Текст книги "The Natotevaal Recruits (СИ)"
Автор книги: Андрей Демидов
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 17 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 7 страниц]
Everything reminded him of the German Raumwaffe Academy.
The crew and technicians had the same leisurely routine, but it was a different schedule. He could feel the smell of food from the galley, but it was a different aroma.
The alarming ring of training alert, the sound of hurried footsteps of those running to the battle stations, jerky commands to the gun-layers and the buzzer of the main computer with a training object caught in the cross of its aiming rays: everything was different, but the Colonel was up to his neck in his memories.
There were dreary lieutenant sprees in the officers' dormitory at New Year"s Eve, after a canceled leave, crazy antics in the bars of Bremen at the time of developing urban warfare tactics, sleepless watches in anticipation of a new war with the Islamists.
Von Conrad thought about his feelings, and he didn"t feel any depressing nostalgia.
He had been a soldier and he was still a soldier who had no connections with his past, he didn"t even have a family.
He accepted everything that happened to him as a sequel of his military career: "Now I am fifty. Maybe in a year I would have been appointed a Raumwaffe brigadier general. But this is nothing compared to the post of Natotevaal lieutenant. "
Yagd Zherr brought him back to reality. – Cadets von Conrad, on the firing line!
The training shooting gallery was lit with bright bluish lights. Whitehouse and Dybal were busy with choosing the weapons from the shelves. Mackliff was quickly counting up his results by the targets.
–On the firing line, 'repeated the instructor and handed a heavy "shtralier" to the Colonel.
Von Conrad raised his weapon and almost without aiming, released a cluster of blinding antimatter into the dancing target right over the head of petrified Mackliff.
–Target destroyed, stated the computer that controlled the motions of the targets.
–Bravo, Colonel. You have almost shot my head off! – yelled Mackliff pinching his nose as he has not yet got used to the smell of melted from the shots silicone shapes.
–Attention, students. Von Conrad made a mistake when firing – said yagd Zherr after the students formed up, the shtralier was set to long-range combat mode. If the target were a Swer in reserve armor, that would have produced zero effect. For this cause the weapons must be set to close combat-core mode. – May I ask a question, yagd instructor? – Aydem exited the line. – Why is the shtralier"s range less than a mile?
–To answer this question I would have to tell you about the weapon"s concept of operation, and this is security information. The range is limited, and that's all you need to know. Join it up! – Yagd Zherr went to the armory shelf and took out something very similar to the regular army rifle with telescopic sight.
To kill the targets at a distance of more than one Ker automatic rifles with gunpowder cartridges, equipped with explosive bullets with A-acid capsules are used. When it spreads through the body tissues, A-acid causes instant death. The efficacy of fire from this rifle reaches seven and a half Kers. It all depends on the experience of the shooter and the condition of the beam sight.
–And where should we aim at the Swer in order to break through the armor? – Asked Whitehouse, quietly putting rifle cartridges in his pocket, hoping that they would suit to his "Viking Combat".
– We don"t know for sure, shrugged the instructor. – During the war, we were not able to capture any live or dead Swer. But the experts, who examined the wreckage of their ships and planetary techniques, believe they are humanoid.
And one more thing, students: the war, which you have gotten yourselves into, is not something that you have on Earth, with hand-to-hand fights, reconnaissance missions for "tongues", and all other nonsense. Here you shoot at the enemy raider for a distance of hundred Tokhs and that"s it. And either you or he get scattered to pieces. Planetary operations are no better. Either we or they are in powerful fortifications. And again nuclear annihilation duels, powerful machines, grinding everything on their way. All that is left at the end of the battle is just scorched desert. This is not about the captured or the corpses.
– Yagd Zherr, watch your language. What are these "rubbish" and "shooting things"? – yagd Tskugol entered the shooting gallery with a tired and concerned expression on his face. – How's it going? The instructor took the position of attention, palms on his lower back, chin upwards:
–Very capable students, yagd commander. Do their best.
–When are they going to study "Planetary operations and Assault landing" according to their program? – asked the Captain-Commander and Shiela"s blossoming face appeared from behind him. Today she was wearing a slinky turquoise catsuit with the orange Secretary-on-duty armband.
–My Marilyn is a hundred times better – looking at her, sniffed Whitehouse, but still straightened the hair on his forehead.
Dybal and Mackliff stared at her, open-mouthed:
–What a chick -Dybal raised an eyebrow, realizing that Shiela looked him over in a split second, in one movement. As if she scanned his figure from head to toe.
