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The screen went black.
Keyes snapped on the intercom. “Lieutenant Hall, what is our repair and refit status?”
“Sir,”she replied. “Engines are operational, but only with the backup coolant system. We can heat themto fifty percent. Archer and nuclear ordnance resupply is complete. MAC guns are also operational.Repairs to lower decks have just started.”
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“Inform the dockmaster to pull his crew out,” Captain Keyes said. “We’re leaving theCradle . When weare clear, fire the reactors to fifty percent. Go to battle stations.”
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
0600 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) /Sigma Octanus IV, grid thirteen by twenty-four
“Faster!” Corporal Harland shouted. “You want to die in the mud, Marine?”
“Hell no, sir!” Private Fincher stomped on the accelerator and the Warthog’s tires spun in the streambed.They caught, and the vehicle fishtailed through the gravel, across the bank, and onto the sandy shore.
Harland strapped himself into the rear of the Warthog, one hand clamped onto the vehicle’s massive50mm chain-gun.
Something moved in the brush behind them—Harland fired a sustained burst. The deafening sound from“Old Faithful” shook the teeth in his head. Ferns, trees, and vines exploded and splintered as the gunfirescythed through the foliage . . . then nothing was moving anymore.
Fincher sent the Warthog bouncing along the shore, his head bobbing from side to side as he strained tosee through the downpour. “We’re sitting ducks in here, Corporal,” Fincher yelled. “We have to get outof this hole and back onto the ridge, sir.”
Corporal Harland looked for a way out of this river gorge. “Walker!” He shook Private Walker in thepassenger seat, but Walker didn’t respond. He clutched their last Jackhammer rocket launcher with adeath grip, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Walker hadn’t said a word since this mission went south.Harland hoped he would snap out of it. He already had one man down. The last thing he needed was forhis heavy-weapons specialist to be a brain case.
Private Cochran lay at the Corporal’s feet, cradling his gut with blood-smeared hands. He’d caught fireduring the ambush. The aliens used some kind of projectile weapon that fired long, thin needles—whichexploded seconds after impact.
Cochran’s insides were meat. Walker and Fincher had filled him up with biofoam and taped him up—they even managed to stop the bleeding—but if the man didn’t get to a medic soon, he was a goner.
They had all almost been goners.
The squad had left Firebase Bravo two hours ago. Satellite images showed the way was all clear to theirtarget area. Lieutenant McCasky had even said it was a “milk run”. They were supposed to set up
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motion sensors on grid thirteen by twenty-four—just see what was there and get back. “A simple snoopjob,” the ell-tee had called it.