Eagle in the Sky - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗

eyes and plastering the lank grey hair down his forehead.  The

walkie-talkie set bounced on his back, and the butt of the rifle thumped

rhythmically against his hip.

He ran with grim concentration, trying to ignore the swollen pounding of

his heart and the torture of breath that scalded his lungs.  A thorn

branch clawed at his upper arms, raking thin bloody lines through his

skin, but he did not break the pattern of his run.

He turned his red and streaming face to the sky and saw David's

aircraft, circling ahead of him and slightly to his left.  That marked

for him Akkers position and it was clear that Conrad was losing ground

in his desperate race to head off the escape.

The radio set on his back buzzed, but he ignored the call, he could not

halt now.  To break his run would mean he would only slump down

exhausted.  He was a big heavy man, the air was hot and enervating, and

he had run three miles through loose and difficult going he was almost

finished.  He was burning the last of his reserves now.

Suddenly the earth seemed to fall away under him, and he pitched forward

and half-slid, half-rolled, down the steep bank of the Luzane stream, to

finish lying on his back in the white river sand, clean and grainy as

sugar.  The radio was digging painfully into his flesh and he dragged it

out from under him.

Still lying in the sand he panted like a dog, blinded by sweat and he

fumbled the transmit button of the set.

David - he croaked thickly, I am in the bed of the stream, can you see

me?  The aircraft was arcing directly overhead now, and David's answer

came back immediately.

I see you, Connie, you are a hundred yards downstream from the truck.

Akkers is there, Connie, he has just reached the truck, he'll be coming

back down the river bed at any moment.  Painfully, gaspin& choking for

breath, Conrad Berg dragged himself to his knees, and at that moment he

heard the whirr and catch and purr of an engine.  He unstrapped the

heavy radio and laid it aside, then he unslung his rifle, snapped open

the breech to check the load, and pulled himself to his feet.

Surprised at the weakness of his own massive body, he staggered into the

centre of the river bed.

The dry river bed was eight feet deep with banks cut sheer by flood

water, and it was fifteen feet wide at this point, and the floor was of

smooth white sand, scattered with small water-rounded stones no bigger

than a baseball.  It made a good illegal access road into Jabulani, and

the tracks of Alkkers truck were clearly etched in the sol t sand.

Around a bed in the stream Conrad heard the truck revving and roaring as

it came down a low place in the bank into the smooth bed.

Conrad stood squarely in the middle of the river bed with the rifle held

across his hip, and he fought to control his breathing.  The approaching

roar of the truck reached a crescendo as it came skidding wildly around

the bend in the stream, and raced down towards him.

Showers of loose sand were thrown out from under the spinning rear

wheels.

Johan Akkers crouched over the steering wheel, with the black hat pulled

down to his eyebrows, and his face was grey and glistening with sweat,

and he saw Conrad blocking the river bed.

Stop!  Conrad shouted, hefting the rifle.  Stop or I shoot!

The truck was swaying and sliding, the engine screamed in tortured

protest. Akkers began to laugh, Conrad could see the open mouth and the

shaking shoulders.  There was no slackening in the truck's roaring

rocking charge.

Conrad lifted the rifle and sighted down the stubby double barrels, At

that range he could have put a bullet through each of Johan Akkers

deep-set eyes, and the man made no effort to duck or otherwise avoid the

men ace of the levelled rifle.  He was still laughing, and Conrad could

clearly see the teeth lying loosely on his s.  He steeled himself with

the truck fifty feet away, gum and racing down upon him.

it takes a peculiar state of mind before one man deliberately and

cold-bloodedly shoot down another.  It must either be the conditioned

reflex of the soldier or lawenforcement officer, or it must be the

terror of the hunted, or again it must be the unbalanced frenzy of the

criminal lunatic.

None of these was Conrad Berg.  Like most big strong men, he was

essentially a gentle person.  His whole thinking was centred on

protecting and cherishing life, he could not pull the trigger.

With the truck fifteen feet away, he threw himself aside, and Johan

Akkers swung the wheel wildly, deliberately driving for him.

He caught Berg a glancing blow with the side of the truck, hurling him

into the earthen bank of the stream.

The truck went past him, slewing out of control.  It hit the bank

farther down the stream in a burst of earth and loose pebbles, swaying

wildly as Akkers fought the bucking wheel.  He got it under control

again, jammed his foot down on the accelerator and went roaring on down

the river bed, leaving Conrad lying in the soft sand below the bank.

As the truck hit him, Conrad felt the bone in his hip shatter like

glass, and the breath driven from his lungs by the heavy blow of metal

against his rib cage.

He lay in the sand on his side and felt the blood well slowly into his

mouth.  It had a bitter salt taste, and he knew that one of the broken

ribs had pierced his lung like a lance and that the blood sprang from

deep within his body.

He turned his head and saw the radio set lying ten paces away across the

river bed.  He began to drag himself towards it and his shattered leg

slithered after him, twisted at a grotesque angle.

David, he whispered into the microphone.  I couldn't stop him.  He got

away, and he spat a mouthful of blood into the white sand.

David picked the truck up as it came charging up the river bank below

the concrete bridge of the Luzane, bounced and bumped over the drainage

ditch and swung on to the road.  It gathered speed swiftly and raced

westwards towards Bandolier Hill and the highway.  Dust boiled out from

behind the green chassis, marking its position clearly for David as he

turned two miles ahead of it.

After crossing the Luzane the road turned sharply to avoid a rocky

outcrop, and then ran arrow-straight for two miles, hedged in with thick

timber and undulating like a switchback, striking across the water shed

and the grain of the land.

As David completed his turn he lowered his landing gear, and throttled

back.  The Navajo sank down, lined up on the dusty road as though it was

a landing-strip.

Directly ahead was the dust column of the speeding truck.  They were on

a head-on course, but David concentrated coldly on bringing the Navajo

down into the narrow lane between the high walls of timber.  He was

speaking quietly to Debra, reassuring her and explaining what he was

going to attempt.

He touched down lightly on the narrow road, letting her float in easily,

and when she was down he opened the throttles again, taking her along

the centre of the road under power but holding her down.  He had speed

enough to lift the Navajo off, if Akkers chose a collision rather than

surrender.

Ahead of them was another hump in the road, and as they rolled swiftly

towards it the green truck suddenly burst over the crest, not more than

a hundred yards ahead: Both vehicles were moving fast, coming together

at a combined speed of almost two hundred miles an hour, and the shock