“Yes. The trainers in those exoskeletons can run at thirty-two KPH, lift two tons, and have a thirty-millimeter minigun mounted on self-targeting armatures—stun rounds, of course. They’re also equipped with the latest motion sensors and IR scopes. And needless to say, their armor is impervious to standard light weapons. It would take two or three platoons of conventional Marines to take that bunker.”
...
	Two more Spartans, dangling from the other end of that rope, dropped unnoticed into the center of the bunker. Dr. Halsey immediately recognized one of them, although he was dressed entirely in black, save his open eye slits—Number-117. John.
	John landed, braced, and kicked one guard. The man landed in a heap … eight meters away.
The other Spartan jumped off the bunker; he flipped end over end, evading the stun rounds that filled the air. He threw himself at the farthest guard and they skidded together into the shadows. The guard’s gun strobed once, and then it was dark again.
	On top of the bunker, John was a blur of slashing motions. A second guard’s exosuit erupted in a fountain of hydraulic fluid and then collapsed under the armor’s weight.
	The last guard on the bunker turned to fire at John. Halsey gripped the edge of her chair. “He’s at point-blank range! Even stun rounds can kill at that distance!”
	As the guard’s gun fired, John sidestepped. The stun rounds slashed through the air, a clean miss. John grabbed the weapon’s armature—twisted—and with a screech of stressed metal, wrenched it free of the exoskeleton. He fired directly into the man’s chest and sent him tumbling off the bunker.
	The remaining quartet of perimeter guards turned and sprayed the area with suppression fire.
	A heartbeat later, the lights went out.
	Mendez cursed and keyed the mike. “Backups. Hit the backup lights now!”
	A dozen amber floods flickered to life.
	Not a Spartan was in sight, but the nine trainers were either unconscious or lay immobile in inert battle armor.