0600 Hours, January 1st, 2535 / UNSC Emergency Directive Transmission
Author: Admiral Preston J. Cole, UNSC Naval Command
Encryption Level: ALPHA-BLACK / EYES ONLY
Subject: Implementation of Emergency Protocol – Directive COLE-876-1A
TO: All UNSC Navy Commanders, Captains, Navigators, and AI Assets
CC: UNSC High Command, ONI Section Zero, Section III, Section One
FROM: ADM. Preston J. Cole, UNSC Naval Command – Approved under Emergency Wartime Authority
RE: Initiation of New Strategic Combat Directive – "Cole Protocol"
As of 0600 hours, January 1st, 2535, the following protocol is now in effect across all UNSC Naval operations:
COLE PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY DIRECTIVE 1A
Background:
Recent intelligence and confirmed engagements have revealed that Covenant warships are capable of tracking slipspace signatures from human vessels, allowing them to trace jumps to critical human population centers. This has led to the loss of multiple colonies, including but not limited to Harvest, Arcadia, Jericho VII, and Reach-adjacent outposts.
This protocol is established to preserve the survival of humanity, prevent further planetary glassing events, and maintain the integrity of UNSC spatial navigation infrastructure.
Effective Immediately:
No UNSC ship may enter slipspace with navigational coordinates that lead directly to Earth or any other human-controlled colony or system following Covenant contact or pursuit.
Prior to initiating any slipspace jump to a human system, all ships must perform a minimum of three randomized slipspace vector jumps in unrelated directions to mask their eventual destination.
If a UNSC vessel comes under attack or surveillance by Covenant forces and escape becomes impossible, the ship's commanding officer must initiate a Class-ZERO navigational purge. This includes:
Destruction of all navigational databases (physical and digital).
AI-assisted zero-trace memory wipes.
Scuttling or destruction of onboard navigational AI cores if capture is imminent.
Failure to adhere to this protocol will be considered an act of treason under UNSC wartime conduct.
Any officer, AI, or personnel found guilty of violating the Cole Protocol will be subject to immediate court-martial and, if evidence confirms willful negligence, summary execution.
Final Note:
We are not just losing territory—we are losing our future. Each time the Covenant glass another world, we lose another chance to survive.
This protocol will make our movements harder to track, harder to anticipate. It may cost time. It may strain resources. But it will save lives.
We fight not just to win. We fight to ensure humanity has a place left to win from.
For Earth. For the colonies. For survival.
/signed/
ADM. Preston J. Cole
Fleet Command – United Nations Space Command
Office of Naval Strategy – Emergency War Directive Authority
End Transmission
Directive COLE-876-1A: Active
1500 Hours, July 9th, 2535 / Camp Curahee, Planet Onyx XF-063, Zeta Doradus IV System
Leonidas‑151 POV
They told me it wouldn't work.
That bringing Dr. Halsey into the Spartan-III program would ignite another war within ONI—a cold, bureaucratic war fought with red tape and veiled threats. And to be fair, it almost did.
She didn't approve of what Ackerson started. Didn't like how the Spartan-IIIs were recruited. Didn't like the scale, or the intent.
But then she met them. Saw them train. Saw the scars. The resolve.
And now? She was one of us.
Chief Scientist of Spartan Command.
She still had her sharp tongue and disdain for inefficiency, but there was a shift. It happened quietly. She began overseeing training rotations. Modified our combat drugs. Refined the augmentation protocols. When she spoke about the Spartan-IIIs now, she used the word "we."
The war outside our borders was changing too.
After the authorization of the Cole Protocol, the UNSC had no choice but to adapt or die. And for once—we adapted.
The Casaba-Howitzer wasn't just a theoretical antique anymore. It was now standard loadout for every frontline warship, deployed alongside traditional MAC systems and a new line of experimental high-capacity X-ray spectrum lasers. Energy weaponry—primitive by Covenant standards—but ours now.
Armor? Different story altogether. We stopped pretending titanium-A alone was enough.
Now every ship rolled off the line with a hex-layered hull:
Core: Titanium-A skeletal structure
Mid: Graphene filament lattice
Sub-dermal: Non-Newtonian fluid impact layer
Outer: Tungrahene-X plating—my alloy.
We built them to last longer. To hit harder. And most importantly, to maneuver better.
