OPERATIONAL DIRECTIVE — SPARTAN BRANCH REDEPLOYMENT: OPERATION RED FLAG
Effective immediately, all remaining active-duty Spartan-II and Spartan-III assets currently stationed on or near Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System, are hereby ordered to prepare for immediate redeployment.
Operational Overview:
The UNSC has initiated Operation: RED FLAG, a high-risk, high-priority black operation authorized under UNSC Emergency War Powers Act 879-9. This mission supersedes all current planetary defense objectives and mandates Spartan involvement due to its strategic significance.
Primary Objective:
Board and secure a Covenant capital vessel.
Navigate to the Covenant homeworld system.
Capture a Prophet-class Covenant political and religious leader.
Extract with said target for ONI interrogation and diplomatic leverage.
The aim of this operation is to force a ceasefire or negotiated truce with the Covenant leadership through superior leverage and the threat of UNSC retaliation from within Covenant-controlled space.
Deployment Directive:
All designated Spartan personnel will be attached to the UNSC Pillar of Autumn, commanded by Captain Jacob Keyes, which has been reassigned from the Epsilon Eridani Defense Fleet to special operations command under ONI oversight.
Spartans assigned will rendezvous at CASTLE Base on Reach for final mission briefing and gear preparation.
MJOLNIR armor updates, energy shielding calibration, and Titan AI synchronization are to be finalized prior to departure.
Non-essential personnel will be reassigned to planetary defense or fallback positions.
Classified Supplement (Authorized Eyes Only - Level 1 Clearance):
Due to increasing Covenant interest in ancient alien artifacts and their recent behavior during the Sigma Octanus IV operation, ONI Intelligence suggests this mission has dual strategic importance. Any alien artifacts recovered during this mission are to be secured for analysis by ONI Scientific Division. Priority targets include Forerunner-class technology and command infrastructure.
Final Note:
Planet Reach remains a high-value target, but the situation is deteriorating. Your sacrifice has not gone unnoticed. This operation is humanity's best chance to strike at the heart of the Covenant war machine. You are to conduct yourselves with the valor and discipline befitting the Spartan name.
No retreat. No surrender. Humanity depends on you.
—
Fleet Admiral Lord Terrence Hood
UNSC High Command, Earth
______________________
30 August, 2552 / Dry Dock X-7, Reach Planet Surface Shipyard, Planet Reach, Epsilon Eridani System
Leonidas-151 POV
The sky burns.
From the gantry rails of Dry Dock X-7, I watch streaks of plasma arc through the high atmosphere—molten tracer fire from Covenant warships pounding our cities into glass. What was once blue and bright is now bruised purple and streaked in smoke. I see another ODP—Orbital Defense Platform—split in half like a crushed soda can. The wreckage rains down in pieces so large they tear through the clouds like comets.
We lost this world.
Even with all the upgrades, all the plans, all the strategies… Reach is being carved up. Not without a fight. Not while Spartans still draw breath.
Below me, Spartans move like clockwork—fluid, efficient, quiet. Hundreds of us. Spartan-IIs and Spartan-IIIs alike. The deck plates rumble beneath our boots, the dry dock lit in emergency red while Pelicans roar in and out. Troop carriers unload wounded Marines. Crates of ammunition are broken open by logistics crews who haven't slept in days. And every single one of us knows: this isn't just a battle. It's a final stand.
Red Team's gone. James T. Cutter and his Spartans vanished with the Spirit of Fire. Black and Gray are deep inside ONI's twisted ops. Noble Team's en route to the Pillar of Autumn with Halsey and what remains of her "Project Cortana."
Jorge died a hero in Operation: UPPERCUT. Kat died hours ago in the Battle of New Alexandria.
Sam is MIA. But I don't have time to think about that.
Now it's just us—the remaining IIs and IIIs, holding the bones of this planet together with our hands and teeth until Noble gets the Autumn off-world.
My HUD pings. Status reports flood in. Spartan-III Alpha and Beta Company remnants are dug into the outer ring defense bunkers—using the shipyard walls as hardpoints. Gamma Company's full-strength, forming mobile strike units that sweep between chokepoints. I know every name. Every status light. Every ammo count. They look to me as the tactical coordinator, the brain behind the branch. I wear the bars of a Lieutenant Commander now, but it never sits right with me. I was never meant to command. Just to fight.
