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

Last on the couch was Jason Vaughn, with his attention focused on his computer.

"What are you writing, Jason?" Alex asked.

"Letter home," Vaughn said tersely. Vaughn had a wife and kids on Grainne Colony. He'd probably
memorized the maps already, and his eyes kept flicking up and forward toward the flight deck, in nervous
habit. Vaughn was a pilot if need be, an armored vehicle driver if need be, a mechanical master, and very
professionally paranoid. He swung from reticent to lecturing, and if he said something was so, it almost
always was. Alex was glad to have him along. Great operator.

They were all great operators. That's why they got paid better than doctors, lawyers, and most
corporate mid execs. If you wanted someone with that skill set and talent, who'd put themselves between
their employer and an incoming bullet, you had to pay.Contractor had been the polite term for a long
time now, but the proper term wasmercenary .

They were on contract to guard Balaji Bishwanath, the incoming temporary president of Celadon on
Salin. Celadon was a backwater haven for terrorists and pirates, and enough events had finally happened
to draw notice to those facts. The UN Forces were pacifying it, at least on paper, and the Bureau of
State moved in the interim president selected by the Colonial Alliance while a new, functioning
government was created. Many of the gangs, syndicates, clans, and tribes didn't want the peace
Bishwanath promised. Contingents from every faction on the planet wanted him dead.


That wouldn't really matter in the long run. More troops would come until the UN/Alliance's goal was
accomplished. But as with common criminals, there was a mind-set with certain people that such fights
were "winnable." It was only fair, and professional, to give Bishwanath proper security presence while
things settled down. The fact that he was seen as such a figurehead was, in fact, a boost to his credibility.

"Do you think we can get other contracts here, boss?" Aramis asked. "We've got diplomats,
Assemblypersons, CEOs, and executives. I figure this could last a decade."

Money was one of the big appeals, Alex admitted to himself.

He replied, "The execs want to invest in—by which they mean exploit—a developing economy, and
need protection from the exploited. There's an occasional correspondent who can afford our rates for a
few days who might sign on, too. That's Corporate's job. We're Operations. We beat on enraged
peasants and dedicated assassins, and cash our checks. Do it well, I'll give you a good review, Corp will
find you jobs."

"I'll do my best."

Bishwanath rated more than six guards. They were just his immediate circle of "civilian" guards. Around
and outside were plans for eighty-four more, four platoons of what were called Long Range
Reconnaissance troops. At one time, such were called "Special Operations," but the euphemisms were all
designed to make the military sound not quite so violent to an increasingly sensitive culture. A decadent,
wimpy one in Alex's opinion.

Alex, Bart, Elke, and Jason all knew a cross section of those Recon soldiers. They'd served with them
or across from them. Shaman Mbuto and Aramis Anderson hadn't moved in that circle, but Shaman had
an existing history and was respected. Anderson was the new guy and took it personally. At the same