"c191" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

2:00 P.M., Wednesday, February 2, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

The proctor whisked Morgan's paper away. "Barracks assignments are posted outside," she said. "Find your bunk and await further orders." Dick stood and smoothed out his wrinkle-less shirt. "Never liked tests, but that wasn't a bad one at all, now was it?" "Yeah," Morgan said. "As much fun as a root canal with rusty tools." Dick exploded with laughter and walked away. Nate sat, a blank expression on his face. Morgan patted him on the shoulder. "Hey, hop up. I want to see if we're even in the right place. I'm supposed to be in Boston." Nate rose wearily. "Sure." They wandered around the drab base in the cold, a light fog obscuring the view a half-mile ahead. Makeshift buildings were everywhere, airplane hangars converted into office space, shabby wooden structures with metal siding thrown up at the last minute. The Canadians clearly hadn't planned to house so many CyberCorps soldiers. A sign loomed ahead on a post, "Base Commander." Inside, a Canadian Army sergeant sat behind a reception counter. "Yes, soldier?" Morgan unfolded his orders once again and slid them across. "I'm supposed to be stationed in Boston, according to this." He jerked his thumb toward Nate. "He's supposed to be in Philadelphia. There's obviously been some mixup, so I was wondering how we get where we're supposed to go." The clerk beckoned to another soldier. "Lieutenant?" A young U.S. Army Lieutenant and his chiseled jaw came over. "These boys say they're in the wrong place," the clerk said. He smirked. The Lieutenant looked at Morgan's orders. He pulled out a pen, crossed out "Hanscom AFB, Massachusetts" and wrote "Shearwater CFB, Nova Scotia" in big block letters below it. "Looks like they're in the right place to me. Carry on." Morgan opened his mouth to object, but Nate pulled on his arm. "Don't say something you'll regret, man. C'mon." Morgan shook off Nate's arm, stood firm for a moment, weighing his options. Nate was right, of course. Dad's never-smart-off-to-a-cop advice applied here too. "Yeah. Let's go." They located their barracks. They'd both been assigned to the same one. Their tote bags had been dumped outside, and had a layer of frost. Inside, fifty or so other guys, many with faces Morgan recognized from the induction line, lounged about on their cots. In fact, all the cots. As they walked up the aisle, every cot on either side had a lounger, a tote bag in the locker at the foot of each double-decker bed, or a uniform crumpled on it. At each not-too-occupied-looking candidate bunk, someone nearby said "That's Leon's," or "I wouldn't if I were you" or "Big mother took that one," or just shook their head. They finally found two empty bunks, one above the other, stuffed along the corridor to the bathroom area. Steam from the showers curled around the foot of it. Someone had hung a wet towel on the bedpost. Morgan chucked the towel around the corner and faced Nate, and his crutches. Nate struck him as the kind of guy who wouldn't want any easy sympathy. "Flip you for the bottom." Morgan planned to make sure Nate won the flip. "I'd rather have the top. I've about had enough of these." Nate threw the crutches in a corner. "Makes that easy." Morgan unslung his tote bag, made up his bunk, and couldn't resist the warm mist from the shower any longer. He knew he'd come to hate it like living in a swamp, but at this moment, he couldn't undress fast enough. The chow sucked. Dinner was dried out, blue meat of some kind on a bun. The bed was as hard as a rock; the barracks drafty; but Morgan slept like a babe. No worse than camping out, he told Nate. Not to mention downright hospitable after the Nation of the Strong's accommodations. Reveille found Morgan fast asleep. Nate, a light sleeper, poked him with his foot until he got up. Morgan had weeks ago become accustomed to rising fast, and he was out in formation a full minute ahead of Nate. It was hard to tell exactly who was where in the dark outside, but everyone managed to form some semblance of a square, as if they knew this was expected of them. "Welcome to the United States Army CyberCorps, recruits," boomed a Marine-shaped slab of meat in front of them. Morgan could see the gleam of a Lieutenant's bar on his shoulder. "We don't have time for chitchat, or I'd tell you what a sorry sack of shit you all look like. When I call out your name and assignment, you will answer me with 'sir, yes sir!' do you understand?" Some in the group mumbled Yes, okay, or nodded their heads. "I said, Do You Understand!" This provoked a timid set of Sir, yes sirs. "I can't hear you! We're not running a girl scout camp here! Do You Understand!" "Sir, Yes Sir!" finally left the group mouth with some verve. "Abelard, Steven!" "Sir, yes sir." "Building 107." "Sir, yes sir." Steven Abelard turned to leave. "I haven't dismissed you yet, recruit!" "Sorry." Abelard returned to his place. "Sir." "Arenson, Joseph!" And so it went, with building 213s, 107s, 186s and their kind interspersed among Sir, Yes Sirs. Morgan was Building 213. Building 213, he hoped, wouldn't turn out to be latrine-digging school. Finally, last to be announced, "Zamora, Nathan!" was also Building 213. Morgan was relieved. He'd begun to bond with his bunkmate, and hoped they might end up together. Even if it was digging shit holes. He imagined himself a few years older and Nate, his junior by a decade, he imagined as how Jeremy had turned out. A few gray hairs on his own head, maybe, but he'd keep in shape. Yeah, they could dig looies together. At the final "Dismissed!" they struck out together to find their destiny.

