Hargraves reached around, pulling a grenade from his belt. It was his last one, and he knew he had to make it count. He was sure there were at least two enemy soldiers down behind the rock in front of him. He’d caught their movement several times as they’d worked their way forward, and now they were within twenty meters.

He knew what they would do, at least what two Marines would do. They’d come around different sides of the rock, force him to react in one direction or the other. He’d hoped his people could hold off their attackers indefinitely…at least while their ammo lasted. But these were skilled troops, far more capable than any he’d ever faced, and that included the Union FRs. They outnumbered his people too overwhelmingly. If he didn’t order his survivors to bug out now, none of them would get away. Assuming it wasn’t too late already.

He glanced at his chronometer. Nine and a half minutes. Close to ten. But it wasn’t ten…and Marines kept their promises. His people would hold out another thirty seconds. Then they would get the hell out of here.

He tensed his legs, and then he sprang up, pulling his arm back and throwing the grenade. He felt the urge to watch, to see if his aim had been true. But his instincts took over, dropping him to the ground, hard, painfully, just before a stream of bullets zipped by overhead. A couple seconds later, he heard the blast of the grenade and, he thought, a muffled cry. He looked up, toward the rock. The sound had seemed spot on, just in the right place. But he knew he wouldn’t know if he’d taken out his enemies until he made a break for it. He’d know he failed when the bullets slammed into his back.

His eyes dropped again to the timepiece. Ten minutes, ten seconds. It was time.

“Alright, Marines…let’s get the hell out of here!”

He turned and threw himself up into a low crouch, moving as quickly as he could without straightening up. He scrambled over the rough ground, seeing his people do the same. There had been eight of them when he’d sent the techs away, but two of them had been hit in the firefight. He knew Lipton was dead, but he wasn’t sure about Garavick. “Go,” he shouted into the com unit. “Back to HQ!” But he didn’t follow. He moved off to the side. He couldn’t leave. Not without checking on Garavick.

He could see the shadowy image of the Marine, lying partially covered by the high tufts of grass. He scrambled forward, dropping to the ground next to unmoving figure. He let out a deep breath. It looked like Garavick was dead.