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- "We're in position, Admiral," John reported. "ETA for repairs is two minutes."
- "Roger, Chief," Admiral Whitcomb replied. Ionization made the channel flood with static. "When you're done, give the word and get secure. We'll be accelerating immediately."
- "Yes, sir." So far, so good, John thought. Just another minute or two. A streamer of plasma appeared from nowhere. The tangled, crisscrossed Slipspace around them dropped the bolt of boiling
- fire fifty meters overhead; it moved port to starboard-and vanished back into the void.
- The COM shattered into white noise, and the motion sensors blurred... as did the active camouflage shielding of the six Elites who had been slowly-and until a moment ago imperceptibly-crawling toward their position.
- "Enemy contacts!" John shouted. He crouched behind the dome of a sensor node and opened fire. A hail of bullets caught the closest Elite dead-center in its chest. The gunfire punched through its shielding and then tore into its armor. It tumbled backward and spun off the hull.-Chpt.24 pgs.268-269
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