"Дон Пендлтон. The Libya Connection ("Палач" #48) " - читать интересную книгу автора

chopper's door into the Sahara night racing by directly behind him, followed
by what remained of his corpse.
In the same flick of time, Hohlstrom had rolled onto his side and
brought the AK tracking upward toward Bruner. A deadly chatter from
Hohlstrom's grip spit a burst of shredders that lifted Bruner to the
bulkhead of the helicopter and held him there for a moment, his torso
bursting apart. Bruner slumped down to the deck. The bulkhead behind where
his body had been pinned was riddled, marred with flesh and blood and
smoking shreds of clothing.
Hohlstrom pushed himself to his knees, then wiped away the blood that
still oozed down into his eyes from his forehead wound. The Mossad man was
injured, but holding on. Staying hard.
Bolan swung his focus to the pilot of the chopper.
The pilot was responding to the action. He had punched into the tac net
and was shouting into a hand-held mike something that Bolan could not hear.
Now the merc pilot was swinging around in his cockpit, tracking toward Bolan
with an old-fashioned army issue Colt .45.
Bolan's Browning again penciled death. The pilot pitched over, his
near-lifeless body palpitating to final departure on the floor.
Bolan leaped forward and seated himself in the cockpit. He took control
of the Huey, glancing out the Plexiglas for a reading of position on the
other two choppers.
Quivers of a past life echoed in from his subconscious: soldiering in
the hellgrounds of Vietnam those many years ago, learning all he could about
everything involved with surviving in a hostile jungle combat zone;
observing things like how to pilot the Hueys, those ever-present big birds
of Nam.
The Huey with Doyle was pulling away south and there was nothing Bolan
could do to halt it.
The other gunship was responding to the dead pilot's radioed SOS.
The heavily armed chopper was banking around for a kill shot. Bolan
reacted quickly, pulling the cyclic control stick hard to his left.
"Hang on!" he shouted over his shoulder at Hohlstrom.
As he spoke, their aircraft was already lurching and dipping in an
evasive maneuver.
The other Huey opened fire. Its turret-mounted miniguns rattled off a
twin streak of 5.56mm armor-piercing rounds.
A direct raking of the fuselage of Bolan's copter was avoided by his
fast evasive response. But the other gunship scored a hit.
Bolan felt the cyclic control stick vibrate wildly in his fist. That
was the first warning.
Abrupt silence replaced the screaming whine of the Huey's transmission
above and behind Bolan. All engine gauges on the flight-control instrument
panel plummeted to zero.
Bolan's chopper had sustained an engine hit. The engine was dead. Bolan
had only seconds to react.
To his left side in the cockpit was a collective pitch-control lever
that controlled the pitch of the rotors. He rammed it down. With the pitch
of the blades flattened, even the whistling outside died away.
Bolan was aiming for autorotation of the blades from the copter's