“We’ll hold them off as best we can,” Patrick said. He hit the hidden switch on his exoskeleton, stepped into it after it stood itself up, attached it to his body, locked his helmet in place, then ran up on deck. He immediately dashed over to the bow of the Catherine, which was facing east, in the direction from which the attackers were coming. “Combat, this is Castor,” Patrick radioed. “Range to bandits?”

‘Twenty-two miles and closing. ETE less than three minutes.”

As he searched the morning sky with his helmet-mounted sensors, three crewmen trotted over to him, wheeling a large crate on a cart. Patrick unlocked the crate and with one hand extracted the weapon inside. It was an immense M-168 six- barreled Vulcan cannon. Normally mounted on a big Humvee or M-113 armored personnel carrier, the eight- hundred-pound Vulcan cannon was designed for use against ground targets and fast-flying helicopters at ranges out to a mile and a half. It had a maximum rate of fire of one hundred rounds per second—anything it hit would be chopped to hamburger in the blink of an eye.

“Combat, Castor,” Patrick radioed as he hefted the big cannon. The hydraulically powered exoskeleton made it ridiculously easy to level the big gun and move it smoothly and precisely in any direction. “Where are they?”

“Bearing one-zero-two, range eighteen miles, low.” Patrick activated all of his battle armor’s sensors and began scanning at maximum range. “Roger. Nike, Taurus, Pollux, you guys up?”

“Nike up in ten seconds,” Wohl replied.

“Taurus will be up in twenty.”

No reply from Pollux—and Patrick realized that there never would be one either, ever again. “Roger, Stalkers,” he said sadly. “Report when you’re ready to engage.” At that moment, several of their commandos, wearing lightweight non-electronic battle armor, began to set their Stinger MANPADS (Man-Portable Air Defense System) up beside Patrick. The Stinger MANPADS was a portable shoulder-fired heat-seeking antiaircraft missile. Other commandos brought caskets of reloads. “My MANPADS is up on the bow. Hammer, what’s your status?”

At that moment, Patrick heard the low, steadily quickening roar of the CV-22 Pave Hammer’s engines starting up behind him. It had been raised up on deck from its hold faster than Patrick could ever imagine. “Hammer is starting engines. We’ll be airborne in two minutes.”

“Make it one minute, Hammer,” Patrick ordered. “Combat?”

“Bearing zero-niner-seven, range fifteen miles .. . stand by, aircraft turning slightly, range decreasing rapidly.. . - We’re being highlighted by X-band airborne radar. They got a lock on us.”

“Get the Hammer off the deck now,” Patrick shouted.

“Sixty seconds. All civilians are aboard.”