"Frankowski,.Leo.-.Conrad.Starguard.7.-.Conrad's.Time.Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frankowski Leo)

The strange thing is that nobody ever saw me do it, or if they did,
they didn't talk about it, but then most people don't realize that I'm
really a very gentle person, if you give me half a chance.

In a month or so, I was pretty sure that the trees were dead, what
with the way the bark was falling off, and after that I left them alone.

That had been six months ago and they were still out there,
because the colonel hadn't given any orders about them. Likely, he
hadn't noticed.

My mark on the Air Force. Nine dead trees.

I carried my belongings to the garage outside of the gate and
settled up with the owner of the place.

Motorcycles weren't allowed on base. They had the wrong image
by Air Force standards, although they were allowed up at the
Notch, since civilians weren't allowed within sight of the place.
They'd give you a sticker for one to let you past the Elite Guard,
through the gate, and to the small parking lot. From there it was a
short walk past more guards, past the thick steel blast doors, and
into the generator-packed tunnel that led deep into the hollowed
out mountain.

I packed up, kick started her with one hand and rode off. I never
put a foot on the kick starter, my theory being that if hand cranking
wouldn't do it, she needed a tune up. Electric starters, of course,
are for wimps.

I stopped a hundred yards outside the Westover Field gate and
peeled the SAC sticker from the Wixom Ranger faring on my
BMW R-60. I no longer felt any hate. I just didn't want it there,
defacing my bike, now that I was free.

I had joined the Air Force for many reasons. Without the money to
finish my degree, I needed a trade, and they'd promised to teach
me electronics, the one promise they'd actually kept. Mostly,
though, I'd wanted have some adventures while I was still young, to
spread my wings a little, and see a bit of the world.

Instead, they'd stuffed me under a mountain for the duration.

More than anything else, I'd wanted to do something . . . significant.
To do something important for my country, and maybe even for the
world.

But there's nothing glorious about fixing machinery, especially
when the stuff almost never broke down. Ninety percent of my
actual work time had been spent cleaning floors, dusting