20 September, 2552 / UNSC Forward Operating Base, Installation 04 ("Halo")
Leonidas-151 POV
It's easy to forget you're standing on a ring in space when the world around you looks like a postcard from Earth. The illusion was strong here—blue sky above, dense pines swaying with the breeze, mountains in the distance that curved upward like some god took a paintbrush to the sky and forgot how gravity worked. But all that serenity vanished the moment we stepped through the makeshift gates of the newly formed UNSC Forward Operating Base.
War doesn't care for illusions.
The place was held together by sheer spite and overlapping foxholes. Burnt-out Warthogs and half-welded barricades lined the outer perimeter. Marines worked in dirty, sleepless shifts, digging deeper, faster. Falcon rotors never stopped spinning overhead. Half the base still reeked of burnt wiring and dried blood.
At the command tent, I finally met Major Antonio Silva in person. Tall, sharp-jawed, and radiating that old-school officer vibe—the kind of man who still wore creased fatigues in a battlefield full of smoldering craters.
He saluted out of formality, not respect. "Leonidas-151. You Spartans certainly know how to make an entrance."
John stood beside me like a statue. Always quiet. Always watching.
I returned the salute crisply. "Major Silva. I read your file on the way in. No time for pissing contests, we're losing daylight and you've got six platoons running on caffeine and morphine."
He narrowed his eyes. "I run this command post, Spartan. And I don't appreciate—"
I stepped forward. Calm. Controlled. "And I don't give a damn what you appreciate. By order of Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood and per Spartan Branch Protocol 217, operational command defaults to the highest-ranking officer present in non-naval engagements. That's me."
The tent went silent except for the soft hiss of my armor servos and the low hum of the nearby holotable.
He clenched his jaw. Then, grudgingly, nodded. "Fine. But I want it on record that I don't like this."
"Duly noted. Now, let's get to work."
Carter enters with Jun, Emile, and B-312 in tow. I nod.
We moved to the center of the command post as a tactical report flickered onto the table. BT-7274's avatar appeared beside it, blue optics forming his usual triangular shape.
"Combat-effective forces as of 0900 hours today," BT began. "Spartan personnel total 455. That includes 132 Spartan-IIs and 323 Spartan-IIIs."
I folded my arms. "Breakdown?"
BT flickered. "Spartan-IIIs—Alpha and Bravo Companies. 268 combat-ready. Fifty-five either wounded or still in cryo following the Autumn's emergency jettison procedures. Spartan-IIs—132 combat-ready. Eight wounded in cryo. Two unaccounted for after the Autumn's descent. One pod has been visually confirmed as Spartan-058—Linda. Recovery operation pending."
I nodded, my mind already spinning tactical overlays.
Silva stepped in. "UNSC non-Spartan forces: 468 Marines. 249 ODSTs. 347 surviving naval crew. Vehicles are at half-capacity. We've retained five Longsword Interceptors, twelve Pelicans, two Albatross dropships, twenty Scorpion tanks, sixty Warthogs. Plus Falcons and ground munitions. Ammo's tight. Food tighter. Week's worth if we ration like hell."
John spoke for the first time. "We need resupply within five days or we'll have to start taking it from the Covenant."
Silva exhaled hard. "That's assuming we last that long."
I looked back to BT. "What's the status on the ring itself? Covenant troop movements?"
"Mass landings in sectors 7 through 12," BT replied. "Primary offload appears concentrated around a central ridgeline structure. Telemetry from Cortana indicates possible significance to Covenant command hierarchy."
Silva frowned. "Then we need to hit that site yesterday."
"Not yet," I said. "Intel takes priority. If we punch them without knowing what they're digging for, we could be playing right into their hands."
BT's image flickered, then re-solidified. "New report just received. Covenant ship landed in Sector 5, offloading personnel before ascending. Pelican recon confirms sighting of Captain Jacob Keyes being transported by Elites into the structure. Signature resembles prior command vessels, possibly a cruiser."
Silva went rigid. "Keyes is alive?"
"For now," I said. "But if they're moving him groundside, they're not just interrogating him. They want something—and it's tied to this ring."
BT highlighted the drop zone on the holo-map. "We have one shot. If Keyes is extracted off-world, we lose everything."
I looked to John. He gave a slow nod. No words needed.
