Halo: Ghosts of Onyx (7 page)

"With these new candidates," Kurt said, "you're trying to do more with less."

Ackerson nodded. "They'll be sent on missions with higher strategic values but correspondingly lower survival probabilities. That's where you come in, Kurt. We need your training as a Spartan, and all your field experience passed along to these candidates. You need to make these Spartans better and train them faster. This program may be the key to our survival in this war."

Kurt scanned the reader again. The new genetic selection protocol expanded the pool of candidates, but there were disturbing references to behavior problems in these less-thanideal potential Spartans.

But this mission was vital to the war, Kurt sensed that. And there would be CPO Mendez. It would be good to be working under his old teacher again. Could the two of them really train a new generation of Spartans?

"In ten years," Ackerson said, "with your guidance and a little luck, there will be a hundred new Spartans in the war. Employing several of these new Spartans to help train the next classes, there will be thousands within twenty years. With projected improvements in technology, perhaps a hundred thousand new Spartans will be created in thirty years."

A
hundred thousand
Spartans fighting for humanity? The image swam in Kurt's mind. Was that possible?

While Kurt didn't understand all the ramifications, he now understood the importance of the end result. His initial feeling of unease, however, remained. How many of these new Spartans were going to die? He steeled himself. He'd do everything he could to see they had the best training, the best equipment, be the best soldiers humanity had ever produced. Even then, though, would it be enough?

He took a deep breath. "Where do we begin, sir?"

Ackerson said, "New training facilities are being constructed. You will oversee the operation, and simultaneously begin the screening of candidates. I have an ample supply of willing recruits for you." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny box, pushed it across the table to Kurt. "One last thing."

Kurt opened the box. Inside were the single silver bar insignia of a lieutenant junior grade.

"Those are yours now." A faint crease of a smile appeared on Ackerson's face. "I'm not going to have my right-hand man taking orders from NCO drill instructors. You're going to be in charge of the entire show."

SECTION II SPARTAN-III

CHAPTER

SI
X
1950 HOURS, DECEMBER 27, 2531 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ZETA DORADUS SYSTEM, PLANET ONYX, CAMP CURRAHEE

Kurt watched the incoming Pelicans. The blocky jet-powered craft were so distant they were only specks against the setting sun. He hit the magnification on his faceplate and saw lines of fire tracing their reentry vectors. They would touch down in three minutes.

In the last six months he had developed a training regime tougher than the original SPARTAN program. He had created obstacle courses, firing ranges, classrooms, mess halls, and dormitories from what had been jungle and scrub plain.

He had received every piece of equipment he had requested from NavSpecWep Section Three. Guns, ammunition, dropships, tanks—even samples of Covenant technology and weaponry had appeared as if by sleight of hand.

All personnel were accounted for: six dozen handpicked drill instructors, physical therapists, doctors, nurses, psychologists, and the all-important cooks… all here except the most critical person, who was now on the incoming transports: Senior Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez,

Mendez had, a dozen years ago, trained Kurt and every other Spartan. He would be invaluable in preparing the new breed of SPARTAN-III, but he wasn't going to be the solution to all Kurt's problems.

After poring over every detail of the new recruits' files, Kurt discovered they didn't match the perfect psychological and genetic

markers set in Dr. Halsey's original selection protocols. Colonel Ackerson had warned him they had to draw from a "less statistically robust" group. These recruits wouldn't be anything like himself, John, Kelly, or any of the original SPARTAN-II candidates.

And this would only add to a long list of challenges. With a final target class four times larger than the SPARTAN-IIs', a severely truncated training schedule, and the need for these Spartans in the war increasing every month, Kurt, in fact, expected a disaster.

The Pelican jet transports swooped down on final approach and angled their thrusters. The sod on the parade field rippled like velvet. One by one they gingerly touched down.

Although Kurt's MJOLNIR armor was not designed to bear rank insignia, he nonetheless felt the weight of his new lieutenant's bars. They pressed down on him as if they were a ton each, as if the weight of the entire war and future of humanity rested squarely upon his shoulders.

"Sir?" a voice whispered into his COM.

The voice belonged to the artificial intelligence Eternal Spring. It was officially assigned to the planetary survey team stationed in the northern section of this peninsula.

Kurt wasn't sure why Colonel Ackerson had insisted that Camp Currahee be built next to the facility. He
was
sure, however, there had been a reason.

"Go ahead. Spring."

"Updated details on the candidates available," it said.

"Thanks."

"Thank me after your so-called test, sir." Eternal Spring terminated transmission with a hiss of static that sounded like angry bees.

