"William C. Dietz - Deathday" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dietz William)

wisely fear, had finally arrived. And they were bad,very bad, which was why more than three billion
people died in less than three days.
 Those who survived, who lived to endure the days ahead, would remember Black Friday in a variety of
different ways. For Jack Manning it was the noise, the sound of sonic booms that rolled across the land,
each one overlapping the last, like the hammers of hell.

He was on vacation near Newport, Oregon, when the thunder started to roll and contrails clawed the
sky. The wind caused his eyes to tear as Manning looked upward. There were others on the beach, not
many given the time of year, but a thin scattering of tourists salted with locals. They shaded their eyes
against the glare and pointed toward dots that raced out over the Pacific. Most assumed it was some sort
of military exercise—role-playing for the kind of war that no one expected anymore.

The first hint of what was actually taking place came from an older man in a yellow windbreaker. The
words “The North Face” were emblazoned over his left breast pocket. A cloud of windblown hair
danced around his ruddy face. He waved his unicom like a high-tech talisman. His voice was hopeful, as
if the tall, lean stranger might be able to explain the news, or make it go away. “Have you seen this
nonsense? These idiots claim Portland is under attack! But that’s impossible! My daughter works
there . . . not far from Powell’s bookstore. Here . . . look at this.”

Manning looked at the little screen and was amazed by what he saw. The video quality was pretty good
considering where they were. The old Pittock Mansion was on a hill west of downtown Portland. A guy
named Frank had gone there to get a better view. Now, thanks to a home videocamera and his wireless
connection to the Web, Frank’s video was available worldwide. The footage managed to be both
horrible and awe-inspiring at the same time. The two men watched as three aircraft, one the size of a city
block, systematically destroyed the city. The attackers used energy weapons, high-explosive bombs, and
a variety of missiles to do their bloody work. The new fifty-story Willamette office tower took a direct
hit, folded like a tube of wet cardboard, and fell on the Morrison bridge. The span collapsed into the
river. Boats, barges, and other debris were swept downstream and into the wreckage, where they were
trapped. A dam started to form. “Jeez,” the man named Frank said feelingly, “somebody needs to stop
these bastards.”

A windblown shout carried down the beach. Manning looked up into the sky. One of the black specks
wheeled, did a nose-over, and dove for the beach. He could have run,should have run, but there was
nowhere to go. The nearest cover was more than half a mile away. Manning had never felt so
exposed—so vulnerable. The blob grew into a delta-shaped hull and roared overhead. It was so low
they could feel the wind created by its passage and read the hieroglyphics on the fuselage. Engines
howled. Both men turned to watch it depart. The ship pulled up, climbed at an amazing rate of speed,
and was gone. The boom followed a few seconds later.

“Damn!” the man said. “Did you see that? It looked like the ones on TV. Who are they? The Chinese?”

As with most members of his particular profession, Manning knew a thing or two about military aircraft.
“No,” he answered slowly. “The Chinese don’t have anything like that.”

“Then who?” the older man demanded desperately. “Whodo the planes belong to?”

“I don’t know,” Manning replied grimly, “but I doubt they’re human.”

The older man’s jaw dropped, and remained that way, as Manning turned and walked away. Thunder
rolled—and the human race continued to die.