"Steve Perry - The Man Who Never Missed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

wave coming!"

"Jasper, Wilks, Reno, the Lojt says cover three hundred, stat!"

"Why are they still coming, Emile?" Reno was almost sobbing. "We're blowing
them to fuck and they ain't even armed! They're fucking crazy!"

"Goddamn fanatics," Jasper cut in. "They don't think they can die, their
leader's told them they're invincible. Well, we'll show the stupid ratholes—-"
He triggered another blast of his carbine, waving it back and forth at hip
level like a water hose. Three hundred meters out, four or five of the
attackers went down, human wheat in the field used to grow a different crop.

"Stupid fuckers, stupid fuckers, stupid, stupid—!" Jasper screamed as he
fanned his weapon back and forth. All around them, other quads burned the air
with blasts from their carbines, firing a locust-cloud of explosive bullets at
the oncoming enemy. Thousands of the attackers dropped, so many they were
stacked two or three meters high in places, with others climbing the hills of
human debris to keep coming. Those were cut down as well, until the mounds of
dead grew higher still—

"Why don't they stop?" Reno was crying, pointing his empty carbine at the sea
of people, clicking the firing stud over and over. "Why don't they stop? Why?"

Khadaji felt gray, he felt as if a barrel of sand had been poured over him,
ground into his eyes and nose and mouth and muscles. His arms ached from the
weight of the carbine, the stink of electrochem propellant filled his
nostrils, the roar of the explosions seemed continuous, even through the
mute-plugs in his ears. But he kept firing. And firing. And firing....

—exploded into a shower of blood and torn flesh—
"—your quad to the left, three hundred degrees—!"
"—Goddamn fanatics—.'"
"—stupid fuckers, stupid, stupid—!"

Khadaji turned away from the slaughter and dropped into a squat over the dry
ground; he ejected the magazine from his weapon, drew a full one from his belt
and clicked it into place. The sensors in the carbine noted the load. There
was a quiet whine as the first round cycled into the firing chamber. He felt
as if he had been dipped in lead; the smallest movement was hard,
straightening and turning took the energy of a ten klick run. He moved in slow
motion, a man standing in thick lube gel to his neck. He pointed his weapon in
the general direction of the attackers—there was no need to aim—and triggered
it. The Parker carbine vibrated in his hands, sending explosive bullets to
join the killing. It seemed to him as if he'd been born to this foreign world,
as if he'd lived his whole life here, firing and loading and firing and
loading and firing, as if he would surely grow old and die here. His
chronometer must have stopped, it showed that only an hour had passed since
the first wave of fanatics—yes, Jasper was right—fanatics had swept toward the
foam-blocked positons of the Confed's Jump-troops. Only an hour? He had never