"Cloak Of Deception (James Luceno)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Luceno James)

Sullustan regarded the screen. "But that is his ship. And where the Hawk-Bat
ventures, Cohl is not far behind!" "Starfighters are forming up for attack,"
the droid updated.
Dofine turned to the navigator. "Enable defense systems!" "Central
control computer reports continued blasterfire in the starboard hangar. Eight
security droids destroyed." "Destroyed?" "Defense system has the Nebula Front
starfighters in target lock. Deflector shields are raised--was "Starfighters
firing!" Intense light exploded behind the rectangular viewports and shook the
bridge hard enough to rattle a droid off its feet.
"Turbolasers responding!" Dofine swung to the viewports in time to see
hyphens of pulsed, red light streak from the freighter's equatorially mounted
batteries.
"Where is our closest reinforcement?" "One star system distant," the
navigator said.
"The Acquisitor.
More heavily armed than the Revenue." "Send a distress call!" "Is that
wise, Commander?" Dofine understood the implication. Rescue was always a
belittling event. But Dofine was certain that he could offset the humiliation
by protecting the Revenue's cargo.
"Just do as I say," he told the navigator.
"Starfighter elements are forming up for a second run," the Sullustan
updated.
"Where are the starfighters? Why aren't they moving in to engage?" "You
recalled them, Commander," the navigator reminded.
Dofine gestured wildly. "Well, relaunch them, relaunch them!" "Central
control computer requests permission to isolate zone two of starboard hangar."
"Seal it!" Dofine sputtered. "Seal it now!" The masked group that had
infiltrated the Revenue were a diverse lot--as varied as the starfighters that
were flying support- - humans and nonhumans, male and female, stocky and
slender. Protected by camouflage suits and matte-black armorply, and sporting
gripsole deckboots and combat goggles, they emerged from behind the battering
ram that had afforded them an element of surprise, firing state-of-the-art
assault rifles and shoulder-slung field disrupters.
The handful of security droids that were still standing collapsed to the
deck, limbs splayed or hopelessly entwined.
The human OLR-4 had nearly gotten the drop on strode fearlessly to the
center of the yawning hangar, checked a readout on his wrist comm, and tugged
the rebreather and goggles from his face.
The firefight had left a vagrant tang in the air, the smell of ozone and
scorched alloy.
"Atmosphere is ena4," he told the rest of his band. "But oxygen levels
are equivalent to what you'd find at four thousand meters. Off your masks, but
keep them handy--especially you t'bac addicts." With some muffled laughter,
the team complied.
Beneath the apparatus, the human's dark-complexioned face was still a
mask: thickly bearded with coarse black hair, and rashed from temple to temple
with small diamond-shaped tattoos. His violet eyes surveyed the damage with
obvious dispassion.
There wasn't a security droid in sight, but the deck was littered with
their remains. Labor droids of several varieties continued to route a few pods