Silva grimaced. "You really think you can pull off a rescue op against an entrenched Covenant force?"
I tapped the holotable and pulled up strike formations. "We don't think, Major. We execute. Prep your ODSTs and the Marines for defense. Spartans move in one hour."
He opened his mouth again, but stopped. Good. Maybe he's learning.
I turned to the other Spartans now gathering near the command center, their armor reflecting the flickering lights of the camp.
"Captain Keyes is still alive. We bring him home."
__________________________
The Covenant cruiser loomed in the sky like a divine judgment made manifest—hulking, sleek, and glowing in angry violet hues as it hovered silently over the horizon. The name ripped straight from their encrypted battlenet: Truth and Reconciliation. The irony wasn't lost on me. There was nothing truthful or reconciliatory about this ship—just pain, fire, and death.
We stood inside the troop bay of a Pelican cutting low and fast behind enemy lines. Foehammer piloted with the kind of grace only someone who'd danced with death a thousand times could manage. Blue Team—John, Fred, Kelly, and me—was loaded and ready. Linda was still out, resting in cryo with her vitals stable but low. So we were down a sharpshooter. We'd make do.
The plan was simple in its complexity. Spartan-IIIs and Spartan-IIs would draw attention by assaulting the Covenant encampments scattered across the ridgelines surrounding the cruiser. Carter-A259 led Alpha and Bravo Company remnants in the assault—Spartan-III fireteams, light on armor but swift and brutal in urban terrain. Meanwhile, B-312 took command of the IIs—less subtle, more devastating. They would hit hard and loud, making damn sure the Covenant wouldn't notice four ghosts slipping into their house through the back door.
Inside the dropship, Fred finished calibrating his jump kit thrusters, humming some old folk tune under his breath like he didn't care we were about to breach an alien warship. Kelly stood near the hatch, holding her MA5K with that quiet intensity she always carried. John checked his sidearm one last time, motioned a thumbs-up toward Foehammer, then turned to us.
"Same plan. Hit hard, move fast, clear the lift. No screw-ups."
I nodded. "Carter's team is already making contact. B-312's pushing in from the north slope. Let's not waste their blood."
Foehammer's voice crackled over comms. "Two clicks out. Grav-lift site's hot. AA fire light, you've got a window. Make it count."
John locked his mag on the overhead rack and grabbed the drop line. "Drop in thirty. You know your jobs."
I gripped the magnetic handle, my armor's servos humming to life as the light over the ramp shifted from red to yellow.
I could hear the chaos below before I saw it—Spartan fireteams clashing with Covenant infantry and heavy vehicles around the base of the mountain. Plasma and tracer rounds lit up the ravine like a rave from hell. The Covenant weren't ready for an all-Spartan assault. They were adapting, but not fast enough.
"Ten seconds!" Foehammer called. "And you boys owe me dinner for this stunt!"
The rear hatch opened, and the cold wind screamed in as the cruiser cast a massive shadow across the land. Below us was the grav-lift zone: a glowing circular platform encased in a ring of obsidian-like stone and alien alloy, with a small garrison of Covenant dug in. Elites barked orders while Jackals moved into firing positions, and Grunts lugged plasma turrets into cover.
"GO!"
We leapt from the ramp.
Wind howled past my ears before the jump jets kicked in. I angled my descent and dropped straight through the upper canopy of trees surrounding the grav-lift. My boots hit dirt hard, cracking the ground beneath. I dropped to a knee and squeezed the trigger of my BR55 Battle Rifle—two bursts to the head of a Jackal. The creature folded over, shield sparking uselessly.
John landed in the middle of the Covenant formation like an orbital bombardment. His M90 shotgun roared, and an Elite disappeared in a mist of violet gore.
Kelly moved like lightning—jump kit throwing her between rock formations, each leap punctuated by three-round bursts. She vaulted over a Grunt squad and lobbed a frag grenade mid-spin. The explosion sent alien limbs in every direction.
Fred was our shield. He moved up the center, drawing fire with armor thick enough to shrug off multiple plasma bolts. He planted the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and fired with mechanical precision—dropping a pair of red-armored Elites with coordinated headshots.
We fought like a machine—separate parts functioning as one.
The Covenant didn't stand a chance.
