"James Doohan - Flight Engineer Volume 2 - The Privateer-" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doohan James)

“That’s hardly a real reason not to tap Raeder for a mission,” he observed.
“No, sir.”
“You’re my devil’s advocate, Sjarhir,” the general remarked with a sardonic smile. “I’d think that the devil would
win more arguments.”
 “I think he does, sir.”
Scaragoglu barked a laugh. “You’ve been with me too long, son. I’m going to have to have you reassigned.”
“Whenever you like, sir.” But Sjarhir knew it wouldn’t be soon.

Peter sat at the bar in Patton’s; not drunk and not wanting to be, but nurturing a nice little buzz. It kept his mood
just elevated enough that he wasn’t crying in his beer. Or, in this case, actually, single-malt whiskey. The trick, he
thought, is to stay just on the edge of euphoria, but not try to actually achieve it—because then I’d probably get
maudlin and start to cry.
The others had left him here alone at his request. “I’ve got some thinking to do,” he’d said, cheerfully enough.
And his thoughts had been running rings around each other ever since.
They’re going to ground me. Just when I can fly again. They’re going to ground me. It wasn’t doing him any
good, but he couldn’t stop himself.
He glanced up at his glum face in the mirror behind the bar. The mirror was augmented to make the viewers look
younger, handsomer, happier than they actually were.
It’s having a hell of a time with me, Raeder thought. He looked extremely serious. But in a positive way, rather
than reflecting the overdose-on-sleeping-pills-slit-your-wrists-and-jump-off-a-cliff mood he was actually enduring.
Which means that in reality I must actually look like I feel. He forced himself to smile. You could almost hear the
mirror sigh with relief.
Raeder looked around. I really like Patton’s, he thought. It’s a nice place. He wished Sarah James was with him.
He doubted he’d feel the need to suck down liquid solace if he were in the lieutenant commander’s excellent
company. But he’d sent her away with the others and, to his dismay, she’d gone without argument. Ah, well. He
sighed, and added that brick to his pile of misery.
He took another sip of his whiskey and forced himself to contemplate the type of desk job a man of his experience
and training might be given. And sighed more deeply still.
“Whoa. That sounds like the weight of the world being shifted.”
Reader glanced to his right. A Marine captain was taking the seat beside him. The man had a pleasant grin and the
gold complexion and jet-black hair of an Indonesian.
“Not quite that bad,” Raeder said with an easygoing smile.
“Jason Sjarhir,” the Indonesian said, offering his hand.
Peter took it. “Peter Raeder.”
Sjarhir shook a finger at Raeder.
“Aren’t you the guy . . . yeah, you are. You’re the guy who brought in the Dauntless, aren’t you?”
“No. Montoya brought in the Dauntless. I’m a glorified mechanic, is what I am. Nothing happens to me. I just did
a little repair work. . . .”
“The hell you did!” Sjarhir exclaimed. He grabbed Peter’s hand and started shaking it vigorously. “I’d like to
shake your hand.”
You are, Peter thought in bemusement.
“Can I buy you a drink?” The captain raised his hand to attract the bartender. “I insist,” he insisted.
“I’m not saying no,” Raeder said. Free booze sounds good to me. When the drink came he raised his glass and
said, “To Captain Montoya. A truly gallant officer.”
Sjarhir raised his brows. “And gallant of you to salute her, Commander.” He lifted his glass. “Captain Montoya.”
And took a sip. Over the rim of his glass he assessed Peter’s condition and resolved that this would be the
commander’s last drink. He didn’t want to be accused of taking advantage of a man in his cups.
The Captain looked around and leaned closer to Raeder.
“Word is that Grettirson wants to censure Montoya.”
Peter’s jaw dropped. “Censure?” he said in disbelief. “He can’t do that! She did everything humanly possible to