"Jerry Pournelle - Sword & Sceptre 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pournelle Jerry)

relevant to battle capabilities. Not now. Still, it made an impres-sive ceremony.
"Attention to orders!" The ser-geant major read from his clipboard. Promotions, duty schedules, the
daily activities of the Regiment, while the visitor sweated.
"Very impressive, Colonel," he said. "Our Washingtonians couldn't look that sharp on their best day."
John Christian Falkenberg, III nodded coldly. "Implying that they mightn't be as good in the field, Mr.
Secretary? Would you like an-other kind of demonstration?"
Howard Bannister shrugged. "What would it prove, Colonel? You need employment before your
regiment goes to hell. I can't imag-ine chasing escapees on the CoDo-minium prison planet has much
at-traction for good soldiers."
"It doesn't. When we first came things weren't that simple."
"I know that too. The Forty-sec-ond was one of the best outfits of the CD Marine Corps. I've never
understood why, it was disbanded instead of one of the others. I'm speaking of your present situation
with your troops stuck here without transport—surely you're not intending to make Tanith your life-time
headquarters?"
Sergeant Major Calvin finished the orders of the day and waited patiently for instructions. Colonel
Falkenberg studied his bright-uni-formed men as they stood rigidly in the blazing noon of Tanith. A faint
smile might have played across his face for a moment. There were few of the four thou-sand whose
names and histories he didn't know.
Lieutenant Farquahar, a party hack forced on him when the Forty-second was hired to police
Hadley, but who'd become a good officer and elected to ship out after the action . . . Private Alcazar, a
brooding giant with a raging thirst, the slowest man in K company but he could lift five times his own
mass and hide in any terrain ... dozens, thousands, each with his own strengths and weaknesses, add-ing
up to—a regiment of mercenary soldiers with no chance of going home and an unpleasant future if they
didn't get off Tanith.
"Sergeant Major."
"Sir!"
"You will stay with me and time the men. Trumpeter, sound Boots and Saddles, Full Equipment, and
Ready to Board Ship."
"Sir!" The trumpeter was a griz-zled veteran with corporal's stripes. He lifted the gleaming instrument
with its blue and gold tassels, and martial notes poured across the pa-rade ground. Before they died
away the orderly lines dissolved into masses of running men.
There was less confusion than Howard Bannister had expected. It seemed an incredibly short time
before the first men fell back in. They came from their barracks in small groups, some in each company,
then more, a rush, and fi-nally knots of stragglers. Now in place of bright colors there was the dull drab
of synthetic leather bulg-ing over Nemourlon body armor. The bright polish was gone from the weapons.
Dress caps were re-placed by bulging combat helmets, shining boots by softer leathers. As the Regiment
formed Bannister turned to the colonel.
"Why trumpets? I'd think that rather out of date."
Falkenberg shrugged. "Would you prefer shouted orders? You must remember, Mr. Secretary,
mercenaries live in garrison as well as in combat. Trumpets remind them they're soldiers."
"I suppose."
"Time, Sergeant Major," the ad-jutant demanded.
"Eleven minutes, eighteen sec-onds, sir."
"Are you trying to tell me the men are ready to ship out now?" Bannister asked. His expression
showed polite disbelief.
"It would take longer to get the weapons and artillery battalion equipment together, but the in-fantry
could board ship now."
"I find that hard to believe—of course the men know this was only a drill."
"How would they know that?"
Bannister laughed. He was a stout man, dressed in inexpensive business clothes with cigar ashes