第110页

　　John  returned  the  gesture.
　　"Good  to  see  you,  too,"  John  said.  "How  many  are  left?"
　　"Three,  Master  Chief,  and  one  other  make  up  our  team.  Apologies  for  the  disabled  FOF  tag,  but  we're  trying  to  confuse  the  Covenant  forces  in  this  area."  He  looked  again  to  his  left  and  right.  "I'd  rather  not  give  a  full  report  in  the  open."  He  motioned  toward  the  shadows  of  the  cliff  face.
　　John  flashed  his  acknowledgment  light  and  the  two  Spartans
　　178 HALO:  FIRST  STRIKE
　　jogged  out  of  the  center  of  the  ravine,  both  keeping  their  eyes  on  the  rim  of  the  canyon  overhead.
　　The  Master  Chief  had  plenty  of  questions  for  Anton,  however.  Like,  why  had  his  team  split  from  Red  Team?  Where  was  Red  Team?  And  why  hadn't  the  Covenant  glassed  every  square  cen?timeter  of  Reach  yet?
　　"You  okay,  Chief?"  Lieutenant  Haverson's  voice  broke  in  from  the  COM.
　　"Affirmative,  sir.  Contact  made  with  a  Spartan.  Stand  by."
　　Anton  halted  before  a  dark  cavern  entrance.  It  was  difficult  to  see,  even  with  image  enhancement;  there  was  only  the  faint  out?line  of  a  tunnel  in  the  shadows  of  the  cliff  face.  Just  inside  were  reinforcing  steel  I-beams  painted  matte  black,  and  beyond  there  were  two-meter-wide  boulders  with  chainguns  bolted  to  their  sides.  Each  gun  was  crewed  by  a  Spartan—whom  John  recog?nized  as  Grace-093  and  Li-008.
　　When  they  saw  John  they  gave  him  the  smile  gesture,  which  he  returned.
　　Grace  followed  the  Master  Chief  and  Anton  into  the  cavern.  Li  remained  to  operate  the  guns.
　　The  Master  Chief  blinked  as  his  eyes  adjusted  to  the  harsh  fluorescent  lights  that  illuminated  the  interior  of  the  cavern.  The  walls  had  a  grooved  texture,  as  if  they'd  been  dug  out  by  machin?ery.  Standing  before  a  foldout  card  table  in  the  center  of  the  cavern  was  another  man,  in  a  Navy  uniform.
　　The  Master  Chief  stiffened  and  saluted.  "Admiral,  sir!"
　　Vice  Admiral  Danforth  Whitcomb,  despite  his  Western  Euro?pean  name  and  Texas  drawl,  claimed  to  have  descended  from  Russian  Cossacks.  He  had  the  physique  of  a  large  bear,  a  closely  shaved  and  polished  head,  eyes  so  dark  they  could  have  been  made  of  coal,  and  a  salt-and-pepper  mustache  that  drooped  over  his  upper  lip  and  dangled  off  the  edge  of  his  chin.
　　"Master  Chief."  The  Admiral  snapped  off  a  crisp  salute.  "At  ease,  son.  Damn  good  to  see  you."  He  strode  to  the  Chief  and  shook  his  hand—a  gesture  very  few  non-Spartans  cared  to  endure;—pressing  bare  flesh  into  a  cold  unyielding  gauntlet  that  could  pulverize  their  bones.  "Welcome  to  Camp  Independence.  Accommodations  ain't  four  star...  but  we  call  it  home."
　　"Thank  you,  sir."
　　ERIC  NYLUND 179
　　John  had  never  worked  with  the  Admiral  before,  but  his  ac?complishments  during  the  battles  for  New  Constantinople  and  the  Siege  of  the  Atlas  Moons  were  well  known.  Every  Spartan  had  studied  Whitcomb's  record.
　　John  opened  a  COM  channel  to  Lieutenant  Haverson.  "Move  up,  sir.  All  clear."
　　"Roger,"  Haverson  said.  "On  our  way."
　　"I'm  happy  to  see  you,  Chief,"  Admiral  Whitcomb  said,  "so  don't  take  this  the  wrong  way,  but  what  the  hell  are  you  doing  here?  Keyes  had  orders  to  take  you  on  a  mission  deep  into  Cove?nant  territory."