All capital ships now came standard with secondary thrusters for real-time vectoring. In combat simulations, our new doctrine and ship designs in simulations dropped the required engagement ratio from three-to-one to two-to-one. Still a knife fight—but now we had more than just the handle.
And beneath every shipyard in UNSC territory?
Titan production facilities.
Hidden. Hardened. Mass-producing hope in the form of steel giants.
Spartan Candidate ODSTs were being retrained—taught to fly, to fight in 3D space, to kill in silence from machines built for war. Each one was told what it meant to wear our insignia: You're not just ODST anymore. You're Spartan-bound.
They were our Titan Pilots, officially inducted into the Spartan Branch, the first candidates for the upcoming Spartan-IV program—a project still sealed under black glass to the public, but very real.
They knew the stakes.
They knew the secrets.
They earned the right to carry them.
The biggest shift wasn't in orbit. It was down here. On the ground.
Every UNSC Marine, Army, ODST, and Spartan—from raw recruit to hardened vet—was now trained in the deployment and coordination of Stratagem Beacons.
They weren't just toys for elite teams anymore. They were lifelines.
When a planet came under threat, orbital superiority was temporary. The Covenant didn't give breathing room—they killed everyone indiscriminately with extreme prejudice and then glassed first, asked questions never. That meant every second a UNSC ship held position above a hot zone was a countdown to either tactical success—or total annihilation.
So we made it count.
Stratagem Beacons were deployed with surgical precision—calibrated on the move by fireteam leads, AIs, or Spartans. Once locked in, the nearest friendly ship or orbital support satellite—launched upon planetary insertion—would deliver payloads within seconds:
Titan drop pods
Automated turrets
Supply crates
Heavy weapons
Air support drones
Even precision artillery strikes
You had one shot to use it right. Because after the first wave, the Covenant would lock onto the beacon's frequency or obliterate the satellites with pinpoint plasma fire.
We trained our people to treat every beacon call like it was their last.
Because it probably was.
They weren't just triggers for fire support—they were decisions that changed the battlefield. You drop the wrong payload at the wrong moment? People die.
You drop the right one?
You win.
My office wasn't much. A desk. A wall-sized display with troop movement overlays. A private comms array. And a single armored window looking out over the endless forests of Onyx.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Then the door opened, and without needing to look, I knew who it was.
John.
He didn't knock. Never had to. If there was one person who didn't need permission to enter a Spartan CO's office, it was John-117.
On paper, I wore the bars. Commander of Spartan Operations. Architect of the Spartan Branch.
But in practice?
He was our leader.
Always had been. Always would be.
Every Spartan—II, III, or soon-to-be IV—respected his word like scripture. When he gave an order, it didn't matter what your designation was or what rank you carried. You followed it. No hesitation.
And none of us ever regretted it.
He handed me a datapad, his face unreadable behind his helmet, though I knew every twitch of that armor's weight meant more than a full debrief.
"Alpha Company's ahead of schedule," he said simply. "Too far ahead."
I skimmed the report—simulation stats, live-fire drills, VR feedback. Dozens of data points, all spiking in the green. All trending up.
"They're performing better than projected?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
John gave a single nod. "We can cut training time down to under five years without compromising survivability or effectiveness."
That was big. Real big.
"The VR training pods you designed are working," he continued. "They're getting practical combat experience—without the injuries. We've got full cognitive feedback. Reflex reinforcement. Muscle memory. It's dialing in their instincts. That sixth sense we all developed the hard way?"
He looked at me squarely.
"They're getting it early."
I set the pad down. Sat back. Let that settle in.
"Then increase the difficulty," I said. "We keep it efficient, not cruel. They need to survive."
I stood and turned toward the window. The sky was clear. The jungle below calm. It was always quiet before the next firestorm.
"High Command has greenlit something else," I said quietly. "We've been given clearance to initiate a second Spartan-II class."
That got him to pause.
"Seventy-five new candidates. Strict genetic markers. Same as before. Mandatory seven-year training window. They want it to begin in 2537."
Behind me, I heard the slight creak of his stance shift—barely audible, but enough to tell me he was thinking hard.
Spartan-II's were rare. Special. Each one had been forged in the crucible of a plan no one dared repeat… until now.
