Captain Hieronymus Michael Stanforth stared down at the message, lips pursed and heart hammering.
It had arrived just a few minutes after he'd sat down for the start of another long day at his office. This wouldn't have been out of the ordinary, save for the sender's identity: VADM Keeler.
Keeler wasn't even in the system right now. He was attending a HIGHCOM meeting in Sydney, summoned by CINCONI along with the other Section heads. For this message to even be here, he must have sent a courier on the same day that he'd arrived.
The Faraday cage was already enabled, the security barriers enabled. Michael opened the message.
CAPT Stanforth,
I've recently been informed by CINCONI that your career is being looked on favorably at the highest levels. Your name is becoming well known, and more than a few offers have been floated about potential reassignments that you may be interested in. Attached is a list of those positions.
Given the current climate, you would be wise to strike while the iron is hot, and invest in your future.
VADM Keeler
Section Three
Michael leaned back in his chair, and let out a sigh. He didn't know what had prompted his normally quiet superior to send this warning, but it was instantly the most important thing on his desk.
Keeler wasn't a bad boss to work for, even in the hen-house that was ONI. He was hands-off and didn't micro-manage, but he was also an observant adviser when Michael delivered his monthly reports to the man's office in person and wanted to discuss it.
However, Keeler had always been professional. The lowest the Vice Admiral's guard had ever been was one night where they'd shared a single commiserating drink at one of the many bars downstairs, after a ship containing ten of Michael's old classmates and commanded by one of Keeler's had been destroyed by the Insurrection, six months ago.
This? This was not professional.
This was the same kind of nepotistic career-focused maneuvering that Michael hated so much, and which Keeler had quietly demonstrated his own aversion to. Shunning names, shunning medals, and focusing purely on the job at hand. It had taken years for Michael to truly trust that Keeler had hired him for his actual competence, and not just because he was Harold Stanforth's son.
Michael wasn't inclined to believe that Keeler had suddenly revealed himself to be a careerist. Even if the man had kept that secret for six years, he would have offered these kinds of opportunities to Michael years ago in return for the Stanforth family paying him back later.
A sudden shift from abstinence to alcoholism, as it were, meant that something was wrong.
The actual message was clear, in Michael's mind.
Keeler was advising that he bail out of the Spartan-II Program, as fast as he could.
He glanced at the list of positions out of his own professionalism, but it merely confirmed his assessment. There was no way in hell that being a staff officer at Luna OCS would be an improvement to his career, nor an assignment to command a repair ship currently undergoing refit over Reach, nor most of the options on the list.
His eyes scanned the list, and each and every one had a single feature in common. The options, horrible as they were, would have been effective immediately. No paperwork, no routing timeline. Pack up and leave ASAP.
It was clear to Michael that something was coming down the pipe, and it wouldn't be good for the Spartan-II Program.
Was Keeler trying to offer him an escape route? A chance to sell his stocks while they were high, before the coming crash, and reinvest elsewhere? An under-the-table deal with an unsavory character, to escape the coming purge?
It didn't matter. Keeler had no way of knowing that Michael Stanforth had already made a deal with the devil, and that he would sooner go down with the Spartan program than abandon it.
Michael took a few moments to copy the highly encrypted message over to his personal datapad, and then he deactivated the security blackout. He typed in a short message for a service request.
"Good morning, Captain Stanforth," spoke a female voice, as a holographic woman in a pantsuit sprang to life above his desk. It wasn't Aether, the old Smart A.I. that had used to rule the Hive. She'd gone over her seven year service-life a couple years back, and been replaced.
"Good morning, Harmony," Michael greeted politely. "My schedule has changed. I need you to contact Pelican Echo-Six-One, which should currently be in the hangars loading up a supply run. Inform them that their orders have changed to an immediate personnel transfer to the same destination."
"Of course, Captain," Harmony replied, nodding and making the pointless gesture of taking notes on her small datapad, even though she had already sent the message. "When will they depart, if I might ask?"
"As soon I get aboard," he told her, standing up from the chair. "That will be all, thank you."
The Smart A.I. raised an eyebrow before she dissipated from existence. That was the problem with Smart A.I.'s. Sometimes they'd preempt your concerns with something helpful, and sometimes they'd get curious and poke around where you didn't want them to.
