"Jerry Pournelle - 01 - Janissaries" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

The mortar fire was nearer.
Rick Galloway heard the sharp crump! of at least five mortars. Then there was
silence for a moment. It was just twilight, and twilight does not last in the tropics.
Night came fast, and with it the sound of the African tropic highlands: birds,
crickets, unidenti-fiable creatures calling each other in the sudden dark. A warm
breeze rustled the dry grass on the hilltop.
There was a rattle of distant machine-gun fire. It sounded much too close.
“I think the roadblock has gone,” Lieutenant Parsons said. His voice was
surprisingly calm. “They will be here within the hour.”
“Yeah.” Captain Galloway swept his night glasses along the southern slope of the
hill, down toward the crossroad where he had left Major Hendrix with the
wounded. There was nothing to see. He turned carefully, letting the glasses sweep
the perimeter of the hill that for the moment was his entire world. He saw nothing
at all except the tiny remnant of his command. The men were digging in and had
done a good job with the little they had.
“Where the hell are those choppers?” Galloway demanded. He felt sweat drip
from his forehead despite the cooling breeze that sprang up after sun-down.
“Elliot.”
“Sir.” Sergeant Elliot was at the other end of the trench where Galloway stood.
The trench had not been bunkered, but there was no time to construct better
defenses for the command post.
“Can’t you raise headquarters?” Galloway de-manded.
“No, sir. Warner’s trying.” The big sergeant turned back to the radio.
“Perhaps we should let the men run for it,” Par-sons suggested. “Some may
escape.”
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20...20Pournelle%20-%2001%20-%20Janissaries.html (2 of 184) [12/29/2004 12:13:08 AM]
 JANISSARIES


Rick shook his head. “What’s to run to?” he asked. Parsons shrugged. “We sell
our lives to no purpose—”
“We’re giving our employers another hour,” Gal-loway said. His voice was as
bitter as he felt, al-though he had tried to hide his feelings. “There’s no point,
André,” Galloway said. “We don’t speak the language, we’re the wrong color,
and we’re sur-rounded. I expect half the troops have run anyway. They know the
score. Elliot!”
“Sir.”
“How many effectives do we have?”
“Maybe fifty, Captain.”
“So there you are,” Rick said. “About half the number we brought up this silly
hill. The rest have run.” He knew he was talking too much, saying too many
words; but he was young and inexperienced and afraid.
Parsons nodded in the darkness. He took a plastic bottle from his belt. “Wine?”
“Sure.” Rick took the liter bottle and drank a couple of swallows of the cheap
local wine. Parsons always carried a bottle. Rick was certain that “Par-sons”
wasn’t the lieutenant’s real name. Parsons spoke French and German and
sometimes let slip a few words about Legion experience.
It hardly mattered. Rick wasn’t a real captain, either. The operation was CIA, and