John stood still, arms crossed, helmet under one arm now, his unreadable expression replaced by that deep, quiet stare of his. The kind that made admirals nervous and silenced rooms full of brass.
He took his time before answering.
"The pros," he said, voice even. "Same genetic strength. Same mental durability. Same augmentation potential. We know the formula. And we know how to push it without breaking them."
He paused.
"The cons—we're in a different world now. Spartan Command isn't a myth whispered through ONI halls anymore. It's public. We're propaganda. Symbols. You don't get to disappear seventy-five kids without someone asking questions, we risk exposure of where the Spartan III's come from too if we aren't careful."
I nodded, stepping away from the window and leaning on the edge of my desk, "But you and I know that kids are more malleable, more trainable."
"That's why I'd rather just train future Spartans like the IIIs," I admitted. "Keep the public watching the hero reels while we build real warfighters in the background. Give them the same augmentation suite you and I got—not the diluted version the IIIs had to settle for without the correct gene markers."
John's expression didn't change, but I caught the glint in his eye.
"We're walking legends now," I muttered, half to myself. "Hell, I've seen statues of you on three worlds. Me? I get called 'The Engineer.'" I snorted. "They think I'm a super-soldier and a war-time miracle scientist. Mostly just tired."
John didn't laugh, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. That was about as much humor as you could get from him.
"I'm not saying they're wrong," he said. "But people forget one thing."
He turned, slowly scanning the command center's interior through the reinforced glass.
"They forget what it costs."
I let that hang for a beat. Then I spoke.
"Since brass approved it. Class II will begin in 2537. They'll be trained here. Onyx. Off-books. Off-grid. We'll keep them safe. Quiet."
John looked at me and gave a single nod.
"Only Mendez," he said.
I returned the nod.
"And only Spartan-IIs train them. No one else. No ONI handlers. No external instructors. Just us," He finishes.
He didn't say it—but he didn't have to.
To be a Spartan-II was to be family.
Blood forged in titanium, pain, and purpose. The Spartan-IIIs? We were kin—nieces and nephews. He cared for us. Protected us. But this?
This was passing the mantle.
He slid his helmet back on and turned toward the door.
"Then it's settled."
Some people thought the biggest difference between a Spartan-II and a Spartan-III was the training. The budget. The time invested. The mission profiles.
They were wrong.
The biggest difference was the armor.
Spartan-IIs were built for Mjolnir—and Mjolnir was built for them. Reflex amplification. Neural sync. Power multipliers. The kind of exosuit that turned a warfighter into a one-man extinction event.
But the Spartan-III program had scale. Hundreds. Eventually thousands. And there weren't enough reactors, gel layers, or zero-G fabrication facilities in the UNSC to give them all Mjolnir.
So I built them something else.
I submitted the schematics that afternoon.
MSPI—Modified Semi-Powered Infiltration Armor.
At first glance? Looked like standard SPI—photo-reflective plating, lean silhouette, low profile. But underneath?
Tungraphene-X plates reinforced every critical point.
A non-Newtonian impact layer absorbed high-velocity hits better than Marine ceramic.
The undersuit was reworked to match the thermal and biostatic properties of MK IV.
Smart gel cooling systems kept vitals stable.
Even the helmet systems were upgraded—HUD sync, motion tracking, target acquisition, and encrypted comms.
The only thing missing?
No enhanced strength, speed, or neural boost.
It didn't amplify the soldier. It protected them.
The idea was simple: let the IIIs stay ghosts—silent, surgical, deadly—without needing full neural sync. The best of them? The ones that survived long enough and proved themselves again and again?
They'd earn Mjolnir.
Just like we did.
I wasn't done.
I forwarded another file—Project: HEADHUNTER.
Two-man cells. Spartan-III operatives in full Mjolnir, deployed far behind enemy lines on strategic interdiction and elimination missions. Deep ops. No backup. Just them and the kill list.
They'd wound the Covenant in places they'd never expect.
I attached mission profiles. Psychological assessments. Armor loadouts. Probable casualty rates.
Then, I submitted one final packet for HighCom approval:
NOBLE Team.
The first Spartan-III fireteam cleared for permanent Mjolnir deployment. Multi-role. Forward operations. High adaptability.
They would be the Spartan-III's answer to Blue Team—public enough to inspire, lethal enough to win.
And like us?
They'd earn their place in the fire.