User:RelentlessRecusant/Halo: Memory/Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Admiral On The Deck

UNSC Beneath Shoreless Waves Carinae-312 IV Orbit

It was with the most incredulous of expressions that Commander Carr observed the Tracking board, but even before it could continue scrolling downwards, Carr snapped to the navigational lieutenant, “Helm! Get us out of here. I want us on an outbound vector, flank speed.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Thoreau regarded her curiously. “Commander, FLEETCOM Sydney is observing our tactical feed now. We need a full assessment of the enemy threat. Pulling us out will--”

“Because of your suggestion, we are at eight thousand kilometers above sea level, well within the flight ceiling of inter-continental or ground-to-space weapons, and also atmospheric fighter craft. We’re pulling out for now, and Sydney can rely on the data we’ve already gotten. When FLEETCOM sends us some thumpers, we can make a more complete survey of the enemy threat. If we’ve already been detected in the atmosphere by those Brute ground forces, for all we know, a Brute fleet can be showing up on Carinae-312’s doorstep in a few hours. We’ll hold at a long-range observation point to observe if any Brute reinforcements arrive. When they do, we’re spinning up the Slipspace drive and getting the hell out of dodge.”

The drives of the Beneath Shoreless Waves flared, coming online into full power to seize the frigate out of gravity’s reach, breaking the UNSC warship from orbit into an outbound vector. As the navigational officer affirmed their trajectory, Carr’s concern once again fell upon the tracking officer. “Tracking, what do you have on the ground?”

The lieutenant, equally anguished over the contacts rolling across the sensor board, said with a pained expression, “Confirming three, repeat three Brute encampments of Class Four strength or higher on the surface, distributed in a non-symmetrical arrangement across the planet. The reason we didn’t pick them up on the high-altitude pass was the lack of signatures; nothing on the infrared, nothing on the electromagnetic. Only the enhanced-resolution visual systems picked up the vehicles and buildings.”

Erica’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and reluctantly, she turned to Thoreau for the analysis.

The exec said in his slowly in his consistent, soft tones, “We’ve got three Brute bases planetside on Carinae-312, but they’re all cold of activity.”

The commander began, “That means they either--”

Thoreau finished that for her. “Abandoned their bases or they’re dead. I’ll need to look over the overhead screens that we got during the recon pass to determine that. This is, however, high unusual. This is also consistent with the lack of subspace radio chatter that we got from the planet when we jumped in.”

As the Beneath Shoreless Waves leapt with an enthusiasm from the silent planet, tearing away from the innumerable punctuate points of light that was the Galactic Core, beyond Carinae-312 IV, the tracking officer motioned Carr and Thoreau to his screen, and nimbly indicated different points on the overhead results. “We have Brute Prowlers here, here, and over here…battle lines of Brute Choppers on the flanks of each base. Prowlers and Choppers are signature fighting vehicles for the Brutes, and the sparseness of Ghosts parallels the Brute tradition of maintaining garrisons primarily with Choppers and leaving limited Ghosts for the Grunts to pilot. This is consistent with battle reports from the Ark and other engagement zones.”

Thoreau nodded. “I concur that this is a characteristic Brute command base. You can also see near the center of the base how the living modules are aggregated in small, sharp-edged clusters but large spacings between the clusters. This suggests Brutes from different lineages in different tribes, all camping with individuals of the same tribe, lineage, and hierarchical rank.”

It was with a glimmer of respect that the tracking officer regarded the executive officer. An ex-ONI satellite reconnaissance operator trained to pick out these minute details, he was surprised that the sullen exec had the acumen to make these delineations. “Very good, sir.”

The tracking officer continued to indicate other matters. “You’ll notice, however, that while there is a standard concentration of essential buildings – command centers, living modules, methane environment suites, communications nodes, armories, and so forth, that there is an extremely high propensity of heavy defenses; we have six anti-aircraft batteries for this base alone, and dozens of Shades on these flanks here and here. The number of vehicles is also very low, and many appear to have battle damage, although the resolution is poor.”