My Titan AI, BT-7274, pings my neural interface.
BT: "Strategic alert: Covenant infantry forming two battalion-sized armored columns, twenty klicks north-northwest. Multiple Wraiths, infantry support, and Banshee recon. Predicted time to contact: 22 minutes."
I key open a command channel to all Spartan forces in sector Delta-Five. My voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
"Form up and dig in. Prioritize chokepoints and elevation. Reinforce AA and hardpoints. This isn't about stopping them. It's about buying time."
There's no chatter. Just silent acknowledgment. That's how we operate.
As I move across the gantry, I catch the shape of the Autumn herself resting in her berth below—massive, battle-scarred, scarlet lighting cast across her hull. She's our last card. Our final play. Keyes is down there prepping for launch.
Cortana.
I don't know what she is. But Halsey never ran from a fight—not like this. If she's leaving Reach, then what she's carrying is more valuable than all of us combined.
I descend the lift toward the staging deck. A line of Spartan-IIIs in modified SPI armor wait for me—fresh-faced, gaunt-eyed, but hardened by war. I see Wolf Pack among them. Shane-A112. Dante-A303. Jane-A203. Survivors of New Constantinople. Veterans of hell. They've painted their visors with kill marks and company emblems. Some even etched names into their armor plates—names of the ones who didn't make it.
I nod once.
"Fall back to tertiary fallback zone. Set ambushes and proximity mines. If they break the outer line, I want them bleeding for every meter they take."
They salute me. Not with ceremony, but with purpose. They move out. I know they'll hold.
Another ping from BT.
BT: "New alert. Noble Team status: en route. Estimated arrival: 14 minutes. Covenant battalion ETA: 18 minutes. Priority objective remains unchanged."
"Copy," I say aloud. "We hold the line."
I pace toward the front line. The shipyard trembles with each distant explosion. Somewhere in the distance, the Covenant advance continues—unrelenting, inhuman, merciless. But they will not take this ground easily. Not while Spartans stand. Not while we remember what it means to be human.
And not while I'm still breathing.
They came in fast.
Twin Pelicans thundered overhead, banking hard through smoke-warped skies. The Covenant was right on their ass—Wraith plasma arcing through the haze, Banshees screaming just overhead. The first Pelican's ramp dropped before it even touched down, and I saw them—Noble Team.
Carter. Emile. Jun. B-312.
They moved with purpose, even under fire. Six dropped with the fluid grace of someone who'd been jumping out of flying coffins his whole life. Carter barked orders before his boots even hit the deck, Emile already unloading suppressive fire as his boots slammed into the platform. Jun covered the second bird from the moment its ramp started to drop.
A Covenant Scarab lumbered into view from the east ridge, shaking the earth with each footfall. Its plasma cannon lit like a rising sun, charging—
"Dry Dock Control, anti-air MAC—FIRE!" I roared into comms.
The dry dock's twin-barrel MAC snapped forward on rails, the air around it igniting as magnetic coils surged with power. A moment later, it barked.
The kinetic slug ripped a hole clean through the Scarab's forward armor. The beast of metal and alien engineering staggered, spasmed—and dropped, sparks geysering from its frame as it collapsed into the trench below.
Noble Team sprinted in formation toward the reinforced deckline, where the last of our Spartan forces and shipyard personnel were falling back. Carter locked eyes with me as he passed, Dr. Halsey right behind him.
"Leonidas. We have the package?"
"Get her aboard the Autumn."
"Aye Commander."
The world around us was unraveling fast. The Covenant wasn't letting up. Dropships screamed overhead, and fresh squads of Grunts and Elites dropped from gravity lifts like locusts. Our forward Titan frames—four of them, already positioned at strategic points—turned as one and lit up the sky with anti-air suppressive fire. Gauss turrets barked, missile pods hissed, and shoulder-mounted railguns tracked and lanced through Banshee wings and Phantom hulls. One Titan took a fuel rod full to the chest. Its reactor lit red before the self-destruct charge went off—detonating in a controlled explosion that took an entire column of Covenant armor with it. The dry dock MAC hits dropships as fast as it can reload.
