"L. E. Modesitt - Spec-Ops" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

He might have slept in the dark pod. Would have slept, except for the majors
overscreening and the checks. Time passed. Slowly.

DeJahn stifled a yawn, compared closure rate once more. Ran a complete
monitor on the bioindicators, then reported. 1630. On course, on target.

Stet, Tech deJahn.

More dark and quiet time. Time where his thoughts, behind the link, lingered
on Meralez. Good body, better voice. Reminded him of Margot. Probably not good.
Wished Meralez weren't pseudo les-butch. Could be a front. Keep the tech types
from pawing. Hazard of spec-ops. Had to find ways to remember who you were.
Sex and women helped. Did men help the female techs? Or not? That why so many
women partnered with other women?

More time passed in darkness. More chitterings as the chimbats got restless,
their soporifics wearing off. Screen checks came, went.

Ten to release, Tech. Request acknowledge.

Stet. Ten to release. DeJahn hated the obvious. Major knew he was ready.
Linked, wasn't he? Mil-type reduns still plagued pros like him.

Chitterings increased. Chimbats getting restless as the sops wore off.

Five to release.

Stet.

The chitterings were almost as bad as the scuttling and scrapings that came
with the scroaches, and the smell...Tech ops said there wasn't sensie smell.
Spec-ops techs knew better.

Stand by for release. Release... now!

Disorientation. Always that. Hundreds of sound-sights flashed through the
integrator before settling into a shifting mosaic as the chimbats fanned out, spreading
wings, pulsing the terrain, receiving sound images.

Backwater canal below, hard to judge but no more than thirty feet wide. Grimy
gray-brown surface showed the wakes of the gators. No sonic-visual on the gators.
They weren't designed that way. Water blocked most of the bats' sonar return.

DeJahn squinted to focus the image. Wasn't a real squint, but the sensie-link
equivalent. Trees slumped bedraggled limbs into the water on both sides of the
canal.

He checked the mind sidescreen. Target was six thousand yards at zero seven
one. Chimbats were sweeping across the water, scooping up insect fuel, following
the canal at zero-four-four. Another two thousand, and he'd have to nudge them