Hard Target (The Zone, Book 1)
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Hard Target's plot will, of course, unfold within this nightmarish reality, particularly around one of the many post-apocalyptic refugee enclaves situated in The Zone where the Soviets are suspected of having placed, against the rules of war, an elite tank salvage unit, one tasked with refitting enough Soviet armor to enable a successful counter-attack in coming months. Simply, it must be destroyed if NATO is to be able to keep the Reds from winning a large swath of The Zone.
signal instead, we’ll still know when someone is looking at us, or chucking shit in our direction. We just won’t know where from and how much, but it’ll be better than nothing.’ ‘How long will it take?’ Sparks trailed behind the red dot of the major’s cigarette butt as he flicked it away. It died with a faint hiss among the damp stones at the water’s edge. ‘If someone holds the torch for me,(and provided I don’t run into any fresh problems, an hour, it won’t be pretty, but it’ll work. Only
turbofans fought to keep the craft on an even keel. There was another towering cascade as the rear of the hovercraft pancaked down and stabilised the machine. Spray clouds surrounded and followed them across the river and again in the swamp-like fields beyond. ‘How is he?’ Collins leant across to where Rinehart was trying to re-secure the bulky dressing that ineffectually bound Nelson’s gaping wound. ‘Pretty bad. Can’t see him hanging on long unless we can get him fixed up proper, real soon.’
shelved when production was curtailed. THE ZONE Series by James Rouch: HARD TARGET BLIND FIRE HUNTER KILLER SKY STRIKE OVERKILL KILLING GROUND PLAGUE BOMB CIVILIAN SLAUGHTER BODY COUNT DEATH MARCH HARD TARGET James Rouch For my parents, John and Marie Rouch Copyright � 1980 by James Rouch An Imprint Original Publication, 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers. First E-Book
his mind. Casualties... shit, that didn’t take much working out. They’d be heavy. Without further comment he left the room and went back down, two stairs at a time, to collect Libby. Now why in hell’s name was he hurrying? Casualties... yes they’d be high, already were with three-quarters of the platoon destroyed on the way there. That was seventy-five per cent. Everything was bloody decimals or averages or percentages now, and he knew them all: the odds against getting a wound and the percentage
rest on the engine decks, or went in through open hatches. A dazzling white hell washed over the tanks and the bodies strewn about them. A mountain of packing cases that could only contain new engines or whole transmissions received several more of the destructive grenades, and just two were sufficient for a stack of spare radiators. Molten copper and aluminium flowed as the bursting contents burned at two thousand degrees. ‘Look for the machinery trucks. They’re near here somewhere.’ It was