“Phase two,” Dr. Halsey said. “Spartans will board the disabled Covenant ship—neutralize the crew, and crack their navigation database. We will do precisely what they have been trying to do to us: find the location of their home world.”

The Master Chief raised his hand.

“Yes, Master Chief?”

“Ma’am. We will be given mission specialist personnel to access the Covenant computers?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, and looked away. “I will come to that point in a moment. Let me assure you, however, that these specialists will cause you no serious complications during this phase. In fact, they will prove rather useful in combat. Shortly, you shall have a demonstration.”

Like Captain Keyes’ statement that winning wasn’t everything... Dr. Halsey’s reply was another puzzle. How would such computer specialists not be a liability to the Spartans in combat? Even if they could fight, it was unlikely they’d be anything but weak links in combat. If they couldn’t fight, the Spartans would be forced to baby-sit a vulnerable package in a hot combat zone.

“Phase three,” Dr. Halsey said, “will consist of taking the captured Covenant ship to their homeworld.”

Several questions immediately formed in the Master Chief’s mind. Who would pilot the alien ship? Had any one ever deciphered the Covenant control systems? It seemed unlikely since the UNSC had never captured one of their ships before. Were there Covenant recognition signals that had to be sent when entering their space? Or would they just steal their way in-system?

When a plan had so many missing pieces of data, the Spartans had been trained to stop and reconsider its effectiveness. Unanswered questions led to complications—“snags.” And snags led to injuries, death, and failed missions. Simple was better.

He held his questions, though. Dr. Halsey surely would have planned for these eventualities.

“Phase four,” she continued, “will be to infiltrate and capture the Covenant leadership and return with them to UNSC-controlled space.”

The Master Chief shifted uneasily. There was no intel or reconnaissance of Covenant-held space. What did a Covenant leader—a Prophet—even look like?

Chief Mendez had told him to trust Dr. Halsey. The Master Chief decided to hear all the details before he asked any further questions. To do so might undermine her authority. And that’s the last thing he needed the other Spartans to see.

And yet, there was one thing he had to clarify. The Master Chief raised his hand again.

She nodded toward him.

“Dr. Halsey,” he said, “you did say ‘capture’ the Covenant leaders—not eliminate them?”

“Correct,” she replied. “Our profile of Covenant society indicates that if you were to kill one of their leader caste, this war could actually escalate. Your orders are to preserve any captured Covenant leaders at all costs. You will bring them back to UNSC headquarters, where we will then use them to broker a truce, possibly even negotiate a peace treaty with the Covenant.”

Peace? The Master Chief considered the unfamiliar word. Was that what Captain Keyes had meant? The alternative to winning wasn’t necessarily losing. If you chose not to play a game, then there could be neither winning nor losing.

Dr. Halsey took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Some of you already suspect this, but I shall state it anyway for emphasis. It is my opinion, and that of many others, that the war is not going well... despite our recent victories. What is not widely known is how badly it is going for us. ONI predicts that we have months, perhaps as much as a standard year, before the Covenant locates and destroys our remaining Inner Colonies... and then moves against Earth.”

The Master Chief had heard the rumors—and promptly dismissed them—but to hear the words from someone he trusted chilled him to the core.

“Your mission will prevent this,” Dr. Halsey said. She stopped and frowned, lowered her head, then finally looked up at them again. “This op is considered extremely high risk. There are unknown elements involved and we simply do not have the time to gather the required intelligence. I have persuaded FLEETCOM not to order you on this mission. Admiral Stanforth is asking for volunteers.”

The Master Chief understood. Dr. Halsey was unsure if she would be spending their lives or wasting them on this mission.

He stood without hesitation—and as he did so, the rest of the Spartans stood as well.

“Good,” she said. She paused and blinked several times. “Very good. Thank you.”

She stepped away from the podium. “We will meet with you individually within a few days to continue your briefing. I will show you how you will get our computer experts on board the Covenant vessel... and I will show you the one thing that will let you get through this mission in one piece: MJOLNIR.”

0600 Hours, August 29, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, UNSC Military Reservation 01478-B, planet Reach

The firing range was uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, the air would be filled with noise—the sharp, staccato crackle of automatic-weapons fire; the urgent yells of soldiers practicing combat operations; and the barked, curse-laden orders of drill instructors. John frowned as he guided the Warthog to the security checkpoint.

The silence on the combat range was somehow unsettling.

Even more unsettling were the extra security personnel; today, there were three times the normal number of MPs patrolling the gate.

John parked the Warthog and was approached by a trio of MPs. “State your business here, sir,” the lead MP demanded.

Without a word, John handed over his papers—orders direct from the top brass. The MP visibly stiffened. “Sir, my apologies. Dr. Halsey and the others are waiting for you at the P and R area.”

The guard saluted, and waved the gate open.

On survey maps, the combat training range was listed as “UNSC Military Reservation 01478-B.” The soldiers who trained there had a different name for it—“Painland.” John knew the facility well; a great deal of the Spartans’ early training had taken place there.

The range was divided into three areas: a live-fire obstacle course; a target practice range; and the P&R—“Prep and Recovery” area—which more often than not doubled as an emergency first-aid station. John had spent plenty of time in the aid station during his training.

The Master Chief walked briskly to the prefabricated structure. Another pair of MPs, MA5B assault rifles at the ready, double-checked his credentials before they admitted him to the building.

“Ah, here at last,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Let’s go, son, on the double, if you please.”

John paused; the speaker was an older man, at least in his sixties, in the coveralls and lab coat of a ship’s doctor. No rank insignia, though, John thought with a twinge of concern. For a moment, the image of his fellow Spartans—very young, and clubbing, kicking, and beating un-uniformed instructors into unconsciousness flashed into his memory with crystal clarity.

“Who are you, sir?” he asked, his voice cautious.

“I’m a Captain in the UNSC Navy, son,” the man said with a thin-lipped smile, “and I’ve no time for spit and polish today. Let’s go.”

A Captain—and new orders. Good. “Yes, sir.”

The Captain in the lab coat escorted him into the P&R’s medical bay. “Undress, please,” the man said.

John quickly disrobed, then stacked his neatly folded uniform on a nearby gurney. The Captain stepped behind him and began to swab John’s neck and the back of his head with a foul-smelling liquid. The liquid felt ice-cold on his skin.

A moment later, Dr. Halsey entered. “This will just take a moment, Master Chief. We’re going to upgrade a few components in your standard-issue neural interface. Lie back and remain still, please.”