Cajoled by Section Three brass, Eternal Spring had agreed to devote 9 percent of its runtime to the SPARTAN-III project. The AI was of the "smart" variety, which meant there were no limits

on its knowledge capacity or creativity. Despite its occasional theatrics, Kurt was happy for its help.

Kurt blinked and accessed the candidates' data on his heads-up display. Each name had a serial number and linked to background files. There were 497 of them, a collection of four-, five-, and six-year-old children that he somehow had to forge into a fighting force unparalleled in the history of warfare.

The hatch on the nearest Pelican opened with a hiss, and a tall man strode out.

Mendez had aged well. His trim body looked chiseled from ironwood, but the hair was now silver, and there were deep creases around his eyes and a set of ragged scars that ran brow to chin.

"Chief." Kurt resisted the urge to snap to attention as Mendez saluted. As odd as it felt, Kurt was now his commanding officer.

Kurt returned his salute.

"Senior Chief Petty Officer Mendez reporting for duty, sir."

After the SPARTAN-II program, Chief Mendez had, at his request, been reassigned to active duty. He'd fought the Covenant on five worlds, and been awarded two purple hearts.

"You were briefed on the flight?"

"Completely," Mendez said. As he looked Kurt over in his MjOLNIR armor, emotions played over his face; awe, approval, and resolve. "We'll get these new recruits trained, sir."

This was precisely the response Kurt had hoped for. Mendez was a legend among the Spartans. He had tricked, trapped, and tortured them as children. They all hated, and then learned to admire the man. He had taught them how to fight—and how to win.

"Do they let Spartans drink now?" Mendez asked.

"Chief?"

"A bad joke, sir. We might both need one before this day is over," he said. "The new trainees are, well, sir, a little wild. I don't know if either of us is ready for
this."

Mendez turned to the Pelicans, inhaled, and yelled, "Recruits, fallout!"

Kids streamed off dropship ramps. Hundreds tromped onto the field, screaming, and throwing clumps of sod at one another. After being cooped up for hours, they went wild. A few, however, milled near the ships, dark circles under their eyes, and they huddled tighter. Adult handlers herded them onto the grass.

"You've read
Lord of the Flies,
sir?" Mendez muttered.

"I have," Kurt replied. "But your analogy will not hold. These children will have guidance. They will have disciphne. And they have one thing no ordinary children have, not even the SPARTAN-II candidates. Motivation."

Kurt linked to the camp's PA. He cleared his throat and the sound rumbled over the field like thunder.

Nearly five hundred crazed children stopped in their tracks, fell silent, and turned amazed at the giant in the shining emerald armor

"Attention, recruits," Kurt said and stood akimbo. "1 am Lieutenant Ambrose. You have all endured great hardships to be here. 1 know each of you has lost your loved ones on Jericho VII, Harvest, and Biko. The Covenant has made orphans of you all."

Every kid stared at him, some with tears now gleaming in their eyes, others with pure burning hatred.

"1 am going to give you a chance to learn how to fight, a chance to become the best soldiers the UNSC has ever produced, a chance to destroy the Covenant. I am giving you a chance to be like me: a Spartan."

The kids crowded before him, close… but none actually dared to touch the shimmering pale green armor.

"We cannot accept everyone, though," Kurt continued. "There are five hundred of you. We have three hundred training slots. So tonight. Senior Chief Petty Officer Mendez"—he nodded to

the Chief—"has devised a way to separate those who truly want this opportunity from those who do not."

Kurt handed him a tablet reader. "Chief?"

To his credit Mendez registered shock for only a split second. He scanned the tablet, frowned, but nodded.

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

Mendez yelled at the children, "You want to be Spartans? Then get back on those ships."

They stood shocked, staring at him.

"No? I guess we found a few washouts. You." He pointed to one child at random. "You. And you."

The chosen kids looked at each other, at the ground, and then shook their heads.

"No?" Mendez said. "Then get on those Pelicans."

They did so, and so did the others, a slow shuffling procession.

"Drill instructors," Mendez said.

Three dozen NCOs snapped to attention.

"You will find Falcon Wing aerial descent units on the field. Load them ASAP and make sure your trainees are properly fit-led. Their safe deployment is now
your
responsibility."

The DIs nodded and ran toward the bundled Falcon Wing backpacks.

The Chief turned back to Kurt. "You're going to make them drop?" He raised both eyebrows in surprise. "At night?"

"The Falcons are the safest drop units," Kurt replied.

"With respect, sir, some of them are only four years old."

"Motivation, Chief. If they can do this, they'll be ready for what we have to put them through." Kurt watched the Pelicans fire their jets and scorch the grass. "But just in case," he added, "deploy all dropships to recover the candidates. There may be accidents."

