Читать книгу Desert Fallout - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Isu Nahyan flew his helicopter nap of the earth as he raced back toward the archaeological camp. The Hughes 500 zipped over the darkening terrain at over 120 mph, but he felt as if he were racing behind the curve. His initial run on the perimeter of the camp had found the vehicle of the lone opponent who had harried his allies. It was amazing that a single man had been able to match the skills of over a dozen trained commandos and take down five of them without sustaining an injury.

Nahyan had taken some pleasure in turning the Mercedes SUV into a pile of bullet-riddled trash in the desert at the behest of his ground-pounding allies. The team leader, Brahim Khaldun, rode in the chopper with him now, and it had been a rare instance when Nahyan had seen the man disconcerted. Khaldun had boarded Nahyan’s chopper for the return to the camp, and the soldier’s face was a grim mask.

It had been at Khaldun’s suggestion that there be four gunships sent after the lone enemy. Nahyan thought it might be overkill, but the man had disappeared, evading the choppers easily.

“Is he really that good?” Nahyan asked.

Khaldun turned to look at the pilot, as if roused from a trance. “You know the caliber of my men. He killed several of them. On his own, outnumbered and surrounded.”

“So this isn’t overkill,” Nahyan said.

“There is no such thing as overkill. There is only reloading when your weapon is empty,” Khaldun returned grimly. “We will rain hell upon him.”

Nahyan chewed his lower lip, then glanced to the commando. “He couldn’t come up with something that could take on our gunships, could he?”