Радиоуправляемая машинка "Fire Runner"

In his headphones, the copilot counted them in to touchdown. “…four, three, two, one, down.” The front wheels struck ground. The chopper jumped forward a meter or two, then came to rest. As soon as he felt the soft bump, Harry was up. They all rose as one, some more gracefully than others, who were caught off-balance and wobbled slightly as they hauled up their packs. Everyone dropped into an old-fashioned runner’s stance: legs bent, knees flexing, ready for the starter’s pistol. The chief pulled on a lever, dropping the tailgate onto the ground. “Go, go, go.” The members of the heavy-weapon team ran out first, dropping to the ground, ready to start laying fire on the enemy if he had somehow gone undetected. Two by two, the remainder of the troop charged out behind them. “Good luck, Your Highness,” Anjela Claudel said. “Vive la France,” Harry replied. They moved out into the night. 6 D-DAY + 8. 11 MAY 1944. 0341 HOURS. DONZENAC MISSILE FACILITY, SOUTH-CENTRAL FRANCE. No plan survives contact with the enemy. Harry was going to have that tattooed on his arse if he survived this right fucking teddy bear’s picnic ...»