure sign of the sergeant’s ONI background. “I’m eager to compare notes.”

Johnson flashed a smile. “Should be interesting.”

“Dr. Halsey has no direct authority over the mission, but like I said earlier, try to make her happy.” Cole paused, then added, “And keep her safe. If she dies, so do the UNSC’s hopes.”

Ascot turned to Halsey. “Consider yourself confined to the Vanishing Point.”

Halsey scowled. “That’s not practical. I may need—”

“Whatever it is, we’ll bring it to you,” Ascot said. “The Vanishing Point is the only vessel in Task Force Yama that will actually be avoiding the enemy.”

“Put a control anklet on her if you need to.” As Cole spoke, he kept his eyes on Halsey. “I’m serious about this, Doctor. If you even think about disobeying, Captain Ascot will ship you straight back to Reach. Clear?”

Halsey nodded reluctantly. “The anklet won’t be necessary,” she said. “I know my value to the UNSC better than you do.”

Cole studied her for a moment. “I hope so.” He shifted his gaze to the rest of the table. “Any questions on the chain of command?”

When there were none, Cole straightened his posture. “Then, good hunting.”

Image

John and his squad of Spartans spent the first part of the ten-day slip in the Vanishing Point’s mission preparation hold, training against the 21st ODST Space Assault Battalion. Both sides were armed with TLRs—tactical lockup rounds that signaled a target’s armor to lock in position when struck. The initial exercises were simple zero-g combat scenarios with equal numbers on both sides, and at first John suspected Crowther just wanted to prove that his ODSTs were as good as Spartans. But as session after session ended with Black Daggers floating around in strike-locked armor, the colonel began to test the Spartans under more difficult circumstances.

Once, Crowther had the hold filled with floating obstacles, then ordered a four-Spartan team to recover a nonexistent ball while engaging an entire platoon of Black Daggers. Another time, he had all twelve Spartans defend a hatch against an assault that did not end until the hold was so packed with strike-locked ODSTs that no one could maneuver. By the third such test—a hostage-rescue scenario in which the “hostage” turned out to be a hostile impostor—John realized Crowther was just doing everything he could to understand Spartan capabilities.

Meanwhile, the Black Daggers were certainly earning John’s respect. The Spartans began to suffer strike-locks at a mere five-to-one disadvantage, which was about half the normal ratio of the ODST companies they had faced while training back on Reach. When the disadvantage reached twelve to one, the Spartans could no longer be certain of prevailing—and that shouldn’t have happened until the odds were twice that bad.

Then Avery Johnson began to lead the opposing units, and suddenly the Spartans’ quick reaction time and ingrained training became liabilities. A team of Black Daggers would attempt to slip past a position, and when a Spartan moved to block them, an even larger force would appear on his flank. Or an assault would fail, and when the Spartans tried to pursue the retreating unit, they would find themselves under fire from all sides. Once, a sniper began to plink away relentlessly from the same position. Linda took him out with a countershot—and was immediately strike-locked herself by a storm of incoming fire.

John saw what Johnson was doing, of course—spending soldiers like coins to lure Spartans into exposing themselves. It was a tactic most special-ops commanders would never employ in live combat, if only because elite soldiers were so costly to train. But it was certainly one the aliens would use. John had seen them do it several times—most recently during the capture attempt at Netherop. The difference was that Avery Johnson understood UNSC special forces tactics as well as John did, and he was using that knowledge to trick the Spartans into mistake after mistake. John had to respect the man’s ingenuity.

But it still felt like Sergeant Johnson was cheating.

Image

By the fourth morning, John was growing frustrated with his inability to counter Johnson’s tricks. The most effective tactic seemed to be sitting back and hiding until the sergeant ordered a mass advance, but even that only worked until the Spartans ran out of ammunition.

Besides, Spartans weren’t garrison troops. They were supposed to be the ones attacking, and that was exactly what John was going to do.

Today, rather than relying on standard tactics that Sergeant Johnson would anticipate anyway, he intended to launch an immediate charge and disrupt the Black Daggers’ plan before it could be executed.

Unfortunately, Colonel Crowther had other ideas. After breakfast, he ordered all assault personnel to report to the drop hangar and form by company. The hangar was inactive and draped in gloom, and in their black helmets and space assault armor, the ODSTs on the far side of the formation vanished into the murk—an effect that made the eight-hundred-member battalion look like an endless host of phantoms.

The Spartans were temporarily attached to the 21st rather than part of it, so they stood adjacent to Alpha Company at a right angle. Their Mjolnir remained tinted in the refractive coating applied before the capture attempt at Netherop, so they too resembled phantoms—twelve larger, bulkier versions of the Black Daggers. With them stood Avery Johnson, still looking very human in his customary field cap and green combat utilities.