–I had already seen her once. She brought documents to the commander.
–Stop talking in the ranks – abruptly snapped von Conrad, discharging functions of a training platoon sergeant.
Meanwhile, the instructor was stubbornly arguing with yagd Tskugol:
– They are not yet acquainted with the work of the field emitters and compensatory protection, yagd commander. How can I tell them about the capture technique of the caponier type weapon? They will not understand!
–It"s all right, they will make it out. Yagd Zherr, I understand your desire to provide training of the highest level, but yagd Tote Yaschemgart requires a new battle group. It should be ready by tomorrow night. We have a serious task in prospect.
–We do not have time, yagd commander.
–Exclude medical care and maintenance of machinery. Only military disciplines. That's an order – yagd Tskugol firmly shook his head. – Natote!
Natote! – Replied the instructor, and, noticing that Dybal was talking with Shiela using intricate gestures, said: Shiela Renenna there is evening time for exchanging winks with the students. Go and perform your duties.
Mackliff pushed the navigator with his elbow:
– See, Al, evening time. It's not as hopeless as it seems.
– Got it, got it. Well, it would be even better if she brought a pretty girlfriend for the company, and have normal physiology. – Dybal grinned pointedly and added, – Hush or the Colonel will overhear. Look, how he stares at us. Some campaigner. He is so into it, damn first sergeant.
Yagd Zherr was thoughtfully pacing down the line for some time, and finally said:
– Now you can have a break until six o"clock. Then you will have two lectures on VSN structure and planetary operations. And you will pass the qualifying exams afterwards. I advise you to study the topics of providing medical care, maintenance and operations with the pump yourselves. You may find these questions in your tests. Next, do not loiter about the base and do not break into sealed rooms, – Instructor pointedly looked at Whitehouse, -First of all, this concerns you, cadet. That"s all. Dismissed.
Yagd-instructor, is there a restaurant or a cafй here? – Mackliff asked carefully. – I would like to get distracted, relax, before the military campaign so to speak.
–You students are not supposed to visit the restaurant before graduation.
– What do we need the checks for, then?
–To acquire the necessary personal items and products of hygiene: toothpaste, soap, razor blades, cigarettes, for those who smoke, – yagd Zherr looked at meticulous Mackliff with displeasure and left the shooting gallery.
–Come on, Al, – Mackliff tugged Dybal by his sleeve. -Let"s take a stroll around the local sights.
Dybal and Mackliff slipped out of the small room unnoticed by the colonel, passed the gateway and turned to the peripheral passage.
There, in the dim crossroad, in the heart of the base "Ziem-002", they came across the curfew patrol:
–Show your ID cards and recognition badges.
–Tell me, Lieutenant, where can we have a snack? We are going into battle tomorrow – said Dybal, while the patrol chief was checking their documents with a tester.
– There is a canteen for the rank and file. Cadet – replied the lieutenant, glancing at his stripes. – Your documents are in order. Natote!
Patrols that stood behind the lieutenant, with short shtraliers atilt, grinned proudly.
– What morons – sighed Mackliff when the patrol had turned around the corner, and spat through clenched teeth. – I"m itching to kick their ass. They"ve got the lieutenant zigzags, what a big deal.
He did not finish his sentence, because they had almost bumped into Whitehouse:
–Hey, guys! Where were you hanging about? I've hooked up – as Dybal says -with some cute girls – he wore his field captain overalls, glued seams of which cracked on his mighty shoulders. The pilot smelled cognac, cigarettes and nice cologne.
–Hell, Ronnie, where did you get that awful hoody? You will get caught by the patrol – said Mackliff, horrified. – Come on, let"s go, quickly.
–Have you managed to break into the restaurant for officers? – asked Dybal while running. Whitehouse nodded cheerfully.
In the residential sector Whitehouse stopped before one of the doors and leaned against the wall with his shoulder:
–Listen to me, guys. That redhead is mine. Got it? We don"t need a scandal.
–Colonel is coming– Dybal exclaimed anxiously, having noticed a familiar silhouette through the transparent doors of the descending elevator. – He's going to chaise us to our technical class.
–Hurry up, guys, or von Conrad will not leave us alone. – Whitehouse pushed them into the room with such force that they slowed down just before the opposite wall, knocking down a couple of chairs on the way, and nearly taking down a girl who was sitting at the table. She got frightened and almost screamed, but Whitehouse was able to cover her mouth with his hand:
–Hush, Octa.
