originates here." A tiny NAV triangle appeared on the edge of the intact region on the planet's surface.
"It's not Morse code," Polaski said. "Not any code I've heard of. Maybe it's a test signal? Something automated, like an air-traffic repeater relay, maybe?"
"It's not automated," the Master Chief said. "Everyone gear up and get ready. We're going down there. There are Spartans down there. And they're still alive."
He whispered so softly that only he and Cortana heard: "Oly Oly Oxen Free."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1002 hours, July 14,2523 (Military Calendar)Epsilon Eridani system, planet Reach, Spartan training exercise. Twenty-nine years ago.
John crawled forward and peered over the edge of the rise. A lush, green valley stretched out below him. In the distance, the silvery reflections of the Big Horn River twisted through the thick forest. Aside from a flock of birds that wheeled overhead, there was no activity below. He inched back to a blackened, hollow tree stump and crawled inside.
Fred and Linda sat inside the hollowed-out cedar stump. It muffled their conversations and insulated them from the soldiers' thermal goggles. "It's all clear for now," he whispered. A moment later Sam, Kelly, and Fhajad appeared, ghostlike, from their camouflaged positions nearby. They crouched outside the cedar stump and watched for patrols.
From a distance they looked like soldiers on field maneuvers. Each was tall, fit, and agile, and looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Closer observation told a different story. Each Spartan was no more than twelve years old.
"Weapons check," John told Fred and Linda. "We can't afford any mistakes on this one, especially not with the rifles."
Linda and Fred disassembled and inspected their SRS99C-S2 sniper rifles—which they'd liberated from a pair of Tango Company shooters who'd been sent to hunt them down two days ago. If the soldiers of Tango Company didn't capture them and beat them into unconsciousness—this would be fun.
John checked his pistol. CPO Mendez had issued the weapon. It used compressed air to fire a narq-dart. The effective range was twenty meters, and on impact it could drop a rhino in its tracks.
Twenty meters wouldn't cut it for this mission, though, so Fhajad had modified the 114mm APFSDS rounds from the sniper rifles, removed their deadly armor-piercing tips, and replaced them with narq-dart capsules.
When Linda had test-fired the weapon, she promised John accuracy to one hundred meters. The rounds would penetrate flesh, but they couldn't kill anyone—not unless she hit the temple or eyes.
"Okay," John said, "this is supposed to be a training exercise, but this is the seventh time Chief Mendez has made us play with Tango Company."
"They're getting pretty tired of losing," Fred remarked with a wry smile.
"That's not a good thing," Linda told him and flipped a stray strand of red hair out of her face. "They're not going to play fair. You heard the sniper we captured. He said that this time their Captain told them to win no matter what—even if they had to bloody a few of us to do it."
John nodded. "So we'll return the favor and do whatever it takes to win, too." He grabbed a twig and scratched a square in the leaf-covered dirt. "I'll have command of Red Team: That's me, Sam, Kelly, and Fhajad. Linda, you lead Blue Team."
"It's not 'Blue Team,' " Fred complained, and his face soured. "It's just me. How come I have to stay and play sniper?" He flexed his hands, and John could sense his pent-up eagerness to get into close-range combat.
"Because you're our second-best shot," John told him. "And
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"Count on it," Linda replied and locked her dark green eyes with John's.
He wondered if that's what her eyes looked like when she sighted through the sniper scope. She never seemed to blink; she always won in games of stare-down.
"After we get the flag," he continued, "Red Team will get out of there. Watch for targets of opportunity and cover us. We rendezvous at the LZ and hopefully no one finds us before then."
Fred nodded. Linda hefted her new rifle, which was almost too large for her to look through the scope and rest the butt against the hollow of her shoulder at the same time. "You'll be in good hands."
John closed his eyes and ran over the details of his plan again in his head. Yes—everything gelled; their odds were good. He knew they'd win.
"Don't come out from hiding at the LZ until I give the all-clear signal," he reminded them. "We could be captured... they could make us talk."
