"Jeff Verona - Myrmidons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Verona Jeff)

MYRMIDONSMYRMIDONS
by Jeff Verona
┬й 1998 - All Rights Reserved


Hell, in shades of freezing mud.
Angelo Cabesa lowered his head against the icy drizzle and checked his
watch
again. Eleven-fifteen. The transports would be down for dust-off at
fifteen-thirty. Cabesa had no doubts that the transports would arrive, but
he
had no illusions that they would arrive a minute before their scheduled
time.
Four more bone-chilling hours in this godforsaken swamp.
His squadron sat huddled under hastily-erected tarps, except for the few
who
were making half-hearted patrols of the perimeter. The locals, flush with
victory, seemed content to keep their distance, and Cabesa was grateful for
that. Bad enough that his dispirited recruits were being kicked off another
world, but it would be worse if some local boy decided to count coup on the
Terran forces. He didn't want to have to tell a grieving parent what had
happened to their son or daughter again.
Cabesa spat into the muck, immediately losing sight of grey saliva amidst
grey
mud. For the sixth time in as many battles they were leaving with their
tails
between their legs. The Colonial Rebellion was over, and Earth had lost.
The
past year had been nothing but rearguard actions, poorly coordinated and
unsupported, while Earth slowly pulled the Fleet home. His platoon had been
out on the Rim when the long retreat started, so they would be among the
last
ones back. But at least they're going back, he thought, as he watched the
listless soldiers under the tarps. I'll get them all home.
"Hey, Sarge, any news?" It was Yamora, and the private's unsteady gait
showed
that he was already drunk.
"Nothing new, private. Dust-off at fifteen-thirty."
Yamora's face tightened. "So we get to freeze our asses off until they
decide
they want to come get us, huh?"
"That's enough, private. Unless you want to walk patrol until dust-off?"
Cabesa grinned, tight-lipped, as Yamora shook his head and stumbled back
towards the rest of the squadron. Thank God it was just booze. The mudball
they were on was too undeveloped to support serious drugs, and the black
market had run dry months ago.
Cabesa yanked his boots free of the mud and began a slow circuit of the
camp.
Twenty years in the service, and he was still a glorified babysitter. The
greasy mud clung to his pants and heavy anorak and spotted the barrel of