Colonel von Conrad walked out of the elevator and when he was passing the slammed door, suspiciously sniffed in the air:
–Smells like "Ktorvik". Only Ronald can smoke this shit – and he moved on, looking around. – Strike me dead, but where are they?!
–He left – Ronald sighed with relief, leaning against the door with his ear. – Let's get acquainted. These are my friends.
Mackliff has already filled the glasses:
–To the get-together.
The "Red-haired" girl, whom the pilot ominously warned about, turned out to be Shiela Renna, who has changed after duty.
Dybal was immediately beside her with his usual trick of rubbing a coin into his palm. Another girl, as tall as Shiela, in captain's uniform unbuttoned to the waist and a chevron of the Scan service, was called yagda Kamista Raga.
She was whispering something in the ear of the third, a very young-looking girl who with every word of her friend blushed up to her ears adorned with earrings made of clear greenish stone.
–Whitehouse, are your friends also commandos? – Asked the girl in captain's uniform.
–Yes. This is Alexander Dybal, former navigator of the "Independence" shuttle – Whitehouse glanced at Dybal, who was pouring something that looked like dried-fruits compote to Shiela"s glass, with displeasure, – And this is our flight engineer, John Mackliff.
– We are the "cold stellar plasma" – Mackliff stuck out his chest and raised the glass. – Nice to meet you.
–That"s great – said the younger one. – I am Octa Tantala, a physician. I've never met a commando who was alive.
Whitehouse even choked.
– Oh, no, that"s not what I meant – Octa corrected herself. – I'm just so happy – she blushed and took the glass from Mackliff"s hands.
– Well, – Mackliff clinked the glasses and knocked back a hefty portion of cognac. – And how old are you, baby?
– Sixty. – Said Octa and blushed again. – But I have already graduated.
– Don"t you worry, pal. That is like sixteen for them – Whitehouse patted the stunned flight engineer on the shoulder. – So, she is quite of age.
Kamista Raga sipped the cognac, grimaced and lit a scented cigarette:
–Do you like dancing?
– Bare assed on the frying pan of Arab napalm batteries, – grinned Dybal, neatly pushed aside from Shiela by Whitehouse.
–A frying pan? – wondered Kamista, pulling Dybal closer to her.
–Ah, never mind. El is the big joker. He dances like a flea in a bath.
– A flee in a bath?
–And Danny is a great singer, – slyly smiled Mackliff. – Sing Ronnie, do not be shy.
–Get lost, John. – Dismissed the pilot and carefully like a sapper on demining, kissed Shiela in the ear. He felt no indignation or a punch in the face from her and Whitehouse went on kissing her long neck.
–Please sing, Ronnie – Shiela imploringly clasped her hands, slightly pulling away from her high-handed admirer.
Whitehouse faltered. He swallowed the brandy and cleared his throat:
–Do you have a guitar?
–A guitar, with the strings, clink-clank. – He imitated running over the chords.
–Some musical instrument – the navigator made a running over gesture, pretending to play the piano.
–Ah, the sequencer – Octa extracted a flat plastic rectangle dotted with wide keys from the shelf. – Here you go.
– What kind of an instrument is that? – said Whitehouse, horrified. He touched the keys and turned on the switch. The female restroom of lock scanner shifts filled with rustling of leaves and chirping of birds.
–Nice background – stated Dybal, looking at Kamista. – Do you have another little room here?
–The REM sleep room, – she nodded and stood up. – Shall I show it to you?
–This will do. Lead on, oh, Amazon! – the navigator took a sip from the bottle and went after yagda Kamista. – REM sleep, this is exactly what we need.
The two of them, somewhat smoothly and smartly disappeared behind an oval door.
Meanwhile Whitehouse tinkered with sequencer buttons, filling the space of the room either with howling of monsters or with the screeching sound of iron on the glass:
–I can"t do it.
–There"s no going back! – Taunted Mackliff, who has already loaded himself up with cognac. The lighter was shaking in his hand, and he was not able to light a long cigarette.
–Take this, it won"t do – Whitehouse gave the sequencer back to Shiela and having cleared his throat one more time, straightened up. – I will sing acapella.
–That's right, Ronnie, sing a ballad! Go for the ballad! – shuddered Mackliff, looking like a sports fan. Girls noisily cheered him up with screams and claps.
Whitehouse started slowly; warming up, as if from a distance, gradually adding:
The dawn"s turning gray over the lea,
And thin fog floats over it.
A banner flutters above the main reg,
A trap for the Teutons was set.
