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　　Com  Tech  First  Class  Mary  Murphy  glanced  at  the  other  two  members  of  her  watch  and  frowned.  “Has  either  one  of  you  had  previous  contact  with  Charlie  217?”
　　The  techs  looked  at  each  other  and  shook  their  heads.  “I’ll  check  with  Wellsley,”  Cho  said,  as  he  turned  toward  a  jury-rigged  monitor.
　　Murphy  nodded  and  keyed  the  boom-style  mike  that  extended  in  front  of  her  lips.  “This  is  UNSC  Combat  Base  Alpha.  Over.”
　　“Thank  God!”the  voice  said  fervently.“We  took  a  hit  after  clearing  the  Autumn,put  down  in  the  boonies,  and  managed  to  make  some  repairs.  I’ve  got  wounded  on  board—and  request  immediate  clearance  to  land.”
　　Wellsley,  who  had  been  busy  fighting  a  simulation  of  the  battle  of  Marathon,  materialized  on  Cho’s  screen.  As  usual,  the  image  that  he  chose  to  present  was  that  of  a  stern-looking  man  with  longish  hair,  a  prominent  nose,  and  a  high-collared  coat.  “Yes?”
　　“We  have  a  Pelican,  call  sign  Charlie  217,  requesting  an  emergency  landing.  None  of  us  have  dealt  with  him  before.”
　　The  AI  took  a  fraction  of  a  second  to  check  the  myriad  of  data  stored  within  his  considerable  memory  and  gave  a  curt  nod.  “There  was  a  unit  designated  as  Charlie  217  on  board  theAutumn  .  Not  having  heard  from  217  since  we  abandoned  ship,  and  not  having  received  any  information  to  the  contrary,  I  assumed  the  ship  was  lost.  Ask  the  pilot  to  provide  his  name,  rank,  and  serial  number.”
　　Murphy  heard  and  nodded.  “Sorry,  Charlie,  but  we  need  some  information  before  we  can  clear  you  in.  Please  provide  name,  rank  and  serial  number.  Over.”
　　The  voice  that  came  back  sounded  increasingly  frustrated.“This  is  First  Lieutenant  Rick  Hale,  serial  number  876-544-321.  Give  me  a  break,  I  need  clearance  now  .Over.  ”
　　Wellsley  nodded.  “The  data  matches  .  .  .  but  how  would  Hale  know  that  Alpha  Base  even  existed?”
　　“He  could  have  picked  up  our  radio  traffic,”  Cho  offered.
　　“Maybe,”  the  AI  agreed,  “but  let’s  play  it  safe.  I  recommend  you  bring  the  base  to  full  alert,  notify  the  Major,  and  send  the  reaction  force  to  Pad  Three.  You’ll  need  the  crash  team,  the  emergency  medical  team,  and  some  people  from  Intel  all  on  deck.  Hale  should  be  debriefedbefore  he’s  allowed  to  mix  with  base  personnel.”
　　The  third  tech,  a  Third  Class  Petty  Officer  named  Pauley,  slapped  the  alarm  button,  and  put  out  the  necessary  calls.
　　“Roger  that,”  Murphy  said  into  her  mike.  “You  are  cleared  for  Pad  Three,  repeat,  Pad  Three,  which  will  be  illuminated  two  minutes  from  now.  A  medical  team  will  meet  your  ship.  Safe  all  weapons  and  cut  power  the  moment  you  touch  down.  Over.”
　　“No  problem,”Hale  replied  gratefully.  Then,  a  few  moments  later,“I  see  your  lights.  We’re  coming  in.  Over.”
　　The  pilot  keyed  his  mike  off  and  turned  to  his  copilot.  Bathed  in  the  green  glow  produced  by  the  ship’s  instrument  panel,  the  Elite  looked  all  the  more  alien.  “So,”  the  human  inquired,  “how  did  I  do?”
　　“Extremely  well,”  Special  Operations  Officer  Zuka  ’Zamamee  said  from  behind  the  pilot’s  shoulder.  “Thank  you.”
　　And  with  that  ’Zamamee  dropped  what  looked  like  a  circle  of  green  light  over  Hale’s  head,  pulled  the  handles  in  opposite  directions,  and  buried  the  wire  in  the  pilot’s  throat.  The  human’s  eyes  bulged,  his  hands  plucked  at  the  garrote,  and  his  feet  beat  a  tattoo  against  the  control  pedals.