“Put it on-screen.”

The screen over his desk snapped on to camera five, the aft-starboard view. Among the dozens of ships in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV, he easily spotted the Leviathan. She was one of the twenty UNSC cruisers left in the fleet.

A cruiser was the most powerful warship ever built by human hands. And Keyes knew they were being slowly pulled out of forward areas and parked in reserve to guard the Inner Colonies.

A piece of shadow moved under the great warship, black moving on black. It revealed itself for only an instant in the sunlight, then slithered back into the darkness. It was a prowler.

Those stealth ships were used exclusively by Naval Intelligence.

A cruiser and an ONI presence here? Now Keyes knew there was more going on here than a simple morale boost. He tried not to think about it. It was best not to go too far when questioning the intentions of one’s superior officer—especially when that officer was an Admiral. And especially not when Naval Intelligence was literally lurking in the shadows.

Keyes poured himself another three fingers of Scotch, set his head on his desk—just to rest his eyes for a moment. The last few hours had drained him.

“Sir.” Dominique’s voice over the intercom woke Captain Keyes. “Incoming fleet-wide transmission on Alpha priority channel.”

Keyes sat up and ran his hand over his face. He glanced at the brass clock affixed over his bunk—he had slept for almost six hours.

Admiral Stanforth appeared on-screen. “Listen up, ladies and gentlemen: we’ve just detected a large number of Covenant ships massing on the edge of the system. We estimate ten ships.”

On-screen the silhouettes of the all-too-familiar Covenant frigates and a destroyer appeared as ghostly radar smears.

“We’ll remain where we are,” the Admiral continued. “There’s no need to charge in and have those ugly bastards take a shortcut through Slipspace and undercut us. Make your ships ready for battle. We’ve got probes gathering more data. I’ll update you when we know more. Stanforth out.”

The screen went black.

Keyes snapped on the intercom. “Lieutenant Hall, what is our repair and refit status?”

“Sir,” she replied. “Engines are operational, but only with the backup coolant system. We can heat them to fifty percent. Archer and nuclear ordnance resupply is complete. MAC guns are also operational. Repairs to lower decks have just started.”

“Inform the dockmaster to pull his crew out,” Captain Keyes said. “We’re leaving the Cradle. When we are clear, fire the reactors to fifty percent. Go to battle stations.”

0600 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Sigma Octanus IV, grid thirteen by twenty-four

“Faster!” Corporal Harland shouted. “You want to die in the mud, Marine?”

“Hell no, sir!” Private Fincher stomped on the accelerator and the Warthog’s tires spun in the streambed. They caught, and the vehicle fishtailed through the gravel, across the bank, and onto the sandy shore.

Harland strapped himself into the rear of the Warthog, one hand clamped onto the vehicle’s massive 50mm chain-gun.

Something moved in the brush behind them—Harland fired a sustained burst. The deafening sound from “Old Faithful” shook the teeth in his head. Ferns, trees, and vines exploded and splintered as the gunfire scythed through the foliage... then nothing was moving anymore.

Fincher sent the Warthog bouncing along the shore, his head bobbing from side to side as he strained to see through the downpour. “We’re sitting ducks in here, Corporal,” Fincher yelled. “We have to get out of this hole and back onto the ridge, sir.”

Corporal Harland looked for a way out of this river gorge. “Walker!” He shook Private Walker in the passenger seat, but Walker didn’t respond. He clutched their last Jackhammer rocket launcher with a death grip, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Walker hadn’t said a word since this mission went south. Harland hoped he would snap out of it. He already had one man down. The last thing he needed was for his heavy-weapons specialist to be a brain case.

Private Cochran lay at the Corporal’s feet, cradling his gut with blood-smeared hands. He’d caught fire during the ambush. The aliens used some kind of projectile weapon that fired long, thin needles—which exploded seconds after impact.

Cochran’s insides were meat. Walker and Fincher had filled him up with biofoam and taped him up—they even managed to stop the bleeding—but if the man didn’t get to a medic soon, he was a goner.

They had all almost been goners.

The squad had left Firebase Bravo two hours ago. Satellite images showed the way was all clear to their target area. Lieutenant McCasky had even said it was a “milk run”. They were supposed to set up motion sensors on grid thirteen by twenty-four—just see what was there and get back. “A simple snoop job,” the ell-tee had called it.

What no one told McCasky was that the satellites weren’t penetrating the rain and jungle canopy of this swampball too well. If the Lieutenant had thought about it—like Corporal Harland was thinking about it now—he would have figured something was wrong with sending three squads on a “milk run.”

The squad wasn’t green. Corporal Harland and the others had fought the Covenant before. They knew how to kill Grunts—when they massed by the hundreds, they knew to call in air support. They’d even taken down a few of the Covenant Jackals, the ones with energy shields. You had to flank those guys—take them out with snipers.

But none of that had prepared them for this mission.

They had done all the right things, damn it. The Lieutenant had even gotten their Warthogs five klicks down the streambed before the terrain became too steep and slippery for the all-terrain armored vehicles. He had the men hump the rest of the way in on foot. They moved soft and silent, almost crawling all they way through the slime to the depression they were supposed to check out.

When they had gotten to the place, it wasn’t just another mud-filled sinkhole. A waterfall splashed into a grotto pool. Arches had been carved into the wall, their edges extremely weathered. There were a few scattered paving stones around the pool... and covering those stones were tiny geometric carvings.

That’s all Corporal Harland got a look at before the Lieutenant ordered him and his team to fall back. He wanted them to set up the motion sensors where they had a clear line of sight to the sky.

That’s probably why they were still alive.

The blast had knocked Harland and his team into the mud. They ran to where they had left the Lieutenant—found fused glassy mud, a crater, and a few burning corpses and bits of carbonized skeleton.

They saw one other thing—an outline in the mist. It was biped, but much larger than any human Harland had ever seen. And oddly, it looked like it was wearing armor reminiscent of medieval plate mail; it even carried a large, strangely shaped metal shield.

Harland saw the glow of a regenerating plasma weapon... and that’s all he needed to see to order a full speed retreat.

Harland, Walker, Cochran, and Fincher fell back, running—blindly firing their assault rifles.

Covenant Grunts had followed them, peppering the air with those needle guns, mowing down the jungle as the tiny razor shards exploded.

Harland and the others stopped and hit the deck, splashing into the thick, red mud, as a Covenant Banshee passed them overhead.

When they got back on their feet, Cochran took the round in the stomach. The Grunts had caught up to them. Cochran flinched, his side exploded, and then he crumpled to the ground. He fell into shock so fast he didn’t even have time to scream.