Crowther and his female aide emerged from the gloom, both in black combat utilities. The aide called the formation to attention, and Crowther began.

“Your company commanders have briefed you on our mission, so you know our assignment is to board alien capital ships and destroy them using tactical nuclear devices. I’ll be honest. When we were given this mission, I didn’t believe it could be done.

“But over the last four days, the Black Daggers have convinced me I was mistaken. In exercises against the Spartans, you’ve demonstrated your ability to adapt to a ferocious and skilled adversary, and I’m confident you’ll prove just as resourceful when we start killing aliens. In your work with Sergeant Johnson, you’ve learned a new tactical style I hope we never have to implement.”

A chill ran down John’s spine. He had assumed that Johnson’s cold-blooded tactics were for exercise purposes only, but Crowther sounded like he was prepared to employ similar maneuvers in actual combat—and John wanted no part of that. It had been hard enough to leave Sam behind when there had been no choice; if he started sending his fellow Spartans to their deaths on purpose, he would lose all confidence in his own judgment.

Crowther clasped his hands behind his back. “Today we start integration exercises. One Spartan will be attached to twelve of the 21st’s platoons.” He flashed a wry smile, then continued, “They’ll be the ones carrying the nukes.”

A chorus of speaker-modulated chuckles rustled through the battalion, but all John heard over the Spartan TEAMCOM were gasps of disbelief. Not only was Crowther breaking up the Spartan units, he was assigning them to a transport role—using them to support the attack when they should be leading it.

“This will allow us to hit twelve separate targets,” Crowther continued. “Assuming we can achieve even a fifty percent success rate, the invasion fleet will be hit hard. Any questions?”

The hands of a dozen Black Dagger lieutenants shot up, and Crowther began to answer queries about weapon load-outs, insertion methods, and command authority.

What John wanted to ask was whether Crowther had lost his damn mind.

If the Spartans were attacking separate targets, they wouldn’t be able to support each other—and the efficiency of a Spartan team decreased exponentially each time a member was removed. Dr. Halsey estimated that a Spartan operating alone was only one-sixteenth as effective as a four-member team . . . and sixteen times as likely to get killed.

Had Crowther bothered to consult John before developing his strategy, he would have known that.

The questions continued to come, and John continued to fume. He had no intention of challenging Crowther in front of the battalion, but the colonel had completely ignored Admiral Cole’s suggestion to include John in his planning sessions. Perhaps Crowther had felt slighted when Dr. Halsey pressed for John to be given command of the operation, or perhaps he was simply emphasizing that he was the one in charge. Either way, John no longer felt good about speaking against Dr. Halsey’s suggestion. Clearly she had read something in the colonel’s character that he had not.

As John considered how he should respond, Avery Johnson started to whisper from the corner of his mouth.

“You can’t be happy with this plan, Petty Officer.”

“Negative.” John’s whisper was a bit louder than Johnson’s, as it was being transmitted through his helmet’s external speaker. “But the colonel didn’t ask my opinion.”

“Didn’t want to give you a chance to object.” Johnson sounded pissed. “So you’ve got to do it now.”

“In front of everyone?” John shook his helmet. “I’ll do it in private.”

“It’ll never happen, son—not until after he’s gotten Ascot to sign off on this plan.” Johnson was still whispering. “It’s called planning momentum, and it’s lost more battles than bad supply and poor terrain combined.”

“When we’re dismissed, then.”

Crowther’s voice rang across the deck. “Repeat that, Spartan.”

John’s gaze snapped back to center, and he found Crowther and the aide both looking at him. “Sir?”

“Repeat your question.” Crowther’s voice carried a note of warning. It was a breach of protocol to converse while at attention, so there was only one valid reason for John to be talking. “You were trying to ask something, weren’t you?”

“Of course, sir.” John found himself wondering if Johnson had been trying to get him to draw Crowther’s attention. “Respectfully . . . Spartans are trained to work in teams, so I’m concerned about splitting us up. If we’re all attacking different vessels, I don’t see how we’ll be able to support each other.”

Crowther lowered his brow. “You won’t, obviously,” he said. “The Black Daggers may not have a Spartan’s speed and fancy armor, but they are well-trained. After a few days of drilling, you’ll find that a platoon of space assault troopers provides all the support you need.”

“Real smooth, John,” Kelly-087 said inside John’s helmet. TEAMCOM was an encrypted Spartan-only channel, so there was no risk of being overheard. “Now the Black Daggers think we don’t like them.”

