"Brown, Dale - Fatal Terrain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Dale)

radios, and charts for almost the entire West Coast with him,
because that's how he had prepared for a flying mission. After
ten trips, he'd learned to navigate by compass and speedometer
and left the GPS satellite navigation gear at home; after fifteen
trips, by compass and tachometer and currents; after twenty
trips, by compass alone; after twenty-five, by bearings off
landmarks; just off feel and birds and whale sightings
thereafter. Now, he could sail just about anywhere with con-
fidence and skill.
The man thought that perhaps flying could also be just as
uncomplicated and carefree as this, the way pilot-authors Rich-
ard Bach and Stephen Coonts wrote about it, but in his ten
thousand-plus hours of flying he had never done it that way.
Every sortie needed a flight plan, a precise schedule of each
and every event and a precise route to follow. Every sortie
needed a weather briefing, target study, and a crew briefing,
even if the crew had flown that sortie a hundred times before.
Hop in and go? Navigate by watching birds and listening for
horns? That was for kids, for irresponsible captains. Plan the
flight, then fly the plan-that had been the man's motto I for
decades. Now he followed birds and looked for whales.
Almost an hour later, just as the eastern sky began to shoN
signs of sunrise, the man shut down his engine, threw a sea
anchor out by the bow to keep pointed into the wind, pou red
a cup of coffee, stuck a granola bar in his shirt pocket, and
got his gear ready for fishing. Halibut and salmon were run-
ning now, and he might get lucky with live sardines on a big

hook with one-hundred-pound test and a little weight. He cast
out about a hundred feet, couched the pole, set the reel clutch,
sat out on deck surveying the horizon. . .
. . . and said aloud, "What in hell am I doing out here? I
don't belong here. I hate fishing, I've never caught a damned
thing, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I like boats,
but I've been out here an hour and I'm bored. I'm wet, I'm
cold, I'm miserable, and I feel like tying the fucking anchor
FATAL T ER RAI N 9
around my neck and seeing exactly how long I can hold my
breath underwater. I feel like shit. I feel like-"
And then the cell phone rang.
At first he was surprised at the sudden, unexpected noise.
Then he wa
s angry at the intrusion. Then he was curious-
who knew his number? He'd left his home number on the little
slip of paper at the general store, not the cell phone number.
He was even outside max range of the Newport 'cell site-he
didn't think he could get calls way out here. Puzzled and still
a bit peeved, he retrieved the phone from his fanny pack,
flipped it open, and growled, "Who the hell is this?"
"Good morning, General. How are you, sir?"