We were buying time. With steel. With fire. With lives.
"All personnel, fall back to Rally Point Sigma! Defend the Autumn's launch perimeter!"
Spartan squads began moving, leapfrogging in layers of cover and fire support. The few remaining ODSTs and Army personnel joined the formation. Wounded were carried, not left. Ammo was distributed with wordless precision. We had trained for this. Bled for this. This was the end of Reach, and we weren't about to let it end quiet.
"BT, status report."
"Pillar of Autumn: reactor warming. Engines spooling. Countdown to launch: T-minus seven minutes."
"Patch me through to the Captain."
"Link open."
"Keyes," I said, "we're holding, but the line won't last forever. You need to launch the Autumn. Get Cortana out of here."
His voice crackled back, gravel mixed with steel.
"We'll be ready. Buy me what time you can, Commander."
I looked around—at the burning sky, at the brave bastards manning the last line, at the Spartans preparing to stand between Reach and extinction.
"You'll have every second."
The Covenant advanced like a black tide. Phantoms descended like vultures. And we... we stood like gods. Like the warriors the myths will speak of when everything else is dust.
Reach was in flames. The sky above Dry Dock X-7 was smeared in fire trails and broken clouds—twisting, boiling things smeared by plasma bursts and the contrails of falling dropships. Covenant Phantoms screamed overhead. Banshees howled like wolves over our position, peppering the deck with plasma fire that left the air hissing.
We held the line. One last time.
The Spartans fought like demons.
Noble Team swept the flanks, Emile tearing through Jackals with a brutal efficiency that bordered on art. Jun's rifle cracked with every breath, precision killing with surgical calm. Carter led the final fallback formation, barking orders to ODSTs, Marines, and Spartan-IIIs as they passed through the last choke point.
The remaining Titans stood sentinel, shoulder-mounted weapons blazing. One of them—TAI-172, belonging to a now-dead Spartan—ripped a Ghost in half with its gauntlet, crushed a Grunt underfoot, then detonated a repulsor mine at point blank to destroy a full lance of Elites swarming the left pad.
We were losing ground. But we were still in control of our retreat.
I stood on the last cargo lift ramp, firing my VK-78 with precision bursts, each shot punching through the chest of another alien bastard. My armor's warning systems screamed—shields dropping, reactor overheating—but I didn't care.
Behind me, the Pillar of Autumn loomed like a metal messiah. The old Marathon-class heavy cruiser sat embedded in the dock's cradle, engines glowing brighter by the second. Her hull bore fresh scars from the Siege of Sigma Octanus and countless prior engagements, but her reactor still roared. Her guns were primed. Her mission was clear.
We were going to deliver Cortana to wherever the hell she thought she needed to go.
"All Spartans, fall back!" Carter's voice rang in my ear. "Repeat, fall back! Autumn's engines are hot!"
"Leonidas," BT-7274 said inside my HUD. "Captain Keyes has initiated primary ignition cycle. Estimated liftoff: T-minus 90 seconds."
"Copy," I grunted, ducking under a volley of plasma bolts. My jumpkit flared, sending me airborne over a crumbling cargo pylon and into the Autumn's embarkation corridor.
"All remaining ground untis accounted for," Jun reported. "Wounded are being stabilized. Significant losses."
"A damn miracle we didn't lose more," Emile muttered.
We crossed the final security checkpoint in staggered formations. I turned just once to look back—just long enough to see a pair of ODSTs limping in behind us, dragging another marine between them. The Titans, now all remote controlled, planted themselves into auto-sentry posture and turned their remaining munitions skyward.
"Final defense protocol engaged," BT confirmed. "Autonomous units switching to siege defense."
Then came the roar.
The Autumn's decks trembled as her main engines surged to life. A shudder echoed through the ship, deep and ancient, like a titan awakening. The docking clamps hissed open with explosive force. Dust and metal rained from the hangar roof.
The lift beneath our feet began to rise.
I heard plasma impact above. Felt the temperature shift. A Scarab had broken the defensive lines. The MAC tower fired one last time—then overloaded, melting down in a white-hot flare that blinded half the starboard viewport.
