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a flaw with your proposed series-three program?"
    "Correct, ma'am." Ackerson set his hands on the table and bowed his head. He then looked up. "This was a most difficult conclusion to come to. This new fighting force must be
    inexpensive, highly efficient, and trained to take on missions that traditionally would never be considered. Not even by Halsey's supermen."
    Rich scowled at this and his forehead wrinkled. "Suicide missions."
    "High-value targets," Ackerson countered. "Covenant targets. The battles we have won against this enemy have come at unacceptable losses. With their numbers, their superior technology, we have few options against such a force, save extreme tactics."
    "He's right," Gibson said. "Spartans have proven their effectiveness on high-risk missions, and although I hate to admit it, they're better than any human team I could assemble. Remove existing UNSC mandates for safety and exfiltration, and we have a shot of slowing the Covenant down. It will give us time to think, plan, and come up with a better way to fight."
    Parangosky whispered, "You want to trade lives for time."
    Ackerson paused, carefully weighing his response, then said, "Yes, ma'am. Isn't that the
    job of a solider?"
    Parangosky stared at him. Ackerson held her gaze.
    Rich and Gibson held their collective breath, speechless.
    "Is there another option?" Ackerson asked. "How many worlds are now cinders? How
    many billions of colonists have died? If we save a single planet, gain a few weeks, isn't that worth a handful of men and women?"
    "Of course it is," she whispered. "God help us all. Yes, Colonel, yes, it is worth it."
    Rich emptied his flask. "I'll reroute funding for this thing
    through the usual places, no computer records. Too many dammed AIs these days."
    Gibson said, "I'll make sure you get equipment, DIs, and whatever else you need, Colonel."
    "And I know of a perfect staging area to get this off the ground," Parangosky said. She nodded to Rich.
    "Onyx?" he said, half question, half statement.
    "Do you know of a better place?" she asked. "Section One has made that place a virtual black hole."
    Rich sighed and said, "Okay I'll send you the file on the place, Colonel. You're going to love it there."
    Rich's assurances did not at all comfort, but Ackerson kept his mouth shut. He had everything he wanted… almost.
    "Just one more thing," Ackerson said. "I'll need a SPARTAN-II to help me train these new recruits."
    Captain Gibson snorted. "And you're going to ask Dr. Halsey to lend you one?"
    "I have a different methodology in mind," he replied.
    Parangosky said, "You need a Spartan to train Spartans, of course, but"—her voice lowered—"tread damned lightly. This thing goes public, people find out we're making 'disposable heroes,' and morale will plummet across the fleet. Make sure no one in Section Three knows about your SPARTAN-II trainer, or the SPARTAN-IIIs. They're going to have to vanish. Understood?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "And for God's sake," she said, narrowing her eyes to slits, "Catherine Halsey must never know. Her bleeding-heart sympathies for the Spartans have won her too many admirers at CENTCOM. If that woman wasn't so vital to the war we would have had her retired decades ago."
    Ackerson nodded.
    The three Naval officers thumbed their tablet readers and the files erased. They rose, and without another word, left the cage.
    They had never been here.
    None of this had ever been discussed.
    Alone now, Ackerson reviewed his files and made plans. The first matter of business was already in the works: on-screen appeared the career record of SPARTAN-051.

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    CHAPTER
    THREE
    0940 HOURS, NOVEMBER 7, 2531 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ GROOMBRIDGE 3 4 SYSTEM, NEAR CONSTRUCTION PLATFORM 966A (DECOMMISSIONED)
    SPARTAN-051, Kurt, jumped into utter emptiness. It was a hundred-kilometer drop to the moon under his feet. He mentally made the adjustment to the free-floating world of space, and noted that technically there was no "under" or