CHAPTER IX

2346 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)

UNSC NIGHTHAWK, IN HIGH ORBIT OVER PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM

Captain Theodore Weller sighed as he glanced once again at the crew manning their posts at the com station. Close to the end of the Human-Covenant War, Chimera Shipbuilding Ltd. - the contractor for the Revenant class prowler- had included broad-spectrum transmission jamming equipment on their prototypes, and then implemented it into their production vessels. Prowlers were the worst ships to go into combat with- their only real defensive measure was remaining undetected. The jammer was meant to serve precisely that purpose- if an enemy vessel somehow detected them, the least a Revenant could do was make sure it didn't bring along any more friends while it deployed the prowler's classic ace-in-the-hole – nuclear mines.

Nighthawk had been in orbit for over two hours, making sure that no long-range transmissions got off-planet. The only thing that would be able to reach Nighthawk herself was a long-range selective frequency transmission from Squad Seven. It had been boring, of that there was no doubt, but Captain Weller infinitely preferred sitting in space bored to death than playing 'First to Die' going head-to-head against Covenant warships. Out of his graduating class at the Academy, seven of the original eighty-one were still alive, and only one of those deaths had been due to something other than Covenant ship-to-ship fire. As Theodore had later learned, it had been ground combat against the Covenant.

The quiet of Reach's night was disrupted by blaring klaxons from the bridge's sensor deck. Lieutenant Commander Roy Kagabe, another of the final seven of Weller's class, gave a quick report.

"Sir! We're getting an EM reading from the surface. It's faint, sir, but it's still there."

Weller scratched his chin. ONI had insisted that the squad carry a Fury-class tactical nuke with them in case the op went sour, but then suddenly changed its mind, and the nuke was never supplied. The faintness of the signal was easily explained- Reach's new perpetual blizzard would be able to dampen the readings from a Shiva-class warhead without much trouble, let alone a Fury. So what was the reading? Weller bit his lip for a good minute, then finally opened his mouth and spoke.

"Stop the jam for sixty seconds and run full-spectrum scans. I want every residual reading we can pick up."

"Sir, yes sir!"

Weller sank back into his thoughts. If Squad Seven had found a rebel base, it was entirely possible that they'd used nukes they found at the rebel base. But there was no way to be sure, even if Reach wasn't a giant snowflake. There were just too many variables.

Sixty seconds came and went in silence. Kagabe looked up from his post and back towards the Captain.

"Nothing, sir. Not even heat blooms- it isn't a nuke."

Reluctant as he was to agree, Weller nodded. A nuclear warhead would have raised the surface temperature, even by a little, and the radiological sensors would have gone crazy. But there had been nothing. If so, what had caused that pulse?

Unfortunately, there was no time to find out. The sensor alarms blared louder than ever, and the bridge's clinical white lighting faded and turned red as the ship's power configuration switched from Scout to Combat.

Weller stood straight as an arrow. Turning his full attention to the sensor crew, he said, in what he hoped was his most commanding voice, "What's going on?" Even though he tried to inject confidence into the question, he still felt it sounded nervous, like he was a small child whose home had been broken into. Hopefully it wouldn't show.

Kagabe didn't even glance at the panels of instruments. "We're detecting Slipspace ruptures, sir. Entry vector matches interstellar space- whatever's coming, they're running from something. We really shouldn't-"

Whatever the LC's recommendation would have been, Weller never found out, because at that exact moment, fourteen holes in space tore through the darkness of the void, shortly followed by no fewer than fourteen ships. The captain's jaw dropped- not one of these ships bore a UNSC emblem or used UNSC frequencies. Nighthawk was drifting along in the wake of a rebel fleet. Kylie Steel, a Warrant Officer who'd graduated only last year, echoed the captain's sentiments. "How… how'd they build all those?"

Weller looked around at the fleet that surrounded them on every side. Not one of them was a stolen UNSC vessel. They shared common design features- they were, after all, still human ships- but aside from that, these new ships were completely different in appearance to anything the UNSC built. The warning alarms flashed and blared again.

"Sir, we've got another rupture in the area- Cherenkov radiation's off the scale, sir! The newcomers have nukes with them!"

Weller seemed unable to swallow, and sweat gathered on his forehead like morning dew on a meadow- Nighthawk could not remain hidden forever with elevated background radiation- sooner or later her hull would light up, and then she'd be toast. The captain took a breath and crossed his fingers.

"Set burn for forty percent and maneuver us carefully out of their wake. Charge up the Slipspace capacitors and get ready to run like hell if we have to."

"Sir, what about Squad Seven?"

