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

forehead, but much of what the man had done in the predawn hours confused
Rayford and made him wonder. A wily, streetwise man like Albie—one who had
provided so much at high risk to himself—would be the worst kind of opponent.
Rayford worried that he had unwittingly led the Tribulation Force into the lair of the
enemy.
As the chopper rumbled through the shaft at the top of the tower, Rayford held his
breath. He had carefully set the craft as close to the middle of the space as he could,
allowing him to use one corner for his guide as he rose. If he kept the whirring
blades equidistant from the walls in the one corner, he should be centered until free
of the building.
How vulnerable and conspicuous could a man feel? He imagined David Hassid
having miscalculated, trusting old information, not realizing that the GC itself knew
Chicago was safe—not off-limits due to radiation. Rayford himself had overheard
Carpathia say he had not used radiation on the city, at least initially. He wondered if
the GC had planted such information just to lure in the insurgents and have them
where they wanted them—in one place for easy dispatch.
With his helicopter free of the tower, Rayford still dared not engage the lights. He
would stay low, hopefully beneath radar. He wanted to be invisible to satellite
surveillance photography as well, but heat sensing had been so refined that the dark
whirlybird would glow orange on a monitor.
A chill ran up his back as he let his imagination run. Was he being followed by a
half dozen craft just like his own? He wouldn't hear or see them. They could have
waited nearby, even on the ground. How would he know?
Since when did he manufacture trouble? There was enough real danger without
concocting more.
Rayford set the instrument panel lights at their lowest level and quickly saw he was
off course. It was an easy fix, but so much for trusting his brain, even in a ship like
this. Mac had once told him that piloting a helicopter was to flying a 747 as riding a
bike was to driving a sport utility vehicle. From that Rayford assumed that he would
do more work by the seat of his pants than by marrying himself to the instrument
panel. But neither had he planned on flying blind over a deserted megalopolis in
wee-hour blackness. He had to get to Kankakee, pick up Albie, and get back to the
tower before sunup. He had not a minute to spare. The last thing he wanted was to
be seen over a restricted area in broad daylight. Detected in the dead of night was
one thing. He would take his chances, trust his instincts. But there would be no
hiding under the sun, and he would die before he would lead anyone to the new safe
house.
In New Babylon frustrated supplicants had formed a new line, several thousand
long, outside the Global Community Palace. GC guards traversed the length of it,
telling people that the resurrected potentate would have to leave the courtyard when
he had finished greeting those who happened to be in the right place at the right
time.
David detoured from his route to Medical Services to hear the response of the
crowd. They did not move, did not disperse. The guards, their bullhorned messages
ignored, finally stopped to listen. David, looking puzzled, pulled up behind one of
the jeeps, and a guard shrugged as if as dumbfounded as Director Hassid. The guard
with the loudspeaker said, “Suit yourselves, but this is an exercise in futility.”
“We have another idea!” shouted a man with a Hispanic accent.
“I'm listening,” the guard said, as the crowd near him quieted.
“We will worship the statue!” he said, and hundreds in line cheered.