"Дон Пендлтон. Blood Sport ("Палач" #46) " - читать интересную книгу автора

April Rose hovered over the Diablo 1650 printer as it spat out
information, printwheel clattering across the paper like a machine gun. She
read each line twice, then shook her head grimly. She reached over and
picked up a stack of the according paper and let it unfold to her feet as
she scanned quickly for something encouraging. But all she could do was
shake her head again. It was getting worse and worse.
Someone unfamiliar with operations at Stony Man Farm might take one
look at her and wonder if some fancy glamour magazine was shooting a special
fashion layout. Maybe a Hollywood film crew was shooting a scene for a
high-class thriller? Why else would such a beautiful young woman be isolated
out here in Shenandoah Country with her finger on the pulse of international
terrorism.
But April Rose had her finger on a pulse much more important to her
personally. The pulse of Mack Bolan.
At the other end of the communications room a door was flung open and
Hal Brognola marched in.
"Any word yet from Striker?" April shook her head, continued reading.
"Damn," Brognola muttered. He patted his jacket for a cigar and finding
none, looked over April's shoulder at the TeleCom data. The big fed laid a
gentle hand on April's shoulder. "Don't worry, he'll call in."
She forced a smile. "He'd better. He absolutely needs this new
information before he proceeds. The whole plan will have to be changed."
"The whole thing stinks," Brognola decided gruffly. He looked at his
watch and felt a thin layer of sweat spreading across his forehead.
It was already ten minutes past Striker's contact time. There were a
lot of reasons for Colonel John Phoenix to be late, including the one that
neither of them would mention but both of them feared.
Brognola took a deep breath and patted his pockets again for a cigar,
still coming up empty.
No, nothing could have happened to the big guy. Not now. Especially not
now, after what they had just discovered about the Zwilling Horde. As the
White House liaison on this project, Brognola had already been in touch with
the president. Even the Man was worried, insisting that the ex-fed handle
the situation as promptly as possible and as quietly as possible.
So Mack Bolan had better damn well be all right. Most of all because
Brognola and Bolan were friends. One ex-FBI agent in a three-piece suit who
looked like the vice-president of IBM, and one black-clad warrior reeking of
sweat, cordite, combat. An uneasy friendship, sure, but powerful and deeply
committed.
An electronic buzz sounded. Half a dozen bright colored lights flashed
across the telephone console. April ran over, clamped the headset over her
cars, began flipping switches. These feed lines were the same as used in the
White House; once the caller connected with the console, the conversation
could not be tapped through the lines. She gestured at the spare headset
which Brognola donned immediately. "Striker?" Brognola growled.
"You copy?" Bolan's voice was clear. "You know, that's just what my
high school teacher asked me when I got an on my history exam".
April Rose sighed with relief. "Where are you calling from, Mack?"
"General Wilson's office. This place has been swept for bugs every day
for the past five years, so the line should be secure".