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282 HALO: FIRST STRIKE
is also too damned clear. Even if we stay and fight... they'll all bejustasdead."
"Capacitors at foil charge," Cortana announced. "Preparing to enter Slipspace. Waiting for your order, sir."
The Master Chief saw the energy from Ascendant Justice's re?actor drain to 5 percent. Motes of blue-green light appeared on the forward screen, and the stars stretched and smeared like watercolors.
But something was wrong: The shields of the Chief's MJOLNIR armor rippled. The radiation monitors spiked. Where was it coming from?
"Hundreds for billions," the Admiral whispered. "Duty be damned ... I'm still going to burn in hell for this." Admiral Whitcomb inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.
"Go, Cortana. Get us out of here. And God forgive me."
Corporal Locklear whistled, and the robotic dolly obediently followed him. The rolling robot was stacked with rifles, pistols, ammunition crates, and enough C-7 foaming explosive to blow a half-kilometer crater in the side of the Gettysburg.
He made his way to the cargo elevator and then down to B-Deck. He had seen on the Gettysburg's inventory that that was where they stored medical supplies... and he wanted a few cans of biofoam handy for the Master Chief's extremely well-planned suicide mission.
Not that Locklear had anything against a good suicide mis?sion. He'd been on plenty before, and they seemed to give him the most bang for his buck. Only now, after so much fighting, he just wanted a break: twenty-four hours of sleep, and some R&R.
He idly tugged at the bandanna tied to his biceps.
"Damn girl," he whispered. "Why'd you have to die? I had plans for you and me."
What was he doing mooning over a woman? And a Navy flier to boot? His squad would have laughed themselves wet if they knew... only they were all dead, too.
"Screw this," Locklear said. "I'm still alive. I'm not going to die. And I'm not going to feel guilty for any of this."
He laughed and told himself, "It's not like the entire universe
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hasn't been trying to kill me off, though." Locklear turned to the robotic dolly. "Right, amigo?"
Its treads spun, and the flatbed dolly turned to the right.
"No, no, stop." He sighed. "Man, I gotta buy myself a ticket out of this outfit. Next thing, I'll be asking one of the Spartans out on a date... if I could even tell the boys from the girls in that squad." He shuddered.
The doors of the large cargo elevator squeaked open; Lock?lear stepped off, and whistled for the dolly to follow.
Storage Bay Two had racks and shelves that rose from the deck five meters to the ceiling. He played his flashlight over the uneven surfaces. He spied a desk and terminal in the corner.
"Hello, inventory control," he said. "The place to go for good?ies in any Navy outfit." He strode to the desk, sat down, and tapped in a search for medicinal-grade ethyl alcohol.
A tone chimed in his earpiece, and Cortana's voice said, "Cor?poral Locklear, I have an urgent request from Admiral—"