"Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold 3 - Better to Beg Forgiveness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

"Ah, yes," Bart nodded. "That would make sense. Streets are only needed in town."

The troops ignored them, apart from an occasional glance. There was a glacier of ice there to be broken
before any real cooperation took place. Alex frowned. They'd have to get on good terms with their
backup.

* * *

Elke was antsy. She had no weapons, none of her explosives, and was dependent upon people with far
less training to protect her. She was gritting her teeth and would deal with it, but that didn't make it fun.


It wasn't just the training. She was thirty and experienced. She had the maturity and psychology to work
with large amounts of explosive. Theseblbй kids imagined a firefight or two made them professionals and
veterans. Some of them talked like it on boards and fora, and when at parties.

Getting shot at made you experienced in one thing and one thing only: getting shot at. It didn't mean you
were trained well with your weapons, or that your opinion on anything was any more relevant. It just
meant you knew what it felt like to have your life in the sling.

There were construction people who knew that, not to mention explorers and mountain climbers.
Demolition experts knew it, too. Every time she set a charge, she held her life in the balance.

While she mused she watched. The locals had been shooting singly, but were starting to bunch into small
groups and offer greater volumes of fire. Most were inaccurate, but sufficient volume increased the odds
of a hit from astronomical to . . . what would it be called in English? Atmospheric?

She leaned out to get a better view as the vehicle bounced over the rough road, the trash, occasional
sticks and roofing materials. The breeze cooled her slightly, but it was still humid and smelly. There were
clumps of natives behind barricades of cars or rubble, but they didn't seem to care how good or bad the
cover was, or whether or not they were seen. She squinted and considered.

The fire picked up. Closer.

It wasn't well aimed. Some of the locals, "skinnies" in military slang, were holding their weapons
sideways to spray. Some were holding them overhead. Others were firing single shots for better effect,
but ruining that effect by snapping the weapons down, as if using them to throw bullets. None of them
were in cover now. They'd swarmed out of squat, blocky apartments built of extruded concrete, now
chipped and broken. They darted around in the streets shooting at each other mostly, with an occasional
burst toward the convoy.

Still, there was a lot of metal flying.

The vehicles accelerated, and Elke wondered why there weren't more closed and armored vehicles. Oh,
yes. The goal was to appear "nonthreatening" because they were peacekeepers, not combat troops.
Apparently no one had told the locals about that.

Then she heard screeching fiber tires on road and crashing brush guards and bumpers, and the convoy
bound up in a cluster. They were among two- to three-story buildings with empty windows, interspersed
with sprawling town houses from the early years of colonization.