Tomas Rivera was a short man, at least twelve centimeters shorter than Hargraves. He looked back at the imposing Marine and nodded. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s right. If we blow the cooling lines, that should shut the whole system down. And there are no replacement parts on Santis. It’s not a repair we expected to have to make. The cooling system is usually very reliable.”

“It’s reliable until we wire it with every piece of explosive we’ve got.”

“Yes, Sergeant, that’s true.”

“Let’s go. You guys with the explosives, you plant those things wherever Tomas tells you to…and you do it quickly. The rest of you, keep your eyes open…and keep it quiet. One guard walks by and the alarm will go out…and we’ll be well and truly fucked.”

The Marines in the line nodded silently. Hargraves had told them to shut up, and as tough as they were, none of them had what it took to defy the rugged veteran.

Hargraves struggled to suppress a shiver.

Damn, it’s cold…

“Let’s go.” He moved forward a few feet and turned, grabbing onto a chunk of rock hanging out just above his head. He scrambled up the embankment, off the narrow ledge. His head popped up, and he scanned the area. Nothing.

He pulled himself the rest of the way up, and then he ducked down and waved for the others to follow.

I hope the civvies can manage the climb…

He pulled himself up on one knee, slipping his assault rifle from his back and extending it forward. He peered across the flat rocky ground at the top of the cliff. Still nothing.

Wait…

He saw movement, at least he thought he did. Then, for a second, he thought he was wrong.

But then they came. At least a dozen of the enemy. And an instant later he knew for sure. They had seen him.

“Let’s go, Marines…move it! We’ve got a fight up here!”

He was already firing, his rifle blasting out toward the approaching enemy troopers.

Damn! We’ve got to get to that refinery…

*   *   *

Kat sat in her office, just off Invictus’ bridge. It was a luxury, one she could only have dreamed about on Vindictus. Alliance officers were imperious, and they expected to be obeyed without question. But they generally adopted a Spartan lifestyle. The culture as a whole had shied away from opulence, from anything that might wear away at their resolve and toughness. Even a fleet commander considered himself or herself a warrior first and foremost. The intelligence services and propaganda bureaus had often had fun at the expense of the leaders of enemy nations, about how soft they were, how they lived in luxury while they sent their subordinates out to fight for them.