The War Machine: Crisis Of Empire III - Plot & Excerpts
“Thirty seconds,” the Marine pilot announced, and Peever briefly considered he had just that long to get off the Fleance. But it really was too late for that. Aside from the question of courts martial and so on, there were just too many seat belts, safety catches, hatches and air locks to get through in that length of time. “Fifteen seconds,” the pilot reported. The targeting lasers would be programmed by now, and the destroyers ready to fire their missiles. It should have been comforting to know that the fleet was going to such lengths to provide cover for the Fleance, but it would have been far more comforting still not to need such cover. Or, most comforting of all, not to be aboard the Flea in the first place. “Ten seconds.” Definitely too late to get off the gig, Ensign Peever thought wistfully. Ensign Wilton J. Peever was, be it confessed, a coward. Suddenly his weight dropped away to nothing and then just as quickly quadrupled. The viewports were covered and the external cameras stowed during the violent maneuver of drop-and-boost.
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