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

"That's the way it is sometimes, I guess."

Bowden looked at the soldier for a moment longer, then abandoned his attempt at
conversation with a sigh and a barely perceptible shrug. "Okay, well, we'll be docking in a few
minutes. You'll need to be getting back down to join the others in the wardroom." He extended a
hand. "A pleasure to have had you aboard, Captain. Glad we were able to help. And good luck with
whatever they've dreamed up for you next."

"Thank you, sir," Ferracini said, sounding formal. He shook hands first with Bowden, then
with Warner. "The men asked me to express their appreciation for the hospitality. I'd like to add
mine, too." Bowden smiled faintly and nodded. Ferracini climbed down into the bridge hatch and
began descending the ladder below.

From the compartment below the bridge, Ferracini squeezed through another hatch and
entered the pressure hull of the ship, beyond which yet another hatch and a third ladder brought
him into the forward end of the control room, with its confusion of machinery, consoles, dialed
panels, and equipment racks, the purpose of most of which he didn't understand. Crewmen were busy
at stations extending away on both walls aft of the twin periscope stand and huge chart table. On
the port side stood two padded leather chairs with cockpit-like control columns and arrays of
hooded instruments, looking more like an aircraft flight deck than the helmsman's and diving
officer's positions on a ship. The seats were fitted with safety belts, which said enough about
the Narwhal's maneuvering capabilities; the dynamics of handling fast submarines came closer to
flying through water than anything that resembled sailing in the traditional sense.

Bowden's executive officer and a detail of seamen accompanied Ferracini forward through
the passageway leading between the captain's cabin and sickbay to the wardroom, where the
passengers had been given bunking space for the voyage. He found Cassidy and the two privates,
Vorkoff and Breugot, packing away final items of kit and helping the eight people they had brought
out of England into top clothes suitable for going outside. Several of the civilians still looked
drawn and emaciated, although traces of color were beginning to show on their faces after four
days of rest, proper medical care, and the Narwhal's generous rations.

"Pretty well done, Harry," Cassidy drawled, zipping up the last of the bags he had been
packing. "How are things doing outside? Are we almost there?"

"Just coming into harbor. They're taking on the pilot," Ferracini replied.

"So how's home sweet home?"

"Wet, cold, and windy. Everyone ready down here?"

"All set."

Mike "Cowboy" Cassidy had a long, lanky frame, which he carried with an easygoing
looseness that could be disarmingly deceptive, clear blue eyes, thick yellow hair, and a ragged
mustache. Special Operations troopers were trained to work in pairs, and he had been Ferracini's
regular partner for over three years. By all the measures of mood and temperament that the
psychologists made so much of, they should have been incompatible, but each had refused
obstinately to work with anyone else.