In the silence of dawn in the village Grunewald,
A rooster will sing its song
The foot will go on, crushing the grass,
Causing dandelion fluff to fall.
Whitehouse closed his eyes, stretched out his hand, like a real medieval minstrel, spreading his powerful fingers over the scraps.
At this point, there was no "Ziem-002"base, or hollow footsteps of the patrols in the hall, no mountain peaks of the Andes above his head, where the sun was setting; there were no qualifying exams, no Tskugol or Swertz, no Natotevaal -as if all that didn"t exist...
The spears will break pulling out the moss from the ground
Scatter the shields into pieces.
And someone will fall, unable to breath,
Take with his chest the speed of an arrow.
And in the evening the purple sunset
Will cover a piece of land...
His voice became more menacing and powerful.
An ancient battle thundered around him.
Heavy knights collided chest to chest, fighting with long two-handed swords. Huge war horses neighed wildly, falling upon the infantry, bristling with spears and trampling it down with their spiked horseshoes. Horsemen fell under the blows of axes, hung in the stirrups, stitched through with short crossbow arrows.
Fluttered the pennants of new troops of the attacking crusader army, recruitingly hummed the pipes and roared the drums, commanders clamored, stopping the retreating warriors with bayonets and stabbing daggers at their hearts...
Mackliff echoed the pilot in chorus, tapping the fork on the upturned saucer in small intervals; Shiela moaned with delight, and Octa, gradually catching the tone and tempo, dug into the sequencer with her fingers, extracting rattling, jingling, groaning and roaring sounds of deep reverb from it.
In the silence of dawn in the village of Grunwald,
A rooster as usual will sing...
The door burst open, with a crunching sound of a ricocheted latch, and on the treshold of the smoky and finally quiet room appeared yagd Audun Tskugol accompanied by von Conrad and two patrols:
– All rise! Attention!
When Whitehouse unsteadily got up, looking totally detached; Shiela whispered to him:
– Come back here after three. Alone. If you can.
They stood in front of the Commander like naughty schoolboys before their teacher, staring at the floor in embarrassment.
They were not afraid of him, did not tremble like human flesh under the surgeon's scalpel. They have seen and suffered a lot, including fragile Octa Tantan, who survived several assault operations.
But the cold look of the Commander, his truly sad voice, three black stripes on the sleeve, which meant that its owner had three times returned alive from the ship destroyed in a battle...
For a while they stood in silence, looking each other up and down.
At this moment Dybal and yagda Kamista Raga came out of the REM room.
Their clothes, buttons and zippers, along with tousled hair and blushed faces produced the impression either of passion, or of a fight. But their pleased faces showed that it was the first.
– And you, yagda Kamista Raga, a woman of the higher caste! How could you join this outrage?! This den. – Yagd Tskugol ruthlessly scolded the revelers for a while, and in the end he added – In four hours, we leave the Earth on the raider 'Tetvuthurts VH'. You will pass the exams in combat. That's all. Dismissed.
All but the room hosts noisily went to the corridor.
Kamista gave Dybal a dazzling goodbye-smile.
When they were already in their cadet platoon premises, von Conrad apologetically said:
–I am sorry, guys, for giving you in with these girls. That was a serious matter. Something happened. And yagd Tskugol got a DCT from Marshal Commander...
– Come on, Manfred, don't worry – flopping on his bed, said Dybal. – It's not the last time we dated girls. But it certainly was quite brutish of you...
–What if it was the last time for me? – Whitehouse stated grimly and began to empty the cognac bottle, which he quietly stealed from the table before the departure. – Here, Manfred, take one for the road. They won't let us drink on the raider.
Mackliff staggered to the bed, and, falling on the fleecy blanket, put his feet up on the back:
– Colonel, you should better tell us more about this sudden haste – he wiped his cheek from Okta's lipstick and checked his lip, swollen from an overly passionate farewell kiss.
– Well, I actually do not know anything, – shrugged von Conrad. – I only know that yagd Tskugol was appointed commander of our group. They named this group "Independence VH-0". Zero means this task is very important.
–Well, it's clear as day. Once the commander over five newrie privates is commando commander of the whole Ziem sector -said Whitehouse in a deep voice. – This Tskugol is great. I respect him. Surely this was his idea to ask Yaschemgarth give the crew the name of our shuttle.
For a while they were all silent.
Conditioner hummed quietly, Mackliff thoughtfully stroke the lighter sharply, Dick Aydem was cozily snoring in the corner.
