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

around it, the stars and bars peeling.

"Down," the Op ordered, throwing himself to the soft, muddy earth and sinking his face into it.

He heard the explosion as the napalm tank burst, and felt scraps of fire on the back of his jacket. He
rolled quickly back into the water, and stayed under, holding the air in his lungs.

This wasn't doing his clothes any good.
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His eyes open, he realized that above him the surface of the water was a dull orange. The area was on
fire. He heard the blood pounding inside his head.

He kicked and swam until there was a cool darkness above him, and, chest bursting, spluttered his way
to the surface. He coughed and spat water and shook his thick hair. He had been born with
blondish-brown hair. It might be greying now, but he'd been dyeing it black since his early twenties. His
years in the army and, then, the Op business, had kept him in trim. But all the regen treatments in the
world and the personal attention of Dr Zarathustra couldn't take the years away. His face was unlined,
but he was 64 years old.

The copter was coming down in a lazy spiral, burning hoodheads bailing out, splashing into the pool of
napalm. The cicadas were quiet now, and there was only the sound of human pain to disturb the swamp.
Quite a few of the Yazoo Krewe would have been killed by the exploding napalm tank. The Op blamed
himself. He should have known what would happen. There was no point in winning the battle if there was
no one left at the end to get the benefit.

Guns still chattered as Fassett's hoodheads and Soule's Yazoo Krewe exchanged fire between the
hanging curtains of Spanish moss.

A man on fire ran at him, firing wildly, and he put a shot in his head. Camouflage robes tented around
him as he sank into the dark waters.

The Op realized he was up to his neck in the swamp now, and that his footing was none too good. The
napalm had driven him further away from the island than was advisable.

He struck towards the shore, avoiding the floating patches of fire, shaking the water out of his
guaranteed moisture-proof Rapide. Something crashed out of the swamp a few feet away, and he swung
around to open fire. The gun squelched as he pulled the trigger, and he swore to get his money back.

The hoodhead was huge, easily six-seven, and built like a professional wrestler. He had IR shades over
his cloth face, and was holding up a two-foot-long dagger with a wickedly serrated edge. They sure grew
their rats big inVicksburg .

The Op had his combat knife out of his belt, and held it just under the water. The hoodhead slipped
himself onto it, taking the steel up to the hilt in his hard belly, just under the ribcage.

He screamed in rage, and blood darkened his hood over his mouth, but he was still slashing wildly.