"Destroyer 001 - Created, the Destroyer.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

"Your records," the captain said casually. He was a small, thin man who managed to keep his uniform pressed even in combat conditions.
"But the assault? You weren't supposed to start it before I got here."
"We didn't need you," the captain said. "Take your records and get your ass out of here. We've done our job."
MacCleary started to say something, then turned and walked to the tarpaulin. After 20 minutes of leafing through heavy parchments with Chinese lettering, MacCleary smiled and nodded his respects to the Marine captain.
"I will make a report expressing CIA gratitude," he said.
"You do that," the captain said sullenly.
MacCleary glanced at the farmhouse. Its dried mud walls were free of bullet pockmarks.
"How'd you go in? With bayonets?"
The captain pushed up his helmet with his right hand and scratched the hair over his temple. "Yes and no."
"What do you mean?"
"We got this guy. He does these things."
"What things?"
"Like this farmhouse deal. He does them."
"What?"
"He goes in and he kills the people. We use him for single-man assaults on positions, night-time work. He, uh, just produces, that's all. It's a lot easier than running up casually lists."
"How does he do it?"
The captain shrugged. "I don't know. I never asked him. He just does it."
"I think he should get the Congressional Medal of Honor for this," MacCleary said.
"For what?" the captain asked. He looked confused.
"For getting these damn records by himself. For killing... how many men?"
"I think it was five in there." The captain still looked confused.
"For this and for killing five men."
"For that?"
"Certainly."
The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Williams does it all the time. I don't know what's so special about this time. If we make a big deal now, he'll be transferred out. Anyway, he doesn't like medals."
MacCleary stared at the captain, looking for the traces of a lie. There was none.
"Where is he?" MacCleary asked.
The captain nodded. "By that tree."
MacCleary saw that barrel chest in the crotch of the tree, a helmet pulled over a head. He glanced at the farmhouse, the bored captain and then back at the man under the tree.
"Keep a guard on those records," he said, then he walked slowly to the tree and stood over the sleeping Marine.
He kicked the helmet from the head with enough dexterity not to cause injury.
The Marine blinked, then lazily opened those eyelids.
"What's your name?" MacCleary asked.
"Who are you?"
"A major," MacCleary answered. He wore the leaves on his shoulders for convenience. He saw the Marine look at them.
"My name, sir, is Remo Williams," the Marine said, starting to rise.
"Stay there," MacCleary said. "You get the records?"
"Yes sir. Did I do anything wrong?"
"No. You thinking of making a career out of the Marines?"
"No, sir. My hitch is up in two months."
"What are you going to do when you get out?"
"Go back to the Newark Police Department and get fat behind a desk."
"It's a waste of a good man."
"Yes, sir."
"Ever think of joining the CIA?"
"No."
"Would you like to?"
"No."
"Won't change your mind?"
"No sir." The Marine was respectful with a sullenness that let MacCleary know the sirs were short convenient words just to avoid complication or involvement.