Harmony's loyalty was beyond question, however. The Hive was her home, and the Hive was Section Three's exclusive domain. Keeler's exclusive domain. With the Vice Admiral away on Earth for his meeting, it would be at least a few days before he returned, as the trip was a week each way. There was nobody else that Harmony could gossip to… and by the time Keeler himself had returned, he would have already found out that Michael Stanforth had decided to stand his ground.
Michael donned his service uniform's jacket, shoved his datapad into a travel case, and sealed the office behind himself as he exited.
The rest of his workload could wait for now. Compared to this, none of it was a priority. If something bad was about to happen to the Spartan-II program, then Catherine Halsey had to be informed as quietly and quickly as possible.
He ignored the poorly-concealed stares of the other officers as he walked through the lobby of the Hive, and out the front door.
The wind pulled at his uniform. He showed his ID card to the gate guards to the airfield, and nodded politely as they waved him through.
Pelican-Echo-Six-One was sitting inside its hangar when he approached. The hangar doors were open, and a forklift was just placing a crate into the Pelican's cargo tray and pulling away.
"Officer on deck!" shouted one of the sailors manning the flight line.
Michael vaguely recognized him – even the basic staff here at the Hive were highly compartmentalized, so these men had been on the same confidential assignment for the last five and a half years. Salutes flew as he walked past, not stopping as he properly should. He didn't have the time for it now.
"Carry on," he replied, saluting them back.
"Captain Stanforth," greeted the Pelican's loadmaster, a Petty Officer Third Class. "What can we do for you, sir?"
"Passenger service," Michael told him.
The petty officer's eyes widened, then narrowed.
"Aye aye, sir," he replied, electing to stay on the side of professionalism.
Good man, Michael thought to himself.
He climbed aboard the Pelican as the loadmaster started shouting at the flight line crew to clear out, to abandon the rest of the loading cycle. It wasn't like Halsey's Compound would suffer from only having half the normal load – she'd been playing games with her requisitions requests for so long that she could probably withstand a siege.
The pilot stood up as Michael poked his head into the cockpit.
"Captain," he said, as he saluted. "Are you our passenger? The A.I. just said we'd 'know him when we see him', which isn't clear."
"Yes, it's just me." Michael confirmed with a nod. "The loadmaster's finishing up. As soon as we're buttoned, I want a minimal time transit to the compound. No squawks, no passenger manifest."
"Understood, sir," the pilot nodded.
Michael stepped back out of the cockpit and stowed his travel bag in the storage locker, then sat down in one of the bucket seats. The flight line crew cleared out, grumbling at the sudden change of plans, but obedient to order all the same.
The Pelican rumbled to life, taxiing out of the hangar and towards the launch pad. The loadmaster sealed up the rear hatch, shouted the all-clear, and they lifted off with a smooth, steady shift of weight.
At top speed, they'd get to Halsey's Compound in less than an hour. It would run the engines a little hotter than normal, put a little more stress on their lifespan, but so what? What was a few more hours of time burned off a single dropship, when there was a war going on?
He could almost hear his father's voice in the back of his head, the moment that excuse crossed his mind. Excuses are inexcusable, the man's booming voice echoed in his ears.
Well, too bad for Hallowed Harold Stanforth. Unlike his father, Michael didn't have the luxury of an enemy that he could put a MAC round into, or a deployment that could be solved with more Marines. He had a political shit-show awaiting, and he had to do his best to salvage it.
Michael leaned his head back against the seat, and pursed his lips.
That isn't fair of me, he admitted in his own mind. Dad has plenty of political problems in HIGHCOM. He was just trying to teach me as best as he could. If he was in this situation, he'd be trying his best, just like I am.
His father, the Admiral. His father, who was almost certainly briefed on the Spartan-II program. His father, who he hadn't talked to about the program, not once in these five and a half years.
Yet if Michael needed it, he could reach out to his father.
That was the nuclear option, he knew. The final resort, which would require burning every single person involved in this program, including himself. There would be no second chances for anyone involved.
If HIGHCOM had to wade into ONI to clean house, then it wouldn't go well for the Spartan-II Program any better than it would for ONI. Most of the trainers and scientists would be imprisoned, some of the team leads might be executed, and he himself would be completely drummed out of the service – alive, probably unharmed, but almost certainly dishonorably discharged.
As such, it was completely unacceptable.
Yes, Doctor Halsey's long-game of negotiations and blackmail was a risky strategy. It was so risky that Michael might not have tacitly joined if it didn't have the fallback option of simply using the Spartan-II's as they were originally intended.
But it could work.
It could solve the Insurrection.
It could end the war.