It was Erica Carr who answered, willing to demonstrate her intelligence as well. “Probably whatever ground forces the rebels were able to draw were heavily damaged from their fighting with us and the Elites.”

The tracking officer shrugged. “I think it’s more likely they’ve been fighting each other, ma’am.” He indicated debris strewn across the bases. “Look—three different bases, scattered across the planet. Three different tribes, probably, each with its own alpha male or chieftain. They’re positioned with enough spacing across the hemispheres that they were probably keeping their distance from each other; they were all fighting. The fact they have heavy defenses meant that there was a threat, and the fact their vehicles were depleted meant they were fighting enemy forces. That each base has a varying number of vehicles, mostly damaged, destroyed, or under repairs, seems to suggest that they were fighting each other. The carbon scoring is plasma burns against Covenant armor alloy.”

The commander shrugged, waving away the conjecture. “Compress and send these recon pictures to FLEETCOM Sydney. I suspect the Security Council and HIGHCOM will be greatly interested.” She turned to the navigational officer. “Hold us at Lagrange Six, by the third moon of Carinae-312 IV. We can watch for orbital activity from there and have a safe withdrawal vector to Slipspace.”

“Aye, Commander.”

It was Thoreau’s soft musings that once again disturbed Carr’s composure. “I don’t think all these bases were tribal and fighting against each other for supremacy. Something’s not right. Yes, they were fighting—but who? Did they all mysteriously kill themselves in their internecine combat?”

Patiently, with a touch of humility from the exec’s correct notion to bring the frigate in for a closer pass, she asked, “Then who exactly do you think they were fighting?”

“Carinae-312’s position between the Core and the Habitable Zone…its ability to sustain life…the Brutes here…” Whimsically, Thoreau exhaled, with a tint of frustration. “We’ll wait until reinforcements come, then we can perform the reconnaissance-in-force.”

UNSC Miranda Keyes Mars Orbit, Robert McLees Industries Shipyards

It was thousands of kilometers above the ashen, sterile surface of Mars that the Commander-in-Chief of the UNSC Third Fleet, Admiral Michael Stanforth, met with Rear Admiral Wagner and Commodore Tate, aboard the newly-finished decks of the battle cruiser Miranda Keyes. Nestled to either side of cruiser were dozens of clones – open keels, incomplete exoskeletons, fully-finished Sojourn-class cruisers awaiting only shakedowns, christening, and a crew…whereas at the fore of Task Force Gamma and the Paris IV strike fleet, the Miranda Keyes had been completely unique, at the Robert McLees Industries Shipyards, the center of the UNSC war machine after the burning of Reach, the Miranda Keyes was merely one of a cohort.

The command shuttle made its steady ascent from one of the Orbital MAC defense platforms in geosynchronous orbit around Mars, and as it neared the sharp-edged cruiser, its escort of Longswords peeled off into different headings, and the cruiser’s communications officer registered an incoming transmission.

“Shuttle Orca to UNSC Miranda Keyes; requesting landing clearance. Pass-code Zulu-Tango-Five-Red, over.”

The operator handed the transmission to the hangar chief in the ventral belly of the cruiser, who replied crisply, “Orca, this is Fighter Ops. You are clear for landing, Bay Two. Activating sighting arrays. Keep the eye on the ball.”

The update on the landing-aid systems on the Miranda Keyes, as with the pass-code clearance, were wholly unnecessary, trivial formalities. Fleet Admirals typically did not enjoy their shuttle pilots wasting time with security clearances, and Stanforth’s shuttle, piloted by two former Longsword pilots, veterans of Sigma Octanus IV and Reach aboard his flagship, the Leviathan, did not need reminders on how to land a plump shuttle. Carrier landings were the first greatest source for non-combat-related deaths, and carrier take-offs were in second place. With an admiral onboard, the pilots could not afford to make a slip on the control yoke during descent, killing themselves, their passengers, and wiping out a significant amount of the Miranda Keyes’s command staff, who had gathered in Hangar Bay Two to greet the admiral. The carrier bay for any vessel was a slender slit, a difficult margin to enter smoothly, and it was invariable that pilots would either overshoot it or undershoot it, often with catastrophic consequences. Thus, laser rangefinders at specific key locations in the hangar bay sighted all approaching vessels, giving them exact range to landing, and winking hangar floor lights indicated where inbound vessels were to land.