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Chapter 19.1

2:00 P.M., Wednesday, February 2, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

The proctor whisked Morgan's paper away. "Barracks assignments are posted outside," she said. "Find your bunk and await further orders." Dick stood and smoothed out his wrinkle-less shirt. "Never liked tests, but that wasn't a bad one at all, now was it?" "Yeah," Morgan said. "As much fun as a root canal with rusty tools." Dick exploded with laughter and walked away. Nate sat, a blank expression on his face. Morgan patted him on the shoulder. "Hey, hop up. I want to see if we're even in the right place. I'm supposed to be in Boston." Nate rose wearily. "Sure." They wandered around the drab base in the cold, a light fog obscuring the view a half-mile ahead. Makeshift buildings were everywhere, airplane hangars converted into office space, shabby wooden structures with metal siding thrown up at the last minute. The Canadians clearly hadn't planned to house so many CyberCorps soldiers. A sign loomed ahead on a post, "Base Commander." Inside, a Canadian Army sergeant sat behind a reception counter. "Yes, soldier?" Morgan unfolded his orders once again and slid them across. "I'm supposed to be stationed in Boston, according to this." He jerked his thumb toward Nate. "He's supposed to be in Philadelphia. There's obviously been some mixup, so I was wondering how we get where we're supposed to go." The clerk beckoned to another soldier. "Lieutenant?" A young U.S. Army Lieutenant and his chiseled jaw came over. "These boys say they're in the wrong place," the clerk said. He smirked. The Lieutenant looked at Morgan's orders. He pulled out a pen, crossed out "Hanscom AFB, Massachusetts" and wrote "Shearwater CFB, Nova Scotia" in big block letters below it. "Looks like they're in the right place to me. Carry on." Morgan opened his mouth to object, but Nate pulled on his arm. "Don't say something you'll regret, man. C'mon." Morgan shook off Nate's arm, stood firm for a moment, weighing his options. Nate was right, of course. Dad's never-smart-off-to-a-cop advice applied here too. "Yeah. Let's go." They located their barracks. They'd both been assigned to the same one. Their tote bags had been dumped outside, and had a layer of frost. Inside, fifty or so other guys, many with faces Morgan recognized from the induction line, lounged about on their cots. In fact, all the cots. As they walked up the aisle, every cot on either side had a lounger, a tote bag in the locker at the foot of each double-decker bed, or a uniform crumpled on it. At each not-too-occupied-looking candidate bunk, someone nearby said "That's Leon's," or "I wouldn't if I were you" or "Big mother took that one," or just shook their head. They finally found two empty bunks, one above the other, stuffed along the corridor to the bathroom area. Steam from the showers curled around the foot of it. Someone had hung a wet towel on the bedpost. Morgan chucked the towel around the corner and faced Nate, and his crutches. Nate struck him as the kind of guy who wouldn't want any easy sympathy. "Flip you for the bottom." Morgan planned to make sure Nate won the flip. "I'd rather have the top. I've about had enough of these." Nate threw the crutches in a corner. "Makes that easy." Morgan unslung his tote bag, made up his bunk, and couldn't resist the warm mist from the shower any longer. He knew he'd come to hate it like living in a swamp, but at this moment, he couldn't undress fast enough. The chow sucked. Dinner was dried out, blue meat of some kind on a bun. The bed was as hard as a rock; the barracks drafty; but Morgan slept like a babe. No worse than camping out, he told Nate. Not to mention downright hospitable after the Nation of the Strong's accommodations. Reveille found Morgan fast asleep. Nate, a light sleeper, poked him with his foot until he got up. Morgan had weeks ago become accustomed to rising fast, and he was out in formation a full minute ahead of Nate. It was hard to tell exactly who was where in the dark outside, but everyone managed to form some semblance of a square, as if they knew this was expected of them. "Welcome to the United States Army CyberCorps, recruits," boomed a Marine-shaped slab of meat in front of them. Morgan could see the gleam of a Lieutenant's bar on his shoulder. "We don't have time for chitchat, or I'd tell you what a sorry sack of shit you all look like. When I call out your name and assignment, you will answer me with 'sir, yes sir!' do you understand?" Some in the group mumbled Yes, okay, or nodded their heads. "I said, Do You Understand!" This provoked a timid set of Sir, yes sirs. "I can't hear you! We're not running a girl scout camp here! Do You Understand!" "Sir, Yes Sir!" finally left the group mouth with some verve. "Abelard, Steven!" "Sir, yes sir." "Building 107." "Sir, yes sir." Steven Abelard turned to leave. "I haven't dismissed you yet, recruit!" "Sorry." Abelard returned to his place. "Sir." "Arenson, Joseph!" And so it went, with building 213s, 107s, 186s and their kind interspersed among Sir, Yes Sirs. Morgan was Building 213. Building 213, he hoped, wouldn't turn out to be latrine-digging school. Finally, last to be announced, "Zamora, Nathan!" was also Building 213. Morgan was relieved. He'd begun to bond with his bunkmate, and hoped they might end up together. Even if it was digging shit holes. He imagined himself a few years older and Nate, his junior by a decade, he imagined as how Jeremy had turned out. A few gray hairs on his own head, maybe, but he'd keep in shape. Yeah, they could dig looies together. At the final "Dismissed!" they struck out together to find their destiny.


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