"Jack Yeovil - Comeback Tour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yeovil Jack)

and appealed to some American gunfighters to come and help them out. Although they had very little, the
cowboy heroes agreed to fight and mostly die for the farmers. Back then, when he was taking down
$10,000 a week, he hadn't believed those seven gunfighters would really take the job.

But here he was, nearly forty years later, with a rocketlauncher cricking his neck, preparing to go into
battle with a couple of chopperloads of Klan-hooded killerscum for what amounted to a potful of beans
and some used-up cashplastic tokens.

He could see the spidercopters now, stealthing their way across the bayou, ripple-patterning the waters.
They were painted with the stars and bars, and they were packing enough hardware to burn out a small
town. Which, since Mayor Kettle had refused to pay tribute or hand over any more young people as
indentees, was exactly what they planned to do to what was left ofYazooCity .

The New South was full of factions like the Confederate Air Force, semi-official gangcults with some
money behind them. With the gradual erosion of centralized government and the permeation of the state
law-enforcement agencies by the big corps, a whole slew of patriotic warlords had set out to carve
themselves little empires.

The Commander-in-Chief of the CAF was a dyed-in-the-wool white supremacist fanatic called Burtram
Fassett whose last gangcult had called themselves the Knights of the White Magnolia and operated out
ofPhoenix . Turner-Harvest-Ramirez had broken up that crap game in the early '90s, but now he was in
the bigotry and intolerance business again, lording it over a cadre of tightly-drilled white trash soldiers
dreaming of white-columned, ivy-swathed mansions they'd never get their dirty boots into. Robert E. Lee
would have had them shot down like dogs, but they sang "Dixie," "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and "I'm a
Good Old Rebel" while they were burning out black churches and families, and could recite all the
dialogue from Gone With the Wind if prompted. The South had always raised as good a crop of hatred
as of cotton.

There were three spidercopters, moving in the classical arrowhead formation. The Op had flown similar
ships inCentral America in the '80s, and remembered how devastating it had been when the Sandinistas
got hold of weapons like the one he was hefting right now. He grinned at the memory of high-tech
engines of death crashing in flames in the jungle. It was time the CAF birdmen got a taste of their own
napalm...

The young men of Yazoo Citymdashdespite its name not much more than a collection of
swamp-harvester's huts these daysmdashwere spread out through the swamp, hefting rusty burpguns and
flamethrowers. The Op had drilled them for a few weeks, and knew they would do their best. They
couldn't hope to stand up to Fassett's forces for any length of time, but he was counting on the CAF
being so spooked by meeting any resistance at all that they went to pieces. That was more than likely.
The fanatics were always the first to run when you shot back. He remembered only too well being the
only one to stand tall outsideManagua when the government troops popped out of the ground. Those
Contra yellowbellies Uncle Sam had had him supporting probably hadn't stopped running.

The lead copter hovered, and its attendants held their places in the formation, noses slightly down,
weapon arms bobbing. The Op had the flying machine in his sights, and initiated the launch sequence. The
LED below the sight counted down from twenty. He found himself twitching to the beat of the LED, his
hips moving in his waders, his free hand clicking his fingers to the music only he could hear. The music he
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