They all nodded, remembering what Tango Company had done to James. He "fell down a flight of stairs" as they had escorted him from cell to cell in their single-story jail. James hadn't broken ... not mentally, at least. But John wished he had; it had taken James a whole week to recover.
No—he took back that thought. He was glad James hadn't broken. John would have tried to do the same.
John whistled the little six-note singsong tune Deja had taught them—their all-clear signal. He stood, holstered his dart pistol, and checked the three stun grenades on his belt. "I'll see you at the LZ."
"Okay. Check your mirrors."
They all pulled out the shards of mirror they had taken from Tango Company's latrine last night. They had taped the edges so they could be handled more easily, and taped their backs to reduce the chance they'd shatter. The whole operation depended on a fragile piece of glass, which had John worried.
"Just hand signals from here on out," John told them. "Move out, Red Team."
They crouched and clawed and slithered through the forest until they reached a gravel track. They pushed two large rocks off the nearby hill, blocking the road, then waited in the brush.
Headlights appeared as a supply truck rumbled down the road and squealed to a halt. Two soldiers got out and scanned the area.
"Think it's an ambush?" one of them muttered and gripped his rifle tighter.
"From those freak Section Three kids? Jesus, I don't know," the driver said. "Screw the rules of this exercise." He pulled a Kevlar poncho over his head. "I'm not gonna take a dart in my ass if it is. Cover me."
The man riding shotgun got out and walked around the truck. "Looks clear," he whispered. "Hurry." The driver jumped out of the cab, moved to the rocks, and rolled them off the road.
John ran from the brush and crawled under the vehicle. He pulled himself up and wedged tight against the undercarriage, close enough that he smelled the rubber from the new tires. Kelly and Sam came next; Fhajad was last.
They hadn't been spotted. So far, so good. The two men got back into the truck and proceeded down the dirt road.
Gravel bounced up and caught John in the side of the head, and cut him; blood trickled from his ear along his neck, but he didn't dare loosen his grip.
After a kilometer of being pelted by rocks and stung by sand, the truck eased to a halt at Tango Company's base. The guard at the gatehouse spoke to the driver, and they laughed. The guard then walked around and opened the back of the truck.
John squirmed and got his mirror ready. With a flick of his hand, he signaled the others to do the same. John held his mirror at an angle pointed at the undercarriage of the truck. His hand trembled but he forced himself to be steady. He had to.
The gate guard approached the truck with a long pole and a small mirror attached at one end. He stuck the mirror under the truck and swept it along one side.
John matched the position of the mirror with his, moved it steady along as the gate guard passed him so all the guard saw was the reflected image of the undercarriage—a meter to John's left.
They'd practiced this maneuver all last night. It had to be perfect. The guard moved on to Sam's position, and then Fhajad's, and finally to Kelly's corner of the truck.
Kelly's mirror slipped and she fumbled—caught it just before it hit the ground. John held his breath; Kelly barely got the reflective surface in place as the gate guard swept her section.
"Go ahead," the guard sa
id and rapped the side of the truck. "You're clean."
"How are the dogs?" the driver asked.
"Still sick," the guard muttered. "Not sure what the heck they all ate last night, but they're still squirting." "Damn," the driver said. He started the engine and rolled into Tango Company's base camp.
Last night Fred had fed the guard dogs a paste made of a few squirrels they'd caught, some unripe berries, and the antibacterial ointment in their first-aid kits—a concoction guaranteed to keep Tango's dogs out of the picture for another day.
The truck parked inside a warehouse. Two men came and unloaded the back and then left, locking the doors of the warehouse behind them.
John and the others finally eased themselves down from the truck. None of them spoke. A single word overheard now could blow the entire operation. They silently massaged their aching muscles. John bandaged his ear to stop the bleeding.
John pointed to Sam and then at the hood of the truck. Sam nodded and got to work. John then pointed at Fhajad and to the side door. Fhajad moved to the entrance and began to pick the lock.