And that alone was all that mattered. His own life, Doctor Halsey's life, even the children's lives… they were coin to be spent, sacrifices to be made, in order to save humanity from a civil war.
He could only pray that Halsey's peaceful solution won out, over the bloody and brutal alternative.
By the time that the Pelican came in for its landing, Michael was so antsy, so pent up, that he rose from his seat before they even touched down. He walked down to the rear hatch, arms holding on to overhead bars as if he was about to surge out the back in a combat drop.
He was pretty sure that the loadmaster was holding back about a dozen comments, requests, and outright orders for him to sit his ass back down in his seat until the Pelican had come to a full and complete stop.
Yet the man seemed to have sensed Michael's mood, and he kept his mouth shut.
The back wheels hit the concrete, and the loadmaster hurriedly lowered the hatch. Michael stepped out as the engines wound down.
Standing at the edge of the landing pad was Gunnery Sergeant Wentworth. Despite the professional blank expression he wore, Michael knew immediately that he was there on Halsey's orders.
Gunny Wentworth wasn't one of Mendez's trainers, but the program's quartermaster. By all rights, there should have been an officer in that position, to replace the long-since removed Captain Arnold Wilson… but Halsey had insisted that she worked just fine with Wentworth, and no replacement would be needed.
And much like Mendez himself, Gunny Wentworth was now a firm supporter of Doctor Halsey. One of her trusted confidants, able to sign requisitions in her name to reach Michael's own desk.
The sheer variety and range of the program's requisitions would have stunned anyone outside of ONI… but Halsey, Mendez, and Wentworth had provided rock-solid reasons for every single one, leveraging the UNSC's deep arsenal for every single training tool they could grab – and Michael had backed them to the hilt.
"Captain Stanforth!" Wentworth shouted over the engines, saluting sharply. "Doctor Halsey is just returning from a training exercise with the cadets. She'll meet you in her office. Can I get you anything in the mean time?"
Michael saluted back, then waved the man off.
"No, thank you," he replied with a raised voice. "After I'm finished talking to the Doctor, I'll be taking the Pelican straight back to FLEETCOM. You've got until then to get it unloaded."
Wentworth stiffened slightly at those words, and their implications, but his face didn't show any other emotion. He nodded tightly to Michael, then stepped aside as Michael strode down the well-trod path to the administration block of the compound.
A few years ago, Michael would have had a trainer escorting him around the base, due to Halsey's paranoia. Now that he'd signed on to her conspiracy, however, that order had been rescinded, and he was allowed to walk through the path without needing a minder.
The door to Halsey's office was open when Michael reached it. Voices drifted out of it, speaking quietly but quickly. Michael paused, wondering if he should linger outside and eavesdrop, or enter.
"Doctor, if needed, I can-" a young girl's voice said, insistent, before an older voice cut it off.
"That is final, Visha," Catherine Halsey said, sternly. "Report back to Chief Mendez. I have an unscheduled appointment, apparently. Please come in, Captain Stanforth."
Spotted so easily, Michael mused to himself, before taking another few steps forward and through the door.
Inside, he found Halsey in a set of unmarked UNSC fatigues, and one of the Spartan cadets, both on opposite sides of Halsey's desk. The cadet saluted him, almost perfect save for her heels clicking together in a distinctly archaic style.
Halsey spotted the discrepancy and clucked her tongue at it, but no more words were spoken as Michael returned the salute, and the cadet swiftly left the office, shutting the door behind her.
"I was surprised to hear of your unscheduled visit, Captain," Halsey greeted him, extending a hand to shake as he came closer. "What can I do for you?"
"You shouldn't have heard I was visiting at all," Michael grumbled, shaking her hand and taking the seat in front of her desk. "You guessed the irregular Pelican trip was me?"
"Same Pelican as always, same crew, but earlier than normal," Halsey replied with a shrug. "If it was someone else, they wouldn't have been so accommodating of the security protocols I set up."
"True enough," Michael admitted, before gesturing up at the ceiling. "Why don't we get some privacy?"
Halsey raised an eyebrow, and Michael couldn't help but notice that one of her hands reached into a pocket almost instinctively. After a moment, however, she withdrew the hand, empty of anything, and tapped on her keyboard.
Shutters slid down over the back window, the lights dimmed slightly as the Faraday cage completed its circuit, and Halsey gestured at him to proceed.
"I received this message from Vice Admiral Keeler this morning," Michael informed her, withdrawing his datapad and handing it over.
