"James P. Hogan - The Proteus Operation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hogan James P)

Ferracini had clear, still predominantly youthful features, with fine, handsomely
proportioned lines, smooth skin, and a sensitive mouth. His complexion was dark, his eyes large,
brown, and brooding, as befitted his name. If he felt any sentiments about the fate of the nation
or the demise of democracy, his expression revealed no hint of them as he took in the indistinct
Norfolk skyline, his eyes missing nothing, but shifting with the practiced laziness of somebody
adapted to existing inconspicuously for long periods in hostile surroundings. Bowden guessed the
soldier to be in his late twenties, although his disinclination to smile and the air of
seriousness that he wore most of the time were the characteristics of an older man grown cynical
with living.

True, Ferracini's kind of business bred inscrutability as a safeguard and taciturnity as a
habit; but in their few, brief conversations, Bowden had discerned a remoteness in the young
soldier's manner that went beyond professional habit and revealed an emotional chasm by which he,
and others like Ferracini whom Bowden had met on previous missions, seemed to distance themselves
from the world of personal feelings and everyday human emotions. Or was it from the world of
meaningful things with beginnings, which now meant nothing and led nowhere? Bowden wondered. Was
it a sign of a whole generation reacting instinctively to protect itself from the knowledge that
it, too, had no future?

"Welcome home, Narwhal," Melvin Warner, the first navigation officer, read aloud as a
light began flickering from the harbormaster's shack at the end of the outer breakwater. "Pilot
dispatched. Regret lousy weather."

"Somebody's awake early," Bowden said. "Either they're expecting VIPs today, or the war's
started already." He turned his head to address the seaman. "Make a signal back. 'Thanks.
Compliments on speed of service. Weather better three hundred feet down."

"Launch approaching, starboard bow," Warner reported as the signalman's lamp began
chattering. He gestured toward the lines of sleek, gray warships moored in the outer harbor.
"There's one of the big carriers in, Gerry. Looks like the Constellation."

"Reduce speed, open up for'ard, and prepare to take on harbor pilot," Bowden said. He
turned toward Ferracini while Warner translated the command into orders and relayed them below.
"We'll get you and your people ashore first, Captain. That'll free you up as quickly as we can


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manage." Ferracini nodded.

A message had been received in mid-Atlantic, sent by a Navy VLF transmitter in Connecticut
on the long wavelengths that submarines could pick up while submerged, advising that Captain
Ferracini and Sergeant Cassidy were urgently required for other duties and would be met at the
dock to receive further orders. "They don't give you guys much of a break," Bowden commented. "I'm
sorry you'll be going so soon. At least it isn't that way all the time, eh?"
"Not quite all the time, anyhow," Ferracini said.

"Just when we were starting to get to know one another."