"Jerry Pournelle - Falkenberg 3 - Go Tell the Spartans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

transformer blew up in a spectacular shower of sparks. That would take out the electrified wire,
searchlights and alarm.
Men boiled out of the guard barracksтАФto drop as muzzle flashes stabbed from behind; it had been more
economical to buy only half of them. No need to use the mortar or the other fancy stuff.
"Follow me! ┬бV├бmonos, compadres!" Skida shouted, rising and leaping down the slope with her rifle
held across her chest.
Her followers rose behind her and flung themselves forward with a howl. Fools, she thought. All men
were fools, and fought for foolish things. Words, words like macho or honor or liberty.
They were into the house grounds before rifle muzzles spat fire from the second-story windows. Some
of the attackers fell, and others went to ground to return fire. Squads fanned out to their assigned targets,
dark figures against darkness. Skida dove up the stairs to the veranda and rolled across to slap a
stickymine against the boards of the main door, then rose to flatten herself against the wall beside it.
Two-knife was on the other side; they waited while the plastique blew the door in with a flash and
crump, then leaped through to land in a crouch. Her rifle and his light machine gun probed at the
corners. The entrance chamber was empty; it was a big room, a hallway with stairs leading up. Pictures
on the walls, books, couches and carpets and smell of cleanliness and wax under the sharp chemical
stink of explosives.
Skida Thibodeau is no fool, she thought, motioning Two-knife toward the stairs. The firing was coming
from the upper level; she covered him, ready to snap-shoot as he padded forward readying a grenade. No
fool who fights for words.
Someday she was going to have a house even finer than this, and a good deal else besides. And it would
all be nice and legal.
Because she would be making the laws.


TANITH:
"I still think I should be going with you, Colonel," Owensford said.
Falkenberg's office was hot. There was precious little air conditioning within the Legion's encampment:
a few units for the hospital, another for essential equipment. The command center, because it might be
important to think clearly and quickly without distractions. None for the Colonel's home, study or office.
The overhead fan stirred the wet air into languid motion, and Major Peter Owensford gratefully accepted
the glass of gin and tonic proffered by Falkenberg's orderly. Ice tinkled; the sound was a little different

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with most of the familiar office furniture gone. All that remained was the field-desk, the elaborate
carvings of battle scenes disguising highly functional electronics. Without the filing cabinets the fungus
growing in the corners showed acid green and livid purple, with a wet sheen like the innards of a
slaughtered beast.
"I'd like nothing better," Falkenberg said. "But the men will feel a lot better about going to New
Washington, knowing the families are safe on Sparta. They trust you. One thing, Major. Nothing is ever
as easy as it looks."
He looked up. "You're anticipating trouble?" The Colonel's face was as unreadable as ever, but
Falkenberg did not waste words. Theoretically, the Fifth Battalion's mission was training Field Force
regiments of regular troops for the embryonic Royal Spartan Army. There were said to be some bandits
on Sparta, but not enough to be a real threat. "Any special reason for that, sir? I thought this was a
training command. Troop exercises, staff colleges. Cakewalk."
Falkenberg shrugged. "No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy. And don't kid yourself,
Major. The Spartans have enemies, even if they're not telling us much about them."