Halsey took the pad and gave it a brief scan. She blinked, then read it again, and on the second reading, Michael could see the instant that she realized what it meant.
Michael had always had a difficult time gauging Halsey's moods. Even now, with a solid grasp on her cold and calculating plan to usurp control of ONI, he still wondered about how much she actually cared for the cadets she had willingly consigned to such risks. Her plan would save lives in the end, even if it failed to achieve a peaceful negotiation, but that was little comfort to the children on the surgical tables.
This time, Michael has no difficulty at all. Halsey froze in place, and a red flush surged through her cheeks. She stared down at the datapad as if it had insulted her.
"Wonderful," she said, her voice flatter than the desk itself, as emotional as a slab of steel.
"Unfortunately, this is all the intelligence I have at the moment," Michael said, letting out his own frown. "With the Vice Admiral on Earth, dealing with HIGHCOM, and with the timing of this message, I think the natural concern is a threat to shut the program down."
"Five and a half years," Halsey muttered. "Down the drain."
Her mouth opened as if to continue, then it abruptly locked shut again as she lowered her head and shook it. When she raised it a moment later, she stared at Michael with a single gimlet eye, the other covered by a loose cascade of brown hair.
"And just before the augmentations," Michael nodded in agreement. "Another year, perhaps another two… and it would be complete."
"Complete, save for Steve's power armor," Halsey corrected him, frowning as she ran a hand through her hair and brushed it back into place. "Of course, we are assuming. There are other options."
"Few options, Doctor," Michael disagreed. "And fewer still that I believe would be acceptable to either of us."
Halsey nodded begrudgingly, and then sighed.
"I'll start a security sweep," she said, changing the topic. "I believe my people are trustworthy, and it's entirely possible that this is coming from somewhere outside the program itself… but if any of them are involved, we'll find out. David and I have a few friends in Section One these days, and I'll see if I can lean on them for assistance."
Michael smiled.
Section 'One' indeed. More likely, she meant Section Zero, the internal watchdog of ONI.
Halsey's extreme willingness to take on side-projects and share resources was reaching legendary status within ONI. While she had only taken on projects from Section One (intelligence), Section Two (propaganda), and Section Three (operations), it wasn't impossible that she'd been contacted more covertly by Section Zero, without Michael managing to hear about it.
Yet even now, Halsey wasn't taking chances by admitting anything. A professional to the core, always trying to keep her emotions from interfering with her work.
"I'll do the same," he decided. "I have a few classmates from OCS that work in Sydney, and one or two around the Hive. I'll shake the tree, see what comes loose. But if this is some attempt to end the program… then what do you plan to do, Doctor?"
Halsey looked up at him, her expression stiff. Wooden. The red blush of blood had faded from her face, and now, she looked almost lifeless.
"Talk them out of it, of course," she replied. "The Spartan-II program is the best hope for ending the Insurrection. Without it… how many more will die?"
He chuckled.
"It's always so simple, when you put it like that," Michael remarked, nodding to her. "I hardly need to mention it, but you have my support in that. Is there anything I can do to help you with it?"
Doctor Halsey eyed him with a wary look.
"As a matter of fact," she said slowly, tapping on her desk's keyboard. "I've been preparing to put forth a case to Vice Admiral Keeler to convince him to delay the augmentations for another year, perhaps two. The failure rates are too high, and I'm convinced that we are nearing a breakthrough that will significantly reduce them. Unfortunately, this timing…"
She trailed off. Michael pursed his lips.
Yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it? He mused to himself. It's hard to argue that the program is working, and doesn't need a shut-down, when you're about to ask for an extension.
"I'll see what I can do," Michael promised her. "Of course, until we determine what's coming, I can't promise what form it will take."
"Understandable," Halsey acknowledged, before hesitating. "For now… even if we don't know precisely what is coming down the line, we can plan for potential options. Broad strokes of a defense plan."
"True," Michael admitted, leaning back in his chair and putting a hand to his chin as he thought. "I suppose my first thought is that they'll attack the program itself. The core premise, the performance of the cadets, things like that."
"Perhaps," Halsey said, tilting her head. "But my concern is the attack coming against the program's leadership or discretion, and less about its merits. Arguments that we don't have enough oversight, or that we are not qualified to handle the program, or not trustworthy. Things like that, which would allow some ambitious and greedy officer to swoop in and steal the credit, now that the work is almost done."
Michael paused, the Doctor's words ringing a distant bell in his mind.
