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

receiving molding. That makes the scope available as a carrying handle. And
this little switch here allows you to go automatic to semiautomatic to
single-shot."
"It looks like something out of the future."
"Yes, it does. But don't let its streamfined looks fool you. This baby
can deliver. Its magazine holds fifty in-line caseless cartridges, mounted
right here in a horizontal bar along the barrel, extending all the way back
to the receiver. There's no recoil and no bullet casings flying all over the
place. Its caliber is four-point-seven times twenty-one millimeters and, in
full automatic, it fires around one thousand rounds per minute."
"Nice," commented Tanya distantly.
"The ammunition has a muzzle velocity approximately three thousand one
hundred feet per second. And its ammunition uses a propellant whose cook-off
point is one hundred degrees higher than the standard nitrocellulose powders
which."
She waved a dismissing hand. "Yes, yes, Sergeant. I am convinced of its
usefulness. You may stop your sales pitch."
"The base has a consignment of one dozen of these, but this is the only
one that's gotten 'lost" so far..."
Tanya Morganslicht glanced at Bolan with a special curiosity. "You look
and sound like a man who understands killing well," she said. Then her voice
became hard again. "We'll take it, plus the rest. How much?"
All talk of prices was interrupted by the clatter of heavy combat
boots, echoing under the metal roof. The shout of military commands fissured
the still air.
"This is Major Thompson, Grendal," a deep voice hollered. "We know
you're in here and we know what you've been up to. I have Cottonwood in my
custody."
"Son of a bitch," Bolan muttered, extinguishing the small flashlight.
Lights beyond their hiding place flashed all over the interior of the big
building.
"What's happening?" Tanya whispered, her voice and features almost
psychopathically calm.
"Oh, nothing, just that they know about us and what we're doing here
and they're going to arrest us. You'll probably get thirty years in prison
and I'll be shot sometime next week while trying to escape. That clarify the
situation for you?"
"I must not be caught," she said urgently.
"Hey, I'm with you, lady. Now tell it to those bozos. They get all
mushy inside when they hear a sad story." Bolan poked his head through the
doorway, saw the men taking positions, ducked back in. "There's only one way
out of this." He went back to the crates and picked up the Heckler and Koch
G-11. He slapped in a magazine, then grabbed four square magazines'and
stuffed them into his pockets. "Here," he said, handing Tanya his Beretta
pistol. "You use this."
"Why not give me one of the submachine guns? I can give better cover
with one of them."
"Because I'm the one giving cover. You're the one running. The only
chance we have is to blast a hole through them just big enough for us to
make a break. Now let's go!"