The site is set up for educational purposes. We respect copyright and give users the opportunity to get to know the world literature and communicate also. More details about us. Passwod Reset New account. Log in. Find A book. Dies the Fire. The Change occurred when an electrical storm centered over the island of Nantucket produced a blinding white flash that rendered all electronic devices and fuels inoperable.
What follows is the most terrible global catastrophe in the history of the human race-and a Dark Age more universal and complete than could possibly be imagined. Advertising Download Read Online. Info about the book Author: S. Series: Unknown. ISBN: To start finding Dies the Fire, you are right to find our website which has a complete collection of ebooks listed.
Our library is the largest of these which literally have hundreds of thousands of different products represented. You will also see that there are specific sites suitable for different types or categories of related products, brands or niches Dies the Fire eBook PDF.
So depending on what exactly you are looking for, you will be able to choose e-books according to your needs. Every book in this application is provided in full according to basic needs for those of you who like to read. Thus the article about Download Dies the Fire Ebook. May be useful. Dies the Fire by S. Stirling Full Download. Dies the Fire S. Download Dies the Fire by S. Download Gratis Dies the Fire by S. Stirling Dies the Fire by S. You May Like This Books. The Kingless Crown Sarah M. Steelhead Air did a little of everything: flying tourists, fishermen and Whitewater rafters into wilderness areas in summer, taking supplies to isolated ranchers in the winter with skis on the planes instead of wheels, whatever came to hand.
There was a lot of unroaded territory around this neck of the woods. He glanced at the wall clock. It wasn't long to sunset; call it six forty-five, this time of year. Two hundred forty ground miles to the Montana border, a little more to wherever the Larssons had their country place, call it two, three hours … "They've got landing lights? Mellie snorted. Used to hire us regular, back before 'ninety-six, but not lately.
Hasn't brought the family before. It was nice to know that Dan trusted him; but then, he was damned good if he said so himself, which he didn't. Not aloud, anyway. He went through into the office. Dan Fogarty was sitting and chatting with the clients while Gerta worked behind piles of paper on the desk. There were wilderness posters and models of old bush planes and books on Idaho and the Northwest on shelves. And a faint meowing … That was unusual. The Larssons' youngest had a cat carrier on her lap; the beast's bulging yellow eyes shone through the bars, radiating despair and outrage.
It wasn't taking the trip well; cats seldom did, being little furry Republicans with an inbuilt aversion to change. Judging from an ammonia waft, it was—literally—pissed off. The kid was unusual as well, all huge silver-blue eyes and long white-blond hair, dressed in some sort of medieval-looking suede leather outfit, her nose in a book—an illustrated Tolkien with a tooled-leather cover. She had an honest-to-God bow in a case leaning against her chair, and a quiver of arrows. She kept her face turned to the print, ignoring him.
He'd been raised to consider that sort of behavior rude, but then, she was probably used to ignoring the chauffeur, and his family hadn't had many employees. Havel grinned at the thought. His dad had worked the Iron Range mines from the day he got back from Vietnam and got over a case of shrapnel acne picked up at Khe Sanh; his father had done the same after getting back from a tour of Pacific beauty spots like Iwo Jima, in ; his father had done the Belleau Wood Tour de France in before settling down to feed the steel mills; and his father had gone straight into the mines after arriving from Finland in When the mines weren't hiring, the Havel men cut timber and worked the little farm the family had acquired around the turn of the century and did any sort of honest labor that fell their way.
Kenneth Larsson matched the grin and stood, extending a hand. It was soft but strong; the man behind it was in his fifties, which made him twice Mike Havel's age; graying blond ponytail, shoulders still massive but the beer gut straining at his expensive leather jacket, square ruddy face smiling.
Havel's the name— Mike Havel. I wouldn't be bush-flying out of Boise for a living if I didn't like it. You can see he's the type who likes to smile, Havel thought. But he hasn't been doing a lot of it just lately, and that one's a fake.
That was a lot to pick up from a few words. Got some Svenska in there? We're Swedes ourselves, on my side of the family. Aloud he went on: "Not too far off, both times.
Michigan—Upper Peninsula, the Iron Range. Finn, mostly, on my father's side. Lot of Swede in Mom's father's family— and her mother was Ojibwa, so I'm one-quarter. When my great-grandfather got to the Iron Range about a hundred years ago, the mine's Bohunk payclerk heard 'Myllyharju' and said right then and there: 'From now on, your name is Havel!
Her handshake was brief and dry. Mary Larsson was about forty, champagne-colored hair probably still natural, so slim she was almost gaunt.
She had the same wide-eyed look as her younger daughter, except that it came across as less like an elf and more like an overbred collie, and her voice was pure Back Bay Boston, so achingly genteel that she didn't unclench her teeth even for the vowels.
He had that thin build, too. The son and eldest daughter were twins; both blue-eyed with yellow-blond hair, tall—the boy was already his father's six-two, which put him three inches up on Michael Havel, and built like a running back. Eighteen, the same age as Mike had been when he'd left the Upper Peninsula for the Corps, but looking younger, and vaguely discontented. His sister … Down boy! Havel thought.
Jesus, though, I envy those hip-hugger jeans.
0コメント