"Дон Пендлтон. Doomsday Disciples ("Палач" #49) " - читать интересную книгу автора

It was time to seek that other angle, to press ahead before the enemy
was able to regroup.
With a disgusted gesture, Bolan turned from the cadaver and reached for
the door handle. He was half out of the Caddy when a small sound stopped
him, drew him back. Rasping static, and tiny voices emanating from under the
driver's seat. Instantly he recognized the sound of a two-way radio.
Fishing under the seat, he found a compact walkie-talkie that had
passed through the battle undamaged. Tuned to a common frequency, it was
silent up to now... or its voices were muffled by combat sounds.
Bolan felt a sudden rush of hope. There was still a chance...
If Minh's "elders" risked broadcasting in the clear, if they didn't
take the time to code their messages, he might profit from their momentary
chaos.
If.
He would seize the opportunity and run with it as far as it could take
him, right.
With any luck, it would take him all the way.
He left the Caddy, with its silent, staring occupant, and moved briskly
toward the street. As he walked, Bolan brought the walkie-talkie to his ear,
turning up the volume and eavesdropping on the traffic from the battlefield.
Dazed and angry voices sounded, some frightened and showing strain.
Overriding all the others, a voice that Bolan pegged as that of the chief of
operations.
And the guy wasn't happy. Not at all.
He was furiously snapping at his soldiers, fighting to bring order to
chaos, trying to salvage something before police arrived.
Bolan grinned at the night and wished the chief luck... all bad.
"Dammit, Number Two, report!" he snapped. ''What's your situation?''
Hesitant, another voice replied from somewhere in the hellgrounds.
"Number Two is out of it. He bought the farm."
The C.O. took a moment to digest the news, but recovered swiftly.
"All right," he said, "we've got another Number Two. You're it. Get
your people out of there, and make it fast."
Bolan could almost hear the rush of pride and excitement, as the shaky
soldier received his battlefield promotion.
"Yes, sir!" he answered, fighting to control the emotion in his voice.
"We, uh, we've got some wounded here ..."
The field commander's answer fired like whiplash.
"Take 'em with you, dammit! Forget about the rest and move your ass
before we have to fight the friggin' riot squad!''
The new Number Two, anxious to succeed, was having trouble with his
orders. Bolan could almost feel for the guy.
Almost.
"Do we, uh, head for the usual place?" he asked.
Static couldn't hide the field commander's short, exasperated sigh.
"Go to the warehouse, for chrissake, all right?"
"Right, okay. We're gone."
Bolan's heart pounded like a trip-hammer as he reached the rental car
and slid behind the wheel. For once, he didn't have to guess what the enemy
was saying, he didn't have to rack his brain for clues.