"Sean McMullen - The Devils of Langenhagen" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

Willy. You are the big hero."
Frau Guber's eyes widened in amazed astonishment at his words. "Oh! Little Willy!" she cried,
clapping her hands. "Such a brave little cubtiger."
I muttered something suitably modest, then eagerly tore at the chicken on the plate that was handed to
me. The visitors smiled condescendingly as I coughed and gasped between mouthfuls. Reissel and
Weber were sipping at their coffee from fine china cups, chicken bones at their feet. Four dead birds and
some ground up beans had atoned for the death of Major Schwartz. These odd, ridiculous people just
didn't belong on this battlefield, but I was losing my sense of the normal by then. Was a cold sun in a
brown sky any less real? They laughed often, inexplicably: at burning trees, at the sun.
"This is all so exciting, like the knights and tournaments," said Frau Guber. "What a pity the fighting is
so far away."
"Yes, and those little biplanes flew slowly, and close to the ground," Frau Guber added. "One could
see everything."
"If you please now, Major Gestner," said Reissel, "there will be no more engaging with fighters?" His
authority had been sapped by these people's food and drink. For a moment it seemed to me that the
clear-eyed, well groomed Gestner was reprimanding my new Schwarmf├╝hrer for having a dirty uniform.
"Of course, Major Reissel, we have to be a team," he said instead, but the illusion lingered. Frau
Guber was watching me, smiling through her eyelashes and rolling her hips ever so slightly. I looked
away, feeling embarrassed and foolish.
"Er, has your Horten 229 proved itself?" I asked Gestner.
"Ah yes, without question," he said, beaming. "All my life I have argued for it. Also, it is built mostly
from wood, with steel frames. We could produce thousands very easily."
"Something like my Lightning canard would be far easier to mass produce," interjected Guber, who
was shorter and more rotund than Gestner, but just as well turned out.
Gestner snorted. "The Horten is as far ahead of our own Me 262 jet as that plane is ahead of the
Allied fighters. It is so simple to build that we could revive the Luftwaffe, wipe out the Allied bombers
and fighters, and rule the skies again. To destroy that Tempest fighter was nothing-- "
"Hah, a mere Tempest!" snapped Guber, gulping his champagne.
He had been drinking a fair amount, and was gracefully unsteady on his feet.
"The biggest, fastest, most effective airscrew fighter of the war," retorted Gestner. "Your Lightning had
only a few test flights."
"So did your Horten. Against my interceptor your primitive jet would not stand a chance."
"You and your little putt-putt fighters," sneered Gestner. "What do you say, Hero Willy? Is a putt-putt
a match for a jet?"
"No, of course not," I said flatly, finding myself staring at the tiny swastika that hung at Frau Guber's
cleavage. "Jets are too fast. That's all there is to it."
"The theoretical limiting speed for a propeller driven aircraft in level flight is above 530 mph," Guber
insisted.
Again Gestner snorted. "Hah! Have you reached such a speed in yours?" said Gestner.
"Of course, I-- er, ach, damn you, I've, ah, read it in technical works."
"I have read that a cow jumped over the moon," I said, "but just being in print does not make it true. "
Guber, bordering on intoxication, bristled.
"Should you meet with a really good airscrew fighter, you would not scoff! " he snarled.
"I agree with young Willy," said Gestner, standing beside me and folding his arms. "Propeller is all very
well when one fights with biplanes, but here it must be jets. Why, it was like shooting chickens in a
farmyard this morning. "
"The finest airscrew fighters of this war-- "
"Are just faster chickens," laughed Gestner.
Guber drained his glass again, smashed it to the ground, and stamped off to his aircraft. Gestner and
the women laughed. When they agreed their voices blended as if they were singing a madrigal, but when