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The Master Chief understood. Dr. Halsey was unsure if she would be spending their lives or wastingthem 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 continueyour 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.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
0600 Hours, August 29, 2552 (Military Calendar) /Epsilon Eridani System, UNSC Military Reservation01478-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 thesecurity 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 numberof MPs patrolling the gate.
John parked the Warthog and was approached by a trio of MPs. “State your business here, sir,” the leadMP demanded.
Without a word, John handed over his papers—orders direct from the top brass. The MP visiblystiffened. “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.” Thesoldiers who trained there had a different name for it—“Painland.” John knew the facility well; a greatdeal 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 assaultrifles 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
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doctor. No rank insignia, though, John thought with a twinge of concern. For a moment, the image of hisfellow Spartans—very young, and clubbing, kicking, and beating un-uniformed instructors intounconsciousness 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 forspit and polish today. Let’s go.”