correspondingly lower survival probabilities. That's where you come in, Kurt. We need your training as a Spartan, and all your field experience passed along to these candidates. You need to make these Spartans better and train them faster. This program may be the key to our survival in this war."
Kurt scanned the reader again. The new genetic selection protocol expanded the pool of candidates, but there were disturbing references to behavior problems in these less-thanideal potential Spartans.
But this mission was vital to the war, Kurt sensed that. And there would be CPO Mendez. It would be good to be working under his old teacher again. Could the two of them really train a new generation of Spartans?
"In ten years," Ackerson said, "with your guidance and a little luck, there will be a hundred new Spartans in the war. Employing several of these new Spartans to help train the next classes, there will be thousands within twenty years. With projected improvements in technology, perhaps a hundred thousand new Spartans will be created in thirty years."
A hundred thousand Spartans fighting for humanity? The image swam in Kurt's mind. Was that possible?
While Kurt didn't understand all the ramifications, he now understood the importance of the end result. His initial feeling of unease, however, remained. How many of these new Spartans were going to die? He steeled himself. He'd do everything he could to see they had the best training, the best equipment, be the best soldiers humanity had ever produced. Even then, though, would it be enough?
He took a deep breath. "Where do we begin, sir?"
Ackerson said, "New training facilities are being constructed. You will oversee the operation, and simultaneously begin the screening of candidates. I have an ample supply of willing recruits for you." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny box, pushed it across the table to Kurt. "One last thing."
Kurt opened the box. Inside were the single silver bar insignia of a lieutenant junior grade.
"Those are yours now." A faint crease of a smile appeared on Ackerson's face. "I'm not going to have my right-hand man taking orders from NCO drill instructors. You're going to be in charge of the entire show."
SECTION II SPARTAN-III
←
^
→
CHAPTER
SI X 1950 HOURS, DECEMBER 27, 2531 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ZETA DORADUS SYSTEM, PLANET ONYX, CAMP CURRAHEE
Kurt watched the incoming Pelicans. The blocky jet-powered craft were so distant they were only specks against the setting sun. He hit the magnification on his faceplate and saw lines of fire tracing their reentry vectors. They would touch down in three minutes.
In the last six months he had developed a training regime tougher than the original SPARTAN program. He had created obstacle courses, firing ranges, classrooms, mess halls, and dormitories from what had been jungle and scrub plain.
He had received every piece of equipment he had requested from NavSpecWep Section Three. Guns, ammunition, dropships, tanks—even samples of Covenant technology and weaponry had appeared as if by sleight of hand.
All personnel were accounted for: six dozen handpicked drill instructors, physical therapists, doctors, nurses, psychologists, and the all-important cooks… all here except the most critical person, who was now on the incoming transports: Senior Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez,
Mendez had, a dozen years ago, trained Kurt and every other Spartan. He would be invaluable in preparing the new breed of SPARTAN-III, but he wasn't going to be the solution to all Kurt's problems.
After poring over every detail of the new recruits' files, Kurt discovered they didn't match the perfect psychological and genetic
markers set in Dr. Halsey's original selection protocols. Colonel Ackerson had warned him they had to draw from a "less statistically robust" group. These recruits wouldn't be anything like himself, John, Kelly, or any of the original SPARTAN-II candidates.
And this would only add to a
Kurt scanned the reader again. The new genetic selection protocol expanded the pool of candidates, but there were disturbing references to behavior problems in these less-thanideal potential Spartans.
But this mission was vital to the war, Kurt sensed that. And there would be CPO Mendez. It would be good to be working under his old teacher again. Could the two of them really train a new generation of Spartans?
"In ten years," Ackerson said, "with your guidance and a little luck, there will be a hundred new Spartans in the war. Employing several of these new Spartans to help train the next classes, there will be thousands within twenty years. With projected improvements in technology, perhaps a hundred thousand new Spartans will be created in thirty years."
A hundred thousand Spartans fighting for humanity? The image swam in Kurt's mind. Was that possible?
While Kurt didn't understand all the ramifications, he now understood the importance of the end result. His initial feeling of unease, however, remained. How many of these new Spartans were going to die? He steeled himself. He'd do everything he could to see they had the best training, the best equipment, be the best soldiers humanity had ever produced. Even then, though, would it be enough?
He took a deep breath. "Where do we begin, sir?"
Ackerson said, "New training facilities are being constructed. You will oversee the operation, and simultaneously begin the screening of candidates. I have an ample supply of willing recruits for you." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny box, pushed it across the table to Kurt. "One last thing."
Kurt opened the box. Inside were the single silver bar insignia of a lieutenant junior grade.
"Those are yours now." A faint crease of a smile appeared on Ackerson's face. "I'm not going to have my right-hand man taking orders from NCO drill instructors. You're going to be in charge of the entire show."
SECTION II SPARTAN-III
←
^
→
CHAPTER
SI X 1950 HOURS, DECEMBER 27, 2531 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ZETA DORADUS SYSTEM, PLANET ONYX, CAMP CURRAHEE
Kurt watched the incoming Pelicans. The blocky jet-powered craft were so distant they were only specks against the setting sun. He hit the magnification on his faceplate and saw lines of fire tracing their reentry vectors. They would touch down in three minutes.
In the last six months he had developed a training regime tougher than the original SPARTAN program. He had created obstacle courses, firing ranges, classrooms, mess halls, and dormitories from what had been jungle and scrub plain.
He had received every piece of equipment he had requested from NavSpecWep Section Three. Guns, ammunition, dropships, tanks—even samples of Covenant technology and weaponry had appeared as if by sleight of hand.
All personnel were accounted for: six dozen handpicked drill instructors, physical therapists, doctors, nurses, psychologists, and the all-important cooks… all here except the most critical person, who was now on the incoming transports: Senior Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez,
Mendez had, a dozen years ago, trained Kurt and every other Spartan. He would be invaluable in preparing the new breed of SPARTAN-III, but he wasn't going to be the solution to all Kurt's problems.
After poring over every detail of the new recruits' files, Kurt discovered they didn't match the perfect psychological and genetic
markers set in Dr. Halsey's original selection protocols. Colonel Ackerson had warned him they had to draw from a "less statistically robust" group. These recruits wouldn't be anything like himself, John, Kelly, or any of the original SPARTAN-II candidates.
And this would only add to a
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