"John Ringo - The Legacy of the Aldenata 3 - When the Devil D" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

really believed in the ethos of the warrior, the philosophy of the knight, sans peur, sans
reproche. And he had made his troops believe in it too, by his shining vision and his
intensity and his belief. And that shining vision had sustained them. And maybe this was
the cost.
Gunnery Sergeant Ernest Pappas, late of the United States Marine Corps, knew that
knights in armor had been nothing more than murdering bastards on horseback. And
Ernie knew that what you did was survive. Just survive. And maybe you managed to stop
the enemy and maybe you didn't. But as long as you survived to cause them grief that
was good enough.
But Gunny Pappas knew that wasn't what got the boys to get up and shoot. The boys
got up to shoot from the shining vision and because they believed with Ironman O'Neal
beside them there was no way they could lose. Because that was how it should be.
Pappas looked down at the smoke and flames drifting off the rubble of the city and
sighed. This sure as hell wasn't how it should be. And if Captain Karen Slight tried to
carry the battalion into that fire they would evaporate like water on a griddle. Because
they wouldn't believe.
"Major?" he said, putting his hand on Mike's shoulder.
"Ernie," the major answered. They had been together since O'Neal had taken
command of Bravo back in the bad days when it seemed like the entire Army had lost its
mind. They'd been through the ups and the downs, mostly downs. Whether they knew it
or not it was the team of Pappas and O'Neal that defined the 1st/555th and made it what it
was.
"That was a long goddamned climb you just forced on an old man."
"Great view, though. Don't you think?" Mike smiled sadly and carefully spit into his
helmet where the biotic underlayer picked up the spittle and tobacco juice and started it
on its long trail back to being rations.
Pappas glanced at the pistol and winced. "You need to quit listening to Dire Straits."
"What? You'd prefer James Taylor?"
"We've got a situation."
"Yep." Mike sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "Don't we always."
 "The 14th Division high-tailed it." The battalion sergeant major took his own helmet
off and shielded his eyes. "They're halfway to Buffalo by now."
"What else is new?" O'Neal intoned. "Nice artillery fire, though. Not hitting
anything, but very pretty."
"Corps arty. I doubt they'll stick around much longer. The whole corps is thinking
the 'bugout boogie' by now."
"Ten Thousand plugging the gap?"
"Yep."
"Yep."
There was a long silence while the sergeant major scratched at his scalp. The biotic
underlayer of the suits had finally fixed his perennial dandruff but the habit lingered on
long after the end of the problem.
"So, we gonna do anything about it, boss?"
"Do what?" the battalion commander asked. "Charge heroically into the enemy,
driving him back by force of arms? 'Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage'? Break
the back of the enemy attack and drive them into rout? Retake positions lost for months?
Drive them all the way back to Westbury and Clyde where they are supposed to be?"
"Is that what you're planning?" Pappas asked.
"I'm not planning anything!" Mike answered shortly. "But I suppose that is what
Jack is expecting. I notice he turned up."