"Scott G. Gier - Genellan 02 - In the Shadow of the Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gier Scott G)

Fire teams left and right. Move! Bring up theтАФ"

Golden horses blasted out of the fog. The herd, forced onto the trail by
the encompassing undergrowth, stampeded by, boring a tunnel in the fog.
In a brief lull between groups the squad leader, still conscious, was pulled
into the underbrush.

"Laser Corporal!" the squad leader gasped, his face in the mud. "Keep 'em
ready. There's more coming. The ground'sтАж moving."

A second group of wide-eyed horses pounded past; the fog swirled
insanely but was no less thick. The marines, clinging close to the trees, held
their positions and waited.

"More," the squad leader cried, lifting his head. His eyes were white with
terror. "Feel the ground!"

"Damn!" someone shouted. The forest quaked under their boots.

The dragons moved fast, and the fog was thick. A pair of predators
crashed through the underbrush on the left flank and was on the marines
before a rifle was fired. The male carnivore died quickly, but with the point
man mangled in its jaws. The female dragon ripped apart one marine and
mortally injured another before yielding to concentrated rifle fire. Two
marines were wounded by fire from their mates.
 A second pair of dragons, obsessed with the fleeing horses, thundered
down the path, directly through the firefight. The horrified marines on the
right flank, loath to fire across the path at their comrades, could only potshot
ineffectively at the disappearing forms.

Large sinister shapes, wary of the explosions of man and the pungent
odor of cordite, crashed through the forest. Smaller, more numerous shapes
moved, too, but they were stealthy.



"Out and about early this morning, Commander," Nancy Dawson
remarked, wiping her nose. The tall, large-featured female, her hair an
unruly explosion of fiery orange, sat at the split-log table with her son, her
pale blue eyes sparkling with firelight. Adam Shannon, square-shouldered,
jet-haired, and large-headed like his deceased father, worked industriously at
his buffalo scrapple and biscuits. Both breakfasters were garbed in thick
leather.

"Responsibilities of command," Quinn grumbled. She tossed her beret
and Legion storm coat over a squat wooden chair. "Governor Et Silmarn
radioed in this morning from Goldmine Station."

"More negotiations?" Dawson asked, stroking the boy's black thatch.