'Not trustworthy'. An interesting turn of phrase. Perhaps it was Halsey's own way of worrying about her origins, either as an unproven outsider to ONI, or as an undeclared defector from the Insurrection? A hint at some lingering fear that she didn't belong here?
He had to resist the urge to snort in amusement. Five and a half years, and finally, Catherine Halsey had given a hint that she hadn't been born in a space-black ONI uniform.
"Entirely possible," Michael said, after a moment to ensure none of his amusement leaked out. "However, if they try that, I think we'll do just fine. Your competence has been demonstrated overwhelmingly, Doctor, and all of your team leaders are much the same. Oversight would be their greatest tactic in that regard, attacking me and my performance."
"What absurdity," Halsey said, shaking her head. "If they want to criticize the program for oversight, when it is only one step removed from Keeler himself, they will be shooting themselves in the foot. And to attack you would be to implicitly attack Keeler's decision to hire you."
Michael frowned. That was a very bleak and odd way to look at things.
Keeler, for all his authority as the head of Section Three, was far from an unquestionable authority. His leadership and decisions were questioned, if irregularly, and appointing Michael Stanforth to oversee the Spartan-II Program with only a few months of actual intelligence experience was certainly going to be on the list of questions that came up.
But he didn't see the point in trying to dissuade Halsey of her assumption. Truthfully, they were both shooting in the dark here, and until they had more information, they could be right, wrong, somewhere in between, or completely off-center, and they'd never now.
A knock came at the door.
Halsey looked to Michael, gesturing to the door with a hand to ask if he minded the interruption.
"Go ahead," Michael replied, shrugging.
The doctor typed in a quick sequence into her keyboard, and the security lockout lifted.
"Come in!" she called, as Michael turned towards the door to see who it was.
The door opened, and Chief Petty Officer Mendez entered. He had a frown on his normally professional face, and he nodded politely to Michael before directing his attention to Halsey.
"The mail drop just came in on the sat-com," Mendez said, closing the door behind him. He was calm, and his voice betrayed no emotion… but Michael knew that the man was already aware of what was happening.
The topic would normally have been a complete non-sequitur, but today, it was all the confirmation that Michael and Halsey needed.
"Here it comes," Michael muttered, taking a fortifying breath.
The good doctor didn't even bother to acknowledge the remark. Her hands were flying across the keyboard.
"Déjà," she said after a moment. "Put this message up on the projector. Let's see how bad the damage is."
"Of course, doctor," replied the Dumb A.I. as she appeared over the desk, finally allowed into the office after the Faraday cage had lifted. "Just a moment, decrypting."
A letter bloomed to life over the table. It was long, and the font was large enough for Michael, Halsey, and Mendez to all read plainly from their various positions in the office.
It came from the Commander-in-Chief of the Office of Naval Intelligence – CINCONI. The top dog. The ultimate arbitrator of what was, and was not allowed within ONI's ranks.
Michael idly did the math, and realized that for this message to have arrived in the mail drop, it must have been sent on a courier ship just a few hours or so after Keeler's own message.
A few hours. That was all the forewarning they'd been given.
It probably would have been enough time for Michael to weigh his options and ensure that he could escape the coming investigation with orders that had been enacted before this letter arrived… but since he'd chosen to come here, to warn Halsey, it had only given them a few extra minutes, and little more.
Doctor Catherine Halsey,
Effective immediately, the Spartan-II Program is under investigation by Section Zero for numerous alleged violation of UNSC regulations, including but not limited to egregious violations of security protocols, disclosure of classified UNSC operations to unauthorized individuals, theft of UNSC resources, and aiding and comforting enemies of the UNSC.
All ongoing operations are to be paused. A detachment of ONI military police from Beta-5 Security (B5S) Division will arrive immediately to take charge of the primary research compound, as well as the secondary research compound at Menachite Mountain. All test subjects are to be returned to their barracks immediately and secured within. All on-site staff are to return to their quarters and await further instructions. All trainers are to report to their chain of command and ensure the former two groups obey their instructions.
You are hereby advised that you are a subject of this investigation, and your role in this program is under review. Your cooperation with this investigation is required under UNSC naval regulations as well as your employment contract.
You will not destroy, alter, or hide any correspondence, memos, or other paperwork from UNSC systems. You will not attempt to communicate with any of the test subjects or staff members regarding this investigation, except to convey the above instructions. You will be accompanied by one of the trainers at all times during this process, until Beta-5 Security (B5S) replaces them.