–Oh, Shiela will be waiting for me at three, but we are leaving at two– Whitehouse sighed and shouted in a drunken swagger:
– I wish they all died, these damn Swers! Plague take them!
–Why are you yelling like at a baseball game? You do not let me sleep – Aydem turned his sleepy face, stretched, yawned, from ear to ear, and looked at the clock. -Oh, a basement at 79 Avenue has just opened and lame Campbell is frying pork sausages. Have you ever been to New York, Manfred?
The Colonel shook his head. Aydem mumbled something unintelligible, and then turned to the wall, putting a pillow over his ear. Silence finally fell over the barracks.
Manfred von Conrad slowly followed the instructor.
Aydem and Mackliff walked behind them.
Whitehouse and Dybal closed the rear of the student group and Dybal constantly made fun of the pilot"s obstinate desire to collect information about the base along their way, such as: pieces of wall sheathing, computer parts, lists of personnel, shift schedule, space planning.
–Listen, Ronnie, are you a robot? I have a feeling that something fused in your head – with a smile whispered Dybal to the pilot. -What proof do you need to believe that they are not Arabs?
–My intuition – snapped Whitehouse – I will destroy all of them...
Mackliff and Aydem were busy with another conversation:
–They can"t be human, Dick! Look at their skin. Normally people have either birthmarks or swollen veins here and there, or a slight reddening – a mark from a pimple left from childhood. Sticking out hair after sleep...What about wrinkles? Where are the wrinkles? No wrinkles. Even Tskugol has none on his face. And he looks no less than fifty.
–I agree. They look like mannequins or well edited photos. Have you noticed that when they walk, the silicone floor shakes slightly? Compared to us when they sit on a couch or in a chair it almost reaches the carpet. I have a feeling, John, that they are two times heavier than us.
–It is interesting to learn how it works with women here...– Dybal interfered the conversation.
Von Conrad gave him a withering look over his shoulder.
They walked through a low passage, lit with blue cold lamps.
Ergonomical control panels stretched along the walls, oval doors, with well fitted gaps, numerous large and small lifts, and metallic step ladders, which winded into hollow vertical shafts.
After another passage to the next level, von Conrad, adjusting the collar of his wide crimson shirt with zippers sewn-in the buttonholes, cleared his throat and turned to the instructor:
–Yagd Herr-when will we see the ship?
–We have been walking along its central trunk for a few minutes now, cadet.
Have patience – the instructor said, climbing the metal stairs to the open massive doors. – This is the entrance to the navigation room. The door is equipped with automatic lock-and-block system in case of depressurization or penetration of outsiders. This applies to other doors that lead to especially important rooms.
The instructor bent his head and ducked into the doorway.
Among the horns of a sickle panel, dotted with beads of various keys and buttons, toggle switches, sensors, displays stood several capacious armchairs on high pedestals.
A bored tanned blond guy sat in one of them.
With the indifference of a stone statue he looked at the blinking lights of control devices and smoked a cigarette.
On the screen In front of him glowed a picture of immensely large and long hangar, which was carved in a rock, and service robots swarmed in the glare of floodlights under its vault.
–So, Einar, then she came up and said, "I only share my bed with Commanders. And you're just a paratrooper from the fire support company. So go to the toilet and help yourself with a vibrator "– casually shouted the speaker of internal ship communications.
– Pilot Berserk, – stop discussing private topics immediately. And would you please quit smoking – exclaimed yagd Zherr indignantly, and turned to the cadets. – So, this is the navigator room of the "Tetvuthurts" raider. Power plant engines, course and viewing space scan, all the vital activity of a combat vessel is being directed from here...
Meanwhile Berserk quietly departed behind the cabinets of computers and continued smoking casually, although holding a cigarette behind his back and blowing smoke at the floor.
Having noticed the scrutinizing stare of Whitehouse, he winked and conspiratorially smiled. Whitehouse winked back and felt a warm sensation in his heart; this pilot was not a bad guy, he was a soul mate. Stripes on his sleeve were exactly like the ones he had.
Berserk was also from the Earth.
Manfred von Conrad did not approve of such behavior: he did not say anything but contented himself with a sniff.
He listened to yagd Zherr, the instructor without inquiring.
Since morning he felt that he'd already heard about the intensity of the force field, the range of annihilation weapons; that once he had already seen these flying beads on the screens of surveillance radars, had already with his fingertips touched the switches and keys of cumulative thermonuclear devices.
