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

didn’t become ship commanders; Speed pilots did. One hoped in the near future.
He met her eyes. Hers were calm, confident.
“It does seem that Speed pilots get promoted faster, doesn’t it?” he said with a smile.
She smiled in return. “Yes, sir.”
“All right.” He nodded decisively. “If you’ll agree to, and pass, a flight-simulation test, I’ll approve your request
for a transfer to the Speed squadron.” He rose and extended his hand to her. “Good luck, Lt. Commander.”
Sarah rose and took the captain’s hand. “Thank you, sir,” she said, barely able to contain her joy. She saluted, and
he returned it, crisply this time. She pivoted neatly and left his office. Inside she was turning handsprings.

Sjarhir suggested that they walk. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
“It’s halfway across the station,” Peter protested, half amused. “I’m not drunk, y’know.”
The Indonesian smiled, a mere quirk of the lips.
“I do know. But when dealing with the Marine general it’s always best to have as many of your wits about you as
you can manage to scrape together.”
Raeder gave him an old-fashioned look. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve never heard a story about someone who’d scraped
together enough to outsmart him.”
“That’s because,” Sjarhir said, starting off, “it takes more than intelligence.” He stopped and looked over his
shoulder. “You coming?”
Peter frowned and looked around. Not that he wanted to get into Scaragoglu’s hands any sooner than necessary,
but a five-klick walk would just prolong the agony. He grimaced. There weren’t any cabs available anyway. And
Sjarhir was already sauntering off. Raeder watched him go, certain the captain would turn around again. But he
didn’t.
With a soft hiss of impatience Raeder started after him. Why should he wait for me? He knows I’ve got nowhere
else to go.
They walked in silence for awhile. Peter trying to square what seemed to be a desperate move with himself, and
Sjarhir thinking whatever dark thoughts spooks think.
“All right,” Raeder said, “what does it take besides intelligence?”
Sjarhir’s lips quirked.
“Not that it will do you any good to know,” he said. “But it takes sheer ruthlessness and a great deal of power.
The general can do almost anything he wants with, or to, almost anyone he wants.” He cast a sideways glance at
Raeder. “I say almost because it seems logical that there would be some limitations on his power.” He smiled. “But I
could be wrong.”
Raeder grunted and picked up the pace.
“And for all I know,” the captain said, easily keeping up with him, “it could well take more than that. Because to
the best of my knowledge, which is extensive, no one ever has gotten the best of him.”
Raeder glanced at him, and grunted skeptically.
“Why does the high command put up with that sort of thing from a lowly line general?”
“Because he takes the dirty little jobs nobody else wants, and gets them done—successfully, so far.”
“God help him if there’s a major screwup, then.”
“Oh, yes. But I wouldn’t bet the integrity of my hull seals on that happening, if I were you, Commander.”
Raeder considered that. Then he marched resolutely down the cool, night-dimmed corridors of Ontario Base, his
arms swinging freely at his sides. He looked like a man with a purpose instead of a man running from one doom into
another.

Raeder’s lurid imagination had clothed Scaragoglu in a burgundy satin smoking jacket, seated him in a deep
armchair in a dimly lit, luxuriously furnished room and given him a brandy to swirl around a balloon goblet. Maybe
there had been a pipe or a cigar in there too.
The reality was a rather spartan, well-lit office with the general wearing a slightly rumpled undress Marine -
uniform.
And it was whiskey.