"Axler, James - Deathlands 050 - Pandora's Reboubt - Nick Pollotta" - читать интересную книгу автора (Axler James)

"What? They ate a tire?"
"One is gone, that's for sure. I see a bare rim on the port side."
"Why would animals eat a tire?" Dean asked.
"Not animals," Jak said distinctly. "Bio weps." Krysty understood immediately. "Freaking things are going to try and ground us. Without tires we can't leave. The belly won't clear the floor. We'll be trapped and eventually have to walk out or die of starvation."
"Same as the coldhearts," Doc said. "Fuck that," Ryan said, returning to the driver's seat. There was no specialized key to start the engines, merely a push button. Setting the choke to the middle, and hoping that was correct, he hit the gas and revved the Starter. The diesels rumbled mightily, making the whole vehicle vibrate with the barely confined power of the Detroit engines.
"Atomic batteries to power," Doc muttered softly to himself. "Turbines to speed."
Only Mildred snorted a laugh at the allusion.
"We're out of here," Ryan said, twisting the steering wheel and working the stick shift. With a crash, Leviathan plowed a path through the metal circle, windshields shattering and APCs shoved aside as they headed for the exit.

Chapter Four

As Leviathan started to rumble forward, two hellhounds darted out of nowhere. They hit the front windshield in unison, and the iron bars shuddered under the double impact. Black muzzles snapped less than a foot from Ryan's face, and he could actually see down their throats. Muscular tentacles wrapped about the protective gridwork, and their front paws clawed at the glass, scratching the resilient surface of the military composite.
Blaster in hand, Krysty started to roll down the side window when she spotted a barbed tail hovering low alongside the door. "Shit! They're waiting for us to try and get them!"
"Hold on!" Ryan growled and he slammed on the brakes. Tires squealing, the supplies went hurtling forward as the tank screeched to a halt, throwing the dogs off the hood. Instantly, Ryan hit the gas and the massive vehicle surged forward once more. A hellhound hit the spiked front bumper, its bleeding form stuck there caterwauling in pain. The other fell out of sight, but Ryan felt the big vehicle bump over something that crunched.
"The others are backing off," Dean said, watching from an ob slit. "They're... yep, they're gone."
"Flanking us," Jak said, moving to the starboard .50-caliber machine gun. "What's belly height?"
Working the bolt on the port Remington, J.B. said, "Good foot and a half."
"Don't let them get underneath us!" Ryan ordered from the front
"Check!"
Doc and Mildred rushed to the louvered rear door and shoved the muzzles of their handblasters out the downward slats.
"Hey Dean!" Krysty called.
Dean glanced at the woman.
"Here, use this!"
The youngster caught the shotgun thrown his way. It was a beauty, a pump-action 12-gauge. The stock was polished walnut and the shoulder strap was lined with spare shells.
Krysty jerked a thumb. "It was in the gunrack. It'll do more damage than your Browning."
Nodding his thanks, the boy pumped the scatter-gun and shoved the barrel out a slot.
Ahead of them was a large hole in the redoubt wall, a curved opening almost exactly the size and shape of Leviathan. Ryan eased on the gas and slowed for a moment to correct their alignment. They had a clearance of only inches. He had to go in dead center or risk scraping off some of the external equipment. The coldhearts had to have planned to remove the radar and missiles pods before trying this stunt. But that option wasn't available to them now. The bastard hellhounds were much too loyal to their dead masters, and too freaking smart.
"A camel through the eye of a needle," Mildred commented.
"More like two pounds of muck in a one-pound bag," J.B. countered, adjusting his fedora. "If it gets any tighter, we'll need to grease the walls."
"Too bad the lights are working," Krysty said, measuring the tunnel and the girth of the tank with her hands. "Then you could concentrate on their placement on the far wall as a guide."
"Mebbe next time," Ryan said, slowing their speed and thinning their fuel mix. The diesels were sluggish, and needed to warm.
Smoothly engaging the transmission, Ryan backed a yard, then, as slowly as possible, entered the tunnel.
Immediately something scraped noisily overhead, and everybody looked up, weapons in hand.
"It's only the radio antenna," J.B. said, relaxing. "Or the missile holders," Dean added, looking worried.
In the front gunner's chair, Krysty tapped the instrument panel with a knuckle. "Missile pods are on-line and showing green. No damage."
"Yet," Jak said, seeming more glum than usual. "Luckily, the coldhearts labeled everything in plain English."
"Yeah, lucky."
With a hand on the gearshift, Ryan said nothing but clenched the steering wheel even tighter. Once more the oversized tank rolled ahead at a snail's pace. The scraping continued, sounding louder than before. Then there was a crunch from above, and the tunnel behind them went dead black. Ryan stopped fast.
"We're smashing the lights," J.B. said, listening to the glass shards sprinkle along the sides of the tank
"Shitfire. We need darkness ahead of us, not in our wake!"
Grimly, Ryan slid the transmission into gear. "Watch for the dogs! Shoot at anything... no, just randomly shoot!"
Dean promptly fired the Mossberg shotgun out the rear doors, paused, then fired again in an irregular pattern.
"Wasteful," Jak grumbled.
"Necessary," the Armorer snapped, adding a .50-caliber burst from the Remington. The big slugs rained along the tunnel, hitting nothing.
Every foot seemed to take an hour. The tension grew thick in the vehicle, but nobody dared to speak, trying their best not to distract Ryan from the delicate task. At the first narrow turn of the zigzagging maze, Ryan jockeyed the tank back and forth, each maneuver gaining him inches until they could make the corner. But the next turn of the antiradiation maze was set impossibly close to the first, and Leviathan resoundingly rubbed against the rough walls, grinding off chunks of the concrete.
Yard by yard, scraping at every turn, Ryan eased the gigantic vehicle through the tunnel until, finally, it cleared the last turn. Now before them was a length of straight tunnel that would take them to a set of massive vanadium-steel doors. The expanse of burnished metal was widely smudged with dark soot in an unusual flowery pattern. The only clean area was a small metallic keypad that twinkled silvery in the headlights.
Ryan released his death grip on the steering wheel and flexed his hands to restore circulation. "Those are black-powder blast marks."
"The coldhearts must have tried to blow their way out," J.B. said from a rear seat.
"Idiots. Those doors are nuke-proof," Mildred scoffed, "and they thought powder was going to open them?"
"Desperate men will try anything," Krysty remarked. "An animal will chew off its own foot to get free from a trap."