"Williamson, Michael Z - Freehold 03 - Better to Beg Forgiveness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold (BAEN) (v5) [htm jpg])

The irony was that the Army felt exactly the same way about contractors. How could you trust someone
who fought for a paycheck? How could you be sure they wouldn't bug out? Why trust people who were
outside the chain of command, and exempt from the Military Code of Justice?

The reality was, all those same rules applied on contract, and they'd forfeit their pay and face criminal
charges if they bailed. They had some wiggle room, being an independent command, so they could
dispense with a certain amount of stupidity and paperwork. After all was said and done, however, they
were still soldiers.

The convoy was accompanied by a wave of dust. Everyone squinted as it rolled up. There were twelve


vehicles; quite an entourage for six bodyguards. Jason surmised that the rationale was probably enough
vehicles to dissuade attackЧon the troops, not on their "civilian" passengers. Alternately, they'd had
errands to run.

vehicles; quite an entourage for six bodyguards. Jason surmised that the rationale was probably enough
vehicles to dissuade attackЧon the troops, not on their "civilian" passengers. Alternately, they'd had
errands to run.

"Yes," Alex agreed, and showed ID. He was motioned up close and touched in a code on a proffered
pad screen. After checking that and his picture, and the officer nodded. Jason took in the exchange, and
looked at the officer closely. He was perhaps twenty-five, though his face was lined from exhaustion and
sun.

"Have your people climb in the grumbly," he said, indicating the next-to-last vehicle.

"Check," Alex said. He waved and pointed, and the team rose and moved. Bart had the controller for
the pallet, and rolled it closer to the line of vehicles to make attaching it for tow easier. In only a few
minutes they loaded up and were ready.

The grumbly, so nicknamed for the low exhaust note of its cycloidal engine, seated eight. This one was
configured with an open top, and had two pintles epoxied to it for mounting guns. That meant plenty of
visibility, and no armor.

Eight was the nominal capacity. There were six on the team, the driver and codriver, and then four more
troops squeezed in to the seats and adjoining bed. They were armed, so no one complained, even though
it meant being crunched against dusty, sweaty soldiers with bulky gear.

It was a military convoy. That meant the seats were coarse, not well-padded, badly worn and flattened,
and only better than nothing for reducing bumps from spine-shattering to mere bruise-causing. The
drivers were going balls-out, and the reason became obvious.

It was a local sport to take potshots at convoys. The access road was straight, flat, and had ample clear
space around it. Behind rises and distant buildings, however, a number of locals were shooting.

"Which faction are they?" Jason asked the sergeant in charge of their detail.

"Does it matter?" the sergeant grinned. "They shoot at everybody. It's just what they do."