You will coordinate with your UNSC Military personnel to ensure the effective and immediate enactment of the above instructions, after which you will immediately return to your personal quarters and secure yourself within, until the arrival of the Beta-5 Security (B5S) Division.
Any deviation from these instructions may constitute a violation of both UNSC naval regulations and your employment contract, and result in your termination from ONI.
ADM Parangosky
Commander-in-Chief of the Office of Naval Intelligence.
The room was silent as they all read the message through.
Michael took a moment to inspect everyone's expressions. Mendez's frown had deepened, in a breach of his otherwise consummate professionalism. Halsey was completely blank, as if there was not a single emotion within her mind. The most expressive of them all was the Dumb A.I., Déjà, who Michael had rarely ever interacted with, and whose holographic avatar was currently grabbing her archaic haircut with tight fists.
"This will throw off the entire schedule," the Dumb A.I. muttered, irritation lacing her words. "Lesson plans will need to be re-drawn. The next exercise with the Air Force Pararescuemen will need to be canceled or shuffled. Not to mention the travel arrangements. Couldn't they have given us more notice?"
"That would rather defeat the point of a surprise investigation," Halsey told the A.I. dryly – though her eyes were as hard as steel. "Well, Chief Mendez, let's be about it then. Inform the trainers, and enact the instructions."
"Yes, ma'am," Mendez replied.
The Navy NCO made no special motion, and his voice was calm, but Michael noted the unspoken message all the same. The man was acknowledging Halsey's orders, rather than the letter's. A small thing, but still a noticeable one.
Mendez saluted once more, then left the room. Déjà's hologram winked out with a gesture from Halsey, and then there was only her and Michael Stanforth remaining in her office.
"And what would you like me to do?" Michael asked, throwing a pretense of bemusement into his voice, to try to lighten the mood. It didn't work.
Halsey turned to look at Michael, her face still disturbingly blank.
"It would be for the best if you laid low, Captain," she said, so calmly that anyone else might have been fooled. "I am sure that you wouldn't wish to destroy your career over this temporary matter."
"I am sure that my career will survive, Doctor," Michael countered, dropping the fake cheer and meeting her gaze evenly. "Investigation or not, my job is to facilitate and oversee your efforts. Tell me how I can help you with that, and I will."
The brunette doctor's face remained unchanged, but more telling was her lack of response. She stood there, staring at Michael for long moments, before finally giving him a slow nod.
Halsey reached into her desk drawer with slow, careful movements, and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. She quickly wrote some lines on a page. Her writing took a minute, then two. When she was finished, she tore the page out and offered it to Michael.
Michael glanced at it. It was a list of names, along with various postings.
Some were understandable, like Army Rangers, ODST's, the old Orions, and other spec ops units that Halsey had used for cross-training for her cadets. People that had met the Spartan cadets, and might be trusted to speak in favor of them. Other names were not so understandable.
They included Captains Ned Rich and Aaron Gibson of Section Three's Covert Operations and Black Operations divisions – the Spartan's direct competitors.
Rear Admiral Dvørak of Section Two, who ran most of ONI's 'communications'… also known as their propaganda division.
Even Rear Admiral Ysionris Jeromi of the hospital ship Hopeful, the legendary maverick that kept using his mobile hospital like a slipspace-capable ambulance.
There were more names. Dozens of them. Every part of ONI was represented there, as well as the Army, Air Force, conventional Navy and Marines. There were even civilian names, though she'd helpfully written their ONI connections next to them.
How many favors has she gathered over the years? Michael wondered to himself, as he read the name of Rear Admiral Ryan Settle, current commander of Reach OCS, second only to Luna OCS in prestige.
"You want to help?" Halsey asked him, rhetorically. "If everything goes well, then just sit back and watch. If, however, this investigation becomes more of a kangaroo court… you can reach out to those individuals."
Michael frowned at the list, and set it down on the table.
As he did, he saw Halsey inhale sharply. Perhaps she thought that Michael was rejecting her request. Instead, he pulled out a pen, and at the top of the page he wrote a name of his own, above all the rest: ADM Harold Stanforth, HIGHCOM.
"I don't believe that is necessary," Halsey said to him as she saw the name, her voice cracking slightly.
"I think it is," Michael replied softly. "And I think that the Admiral will be far more supportive than you may expect."
Halsey opened her mouth to reply, but she appeared to have been struck speechless.
Michael smiled, tucked that list of names into a pocket, and left the office.
He had work to do.