Wackbar Shipyards, Walderann

0613 Hours 8.1.2551

Rear Admiral Dirt Wantillese sat in the passenger section of his VIP-transport admiring the extensive shipyard facilites of Walderann. Two new Worm Frigates were under construction in the massive Wackbar Shipyards, while a flight of Avengers patroled the perimeter. A few kilometers from the shipyards were a pair of Wian III battlestations guarding the entrance to the spaceport. The admiral's destination, his new flagship the Curacao.

The shuttle finally entered the hangar, as Dirt took one last look at his taskforce. A sentry led him down a short corridor to the bridge. Standing on the bridge, in front of a row of computer screens, was the Curacoa's Captain, Jacob Custard.

"Good morning Captain," Dirt began to say.

"Good morning Sir."

Custard then proceeded to show the new Admiral his command.

"The taskforce consists of three cruisers and five frigates. The cruisers are this one, the Keating, and the Victory. Then there are the frigates, the Winchester, the Invincible, the Furious, the Wantillese, and the Windowmaker. Dirt grunted at the name of his namesake the Wantillese, he had never approved of naming warships after living persons. The Admiralty had paid little heed to his wishes. He turned his thoughts back to the mission.

"Mr. Custard," said Dirt as he handed his flagcaptain a datapad, "Here are the coordinates of our destination, planet Reach. I want us off in twenty minutes.

"Sir," Custard replied. "You do understand these coordinates are extrapolating on our navcomputer's internal maps. We won't be able to factor in debris and stars."

"I understand very well Captain!" Dirt snapped. "Get us there."

"Yes, sir." He turned to a microphone. "All ships, set coordinates to Waypoint Alpha, feeding coordinates now." All the ships acknowledged, and sixteen minutes later the fleet was off.

FleetComm, Planet Reach

1202 Hours 15.1.2551

The UNSC Security council was meeting. Fleet Admiral Sir Terence Hood, Admiral Preston Cole, and deputy Chief of Naval Operations Vice Admiral Danforth Whitecomb sat around a mahogany table in a FleetComm grotto six miles under the surface of Reach.

"Cole," spoke Whitecomb, "The wisdom of sending Admiral Halsey's fleet into battle away from the planet he was protecting has been brought into question by several of my colleagues."

"Now Danforth," Hood started. "I'm sure the Admiral has an explanation more than adeguate for ONI's spooks."

"Admirals," Cole replied. "If I had let the Covenant arrive at New Ireland, there was a risk they would arrive before Halsey, the planet would have been glassed before UNSC forces could respond. The rendevous point interception shaved off five days from our response time. It was just unfourtanate that our intelligence had incorrectly reported the size of the enemy fleet."

"So you're saying," Whitecomb raised his voice. "It's ONI's fault we lost and Halsey is dead. You're saying…"

Hood raised his hand to stop him. "That's enough, Admiral." Hood pushed a button in his chair and an AI dressed in white appeared over the table.

"Reggina, please erase all records of this conversation."

"Yes Admiral," a soft female voice replied.

"Good, now…"

"You have a message."

Hood looked up at his personal AI. "A message?" he asked.

"Yes, would you like me to play it?"

"Put on holochannel three."

Reggina nodded and a hologram appeared, there stood a gray alien about a meter and a half tall. A Worm.

"Admiral Hood," the Worm said. "This is Chief of Naval Operations Fleet Admiral Wick Perry of the Republic of Independent States navy. I would like to discuss recent events with you."

"Er, of course." Hood turned to Cole and Whitecomb. "Would you excuse us, gentlemen?" Once they had left the room Hood turned back to the Worm.

"What would you like to know?"

"Why you attacked one of our ships," Perry said coldly.

"Your cruiser, the Wendor?"

"Yes."

"Good, your ship was roughly the size and shape of a Covenant frigate, I suppose you know who they are by now."

"A collection of races waging Jhad on your people." Hood nodded.

"I apologise for the incon-"

"Eighty three crewers and soldiers are DEAD. And a cruiser is out of commission. You'd better be sorry."

"Anything else you would like to say to me?" Hood growled.

"I've dispatched a small taskforce under one Rear Admiral Dirt Wantillese to your headqurters to pick up the Wendor's crew. They should arrive any day now." Hood blinked twice before responding.

"The Normandie, one of our ships towing yours, won't arrive for at least two and a half weeks."

"How slow are your pathetic ships?" Perry asked tensely.

"It takes time," Hood replied defensively.

"Well it takes too much time. Walderann out."

The figure dissapeared, leaving Hood alone in the briefing room.

What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?