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

ten meters. Bad news is that coverage in this area is a bit spotty. Nobody
expected a retreat into a swamp."
"I'll take it." Cabesa broke open a package of cleaning tissues and wiped a
film of mud from his visor before dropping it into place. The heads-up
display
glowed green before him, signifying the download in progress, then flashed
amber before returning to its usually ghostly grey. "Got it. Thanks,
Menendez."
"De nada. Oh, and you might switch to channel eight. It's sideband, and I
should be able to pick you up out to a kilometer or so."
"Will do." Cabesa switched to the side channel. "Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear. Good luck."
Cabesa switched back to the tactical channel and checked his equipment one
last time before ducking out of the armory and heading for the perimeter.
The
rain had intensified, and he could feel its cold fingers probing for gaps
and
seams. The grey overlay of his visor's HUD blended almost invisibly into
the
tan-and-iron terrain.
Minutes later he passed Harris' patrol and pressed on into the swamp. The
footing rapidly became treacherous, each step forcing him to pull his boots
from the mud with an audible 'pop.' At first he thought he could track the
missing soldier by his bootprints, but water quickly filled the
impressions,
obliterating them. After some thought, he decided to search a fan-shaped
area
about ninety degrees wide.
It took him half an hour to search a kilometer. But at least the exercise
is
 keeping me warm, he thought, as he stopped beside a large rock to swallow
water from his canteen. He screwed the top back into place, tucked the
canteen
away. And froze. A new sound intruded above the omnipresent drip of rain.
Voices.
Cabesa circled behind the rock and dropped to his belly. A quick tap on his
wristpad shifted his HUD into the infrared, and he scanned the territory
carefully, looking for signs of heat. There. Two figures, about ten meters
away. Hostiles. He pressed himself into the mud, feeling the cold press up
against him, as the equally cold rain stroked his back and thighs.
The figures shifted and stamped, and additional points of heat blossomed as
they lit cigarettes. Other than that, they seemed content to stay in place.
Five minutes passed. A cigarette fell into the mud and died. Then one of
the
figures stirred, laid a hand on the other, and began to move off to the
east.
The second figure finished his smoke and fell in behind. Rapidly, they
moved
away -- thirty meters, then fifty. Cabesa waited until they were two tiny
orange smears some two hundred meters away before rising to a crouch. He