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John Ringo: Yellow Eyes

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John Ringo Yellow Eyes

Yellow Eyes: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The Posleen are coming and the models all say the same thing: Without the Panama Canal, the US is doomed to starvation and defeat. Despite being overstretched preparing to defend the US, the military sends everything it has left: A handful of advanced Armored Combat Suits, rejuvenated veterans from the many decades that Panama was a virtual colony and three antiquated warships. Other than that, the Panamanians are on their own. Replete with detailed imagery of the landscape, characters and politics that have made the jungle-infested peninsula a Shangri-La for so many over the years, is a hard-hitting look at facing a swarming alien horde with not much more than wits and guts. Fortunately, the Panamanians, and the many veterans that think of it as a second home, have plenty of both.

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It got worse on closer examination. Adrenaline was up, but that was normal. The brain activity was skewed though.

“AID, query. Analyze record: Staff Sergeant Robert Duncan. Correlate for ‘combat fatigue’ also known sometimes as ‘nervous hysteria.’ ”

AIDs thought very quickly, if not generally creatively.

“Duncan is overdue for a breakdown, Lieutenant,” the AID answered. “He has forty-four days continuous combat — without rest — now. He has over three hundred days in total. He’s stopped eating and has less than four hours sleep in the last ninety-six. Loss of important comrades over the past eighteen months approaches one hundred percent. He hasn’t been laid lately, either.”

“Fuck… Duncan, get down, goddamn it,” Connors ordered. The silhouette painted on his eye didn’t budge.

“Incoming,” the AID announced, tonelessly. The splash of friendly artillery fire began to play on the aliens surrounding the company. “I am adjusting.”


With the help of the artillery, that ambush was beaten off. It made no difference. The Posleen were swarming between the company and its objective. They were swarming in much greater than mere regimental strength. Much.

Duncan was a problem. He couldn’t be left behind; there were still thousands of Posleen that would have overcome and eaten him on his own. Connors had had to relieve the man and place his Alpha Team leader in charge of the squad. Worse, all you could get out of the sergeant were unconnected words of one syllable.

And I can’t leave anyone behind to guard him. I can’t even autoprogram the suit to take him back to base; he’d be dogmeat on his own.

At least the sergeant could follow simple orders: up, down, forward, back, shoot, cease fire. Connors kept him close by during the long, bloody grueling fight to reach the ford. They reached it too late, of course. Captain Roberts’ radio had long since gone silent before the first B Company trooper splashed into the stream.

By that time, Connors found himself the sole officer remaining in the company. That was all right; the company was down to not much more than platoon strength anyway.

Connors heard his platoon sergeant — no, now he’s the first sergeant, isn’t he? — shout, “Duncan, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Looking behind, the lieutenant saw his damaged sergeant beginning to trot back to the rear, cradling a body in his arms. Some friendly hovercraft were skimming the greasy-looking water of the swamp as they moved to reinforce the ford.

“It’s okay, Sergeant… First Sergeant. Let him go,” Connors said, wearily. “It’s safe back there, now. See to the perimeter, Top.”

Leaving the NCO to his work Connors sat down on the mound the Posleen had created apparently to honor the spirit and body of the late Captain Roberts. He began to compose a letter to his wife, back home on Earth.

“Dearest Lynn…”


Logistics Base X-Ray, Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V

The battalion had suffered grievously in the move to and fight for the ford. B Company was down to one officer and fifty-one others. Of the fifty-one, one — Staff Sergeant Duncan — was a psychiatric casualty. The rest of the battalion’s fighting companies were in no better shape.

The battalion commander was gone, leaving the former exec, Major Snyder, to assume command. Only two of the company commanders had lived, and one of those was chief of the headquarters company which didn’t normally see much action. In total, the battalion’s officer corps had left to it one major, two captains, half a dozen first lieutenants and, significantly, no second lieutenants. Like other newbies, the shavetails had died in droves before really having a chance to learn the ropes.

Connors thought he was lucky keeping his old platoon sergeant as the company first sergeant. Snyder had wanted to take him to be battalion sergeant major.

Somehow, Connors thought, I don’t think Snyder meant it entirely as a compliment when he let me keep Martinez.

“Sir,” Martinez asked, when they were alone in the company headquarters tent, “what now? We’re too fucked to go into the line again.”

The tent was green, despite the bluish tint to all the vegetation on Barwhon V. It smelled musty, and a little rotten-sweet, from the local equivalent of jungle rot that had found the canvas fibers to be a welcome home and feed lot.

“The major… no, the colonel, said we’re going home for a while, Top,” Connors answered, distantly. “He said there’s not enough of us left to reform here. So we’re going back to get built up to strength before they throw us in again.”

“Home?” Martinez asked, wonderingly.

“Home,” echoed Connors, thinking of the wife he’d left behind so many long months before.


Indowy Freighter Selfless Accord, en route Barwhon to Earth

“Attention to orders,” cracked from the speakers above the troopers’ heads as they stood in ranks in the dimly and strangely lit assembly hall.

“Reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of…” The 508th’s acting adjutant, normally the legal officer, read off the names of the remaining officers of the battalion. One of those names was, “Connors, Scott.”

“A captain?” Connors wondered when the ceremony was over. “Wow. Never thought I’d live to be a captain.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Skipper,” advised Martinez who was, like many in Fleet Strike, a transferred Marine.

“No, Top,” Connors agreed. “Would never do to get a swelled head. Makes too big a target for one thing.”


“The bars… look good,” Duncan said, staring at the wall opposite the headpiece of his medical cot. His voice contained as much interest as his blank, lifeless eyes. “The diamond looks good, too, Top,” he added for Martinez.

Outside of his suit, Connors and Duncan might have been taken for brothers, same general height, same heavy-duty build. Though fifteen or more years Duncan’s senior, Connors looked considerably younger. He was, unlike Duncan, a rejuv.

“How have you been, Sergeant Duncan?” the newly minted captain asked.

“Okay, sir,” he answered tonelessly. “They say I can be fixed up… maybe. That I’ll either be back to duty in a year or will never be able to go into the line again. They’re talking about putting me in a tank for psych repair.”

Patting the NCO’s shoulder, Connors answered, “I’m sure you’ll be back, Bob.”

“But will it be me that comes back?” Tears began to roll down the NCO’s blank, lifeless face.

“God… I don’t know, Bob. I can tell you that the tank didn’t make me any different on the inside.”

“Me neither, Sergeant Duncan,” Martinez added, more than a little embarrassed for the junior noncom. Martinez knew Duncan was going to remember the tears and feel the shame of them long after he and the skipper had forgotten. “I came out the same Marine I went in as… just younger, stronger and healthier.

“By the way, Skipper,” Martinez asked, turning his attention away from Duncan’s streaming face, “what were you doing before the rejuv? I was a retired gunny, infantry, and just marking time in Jacksonville, North Carolina… waitin’ to die.”

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