Читать книгу Syrian Rescue - Don Pendleton - Страница 3

Bolan leaped from the Niva carrying the RPG-7.

Behind him, he heard Sabah Azmeh jump out and make a run for it, as instructed. Not that it would help, if the advancing chopper’s searchlight fell on either one of them.

Whether it was a Hind or Hoplite helicopter, neither could shrug off a direct hit from one of Bolan’s 93 mm rocket-propelled HEAT warheads. He could bring down whichever helicopter it turned out to be—if he hit it.

He’d have to do this right the first time. He hadn’t grabbed a second rocket from the Niva’s backseat, and he likely wouldn’t have time to reload the launcher anyway, if his first warhead missed its mark.

The searchlight found his ride, swept to the pilot’s right and froze on Bolan.

He recognized the stutter of a heavy machine gun and saw its muzzle flashes winking at him from the helicopter’s chin. That meant he had a Hind to deal with and would have to make a clean hit with his HEAT round when he let it fly.

First, though, Bolan had to dodge the storm of bullets streaming toward him. He hit the ground and rolled, took a beating on his shoulder from the launcher’s tube, and came up in a crouch, squinting through its sight into the searchlight’s blinding glare.