"Nichol, John - Stinger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nichol John)

runway as another procession lifted off from the south.

The viewpoint abruptly changed to a camera somewhere on the Long Island
shore. The rays of the sinking sun reddened the upper atmosphere,
glinting from another aircraft wing in the distance ahead of the jet.
Thousands of feet below were the winking navigation lights of a
slow-moving transport aircraft and the lights of ships moving across
the dark water.

The gathering darkness over the Long Island shore was pierced by the
glow of bonfires at Fourth of July parties. Fireworks flowered in
brief flashes of vivid colour, then faded to black.

There was a flash much bigger than the others and a white streak sped
upwards towards them, bridging the distance to the jet in a heartbeat
before exploding in a vivid ball of orange flame.

The jet was ripped apart in an instant, the cabin walls shredded by the
blast. The heavier nose section broke away immediately and began a
long tumble downwards. Still driven by the bellowing jet engines, the
rest of the fuselage canted upwards and climbed a further 2,000 feet
into the sky. The camera jerked wildly as the cameraman tried to
follow the path of the jet, and the image was blurred by the shaking of
his hands.

At around 16,000 feet the jet stalled and went into free fall The
camera lost it, overshot it, then tracked it again as it hurtled
downwards. The sheer force of its descent ripped off the wings, and
thousands of gallons of kerosene fuel ignited as they gushed from the
ruptured tanks. What remained of the aircraft disintegrated as it hit
the water and 50,000 gallons more spread in a burning slick across the
water, as if the sea itself were on fire.

The crew in the severed cockpit survived the initial blast and Stinger
| 5 remained alive throughout the three and a half minutes it took to
fall the 14,000 feet to the sea.

Their terrified voices, almost drowned by the clamour of the cockpit
emergency warning sirens, underscored the horror unfolding on the
screen. I could hear the co-pilot repeating over and over again, "Oh,
God. Oh, Jesus. I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

The pilot began to recite the Lord's Prayer. After a few words his
voice faltered and died.

The only other words he said were "Fuck it!" just before his voice was
cut off by an avalanche of sound.

The screen went blank as the final, thunderous concussion faded into
the sibilant white noise of static, and I dragged my eyes away from the