"They're ODSTs. They'll be all right." At this, some of the crew members looked unsurely at each other, and Theodore didn't blame them- the squad would be stuck on a glassed over snowstorm with an army of pissed-off rebels and a hostile fleet to contend with. If Nighthawk had to jump, the squad was toast.

The alarms blared yet again, louder than ever this time.

"It's the same signal as before! Cherenkov radiation's doing bungee jumps here- whoever they are, they've got more nukes that a cat has lives…"

Weller bit his lip. If the incoming ships were rebels, they could consider themselves lucky if nine nukes were all the enemy had.

But before Weller could say his prayers, blue-black ruptures split the infinite sky again, and seven warships hurtled through the micro-vortexes into real space. Weller's heart soared- the cavalry had arrived. There were the familiar engine layouts and lines of UNSC frigates and destroyers, and the bulky 'flying brick' shape of a UNSC Marathon-class cruiser. Most rousing of all was the massive figure of a four kilometer-long UNSC supercarrier. Weller let out a long, deep sigh. They wouldn't die. Not just yet, at any rate.

Smiling slightly, he sat back down in the captain's seat. "All right, ladies and gentlemen, we've got some explaining to do. Open a channel to the flagship of the UNSC group- we have to tell them that we're here, and why. Keep us dark, though- the rebels won't need a second excuse to blow us to bits."

Orran Yeats, the Lieutenant at the com station, snapped to attention. "Sir, yes sir." He opened a channel with practiced ease. "This is UNSC prowler Nighthawk, ship ID 4409-6773, hailing UNSC flagship. Repeat, this is UNSC prowler Nighthawk, ship ID 4409-6773, hailing UNSC flagship."

The response was quick and crisp.

"Nighthawk, this is UNSC Acheron. Admiral Mores wants to know, and I quote, 'what the hell' you're doing here."

Weller's heart was caught in a vice grip. UNSC Acheron, originally UNSC Sahara, had escaped the Battle of Reach with three intact decks and a single functioning auxiliary engine- she'd been rebuilt almost from the ground up. Refitted, retooled and renamed Acheron, she had then been placed under the command of Rear Admiral Maya 'Gutspike' Mores, who was, in Weller's opinion, either the most gung-ho or the most insane officer in the Fleet- it was sometimes hard to tell.

The now-anxious captain spoke loudly into the com. "We're here as part of an insertion for Operation: CLEANUP. We have a squad of ODSTs groundside and we'll need calm if we're to pick 'em up later. So ask the R.A. pretty please with sugar and whipped cream on top if we can stay in the system."

The silence was nothing short of bone-chilling, and all the while the rebels were likely regrouping while the UNSC battle group milled about. At last, after a mind-numbing ten seconds, Acheron's com officer spoke again.

"All right, she says okay, but on the condition that you 'don't get in the way'."

"Trust me, that won't be a problem."

"All right, that's all from the Admiral. Acheron out."

Lieutenant Yeats then killed the channel.

"Well?" he said, turning to Weller. "Orders, sir?"

Weller cleared his throat. "Keep us dark and take us to ELO altitude. Prep weapons just in case things go badly or someone gets nosy."

The officers at the weapons station, headed by Second Lieutenant Alda Wingate, looked at each other nervously. Nighthawk might be better-armed than previous classes of prowlers, but she was still undergunned compared to the average destroyer or frigate. The only thing she had that could really hit hard was her arsenal of two dozen Hornet nuclear mines- and those had to be carefully deployed and armed, not just tossed.

Nighthawk drifted slowly away from the UNSC fleet and made for a position at Reach's northern pole, so her jammer would still catch any surface-to-space transmissions, and she'd be able to assess how the battle in space was going in case the two fleets went around in circles. But Weller wasn't chancing it. He turned to Kagabe.

"Set up a channel- narrow band, point-to-point. Get a fix on Squad Seven and prepare to send a message."

Kagabe nodded.

There were several minutes of silence as the crew worked to isolate Squad Seven's IFF signals. Meanwhile, the northern pole of Reach expanded into full view, but Weller did not have eyes for that view. An expanded TACMAP display showed the UNSC ships completing their first half-orbit of Reach, and it also showed the rebel ships. The UIC fleet did not continue to flee from Acheron and her battlegroup, but had turned around. The two groups were going to hit each other head on.

Captain Weller closed his eyes and made a small crossing motion with two of his fingers. He tapped the side of his right shoulder, and then moved his hand over to his left. He then touched his forehead then drew his arm straight down to his abdomen, upon which he opened his eyes and released his hands from the gesture.

"Lord," he whispered, "deliver them all."