“Fighter Ops, copy. ETA fifteen seconds.”

The reciprocation was echoed in the cavernous space of Hangar Bay Two – the Longsword squadron resident there had been cleared out in favor of an honor guard, the senior officers of the Miranda Keyes, and several command officers from the cruiser’s battle-group. With careful acuity and ponderous deliberation, the inbound shuttle became impendingly larger in the eyes of the awaiting Marines and officers, and as it slipped into the cruiser’s hangar bay, quickly pivoted and executed the exacting three-point shuttle landing protocol onto the landing lights. As the hangar boss began to call out the secure signal and flight mechanics began to scramble to the newcomer, investigating it for signs of damage, the Marines came to stiff attention, crossing their glossed BR55HB SR Battle Rifles across their dress uniformed-chests as Admiral Stanforth descended, an aging man clad in the freshly-pressed white dress of a Fleet Admiral, replete with the gold braidery and combat decorations. There were campaign ribbons for Sigma Octanus IV, Reach, and dozens of other worlds, and then the shield emblems for his actions during the First and Second Battles of Earth.

The sergeant-at-arms called with military rigor, “Atten-tion! Admiral on the deck!”

Fleet Admiral Stanforth was unlike Harper and the younger admirals and generals – like Lord Hood, he maintained a modicum of gravity and appreciation for military protocol, and he did not insouciantly wave away the Marines as they did their protocol-dictated series of salutes and other expressions of honor and deference for their commanding officer.

It was when the ceremonies were over that the second-ranking officer in the hangar bay, Rear Admiral Wagner, the battle-group commander, evenly addressed Stanforth. “Admiral Stanforth. My pleasure.”

He extended a hand, one that Stanforth took lightly, and shook it firmly, indicating the steel the man still had. “Admiral Wagner.”

As the junior admiral nodded, Stanforth looked beyond, his eyes finding Commodore Tate, the captain of the Miranda Keyes and the task-force commander. “Commodore.”

Tate nodded. “Admiral.”

The introductions went on as Wagner introduced his tactical staff, and Tate introduced the senior officers aboard the cruiser, and afterwards, Stanforth beckoned to Wagner, Tate, and the battle group tactical officer, a Captain Thomson. It was in the privacy of the secured Tactical Operations Center in the midsections of the Miranda Keyes that Stanforth withdrew a slender envelope from a pocket, and handed it to Wagner.

“Admiral, these are new orders from FLEETCOM Sydney, approved by the Security Council and the Joint Chiefs.”

Wagner, with deft movements befitting his relative youthful age, and careful not to conceal that a third of his body had been seared away by Covenant plasma and the scars engraved heavily upon his soul by his viewing of the massacre of Reach, broke the seal to the envelope, and slipped a packet of papers from the envelope. Tate and Thomson looked on as Wagner’s eyes skimmed the document.

Stanforth explained the orders, his rigorous demeanor still affixed over the wearied lines drawn across his face. “As you know, all of the Defense Fleet has been engaging in reconnaissance operations across the Covenant Outer Rim to search for Brute fleets. Even though we’ve beaten them at Paris IV” at this Stanforth gave an acknowledging nod to Wagner and Tate, “we still need to destroy the renegades at their source – their bases of operation. The frigate Beneath Shoreless Waves just found one yesterday at one of those peripheral systems; Carinae-312. Brute garrison, but unoccupied.”

