Halo_ First Strike - Eric S. Nylund [45]
Lieutenant Wagner walked through metal-and explosive-detector gates and into the atrium entrance of the large, vaguely conical structure. Officially designated UNSC HighCom Facility B-6, the sprawling edifice had been nicknamed "the Hive."
It was overcast in Sydney. Gray light filtered in through the crystal dome overhead.
He marched past officers and NCOs moving with purpose to whatever destinations occupied their time. He ignored the displays of acacia trees and exotic ferns meant for the press and civilian tours. Today there was no time for pleasantries.
In another hour the apparent calm and efficiency of HighCom would be shattered into a billion pieces. Only a few of the brass knew that the UNSC's mightiest outpost, Reach, was now nothing more than a cinder.
Wagner approached the receptionist's station under the watchful eyes of a trio of armored Marine MPs.
Keeping Reach's fate quiet was not the UNSC's biggest secret, not by a country mile. Virtually no one in the civilian population of the Inner Colonies knew how perilously close they were to losing this war. ONI Section Two had done a brilliant job of preserving the fiction that Earth forces held their own against the Covenant.
And what did the citizens of the Outer Colonies think? Those who hadn't fled to remote outposts and hidden privateer bases weren't in any position to make trouble. The Covenant didn't take prisoners.
"You're expected today, Lieutenant," the receptionist said. She was a young Chief Petty Officer and looked like she didn't have a care, or a clue. But her eyes gave her away. She knew something. Maybe not what, but she had undoubtedly picked up on the increased security protocols . . . or the haunted looks in the eyes of her commanding officers.
"Please proceed to elevator eight," she told him and returned her attention to the screen in front of her.
He made a mental note to find out who this perceptive person was and see if she could be recruited into Section Three. ONI had lost a lot of good people in the last few weeks.
Wagner moved to the solid steel wall, and a pair of doors parted for him. He entered the small room; the doors closed and locked with a whisper-quiet snik.
A fingerprint pad and retinal scanner extended from the wall. Wagner pressed his hand onto the scanner, and a needle stabbed his index finger. They'd check his DNA against the sample on file. He blinked once and then rested his chin on the retinal scanner.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," a sweet female voice whispered in his ear.
"Good morning, Lysithea. How are you today?"
"Very well, now that I see that you have returned safely from your mission. I assume everything went as expected."
"You know that's classified," he told the AI.
"Certainly," she replied, her tone playful. "But I'll find out anyway, you know. Why not save me the time and just tell me?"
Although he generally enjoyed this tete-a-tete with Lysithea, he knew it was part of the biometric scan, too. She scanned his brainwaves and voice patterns in response to her queries and matched them to older responses in her memory. She probably tested his loyalty in security measures as well—he didn't put anything past Section Three; they grew more paranoid every day.
"Of"course you'll find out," Wagner replied. "But I still can't tell you. That would be a breach of security, punishable under Article 428-A. In fact," he said in a more serious tone, "I'll have to report this violation to my controller."
She laughed, and it sounded like fine bone china clinking together. "You may proceed, Lieutenant," she told him.
The doors parted and revealed a corridor lined with walnut panels and paintings of Washington Crossing the Delaware, Admiral Cole's Last Stand, various alien landscapes, and space battles.
Although he had barely felt the descent, Wagner knew he had dropped three kilometers into the planet, through solid layers of granite, reinforced concrete, plates of Titanium-A, and EMP-hardened