Halo_ The Fall of Reach - Eric Nylund [101]
The Master Chief understood. Dr. Halsey was unsure if she would be spending their lives or wasting them 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 continue your 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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
0600 Hours, August 29, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, UNSC Military Reservation 01478-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 the security 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 number of MPs patrolling the gate.
John parked the Warthog and was approached by a trio of MPs. “State your business here, sir,” the lead MP demanded.
Without a word, John handed over his papers—orders direct from the top brass. The MP visibly stiffened. “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.” The soldiers who trained there had a different name for it—“Painland.” John knew the facility well; a great deal 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 assault rifles 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 doctor. No rank insignia, though, John thought with a twinge of concern. For a moment, the image of his fellow Spartans—very young, and clubbing, kicking, and beating un-uniformed instructors into unconsciousness 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 for spit and polish today. Let’s go.”
A Captain—and new orders. Good. “Yes, sir.”
The Captain in the lab coat escorted him into the P&R’s medical bay. “Undress, please,” the man said.
John quickly disrobed, then stacked his neatly folded uniform on a nearby gurney. The Captain stepped behind him and began to swab John’s neck and the back of his head with a foul-smelling liquid. The liquid felt ice-cold on his skin.
A moment later, Dr. Halsey entered. “This will just take a moment, Master Chief. We’re going to upgrade a few components in your standard-issue neural interface. Lie back and remain still, please.”
The Master Chief did as she said. A technician sprayed a topical anesthetic on his neck. The skin tingled, then went cold and numb. The Master Chief felt layers of skin incised, and then a series of distinct