John ignored her sarcasm and tried for a graceful recovery. “The Black Daggers are very impressive, sir. I certainly didn’t mean to imply they weren’t.”

“Still, they’re not Spartans,” Johnson said. He shot a smile at the Black Daggers. “No offense, people, but you know it’s true.”

John wasn’t sure whether he was more surprised by the amused murmur from the battalion, by Crowther’s nod of agreement, or by a staff sergeant who felt free to challenge a superior’s plan in front of the troops. The command structure of special forces units was typically informal, but still. Avery Johnson was either an insubordinate madman—or a lot more important than he looked.

And Crowther was not making it easy to tell which. His eyes flashed anger, but when he spoke, his tone was conciliatory. “I don’t think anyone would argue the point, Sergeant Johnson. Does something about my plan concern you?”

“Maybe just a little,” Johnson said. “Maximizing the target list, I understand. But anyone can carry a nuke. Why assign that job to the big guns? The Spartans should be up front, leading the assault.”

Crowther gave a thoughtful nod. “That makes sense, as far as it goes,” he said. “But on unprecedented operations like these, the Black Daggers have been more successful—and suffered fewer casualties—when we lead with experience.”

“I can see that, but the Spartans—”

“Are just kids,” Crowther said. “I have troopers who’ve been Black Daggers longer than the Spartans have been out of diapers.”

An electronic snort sounded from the first row of Spartans, and John turned to see a relatively small Spartan standing at a slight angle to the rest of the line. Her shoulders were squared toward Crowther, and her helmet was cocked at a disdainful angle. It was, of course, Daisy-023.

It was always Daisy.

John ticked his TEAMCOM toggle. “Daisy, stand down.”

But Crowther was already striding across the deck, his gaze fixed on Daisy’s helmet and his thin-lipped mouth twisted into a sneer.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Spartan . . .” He paused to read the number on Daisy’s torso armor. “Zero-two-three. How old are you?”

Daisy leaned in. Though she was a little shy of two meters tall in armor, she still loomed a full head over Crowther.

“Our age doesn’t matter, sir,” she said. “Our training does.”

“Not as much as your experience.” Crowther craned his chin up to glower into her faceplate. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Because she’s not allowed to, sir.” John stepped forward. “It’s classified.”

“I knew that when I found the falsified DOBs in your personnel jackets.” Crowther turned to John. “If someone is going to alter your birth dates, they need to adjust the Paymaster General’s records as well.”

“I fail to see the relevance, sir.”

“You and your Spartans started banking recruit pay eight years ago,” Crowther said. “That means either you’re all a hell of a lot older than nineteen—or you entered training when you were eleven.”

John was happy to have his face hidden behind a faceplate, where his expression would not be visible. The truth, of course, was even worse than Crowther had surmised—but John was not about to tell him that. Under the UNSC’s own Uniform Code of Military Justice, recruits had to be a minimum of eighteen years old, and Crowther clearly realized that the SPARTAN-II program had ignored those restrictions. Now the colonel was using that to pressure John into going along with his plan. It seemed odd behavior for a high-profile special forces commander, but what did John know? Spartans were not trained in political infighting.

“Someone changed the Spartan DOBs, John.” Crowther’s voice grew sly. “I think we both know why.”

John allowed a moment of silence to hang in the air, then finally said, “I find it hard to understand why ONI does anything. It’s probably best not to speculate.”

“Is that supposed to be a warning, Spartan?”

“It’s more of a suggestion, sir,” John said. “ONI can get pretty protective of its secrets . . . as I’m sure you already know.”

Crowther’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, a combination that made him appear fearful and angry at the same time—and suggested that he knew John wasn’t bluffing.

It was Avery Johnson who finally broke the silence. “I’d like to offer a suggestion, Colonel.”

Crowther’s expression turned dark, but he nodded and spoke through a clenched jaw. “I’m always happy to listen, Sergeant.”

“Glad to hear it, sir,” Johnson said. “Let’s attach a Spartan to each platoon, as you suggest, and spend the day in exercises. Then you and I and Spartan-117 can evaluate the results and decide whether that’s the most effective order-of-battle.”

The resentment drained from the colonel’s face, and John’s respect for the staff sergeant went up another notch. Johnson was giving Crowther an out that didn’t look like backing down—and when the three of them came up with a better plan, the colonel would be able to claim it as his own.

But Crowther didn’t seem satisfied with a graceful withdrawal. He still needed a way to claim victory.

“One day of exercises isn’t enough.” He turned to John, then said, “I think we’d better make it three. How does that sound, Petty Officer?”

John gave a crisp helmet nod. “Whatever you think, Colonel,” he said. “It’s your battalion.”