The Autumn shuddered again—this time with violence. Not from her engines, but from incoming fire. Plasma struck her dorsal hull. Shields rippled, buckled—but held.
"Status!" I shouted.
"Hull integrity at 98%. Launch trajectory clear," BT said calmly.
I could hear Keyes over the comms now.
"All hands—brace for acceleration. We are away."
The ship lurched forward, rocketing from the surface on a column of fire and fury. My stomach dropped as the ship broke atmosphere, G-forces pressing me back into the harness beside Fred and Kelly.
We left Reach behind.
Through a porthole, I watched the blue-white marble shrink. Fires crisscrossed the surface, entire cities glowing in ruin. I didn't see the other Spartans' faces. I didn't need to. I knew what they were thinking.
Reach wasn't dead. Not yet.
But she would be.
The Autumn angled toward the stars, trailing contrails and memory.
And I was still alive.
For now.
We made orbit on a battered engine trail and a prayer.
From the dorsal hangar, I watched the planet burn. Reach—the crucible of our training, the forge of our brothers and sisters—was now a dying ember below. Covenant warships darkened the skies, glassing swaths of the surface with surgical cruelty. Fires bloomed in the upper atmosphere like malevolent flowers.
The Pillar of Autumn wasn't alone.
Thirteen ships floated in orbit—scars on their hulls, black scoring from plasma, but still alive. A desperate remnant of the once-proud Epsilon Eridani Defense Fleet. Frigates, corvettes, a few prowlers running dark in the void. Most of their crews were dead or wounded. But they followed Keyes without hesitation.
Because no one else was left.
Captain Jacob Keyes stood on the Autumn's bridge like a mountain amid the storm. His hands gripped the railing. A line of blood curved down the left side of his face, dried now. He hadn't left the bridge since launch. Hadn't spoken much either.
"All vessels, this is the Pillar of Autumn," he said over fleet-wide comms. "We are executing Cole Protocol Directive One. All ships will perform randomized slipspace jumps immediately."
No hesitation. No delay.
One by one, the remaining UNSC ships disappeared in brilliant flashes. Silent farewells, each jump scattering us like ashes in the wind.
We were alone again.
Cortana's hologram materialized beside the bridge projector. Her form shimmered, blue and focused—more precise than any Smart AI I'd ever worked with. Her eyes locked onto Keyes.
"Slipspace trajectory set, Captain," she said. "Randomized per Cole Protocol. Exit coordinates triangulated to resume Operation: RED FLAG—pending your authorization."
He nodded. "Make it happen."
"Aye, sir."
The view of Reach flickered out as Cortana took control. Stars twisted. Reality blurred. Then—
—blackness turned inside out.
Slipspace.
I'd been through it hundreds of times. But this felt different. Not because of the physics or the pull on my gut. Not even because of the dead quiet that overtakes the crew when time itself seems to hold its breath.
This time, it felt like running.
Like running from ghosts.
The deck lights dimmed and klaxons sounded.
"All personnel, report to cryo," came the announcement from the ship's AI. "Repeat: all non-essential crew, report to cryo."
Our boots thudded through the Autumn's silent halls. No chatter. No jokes. Just the sound of Spartans walking in lockstep through steel and shadow.
The cryo deck was cold. Too cold.
I ran my gloved hand across the stasis pod's side panel. A small placard etched into the titanium read:
Leonidas-151. Spartan Branch. Priority Designate Alpha-One.
Fred nodded as he stepped into his pod. Kelly followed with her usual grace, like she was born for war and sleep in equal measure. Linda checked her sniper harness one last time before climbing in. Emile stood there for a moment longer—like he didn't trust the pod not to betray him.
"Don't die while I'm out," he grunted.
"No promises," I replied.
Carter's voice echoed over the squad channel as he stepped into the adjacent chamber.
"This isn't the end. Just another turn."
He was wrong. We all knew it. But no one corrected him.
I climbed into my pod. Let my head rest against the neural port as it connected to my spinal rig. The hiss of the seal surrounded me. Temperature plummeted.
BT's voice echoed gently in my ear.
"See you soon, Pilot."
The world slowed. My breath fogged.
I closed my eyes just before the cold took me.
And I dreamed of Reach burning.