"Pournelle, Jerry - Janissaries V1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

"You will leave him here," Grey-coveralls said. "As an earnest of your good intentions."
"Now, wait just a damned minute-"
"It's okay, Captain," Mason said. "I'm as safe here as out there."
"All right." Rick went back to the doorway. It opened for him. When he reached the entry chamber, another door opened on the side opposite the entrance to the chamber where the aliens sat. He saw a large empty compartment, more than fifty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide.
"Have the men go in there with their weapons," a voice said. It seemed to speak from the walls, but there was no sign of a speaker grille.
Rick jumped out of the ship and ran to his command post. Half the troops-perhaps more-had gathered there to stare at the ship. They stood clutching rifles and grenades for what comfort weapons could give.
"I did not entirely expect to see you again," Lieutenant Parsons said. "Welcome back."
"Thanks. We've got no time at all. Get the men aboard. Men, weapons; food, equipment, everything. Fast."
"But-" Sergeant Elliot was stammering. Rick had never seen the big sergeant confused before.
"That's a CIA ship," Rick said. He spoke loudly so that many of the troops could hear him. "Secret stuff. They've come to get us out, but they don't want the Cubans to see the ship, so we've got to load up quickly. Now move it."
"Sir!" Elliot ran over to the mortar emplacement, and some of the other troops gathered their gear and headed for the ship. Rick didn't know if he had fooled them or not, but the "CIA ship" explanation seemed the easiest and fastest way to handle the situation.
Parsons looked at him with raised eyebrows. His expression said clearly that he knew Rick was a liar. Then he shrugged and began urging the men onto the ship. Sergeant Elliot rounded up more.
Good troops, Rick thought. And each one had probably made the same decision: they knew what the Cubans could do. This was at least a chance.
The mortar team ran by with their tube, followed by others with the base and packs of mortar bombs. Men grabbed boxes and bandoliers of ammunition, stuffed their pockets with grenades. They were going aboard well armed.
Not, Rick thought, that it will do a hell of a lot of good. Weapons won't make us safer. But they do make us feel safer, and that's important.
"What is this nonsense?" Parsons demanded in a low voice. "You know that is not-"
"Can it. Hold onto the questions." Rick held up his hand and gestured toward the south. There was sporadic firing down there, some of it much closer than Hendrix could possibly be. The Cubans were mopping up the last pockets of resistance before coming up the hill. "Hendrix has had it," Rick said. "His last orders were to get as many men out as we could. Got a better way?"
"No. But-"
"But nothing. That ship won't wait, and we can't do anything for Hendrix and his people." Fear and a sense of guilt at abandoning their wounded made Rick speak more sharply than he had intended. "Shut up and get the men aboard. There's no time for talk."
Andrщ Parsons shrugged. "As you say. But there are questions you will answer."
"Don't I know it. Christ, Andrщ, don't argue. Just do it. Please."
"Very well." He went out to assist in dismounting the light machine-gun.
More troopers ran past. They carried packs, sleeping bags, helmets, ammo boxes, mess gear; the usual impedimentia of a marching army. They were not making much noise, and there was surprisingly little confusion.
Good troops, Rick thought. We did damned well, considering how little support we had. Not our fault we were beaten. For a collection of soldiers who had never served together before, we did damned well.
"That's the last," Elliot shouted.
Rick had been counting. "Only thirty-four went aboard."
Elliot looked ashamed. "I can't find any more, Captain."
They've run, Rick thought. Well, I can understand that. I thought of it myself. "Get aboard, then," he ordered. After Elliot climbed in, Rick followed. They were the last.
As soon as Rick cleared the entryway, the outer door slid closed. When he went through into the compartment with the troops, that entryway closed also. They were blocked off from the outside and from the control room-or whatever that room was, Rick thought. Mason was still in there with the aliens.
There was a loud musical tone, and a voice said, "Everyone will please sit on the floor. Quickly."
"Get down!" Rick shouted. "Hit the deck!" He sat heavily, just in time. There was a feeling of far too much weight, and some of the troops who hadn't obeyed quickly enough fell heavily. Loose equipment fell and rolled around the compartment.
There were sideways accelerations. The feeling of motion went on for a long time. Then it stopped and they had normal weight again.
"Medic!" someone shouted. One of the troopers was holding his wrist, broken in a fall to the deck. Sergeant McCleve went to the downed man. McCleve was an older trooper, a career soldier rumored to have graduated from a Mexican medical school and unable to obtain a license to practice in the United States due to heavy drinking. Rick didn't know, but McCleve had always seemed very competent.
The troops were all talking at once. Some swore, and one or two prayed. Others got up and roamed around the compartment. There was nothing to see.
They were in a large rectangular metal room, and very little more could be said about it. Rick couldn't even tell where the light came from; it was just there, and although there were multiple shadows, they were very faint.
"I think we got away," Rick shouted. "Let the Cubans figure that one out!"
There was a cheer that sounded artificial. Rick smiled grimly. He didn't feel much like cheering himself.
"Level with us, sir," Corporal Gengrich said. "How'd the CIA get a thing like this? And why the hell did they need us if they've got-" he waved expressively-"these?"
It was a good question, and Rick had no idea of how to answer.
"All in good time," Lieutenant Parsons said. "All in good time. Count your blessings."
"But-" Gengrich began.
"Shut up." Sergeant Elliot was nervous and fell back on military tradition as something familiar and understood. An officer had spoken, and that was that.
It won't last, Rick thought. Elliot had strong views about officers: he assumed they were competent, wanted them to be, demanded that they be. He knew that there were plenty of incompetents with bars and leaves, but he was proud enough of his Army that he'd kill himself trying to cover for them. But Rick suspected that Elliot would not hesitate to frag a bad officer for the honor of the corps.
There were more accelerations, this time not so violent. The ship was turning. Rick felt trapped, but he tried to keep his expression calm and unworried. He didn't know how successful he was at that, but he thought it was important that the troops think he was confident.
We are, he thought, thirty-six armed men and some heavy weapons, in a ship controlled by aliens-aliens! I don't have the faintest notion of where I am, where we're going, or what those creatures want with us.
He was certain they were in space. That decided one thing: they certainly didn't need any shooting. Not that there was anything to shoot at, but there were a lot of weapons available, and some might punch holes in the ship. The metal walls didn't seem too thick, and Rick had no idea of how strong they might be. Even supposing they could blow open a door and found air beyond it, and that they could go through the ship and kill or capture every alien in it-what then? They couldn't fly it; they couldn't land it; they couldn't even operate the food and water and air system.
And so far no one had threatened them.
Two hours later they were all certain they were in space. There was a brief warning tone, and a voice said, "There will be a period of no-weight. Please secure all equipment and secure yourselves."
The only thing they could secure themselves to was a low bar a bit above waist height that ran around two sides of the compartment like the rails ballet dancers use for exercise. Rick managed to get most of the troops over to those walls. They tied lines to as much of the gear as they could. They were just finishing when there was another musical tone.
They had no weight at all. Loose objects drifted slowly. Several men looked sick, and one was. The vomit floated around in large pools. Other men turned green.