“Very well,” he muttered to himself. “Lieutenant Dominique: send Admiral Stanforth my compliments. Ensign Lovell, generate a randomized vector as per the Cole Protocol, and make ready to leave system. Take us out for an hour in Slipstream space, then we’ll reorient and proceed to the REACH Military Instillation.”

“Aye, sir. Randomized jump vector ready—our tracks are covered.”

“Lieutenant Hall: start organizing shore leave for the crew. We’re heading back for repairs and some well-deserved R and R.”

“Amen to that,” Ensign Lovell said.

That wasn’t technically in his orders, but Captain Keyes would make sure his crew got the rest they deserved. That was the least he could do for them.

The Iroquois slowly accelerated on an out-system vector.

Captain Keyes took one long last look at Sigma Octanus IV. The battle was over... so why did he feel like he was headed into another fight?

The Iroquois plowed through a haze of titanium dust—condensed from a UNSC battleplate vaporized by Covenant plasma. The fine particles caught the light from Sigma Octanus and sparkled red and orange, making it look like the destroyer sailed through an ocean of blood.

When there was time, a HazMat team would sweep the area and clean up. In the meantime, junk—ranging in size from microscopic up to thirty-meter sections of Cradle—still drifted in the system.

One piece of debris in particular floated near the Iroquois.

It was small, almost indistinguishable from any of a thousand other softball-sized blobs that cluttered radar scopes and polluted thermal sensors.

If anyone had been looking close enough, however, they would have seen that this particular piece of metal drifted in the opposite direction from all the other masses nearby. It trailed behind the accelerating Iroquois... and edged closer, moving with purpose.

When it was close enough, it extended tiny electromagnets that guided it to the baffles at the base of the Iroquois’ number-three engine shield. It blended in perfectly with the other vanadium steel components.

The object opened a single photo eye and gazed at the stars, collecting data to reference its current position. It would continue to do this for several days. During that time it would slowly build up a charge. When it reached critical energy, a tiny sliver of thallium nitride memory crystal would be ejected at nearly the speed of light, and a minute Slipstream field would generate around it. If its trajectory was perfect, it would intercept a Covenant receiver located at precise coordinates in the alternate space.

... and the tiny automated probe would reveal to the Covenant every place the Iroquois had been.

1100 Hours, August 12, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach, Camp Hathcock

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later, the main facility was in sight. John parked the Warthog and strode across the pleasantly familiar compound. He and the other Spartans had covertly made their way up here during their training. John suppressed a smile as he remembered how many times the young Spartans had commandeered food and supplies from the base. He inhaled deeply, smelling piñon pines and sage. He missed this place. He had been away from REACH for far too long.

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

His home would not fall.

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

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

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

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

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

There was a special insignia on his uniformed as well: a golden eagle poised with its talons forward—ready to strike. The bird clutched a lightning bolt in one talon and three arrows in the other.

The Spartan insignia was not the only thing about his dress uniform that called attention to him. Campaign ribbons and medals covered the left side. Chief Mendez would have been proud of him, but John had long ago stopped keeping track of the honors that had been heaped upon him.

He didn’t like the flashy ornamentation. He and the other Spartans preferred to be inside their MJOLNIR armor. Without it, he felt exposed somehow, like he’d left his quarters without his skin. He had grown used to the enhanced speed and strength, to his thought and actions melding instantaneously.

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

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

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

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

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

The Master Chief nodded.

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

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