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“Luxury items,” Kelly murmured. “I bet they’re headed straight for a special delivery to Colonel Wattsor his officers.”
“Good work,” John replied. “We’ll tag this stuff and follow it.”
“Won’t be that easy,” Fred said from the darkness. He flicked on his flashlight and peered back at John.“There are a million ways this can go wrong. We’re going in without recon. I don’t like it.”
“We only have one advantage on this mission,” John said. “The rebels have never been infiltrated—they’ll feel relatively safe and won’t be expecting us. But every extra second we stay . . . that’s anotherchance for us to be spotted. We’ll follow Kelly’s hunch.”
“You questioning orders?” Sam asked Fred. “Scared?” There was a slight hint of challenge in his voice.
Fred thought for a moment. “No,” he whispered. “But this is no training mission. Our targets won’t befiring stun rounds.” He sighed. “I just don’t want to fail.”
“We’re not going to fail,” John told him. “We’ve accomplished every mission we’ve been on before.”
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That wasn’t entirely true: the augmentation mission had wiped out half of the Spartans. They weren’tinvincible.
But John wasn’t scared. A little nervous, maybe—but he was ready.
“Rotate sleep cycles,” John said. “Wake me up in four hours.”
He turned over and quickly nodded off to the sound of the sloshing water. He dreamed of gravball and acoin spinning in the air. John caught it and yelled, “Eagle!” as he won again.
He always won.
Kelly nudged John’s shoulder and he was instantly awake, hand on his assault rifle.
“We’re decelerating,” she whispered, and pointed her light into the water below. The liquid tilted at atwenty-degree inclination.
“Lights off,” John ordered.
They were plunged into total darkness.
He popped the hatch and snaked the fiber-optic probe—attached to his helmet—through the crack. Allclear.
They climbed out, then rappelled down the back of the ten-meter-tall tank. They donned their grease-stained coveralls and removed their helmets. The black suits looked a little bulky beneath the workclothes, but the disguise would hold up to a cursory inspection. With their weapons and gear in duffelbags, they’d pass as crew . . . from a distance.
They crept through a deserted corridor and into the cargo bay. They heard a million tiny metallic pingsas gravity settled the ship. TheLaden must be docking to a spinning station or a rotating asteroid.
The cargo bay was a huge room, stacked to its ceiling with barrels and crates. There were massive tanksof oil. Automated robot forklifts scurried between rows, checking for items that might have come loosein transit.
There was a terrific clang as a docking clamp grabbed the ship.
“Cigars are this way,” Kelly whispered. She consulted her data pad, then tucked it back into her pocket.
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They moved out, clinging to the shadows. They stopped every few meters, listened, and made sure theirfields of fire were clear.