Eighteen hours later.
John was jolted awake by a vibration.
The ship was decelerating, and the sensation of slowing down churned in his stomach like a silent protest.
“Everyone wake up,” his voice rang over the comm channel, calm and powerful.
“We’re almost there.”
The water in the tanks began to slosh.
John felt a tilting force—the ship was adjusting its attitude, preparing to enter orbit around the asteroid belt.
The weightlessness reminded him of the centrifuge training he had undergone on Reach—the agonizing sensation of being torn apart by rotation.
“Sensors show,” Sam said, “we are approaching the target. Docking is estimated in fifteen minutes.”
“Everyone, check your gear,” John said.
Acknowledgments chimed over the comm channel.
Everyone was checking their weapons and gear.
John could feel the tense atmosphere, the heavy silence that preceded battle.
John checked his MA2B assault rifle.
The magazine was full, the safety was engaged, and the optic was zeroed.
Everything was in order.
The familiar tactile sensation brought him a sense of reassurance.
“Blue Team ready,” he said.
“Black Team ready,” Ethan replied.
A dull thud echoed.
The Laden had docked with the base.
The vibration reverberated through the hull and rattled John’s bones.
“Everyone, get ready,” John said.
“Kelly, is the tracker ready?”
“Ready,” Kelly said.
Noise echoed from outside the cargo hold—dockworkers preparing to unload.
The sounds filtered through the gaps of the water tank, sounding like a summons from another world.
“Open water tank three,” a voice said.
John held his breath.
Footsteps stopped in front of the neighboring water tank.
“This cargo is heavy as hell,” another voice grumbled.
“Stop whining and move it.”
John counted his heartbeats.
Five.
Ten.
The workers moved the cargo from the neighboring tank and began heading toward the exit.
John could hear their footsteps fading, like a silent ebbing tide.
“Go,” he whispered.
The tank lid opened.
Air rushed into his lungs, carrying a metallic, damp odor.
He then helped the others out: Kelly, Fred, Linda, and Sam.
The members of Blue Team assembled quickly, like ghosts awakening from the darkness.
On the other side, Black Team emerged from their tanks at the same time.
Ethan came out first, sliding silently from his tank like a snake.
Then came Tucker, Riley, and Cohen.
Their movements were coordinated and efficient, as if they had practiced this countless times.
“Blue Team in position,” John whispered.
“Black Team in position,” Ethan replied.
A few crates remained stacked in the cargo hold—Watts’s private cargo.
Kelly silently attached a miniature tracker to each crate.
Her movements were as light as brushing a butterfly.
“Done,” she whispered.
“Follow them,” John said.
The nine Spartans donned blue coveralls and blended into the ranks of the handlers.
The coarse fabric chafing against his skin made John uncomfortable, but he didn’t show it.
Passing through the cargo hold, they reached the base’s unloading area.
John’s gaze swept over the surroundings.
It was a massive, cavernous space with rock walls carved into an oval shape, lined with metal supports and floodlights.
Hundreds of aircraft of various models were parked on platforms, some loading and others unloading.
The roar of engines and the shouts of workers interwove into a chaotic symphony.
“Not a small operation,” Tucker’s voice came through the comms.
“Indeed,” John said.
He noticed a row of public showers in the distance, facilities used by the base workers.
The structure was crude and the walls mottled, but it was enough to provide cover.
“Everyone, listen up,” he said.
“We’ll set up a temporary base in the public showers. File in separately, don’t draw attention.”
“Copy that.”
The public shower was a simple concrete building, containing six shower stalls and a mirror.
The lighting was dim, and the air was thick with the smell of bleach—a scent that reminded John of his childhood days at the training camp.
John was the last to enter.
He shut the door and checked the surroundings.
The lock was broken, but that was actually an advantage, as it wouldn’t arouse suspicion.
“Report,” he said.
“Tracker signal is stable,” Kelly said.
Her eyes were fixed on the screen of her handheld device, her fingers dancing rapidly across the keypad.
“Watts’s cargo has left the dock and is moving toward the center of the base.”
“What’s at the center of the base?” Find the original chapter at g.com.
“A twelve-story building,” Riley chimed in.
His voice came through the comms with a touch of professional detachment.
“According to the network data I intercepted, that is the core sector of the base—the command center, intelligence division, and officers’ quarters.”
“That’s our target,” John said.
His voice was calm, but a fire burned deep inside him.
“How’s the dock looking?” Ethan asked.
“I went to check it out,” Sam said.
“There’s a Pelican docked. Good condition, fully fueled. I’ve already set a trigger at the airlock.”
“Good,” John nodded.
“Exfiltration route confirmed.”
He looked at everyone.
In the dim light, their faces all bore a similar expression—the intense focus of an imminent mission.
“Task assignments,” he said.
“Blue Team is on the frontal assault,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Kelly, Fred, and Linda.
“Kelly, Fred, Linda, and I will enter the target building, neutralize hostile forces, and capture Watts alive.”
“Black Team will handle perimeter control and flank security.” He looked at Ethan.
“Tucker on recon, Riley on tech support, Cohen on heavy fire support.”
Ethan nodded.
“Understood.”
“One more thing,” John said.
“The Pelican is our ticket out. Sam will stay at the dock on standby and handle communications.”
“Understood,” Sam said.
“Go time?” Tucker asked.
“Once the cargo reaches the target building,” John said.
“Estimated two to three hours.”
“We’ll wait for the signal then,” Ethan said.
John nodded.
His gaze drifted through the dim shower room, falling upon the illuminated base outside the window.
Those lights looked like countless eyes, staring back at him from the dark.
Over the next few hours, they took turns resting while monitoring the tracker’s signal.
Kelly and Riley exchanged information over the comms channel, analyzing the base’s network architecture.
John closed his eyes, letting his heart rate slow.
Finally, Kelly’s voice came through: “The cargo has entered the target building.”
John opened his eyes.
In the darkness, he couldn’t see a thing, but he could feel the presence of his teammates around him.
“Everyone, ready up,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade.
“Let’s move.”