"Robert A. Heinlein - Starship troopers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

did, and, anyhow, the Padre could bless me just as handily from where he
was. But he came over to me as the last stragglers stood up and pressed his
helmet against mine to speak privately. „Johnnie,“ he said quietly, „this is
your first drop as a non-com.“
„Yeah.“ I wasn’t really a non-com, any more than Jelly was really an officer.
„Just this, Johnnie. Don’t buy a farm. You know your job; do it. Just do it.
Don’t try to win a medal.“
„Uh, thanks, Padre. I shan’t.“
He added something gently in a language I don’t know, patted me on
the
shoulder, and hurried back to his section. Jelly called out, „Tenn . . . shut!“
and we all snapped to.
„Platoon!“
„Section!“ Migliaccio and Johnson echoed.
„By sections-port and starboard-prepare for drop!“
„Section! Man your capsules! Move!“
„Squad!“ -- I had to wait while squads four and five manned their
capsules and moved on down the firing tube before my capsule showed up
on the port track and I could climb into it. I wondered if those old-timers got
the shakes as they climbed into the Trojan Horse? Or was it just me? Jelly
checked each man as he was sealed in and he sealed me in himself. As he
did so, he leaned toward me and said, „Don’t goof off, Johnnie. This is just
like a drill.“
The top closed on me and I was alone. „Just like a drill,“ he says! I
began to shake uncontrollably.
Then, in my earphones, I heard Jelly from the center-line tube:
„Bridge! Rasczak’s Roughnecks . . . ready for drop!“
„Seventeen seconds, Lieutenant!“ I heard the ship captain’s cheerful
contralto replying—and resented her calling Jelly „Lieutenant.“ To be sure,
our lieutenant was dead and maybe Jelly would get his commission . . . but
we were still „Rasczak’s Roughnecks.“
She added, „Good luck, boys!“
„Thanks, Captain.“
„Brace yourselves! Five seconds.“
I was strapped all over-belly, forehead, shins. But I shook worse than
ever.
It’s better after you unload. Until you do, you sit there in total darkness,
wrapped like a mummy against the accelerations, barely able to breathe—
and knowing that there is just nitrogen around you in the capsule even if you
could get your helmet open, which you can’t—and knowing that the capsule
is surrounded by the firing tube anyhow and if the ship gets hit before they
fire you, you haven’t got a prayer, you’ll just die there, unable to move,
helpless. It’s that endless wait in the dark that causes the shakes—thinking
that they’ve forgotten you . . . the ship has been hulled and stayed in orbit,
dead, and soon you’ll buy it, too, unable to move, choking. Or it’s a crash
orbit and you’ll buy it that way, if you don’t roast on the way down.
Then the ship’s braking program hit us and I stopped shaking. Eight gees,
I would say, or maybe ten. When a female pilot handles a ship there is
nothing comfortable about it; you’re going to have bruises every place
you’re strapped. Yes, yes, I know they make better pilots than men do; their