John and Kelly patrolled the warehouse, looking for cameras, dogs, guards, anything they'd have to remove. It was clear.
Sam returned with four canteens, which he had, according to their plan, filled with battery acid from the truck.
There was a click from the side door and Fhajad gave them a thumbs-up. They gathered near the door. Fhajad eased it open, peeked out the crack, then opened it a little more and glanced to either side.
He nodded and moved out, keeping well away from the overhead lights, skirting the shadows of the warehouse.
John and the others followed, pausing in the darkest part of the shadows. John held up five fingers, and Sam passed out the canteens of acid. John pointed to his watch and again flashed five fingers.
They nodded.
John then pointed to Kelly, and with two fingers pointed to the perimeter of the camp and made a guillotine-cutting motion onto his other hand. Kelly nodded and vanished into the darkness.
Sam and Fhajad moved off as well, making their way to the barracks houses they had previously reconnoitered. There was a crawl space under each building.
John sprinted to the farthest barracks and slipped underneath. He paused for a moment, listening for any noise, a footfall, an alarm—it was still quiet. They were undetected... which would last for only another five minutes.
He took three sticks of chewing gum from his pocket, popped them into his mouth, and chewed. John crawled to the center of the building. He carefully took a rag from his shirt pocket, poured acid onto it, and then dabbed the rag to the underside of the wood floor. He was extremely careful not to soak the rag or get any acid on himself. When he touched the rag to the plywood, the wood smoldered.
After he had soaked a meter-square patch, he checked his watch. Thirty seconds until it was 0455. Just enough time. He primed all three of his stun grenades, set their timers for five minutes, then used the chewing gum to attach the grenades to the perimeter of the acid-weakened section of floor.
Normally the stun grenades couldn't penetrate centimeter-thick plywood. Once the acid had eaten through the porous fibers, however, the three grenades would have more than enough bang to turn that meter-square section into a million airborne splinters—shot straight up into the sleeping quarters of Tango Company. Not lethal ... but guaranteed to be one heck of a distraction.
John crawled out, crept back to the warehouse, and rendezvoused with the rest of Red Team.
John glanced at his watch: 0458.
He pointed to Kelly and then to himself, then made a curling motion around one side of the warehouse. He pointed to Sam and Fhajad and motioned them around the opposite side. They moved to the far corners of the building.
John and Kelly crouched and waited. They had a perfect view of the center of the camp, the calisthenics area, the parade grounds, and—right in the center—the flagpole.
Right on time a Corporal and two guard escorts marched out and unfolded their green-striped flag. He attached one corner to a lanyard dangling from the pole.
John glanced at the distant forest. The woods past the fence of Tango Company's camp had been clear-cut. He knew it was more than a hundred meters—closer to two hundred. There was no guarantee that Fred or Linda could hit anything at that range.
He drew his dart pistol and clicked off its safety.
At 0500 flashes of light strobed beneath the barracks as the grenades detonated. There was the crackle of wood and the screams of the men and women ofTango Company.
The Corporal attaching the flag dropped one end and whirled around. Floodlights on the perimeter fence snapped on and pointed inward toward the barracks.
In the confusion, no one noticed as one of the guards near the flagpole dropped his rifle, grabbed his neck ... and toppled to the gravel face-first.
His partner spotted him and knelt.
John sprinted across the compound, firing. His first shot went wild, and the kneeling guard spun around to face him. Fhajad and Sam shot him in the back.
John took aim at the Corporal—who fumbled with his pistol
holster, trying to free his weapon. John planted two narq-darts in his chest. The Corporal dropped. Two more guards rounded the corner of the warehouse, shouted, and took aim at John. He was out in the open, and there was no way his dart pistol could hit those guards from this distance. One guard fired. The round pinged off the flagpole not five centimeters from John's head.
The guard stiffened and dropped his rifle, wildly grabbing at the back of his head ... and the dart stuck into his skull. He screamed and fell, thrashing in the dirt.