Everything seemed to be coming back from the past: the intercom circuit, urgent station bill, capacity of fodder troop compartments, berthing arrangement, flights of the forward hangars for receiving transport capsules, power of the reactors, overlapping systems of the conning tower.
Fascinated, overwhelmed with a strange, frightening feeling, he walked through cabin suites, service facilities, compartments of "Tetvuthurts" raider poking into the backs of his comrades, and trying to keep out of yagd Zherr"s sight.
Everything reminded him of the German Raumwaffe Academy.
The crew and technicians had the same leisurely routine, but it was a different schedule. He could feel the smell of food from the galley, but it was a different aroma.
The alarming ring of training alert, the sound of hurried footsteps of those running to the battle stations, jerky commands to the gun-layers and the buzzer of the main computer with a training object caught in the cross of its aiming rays: everything was different, but the Colonel was up to his neck in his memories.
There were dreary lieutenant sprees in the officers' dormitory at New Year"s Eve, after a canceled leave, crazy antics in the bars of Bremen at the time of developing urban warfare tactics, sleepless watches in anticipation of a new war with the Islamists.
Von Conrad thought about his feelings, and he didn"t feel any depressing nostalgia.
He had been a soldier and he was still a soldier who had no connections with his past, he didn"t even have a family.
He accepted everything that happened to him as a sequel of his military career: "Now I am fifty. Maybe in a year I would have been appointed a Raumwaffe brigadier general. But this is nothing compared to the post of Natotevaal lieutenant. "
Yagd Zherr brought him back to reality. – Cadets von Conrad, on the firing line!
The training shooting gallery was lit with bright bluish lights. Whitehouse and Dybal were busy with choosing the weapons from the shelves. Mackliff was quickly counting up his results by the targets.
–On the firing line, 'repeated the instructor and handed a heavy "shtralier" to the Colonel.
Von Conrad raised his weapon and almost without aiming, released a cluster of blinding antimatter into the dancing target right over the head of petrified Mackliff.
–Target destroyed, stated the computer that controlled the motions of the targets.
–Bravo, Colonel. You have almost shot my head off! – yelled Mackliff pinching his nose as he has not yet got used to the smell of melted from the shots silicone shapes.
–Attention, students. Von Conrad made a mistake when firing – said yagd Zherr after the students formed up, the shtralier was set to long-range combat mode. If the target were a Swer in reserve armor, that would have produced zero effect. For this cause the weapons must be set to close combat-core mode. – May I ask a question, yagd instructor? – Aydem exited the line. – Why is the shtralier"s range less than a mile?
–To answer this question I would have to tell you about the weapon"s concept of operation, and this is security information. The range is limited, and that's all you need to know. Join it up! – Yagd Zherr went to the armory shelf and took out something very similar to the regular army rifle with telescopic sight.
To kill the targets at a distance of more than one Ker automatic rifles with gunpowder cartridges, equipped with explosive bullets with A-acid capsules are used. When it spreads through the body tissues, A-acid causes instant death. The efficacy of fire from this rifle reaches seven and a half Kers. It all depends on the experience of the shooter and the condition of the beam sight.
–And where should we aim at the Swer in order to break through the armor? – Asked Whitehouse, quietly putting rifle cartridges in his pocket, hoping that they would suit to his "Viking Combat".
– We don"t know for sure, shrugged the instructor. – During the war, we were not able to capture any live or dead Swer. But the experts, who examined the wreckage of their ships and planetary techniques, believe they are humanoid.
And one more thing, students: the war, which you have gotten yourselves into, is not something that you have on Earth, with hand-to-hand fights, reconnaissance missions for "tongues", and all other nonsense. Here you shoot at the enemy raider for a distance of hundred Tokhs and that"s it. And either you or he get scattered to pieces. Planetary operations are no better. Either we or they are in powerful fortifications. And again nuclear annihilation duels, powerful machines, grinding everything on their way. All that is left at the end of the battle is just scorched desert. This is not about the captured or the corpses.
– Yagd Zherr, watch your language. What are these "rubbish" and "shooting things"? – yagd Tskugol entered the shooting gallery with a tired and concerned expression on his face. – How's it going? The instructor took the position of attention, palms on his lower back, chin upwards:
–Very capable students, yagd commander. Do their best.
–When are they going to study "Planetary operations and Assault landing" according to their program? – asked the Captain-Commander and Shiela"s blossoming face appeared from behind him. Today she was wearing a slinky turquoise catsuit with the orange Secretary-on-duty armband.
