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

speakers relaying that cold, dead sound.

Chapter 1

Three weeks earlier Afghanistan Beyond the mountains to the north I
could glimpse the beginning of the steppe, an ocean of grey dust that
seemed to stretch into infinity. To the east there were only mountains
and more mountains. The brown, parched summits below us were mere
pygmies of a few thousand feet compared to the rank upon rank of
serrated peaks that lay in the far distance, at the very limits of my
vision. Permanently capped with snow, they towered far above the
10,000 feet at which we were flying.

As we cleared the next ridge I saw a few stick figures shepherds,
traders and nomads, following the threadlike tracks over the dusty
hillsides towards the capital. It was now in sight, a mud-coloured
sprawl that lay like sediment in the bottom of a bowl of hills. Across
the valley floor lay a river of dust that ran to nowhere, disappearing
into the sands of the great desert to the west.

The pilot glanced at me.

"We'll be on finals shortly. It's a rather steep descent "Of course,"
I said. Thanks for inviting me up here. It makes a change for me to
be able to admire the view while someone else does the driving."

I went back to my seat, passing the only two other passengers on the
aircraft. A few minutes later the wing dipped and we began a steep,
spiralling descent towards Kabul airport. From the corner of my eye I
saw fierce white star-fires drifting away from us as the pilot punched
out flares to decoy any missiles.

He levelled at the last possible moment and touched down with a jolt
that rattled my teeth. The engines bellowed under reverse thrust and
the aircraft slowed, its landing gear juddering over the cracks and
ruts in the runway.

There were no announcements over the Tannoy as we pulled to a halt
outside the terminal. The Pakistani steward threw open the door, gave
a half-apologetic smile and disappeared into the flight cabin. I
picked up my shoulder bag and walked to the exit.

There was no flight of steps, only a wooden ladder held against the
side of the aircraft by two impassive men in greasy overalls.

I climbed down and collected my other bag, which had already been taken
out of the hold and dumped on the concrete. I glanced around. The
airport looked as desolate as the battered city that surrounded it. A
single Pakistani transport plane stood near the terminal, but the
rusting remains of Migs and Tupolevs still littered the perimeter, a