"Williamson, Michael Z - Freehold 02 - The Weapon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold (BAEN) (v5) [htm jpg])

Let me start at the beginning. This will be graphic, so don't read it if violence and human suffering bother you.

Everyone has heard of Black Operations, the utterly clandestine division of Freehold Military Forces Special Warfare. You probably know how badly we beat up Earth during the war. However, virtually no one knows what actually goes on within our ranks. This narrative is of course,not complete, since there's far too much that you as the reader have no need to know, especially about me. I'm the man who destroyed most of Earth.

* * *

I went into the military to get away from home. I suppose, looking back now, that my home life wasn't that bad. At the time, however, it seemed interminable, oppressive and objectionable. So I went into the military. The inconsistency in that should be obvious to all readers.

The recruiter I spoke to was honest, but did have a quota. He tried to get me into a slot in missile control. I didn't want missile control. It had few civilian applications and little activity or travel. I chose combat communications, which had some technical transference to the civilian world and lots of travel. A tentative date was set for me to depart and I took the battery of standard tests.

Less than a week after that, I got a phone call. "Is Kenneth Chinran there?" the caller asked. He was military, in uniform and looked sharp. In fact, he was huge. He'd make a good recruiting vid actor.

"That's me," I replied.

"Mister Chinran, you recently enlisted in combat comm. I'd be interested in offering you a different slot, with a bonus," he said. "Can we meet?"

"Sure," I said. I didn't figure I'd be interested in switching, but I'd give him a fair listen.

He flew in, dropped and landed on our apron a short while later. I walked outside into the glaring summer Iolight and met him as he left the vehicle. I really didn't want him to meet my parents. They'd be polite, hospitable and a bit condescending. They like to think they've done it all, but they come across as insecure.

"I'm SergeantWashington ," he said. He was as tall as I, had fairly obvious African ancestry with some of the local influx of Hispanic, Indonesian and American. His muscle tone was incredible and he was obviously very competent, deadly and self-secure. I knew I'd never look like that, skinny, gawky kid that I was.

We left as soon as I strapped down and we chatted as he flew. "You blew the tests off the scale, Ken. May I call you Ken?" he said.

I love hearing about how smart I am. I'm still waiting for someone to offer me money commensurate with my brains. "Sure. Or Kenneth. I don't mind," I replied.

"Good deal," he said. "Sure you want to go into combat comm? Can I ask why?"

I shrugged. "It has a bit of travel. The technical training is good, and it gets me out of here," I said. "Here" was New Rockville, a small suburb ninety kilometers south ofWestport . It's an okay town, but hardly the center of Freehold culture, much less of the galaxy.

"I have a position available that's better. Not to put the combat comm guys down, I mean, but—"

"What is it?" I interrupted. I didn't want to hear a spiel, just the facts.

He shifted drive ratio fast and said, "Special Warfare. We get to travel too, and sometimes first class and in high circles. We get a lot more training, some of which has civilian applications, even though people might not realize it. If you want action, then we're your people."

I started thinking. I knew of Special Warfare, of course. I'd heard lots of stories, and had no idea which were real and which were rumors. The idea was appealing, but . . .

"I couldn't possibly pass the physical," I said. Not a skinny guy like me.

"Sure you can," he said. "After Basic, we have our own course. You'll be in adequate shape then, and we'll build you up from there. You'll be hardcore by the time you're done."

Now that sounded good. I had no illusions about huge muscles, but strength and agility appealed. I loved gymnastics and dancing and I never backed down from a bully. The idea of being able to actually clobber them instead of being splattered gave me a warm feeling.

"Let's go to your office," I said. It didn't take much convincing to make me agree to switch over. I held out for the bonuses they offered, though. He scheduled me for another battery of tests, mental, physical and psychological, that made the standard military placement look like an elementary school assessment test. I was worn out when I finished.

My parents were convinced I was making a huge mistake. When I got home, my mother started in on me. "I thought you wanted to work with comms? That was the whole reason you signed up; for the school."

"I can still go to that school. I get to do other stuff, too," I said.