The last of them tried to retreat back toward the lift platform, but the grav-lift was already activating—possibly a reinforcement drop. I didn't give it a chance. I leapt up the stone ledge, bracing myself mid-air on a half-melted plasma turret, and drove my combat knife into the neck joint of the Elite trying to call for backup.
Fred radioed, "Lift site secure. No Covenant transmissions got out. We're clear."
John gave a sharp nod. "Good. We go up next."
We stood at the base of the grav-lift. The circular platform hummed, powered by some unseen energy deep within the ship. The faint pull of the gravity beam resonated through our armor, making our teeth buzz and our joints vibrate.
From here, we'd launch up into the belly of the beast.
I turned to look across the burning battlefield. Spartans—our brothers and sisters—were still engaging Covenant forces all around the valley. Even from this distance, I could see their silhouettes in motion, precise and deadly.
Carter's voice came through the comms. "LZ secure. We're pulling the Covenant away from your ingress point. Get in there and bring Keyes back."
Kurt followed. "We'll keep the front door busy. Don't die up there, Blue Team."
John looked to each of us in turn. "Stick to protocol. Silent kill priority. Fred, left flank. Kelly, you're with me. Leonidas, take rear watch. We breach and sweep. Cortana, we'll need you to run silent uplink while inside."
Her voice buzzed in all our helmets. "Already ahead of you. I'll keep an eye on Covenant movements. They won't know you're inside until it's too late."
John stepped onto the platform.
One by one, we joined him.
The grav-lift surged upward.
And we rose into the belly of the Covenant beast.
The interior of the Covenant cruiser was a twisted cathedral of death. Soft purple light pulsed beneath our boots, filtering up through the semi-transparent floors. Alien glyphs shimmered on the walls, and plasma conduits pulsed like veins pumping lifeblood throughout the ship. The whole place felt alive—eerie, sacred even, but warped in purpose. This was no ship—it was a war temple.
Blue Team moved in a staggered diamond formation. We moved like wraiths through the dim halls, silent but deadly, executing hostiles with brutal efficiency. The corridors were packed tight with Covenant. Patrols, security details, the occasional honor guard. The fighting was close and vicious.
Fred's BR barked with rhythm, each burst dropping a target. Kelly was a blur, ricocheting off walls with her jump kit and flanking enemies before they realized she was gone. John kept the center, his MA5B chattering nonstop, movements crisp and decisive. I covered the rear, rotating between my battle rifle and energy sword looted from a Zealot I downed two decks back. It hummed with alien fury, and I wielded it without hesitation.
Cortana patched into the ship's schematics through the battlenet uplink. "Keyes is three levels up, cell block Omega-4. You've got about thirty hostiles between you and him—and those are just the ones not cloaked."
"Copy," John said. "We ghost it if we can."
We didn't. Not all the way.
Halfway up the next lift, a cloaked Elite lunged out of the shadows with a plasma sword, aiming for John's throat. Kelly tackled it mid-swing, both of them slamming into the wall. Fred finished it with a burst to the head as I caught Kelly before she could fall.
John nodded. "We keep moving."
And we did.
A few decks up, we breached the brig. A squad of gold-armored Zealots tried to block us, and for once, the Covenant were ready. Plasma grenades flew. Shields flared. We pushed through the chaos—Kelly went down briefly, but her shield recharged just in time for her to slide between two Elites and cut them down with dual magnum headshots. John took a plasma bolt to the side, but his shielding held. I finished the last Zealot with a brutal stab to the neck.
We cleared the room.
Then we found him.
Captain Jacob Keyes stood in a containment field, bruised but unbroken, his officer's uniform tattered and bloodstained.
"Spartans," he said through cracked lips, smiling. "About damn time."
Cortana disabled the field and the door dropped. John helped him up. I secured the area while Fred pulled a medkit from his mag-plate and started treating the worst of the bleeding.
Keyes waved him off. "Save it. I'm not dying today."
I couldn't help but grin beneath my visor.
Keyes looked around at the strange halls of the cruiser. "You know," he said, voice low but steady, "this ship is still flight-worthy. Cortana?"
"I've already accessed the nav suite," she replied. "I can pilot it. But… I'll need a direct uplink."
Keyes grinned, blood dripping down his chin. "Then it's settled."
John raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"
Keyes' eyes locked on John, then shifted to me. "We're stealing this damn ship. High Command's Operation Red Flag is shot to hell with Reach gone, but the core objective remains. Capture a Prophet. Force a truce. We can still make it work."
He straightened his posture despite the pain, breathing hard.
"This is the perfect opportunity. They won't expect us to hijack one of their own. Especially not from the inside."
Fred looked at me, then at John. "He's serious."
John nodded. "He's right."
I stared around at the glowing interior of the enemy cruiser, at the controls, the corridors, the ship humming with life around us.
God help us.
We moved fast. With Captain Keyes giving orders like a man half his age and twice his rank, Blue Team executed a textbook takedown of a Covenant warship from the inside out. The corridors still reeked of scorched blood and molten armor as we carved our way to the bridge.
Kelly hacked a Covenant console with Cortana feeding data straight to her visor. I cleared the last hallway with Fred, plasma bolts flying past us like angry wasps. John led the charge into the command deck, where three Zealots made a last stand—if you could call it that.
They didn't last ten seconds.
The bridge itself was a glowing alien nerve center. Pillars of translucent light shimmered from holopads, glyphs crawled across the consoles like a language made of motion. It looked more like a temple than a war room.
Cortana materialized on a central pad. "Upload complete. I have full control of the ship's systems—navigation, weapons, comms. Everything."
Keyes moved toward the main interface, wincing but refusing to slow. "Broadcast a UNSC IFF. Now."
Cortana complied instantly. The cruiser's hull lights shifted hue, its transponder pinging as friendly across the UNSC battlenet. A nearby display lit up with confused comm chatter from the ground forces.
Fred whistled low. "Bet that raised some eyebrows."
"Better than taking fire from our own anti-air," I muttered, scanning the displays for nearby friendlies.
"Status report," John said.
"We've got this bird," Cortana confirmed. "The ship's name translates roughly to Truth and Reconciliation. It's armed, operational, and responding to my commands. Hangar bay is clear, gravity lifts are stable, and I've rerouted power to engine controls."
"Flight path?" Keyes asked.
"I can get us back to the Forward Operating Base in thirty minutes, assuming we avoid contact with other Covenant ships."
Keyes turned to us. "Then let's not waste time."
The cruiser lurched as Cortana initiated the engine sequence. John, Fred, Kelly, and I held positions at the ready in case of boarders—none came. The Covenant hadn't expected this kind of hit-and-run. They were scrambling, confused, slow.
They weren't used to us yet.
As we soared toward the ring's surface, the battlenet lit up with questions from Silva and command personnel. Keyes barked confirmation over comms:
"This is Captain Jacob Keyes aboard a captured Covenant vessel. Transmitting IFF now. We are inbound to Forward Operating Base Alpha with critical intel and reinforcements. Do not fire. Repeat: Do not fire."
The comms went quiet for a beat. Then Silva's voice cracked back over the line:
"Copy, Captain. Uh… welcome back."
As we entered low orbit, the landscape of Halo stretched before us. Rolling green hills, impossible floating cliffs, alien structures breaking through the wilderness like forgotten gods.
Fred looked out a viewport. "Still can't believe this thing is a ring."
"Believe it," I said. "And we're sitting in the enemy's own chariot."
Cortana began the descent burn.
The Truth and Reconciliation dropped from the upper atmosphere like a falling blade, its anti-grav systems hissing to life as it entered the valley surrounding FOB Alpha. Tanks, Warthogs, and scattered personnel below scurried for cover, watching the ship approach in awe.
It was a damn miracle we didn't get shot.
The ship's massive shadow passed over the base, and we settled it into a hover just outside the central landing zone. Gravity lifts activated with a thrumming pulse, lowering our team down with Keyes at the center.
As our boots hit the dirt, the silence broke.
Cheers erupted. Marines stared like they'd just seen the face of God. ODSTs and Spartan IIIs nodded to us, half-impressed, half-stunned. Keyes stood tall, bleeding and burned, and gave a tight nod to the assembled officers.
"That's how you steal a warship," he said dryly.
I looked at John, and for a brief moment—just a flicker—there was the smallest trace of a grin on his face beneath the gold sheen of his visor.
Blue Team had pulled off the impossible.
Now came the hard part: figuring out what the Covenant were hiding on this ring—and why they were willing to die for it.