"Bolan, Mack - Stony Man 30 - Virtual Peril" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bolan Mack)

sweeping advance of the storm system overtaking the
trawler, imaged into a whirling white spiral that jerked with
digital reproduction. Silently he cursed the weather. In a
world that could generally be reduced to a collection of
logic, where people could actually be shot out into space
then recovered quite easily, he hated the chaotic.
"The American spy satellites are locked out of visuals
on this?" Lynch asked.
"Less than a minute ago," the man confirmed.
"Are our cameras getting all of this?" Lynch asked.
"Yes, sir," a young blond man responded. "We're en-
hancing as we need to."
"How much of this is going to be in infrared?" Lynch

shifted his view to a monitor on the fight. Green figures
ran madly across the blackened oufiines of the trawler. It
was easy to discern humans from the surrounding structure,
but not so easy to know which side was which. Both were
firing their weapons now, the bullets showing up a hotter
green than the body-heat readings, the digital tracking
showing them almost floating across the screen.
"I don't know." The man rapidly tapped the keyboard
in front of him.
"Mr. Arno, I need as much of this as possible in color,
in black-and-white at the very least." Lynch gripped his
hands behind his back. At six-four, built like a tennis
player, and wearing a gray pin-stfiped Armani suit with an
authority that seemed innate, he was an imposing figure.
His complexion was a smooth consistency, like butter
mixed with chocolate, reflecting his mixed heritage.
'Tin working to salvage as much of the transmission as
I can, sir."
Lynch glanced around the prefab building. The space
was limited, but his team had made the most of it, nudging
the North Korean military into the support tents that sur-
rounded the building.
General Chai-Song Sym stood less than six feet away,
looking complacent. He was an iron bar of a man, well into
his riffles. Barely an inch above five and a half feet and
weighing perhaps 130 pounds, he was the epitome of the
North Korean fighting man. The uniform was crisp and
clean, and worn with pride. His hair was flecked with gray,
as was his Clark Gable mustache.
"I have my team standing by," Sym said in English. He
purposefully didn't look at Lynch.
"I'm well aware of that, General," Lynch said in Ko-
rean. Languages had~always come easily to him. So did a
position of command. He felt the friction between himself