Wagner answered candidly, “I can’t say I’ve heard of that system before.”

Thomson echoed that sentiment.

The admiral took it in stride. “It wasn’t of any importance until yesterday.” Keeping a curious eye on the unusually silent commodore, he continued, “Despite the fact that Carinae-312 is unoccupied, the Defense Council has ordered that a battle group be dispatched there in the event that the Brutes try to return there. That’s your responsibility, Wagner.”

“Affirmative, sir. Rules of engagement?”

“Weapons free. You’re to blockade the planet – if or when Brute forces arrive, you are to prevent them from reaching the planet and to aggressively pursue them with whatever assets you have. Carinae-312’s ten thousand light-years Coreward, though.”

Tate said softly, “That’s a long way to go. We won’t get reinforcements for weeks when we call.”

“With good luck, you won’t ever need those reinforcements, Commodore. Your patrol rotation is going to be for six months. Once those are up, you’ll be pulled back to normal operations.”

Rear Admiral Wagner nodded, perusing the papers this time, mindfully understanding the formal language necessary for the deployment. At one point, he paused. “Are we going to be deploying a ground garrison onto Carinae-312?”

“Yes. When you arrive, you will rendezvous with the UNSC Beneath Shoreless Waves, and then launch a surface-side force to recon out those Brute bases. If an enemy presence is found, you are to neutralize them. If one is not found, you’ll be establishing a semi-permanent garrison as you see fit for the six months.”

Thomson’s worries were more about the strength of the battle group; the formation had to sustain itself for half a year far from established supply lines, and any force would be able to attack them repeatedly until reinforcements arrive – for ten thousand light-years, that would be weeks, and during those hard weeks, the only sustenance they would have would be promises from Sydney that reinforcements were on the way. That sickening discomfort actualized into a question as the tactical officer read over a particular line. “Admiral, it says here all Covenant vessels are being withdrawn from Battle Group Mediator—that leaves us at numerically five-sixths strength, and tactically, far weaker. Our UNSC ships don’t have the firepower, defenses, and speed of Covenant craft.”

Stanforth conceded, “That is true. However, it was Strategic Command’s decision. We will be attempting autonomic operations with the new Sojourn-class cruisers and the Rapier-class interceptors. The number of task forces will also be increased from five to eight.” The Sojourn classification was the newest debut in the UNSC Defense Fleet’s ranks, the line of attack cruisers of which the Miranda Keyes was a part. The Rapiers were interceptors in the true sense; whereas the Longswords had been fighter-bombers, the Rapiers were a cut-down design with far lighter armaments and armor, with higher speed and maneuverability than the ubiquitous Covenant Seraph, and exclusive fighter-to-fighter weaponry, not the cannons or warheads to attack a capital ship like the Longswords could.

Surprisingly, it was Tate who spoke up forcefully, “So Strategic Command expects resistance at Carinae-312? A warzone is not the place to test the newest cruisers and interceptors, Admiral, with respect.”

Stanforth’s expression became inscrutable as he said in awkward tones, “I don’t think anyone expects your battle group to come under attack. However, it will be a chance to experiment with our new warfighting technologies away from home, to conduct patrol rotations and so forth with the new vessels, away from a controlled test environment.”

Admiral Stanforth immediately realized his original impression of the soft-spoken commodore was vindicated. “The Miranda Keyes appeared to have fought well at Paris IV, Commodore. I don’t think the capability of the battle cruisers is under doubt.”

“And the Rapiers? They have barely been released for three weeks.”

Wagner locked eyes with Tate, and interrupted loudly, “Commodore, I don’t think it will be a problem. Thank you, Admiral, for personally delivering these orders to us and for your time. I’ll see you back to your shuttle.”

As the final salutations were exchanged and Wagner guided Stanforth from the conference room back to the second hangar bay, Thomson was left alone with Tate, who could only brood. He raised, “Commodore, you think something will go wrong over Carinae-312?”

Tate replied simply, “We’ll see.”