The other guard twitched and pulled a dart from his thigh. Another dart hit him in the chest, and he sprawled to the ground. John sent his silent thanks to Linda and Fred. He detached the flag from the lanyard and stuffed it into his shirt. He waved Red Team forward, and Kelly led them to the fences.
Kelly didn't slow down as she sprinted and closed on the chain-link fence. She tucked and threw herself into the steel mesh. Just before she hit, John spotted the smoking outlines on the fence where she had applied the battery acid.
The fence broke in a jagged outline, and Kelly rolled to her feet on the other side without missing a stride. John waved his team through. He went last, pausing only a fraction of a second to look back.
The camp was in chaos. Security lights swung about, there were screams from the barracks. A tank rumbled to life and crunched into the center of the base.
John ran. Behind them came the staccato report of machine-gun fire—just as they entered the safety of the forest. John smiled, panting. "Good work, everyone," he whispered. "I think those guys were using live ammo this time." Kelly held up a brass case from a 7.62mm round. "Yep," she said. "No doubt." "Come on," John said, "let's not stick around. If they weren't before, they're pissed now."
Red Team slinked through the forest. They kept to the shadows, and took cover under logs when a Pelican roared overhead looking for them.
At 0545 they made it to the clearing designated as their extraction LZ. At 0700 hours they were supposed to meet CPO Mendez. Of course, the Chief rarely let them get off this easy— so John had planned for Blue Team to be here as well... only they would remain hidden. Linda and Fred would post somewhere in the treetops and cover Red Team until they were sure it was safe.
Red Team hunkered down in the brush and waited. They weren't safe; John knew that. Tango Company would be looking for them, and this is when his team would get anxious ... when they would want to talk and brag about their successful mission, or look at the captured flag. To their credit, Red Team stayed still and silent. And Blue Team was nowhere to be seen.
At 0610 the thunderous roar of a Pelican's engines filled the air and the craft slowly descended and landed in the clearing. The aft hatch popped open.
Fhajad started to move, but John set his hand on his shoulder.
"Too early," he whispered. "When is the Chief
not perfectly on time?" Fhajad, Kelly, and Sam grimly nodded. "I'll go," John said. "You guys back up Blue Team." They gave him a thumbs-up. Sam patted him on the back and
whispered, "Don't worry, I won't let them do anything to you." "I know," John whispered back. He pulled the flag from his shirt and handed it to Sam. "Thanks."
John crawled away from their position. When he was thirty meters from his team, he stood and approached the Pelican— which was almost certainly a trap.
He halted halfway across the meadow and waited.
A figure appeared on the exit ramp of the Pelican and waved him forward. "Come on, son. Haul ass!" "Negative, sir!" John shouted. The figure turned and muttered to someone inside, "Crap." He
sighed. "Okay, so we do it the hard way."
Four men jogged out of the back of the Pelican. They quickly spread out in a semicircle and moved toward John, their assault rifles aimed directly at him.
John held up his hands.
"He's giving up," one of the soldiers said disbelievingly.
"Should we just shoot him?" another man said.
"No," the one leading them hissed. "Payback first." He stepped up to John and punched him in the stomach. John doubled over from the blow. The man hauled him up and patted him down. "We gotta find
that damned flag or the Captain will have our asses in a sling. Where is it, kid?" He shook John. "And where's the rest of your pack?"
John laughed.
"What's so funny?" the man growled.
"You idiots are bunched up."
A hail of darts hissed through the air from all sides. The men from the Pelican convulsed; one fired his rifle, but the shot went wide and high. They fell over, paralyzed.
John dropped to a crouch, grabbed a pistol from the man who'd punched him, and crawled on his stomach to the Pelican. He crept around the open hatch and swept the interior. Empty.
He scrambled into the cockpit and pulsed the Pelican's radar. He got a contact bearing of 110, fourteen kilometers out, but it moved on a parallel course to their position. John left the Pelican and ran across the field.