Mendez exhaled deeply. "Yes, sir" He started for the nearest Pelican.

"Chief," Kurt said, "I'm sorry that order had to come from you."

"I understand, sir," Mendez replied. "You're their CO. You have to inspire and command

their respect. I'm their drill instructor. I get to be their worst nightmare." He gave Kurt a crooked smile and climbed aboard.

Shane clung to the plastic loops on the side of the Pelican's hull. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the other kids—packed so close that he wouldn't have fallen if he let go. The

roar of the Pelican's jets was deafening, but still he could hear his own heart racing in his chest.

This was the end of a journey that had started years ago. He'd heard jets like this when it started, the jets of the light freighter as it rocketed away from Harvest. It had been crowded on that ship, too… filled with refugees trying to get as far away, as fast as they could, from the monsters.

Only one in six ships had made it.

Sometimes Shane wished he hadn't lived and seen the monsters burn his family and home.

When the Navy man had come to visit him in the orphanage and asked if Shane wanted to get even with them, he immediately volunteered. No matter what it took, he was going to kill all the Covenant.

They had given him lots of tests, the written kind, blood tests, and then a month-long space trip as the Navy man collected more and more volunteers.

Shane had thought the testing was over when they final got into the PeHcans and came to this new place, but he'd barely touched the ground when they'd been shoved back inside and sent back up into the air.

He'd gotten a glimpse of the one in charge. He wore armor like Shane had seen in fairy tale books: the Green Knight who

fought dragons. That's what Shane wanted. He was going to wear armor like that one day and kill all the monsters.

"Check your straps," an old Navy man barked at him and the other kids.

Shane tugged at the black backpack that they'd put on him three minutes ago. It weighed almost as much as him, and the straps had been pulled so tight they cut into his ribs.

"Report any looseness," the man shouted over the roar of the engines.

None of the twenty other kids said anything.

"Recruits, stand by," the man barked. He listened into his headphones and then a green light blinked on a panel near his head. The man punched numbers into a keypad.

The back of the Pelican hissed open, the ramp lowered, and a tornado screamed around Shane. He yelled; so did the other kids. They all pushed and shoved to the front of the Pelican's bay.

The old Navy man stood by the open bay door, unafraid that only a meter to his rear was open sky. He regarded the squirming kids with disgust.

Behind him a dusky orange band marked the edge of the world. Twilight and lengthening shadows slipped over snowcapped mountains.

"You will form a line and jump," the man shouted. "You will count to ten and pull this." He reached up to his left shoulder, grasped the bright red handle there, and made a pretend pull motion. "Some confusion will be normal."

The kids stared at him. No one moved.

"If you cannot do this," the man said, "you cannot be a Spar-Ian. It's your choice."

Shane looked at the other kids. They looked at him.

A girl with pigtails and missing her front teeth stepped forward. "I'll go first, sir," she

yelled.

"Good girl," he said. "Go right to the edge; hang on to the guide line."

She took the tiniest baby steps to the edge of the Pelican, then froze. She took three

deep breaths and then with a squeak, she jumped. The wind caught her.

She vanished into the dark.

"Next!" the old Navy man said.

All the kids, Shane included, slowly formed a line. He couldn't believe they were doing

this. It was nuts. The next boy got to the edge, looked down, and screamed. He fell backward, and

scrambled away. "No!" he said. "No way!"

"Next!" the man called, and didn't give the kid cowering on the deck another glance.

The next boy jumped without even looking. And the next.

Then it was Shane's turn.

He couldn't move his legs.

"Hurry up, loser," the boy behind him said and gave him a shove.

Shane stumbled forward—halting only a half step from the edge. He turned and stopped himself from shoving this kid back. The kid was a head taller than Shane, and his black hair fell into his eyes, making it seem like he was missing his forehead. Shane wasn't afraid of this creep.

He turned back to face the night rushing past him.
This
was what he was afraid of.

Shane's legs filled with freezing concrete. The rushing wind was so loud he couldn't hear

anything else anymore, not even his hammering heart.

He couldn't move. He was stuck on the edge. There was no way he could jump.

But now he was so scared he couldn't even turn around and chicken out, either. If he sat

down, though, and then slowly inched back—

"Go, dumbass!" The creep kid behind him pushed. Hard.

Shane fell off the ramp and into the night.

He tumbled and screamed until he couldn't breathe.

Shane saw flashes of the dimming sunset, black ground, the white caps of the mountains, and stars.

He threw up.

Some confusion will be normal.

The red handle! He had to grab it. He reached up, but there was nothing there. He clawed at his shoulder until two fmgers found purchase. He tugged.