"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 8 - The Mark" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

“I wish.”
“It is. Either you don't go, or you consider all your resources.”
“What does that mean?”
“There's one it seems you've forgotten. Maybe two.”
“I'll bite.”
“Assign David Hassid to find out exactly where they have her and have him send
through an order from a bogus commander to keep her there until further notice.
You call her back and tell her you're not coming. Make her and whoever is listening
in believe it. You just show up, surprise attack, just when both she and the GC think
you have abandoned her.”
Rayford pursed his lips. “Maybe you ought to be in charge of the Trib Force. But
surprising them doesn't guarantee success. I'll still likely be killed or detained
myself.”
“But you've forgotten another resource.”
“I'm still listening.”
“Sir? Director? Are you all right?”
“He's out.”
“His eyes are open, Doctor.”
“He fell on his head, Medicine Woman.”
“I've asked you not to call me th—”
“Sorry. I don't know how you handled fallen braves on the reservation, but this one
couldn't even break his fall. He couldn't shut his eyes if he wanted to.”
“Help me get him onto—”
“There you go again, sweetie. I'm not an orderly.”
“And there you go again, Doctor! We can let him lie here and bleed to death, or I
can remind you that our patients way outnumber the help.”
David's tongue was swollen, and he could not maneuver it to form the word. All he
wanted was water, but he knew his head required attention too.
“Spray!” the dark nurse called out, and someone tossed her a bottle. She sprayed
three bursts of lukewarm water directly into David's face, and he couldn't even
blink. Compared to the heat of the asphalt, which he estimated at 120 degrees, the
water felt icy. A few drops reached his mouth and he panted, trying to drink them
in.
The doctor and nurse gently rolled him to his back, and in his mind he was
squinting against the harsh sun. Yet he knew his eyes were wide open and burning.
He wanted to plead for another spray, but he felt paralyzed. The nurse mercifully
laid his cap over his face, and when feeling returned, he tried not to move so as to
keep the cap in place.
If he could find his voice he would plead for Annie, but he was helpless. She was
probably somewhere looking for him.
When David was lifted to a canvas cot, the hat slipped off his face, but he was able
to blink and was soon under the shade of a crowded tent. He had been assigned the
last sliver of shadow. “Critical?” someone asked.
“No,” the doctor said. “But sew that head up soon.”
The first syringe that plunged into his scalp made his whole body jerk and shudder,
but still he could not call out. In seconds the top of his head was numb. “You can do
this?” the doctor said.
The nurse said, “It's not exactly cosmetic, is it?”
“Give him threads like a football—I don't care. He can always wear a hat.”
In truth, David didn't care what his head looked like, and it was a good thing,