"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

It had all been going perfectly until Herr Biederman, his pudgy German client, slipped and broke his leg.
Ben should have just left him to rot for ignoring his warning, but instead Ben had tried to haul the
bastard's sorry butt out of the caverns. Herr Biederman's bellows of pain drew the military police, and
Ben got caught for his efforts.

He turned from the bars and dropped onto the moth-eaten cot, then leaned back, studying the stains on
the ceiling. He heard hard-heeled boots tapping down the hall and something mumbled to the guard.

The heavy magazine slapped on the floor. "In there, sir. Fourth one down." He heard the fear in the
guard's answer.

The tapping heels approached, then stopped. He pushed up onto his elbows to see who stood in front of
the cell. He recognized the face of his old commander. Bald head, beak of a nose, gray eyes that drilled.
"Colonel Matson?"

"Somehow I knew you would end up here. Always a troublemaker." But the smile playing at the corner
of his lips softened the gruffness. "How have they been treating you?"

"Like it's the Hilton, sir. Room service is a bit slow, though."

"Isn't it always." The colonel gestured to the guard to open the cell. "Follow me, Sergeant Brust."

"It's Mr. Brust now, sir."

"Whatever," he said with a frown, turning away. "We've got to talk."

The guard interrupted. "Should I handcuff him, sir?"

Ben gave Colonel Matson his most innocent look.

"Yeah," Matson said. "You'd better. There's no trusting civilians."

"All right," Ben said, standing at mock attention. "You win.Sergeant Brust, reporting for duty."

Nodding, Colonel Matson waved the guard away. "C'mon, then, Sergeant. We're going to my office."

Ben followed him out of the prison, and after a short drive, they arrived at the Administration Building.
The colonel's office had not changed. Same walnut desk with stained coffee mug circles; walls festooned
with banners from the Old Guard; trophies lining the side wall. During the ride over, Ben could tell from
the hesitancy in an otherwise ebullient man that something of importance was being withheld.
 The colonel ushered Ben to sit, then Matson leaned on the edge of his desk and studied him. The
colonel's face was stone. Ben tried not to squirm under his gaze. Finally his old commander spoke, his
voice tired, "What the hell happened to you? The best of the best, and you just disappear."

"I had a better offer."

"What? Guiding yuppies with midlife crises on little thrill tours?"

"I prefer to call them 'Adventure Vacations.' Besides, I earn enough to help keep my dad's sheep station
afloat."