"Andy Duncan - Fortitude" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Andy)

for alarm, no threat to my destiny. Brit, of course. Posture good. Uniform
not regulation, but close: khaki shirt, khaki slacks, boots, a dark brown
jacket with a military cut, a knotted scarf where a man would wear a
necktie. Bare-headed, though, goddamn it. Helmet hangs from her belt,
along with a host of tools and implements, none regulation. She laughs.
"Please don't be embarrassed, General. In the cinema we all talk to
ourselves. It's the best rehearsal." She sticks out her hand. "I'm
Madeleine Thomson -- Maddy, on the set. I'm pleased to meet you."
I don't take her hand. I don't smile or speak. I square my shoulders. I
look her in the face, glance down at her helmet, glance at the top of her
head, and look her in the face again. I make a low throat-clearing noise,
and Willie growls.
After a pause, the woman blinks, sighs, detaches the helmet and sets it on
her head, practically covering her eyes. A size too big, at least;
slackness in the quartermaster's office again. Then she salutes, and I
salute in return. Hers is pretty sloppy -- head bobs sideways to meet the
hand, forearm is at a definite angle, and she drops it a good second
before I drop mine -- but I'm willing to make allowances, in the name of
Anglo-American relations. Hell, I won't even bawl her out for the helmet.
I'm a regular Cordell Goddamn Hull.
"At ease, Miss Thomson," I tell her. "You may say hello to Willie, if you
like."
The little bastard is snuffling up to her feet and whining and wagging his
whole behind. She gives me a dirty look and squats to rub the dog's neck,
the tools on her belt rattling and jingling.
"My mum has a bull terrier. Ugly little buggers, aren't they? This one's
friendly, though. A British dog, General?"
"Willie's an inheritance," I say. "His owner was a pilot."
She keeps looking at the dog, though her chin moves as if she almost
glanced up. "Didn't make it, eh? Well, I'm sorry for you, Willie." He
wallows, ecstatic, as she scratches his belly with increasing violence.
"But you've found someone else. That's the important thing." She pats his
flank, stands, yanks a hammer from her belt, and begins to pound the tank
gun back into place, words coming out through clenched teeth as she flails
away. "That's what a lot of us will have to do before this war's over,
Willie -- find someone else."
I clear my throat. "Believe it or not, Miss Thomson, that helmet could
save your life one day. Bombs could start falling on this base any time.
Real bombs," I add, glancing at the slapped-together monstrosities all
around. Before, there had been no bombs, but wouldn't do to let Thomson
know that. Bad for discipline.
"Things have been remarkably quiet thus far, General. I've had closer
calls in Birmingham repertory."
"That could change in moments, Miss -- I'm sorry, Miss Thomson, I don't
know what to call you. I don't know your rank."
"My title at Shepperton Studios," she says, delivering one last hammer
blow, "is second-unit production coordinator." She steps back to study her
handiwork. The gun is now visibly battered, but unbowed.
I wave my crop. "But you're in charge of all the Shepperton people on this
site?"