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ERIC NYLUND
25
Fred grabbed a launcher, a pair of rockets, and a roll of tape
from the 'Hog. "We'll be needing these when we hit the Cove-
nant on the other side of the ridge," he explained. "Each of you
secure a launcher and some ammo in a Banshee."
Joshua and Kelly stopped what they were doing and turned to
face him.
"Permission to speak, sir," Kelly asked.
"Granted."
"I'm all for a good fight, Fred, but those odds are a little lop-
sided even for us. . . like ten thousand to one."
"We can handle a hundred to one," Joshua chimed in, "maybe
even five hundred to one with a little planning and support, but
against these odds, a frontal assault seems—"
"It's not going to be a frontal assault," Fred said. He wedged
the launcher into the cramped Banshee cockpit. "Tape."
Kelly ripped off a length of tape and handed it over.
Fred smoothed the adhesive strip and secured the launcher in
place. "We'll play this one as quiet as we can," he said.
She considered Fred's plan for a moment and then asked, "So,
assuming we fool them into letting us into their lines ... then
what?"
"As much as I'd like to, we can't use the tac-nukes," Joshua
mused, "not in the far valley. The intervening ridge isn't high
enough to block the EMP. It'll burn out the orbital defense
generator."
"There's another way to use them," Fred told them. "We're go-
ing to board the cruiser—right up its gravity lift—and detonate
the nuke inside. The ship's shields will dampen the electromag-
netic pulse."
"It'll also turn that ship into the biggest fragmentation grenade
in history," Kelly remarked.
"And if anything goes wrong," Joshua said, "we end up in the
middle often thousand pissed-off bad guys."
"We're Spartans," Fred said. "What could possibly go wrong?"