"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 4 - Soul Harvest" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

Soul Harvest:
The World Takes Sides
Book 4 of the Left Behind Series

TIM LAHAYE & JERRY B. JENKINS




ONE
Rayford Steele wore the uniform of the enemy of his soul, and he hated himself for
it. He strode through Iraqi sand toward Baghdad Airport in his dress blues and was
Struck by the incongruity of it all.
From across the parched plain he heard the wails and Screams of hundreds he
wouldn't begin to be able to help. Any prayer of finding his wife alive depended on
how quickly he could get to her. But there was no quick here. Only sand. And what
about Chloe and Buck in the States? And Tsion?
Desperate, frantic, mad with frustration, he ripped off his natty waistcoat with its
yellow braid, heavy epaulettes, and arm patches that identified a senior officer of
the Global Community. Rayford did not take the time to unfasten the solid-gold
buttons but sent them popping across the desert floor. He let the tailored jacket slide
from his shoulders and clutched the collar in his fists. Three, four, five times he
raised the garment over his head and slammed it to the ground. Dust billowed and
sand kicked up over his patent leather shoes.
Rayford considered abandoning all vestiges of his connection to Nicolae Carpathia's
regime, but his attention was drawn again to the luxuriously appointed arm patches.
He tore at them, intending to rip them free, as if busting himself from his own rank
in the service of the Antichrist. But the craftsmanship allowed not even a fingernail
between the stitches, and Rayford slammed the coat to the ground one more time.
He stepped and booted it like an extra point, finally aware of what had made it
heavier. His phone was in the pocket.
As he knelt to retrieve his coat, Rayford's maddening logic returned—the
practicality that made him who he was. Having no idea what he might find in the
ruins of his condominium, he couldn't treat as dispensable what might constitute his
only remaining set of clothes.
Rayford jammed his arms into the sleeves like a little boy made to wear a jacket on
a warm day. He hadn't bothered to shake the grit from it, so as he plunged on toward
the skeletal remains of the airport, Rayford's lanky frame was less impressive than
usual. He could have been the survivor of a crash, a pilot who'd lost his cap and
seen the buttons stripped from his uniform.
Rayford could not remember a chill before sundown in all the months he'd lived in
Iraq. Yet something about the earthquake had changed not only the topography, but
also the temperature. Rayford had been used to damp shirts and a sticky film on his
skin. But now wind, that rare, mysterious draft, chilled him as he speed-dialed Mac
McCullum and put the phone to his ear.
At that instant he heard the chug and whir of Mac's chopper behind him. He
wondered where they were going.
“Mac here,” came McCullum's gravely voice.
Rayford whirled and watched the copter eclipse the descending sun. “I can't believe
this thing works,” Rayford said. He had slammed it to the ground and kicked it, but