"Janet Morris - Crusaders In Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Janet E)

Idiot or spoiler, Nichols was going to kill this guy, no matter what it cost
him, and get Achilles reassigned somewhere where bugs were the only things
that flew.
Below, the stone, cascading down the waterfall, then bouncing, had flushed
something unexpected. Short guys in black outfits came running out from under
the falls, gesticulating, chattering to each other.
Damned monkeys, or worse ... no wonder this place sent his mind echoes of Ho
Chi Minh trail. Bunch of Asiatics, hiding behind the waterfall...
Nichols looked again, with all the acuity his trained eye could muster and
this time the waterfall didn't look natural. But it sure was convenient, and
well engineered. Nichols would give Mao's boys that.
Recon meant you were supposed to get back alive to detail enemy troop
strength, he reminded himself as two parts of his being conflicted.
Sniper Research meant that you shot whatever you found out there, so that you
could do your damned research uninterrupted.
Head count, in this situation, was approximate, but Nichols was willing to bet
that behind the waterfall he'd find lots more ChiCom troops-smugglers for the
sake of the Revolution, in this case-and a tunnel entrance that would explain
why no previous unit with this assignment had been able to find the transship
route that Mao was using.
Whistling soundlessly, Nichols rolled over onto his back and very carefully,
scanning the terrain around him, wiggled his arse until he'd gotten upstream
far enough that he wouldn't kick any more stones into the water.
Then he began unwinding the del cord bracelet on his wrist, combining it with
other necessaries from his kit until he had a time-detonated explosive device
that ought to block the tunnel entrance, as well as stop the flow of water,
when it blew.
He sat there a few seconds, considering his handiwork. You had to use the
faults in the rock strata, judge it just right... Deciding it was right
enough, if nobody messed with it, he fixed his little trap to blow if a
careless foot stumbled onto the det cord, which had enough RDX in it to be
trouble by itself, and went on his way.
He'd known he'd find a use for all this stuff he was packing. You don't
deplane with ninety pounds on your back and haul it over enemy terrain for
nothing. He'd cannibalized one of Welch's black boxes, but Welch wouldn't
mind.
It was going to be such a nice, satisfying bang. If the ensuing explosion
didn't stop the drug traffic from Mao's fortress in Dog City, it was going to
slow things up: rerouting, redeployment of personnel, rebasing ... all these
things took time, men, resources.
Content that he could give Welch what the officer needed to report a
successful mission, with or without Tanya and the Sumerians - and without
setting up a semi-permanent staging area here which they'd have to man -
Nichols scrambled down the slope and headed west.
He had no intention of getting caught in the act, or anywhere near here. What
he'd left behind was more important than what remained for him to do: score
one for on-site decision making.
It took the better part of two hours to circle the camp, find Tamara Burke's
wagon, and sup over to it from the rear. He knew he should have reported what
he'd done, called in and let Welch know. But then Achilles would know. And he