In a flash, Avery drew both pistols from his thigh pouches. He aimed one at the back of Nyeto’s chair and offered the other to Crowther, but the flight deck’s sensor operator was already spinning around, bringing up an M6E sidearm. The muzzle flashed twice, and Crowther went down with a crater in his forehead and blood spurting from his clavicle.
	Avery returned fire with both pistols, blasting the sensor operator from his seat and putting two rounds into Nyeto’s chair, then realized he was stumbling back, his torso armor hammering into his chest as he took round after round, the attack coming from the navigator and the copilot. Hell, even the communications officer was now firing at him, and she was supposed to be preparing a burst transmission.
	Apparently everyone on the flight deck was a damn traitor.
	Knowing his armor could not keep absorbing bullet impacts forever, Avery backed away through the flight deck hatch, still shooting, then started down the starboard passageway and saw a trio of crewmen coming toward him.
	...
	“Johnson, how many have you taken out?”
	“Seven in the passageway.”
	“Seven?”
	“Plus the sensor operator on the flight deck,” Avery added. He didn’t care for the note of surprise in Hamm’s voice—it made him think she had a poor opinion of what old sergeants could do. “Maybe Nyeto too.”
	“Just maybe?”
	“Best I could do.” Avery pointed to the dimples in his chest armor. “I was taking fire and trying to shoot Nyeto through a chair.”