"Clancy, Tom - Debt Of HonorUC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clancy Tom)

His face was impassive as he reached the edge of what the locals called
Banzai Cliff. An onshore wind was blowing, and he could see and hear the
waves marching in their endless ranks to smash against the rocks at the base
of the cliff-the same rocks that had smashed the bodies of his parents and
siblings after they, and so many others, had jumped off to evade capture by
the advancing U.S. Marines. The sight had horrified the Marines, but Mr.
Yamata would never appreciate or acknowledge that.
The businessman clapped his hands once and bowed his head, both to call
the attention of the lingering spirits to his presence and to show proper obei-
sance to their influence over his destiny. It was fitting, he thought, that his
purchase of this parcel of land now meant that 50.016% of the real estate on
Saipan was again in Japanese hands, more than fifty years since his family's
death at American hands.
He felt a sudden chill, and ascribed it to the emotion of the moment, or
perhaps the nearness of his ancestors' spirits. Though their bodies had been
swept away in the endless surf, surely their kami had never left this place,
1)1 HI 01 HONOR is
nnd awaited his return. He shuddered, and buttoned his coat. Yes, he'd build
hc-rc, hut only alter he'd done what was necessary first.
1'irsl, he had to destroy.
ll was one of those perfect moments, half a world away. The driver came
mnooihly back, away from the ball, in a perfect arc, stopped for the briefest
of moments, then accelerated back along the same path, downward now,
gaining speed as it fell. The man holding the club shifted his weight from
one leg to the other. At the proper moment, his hands turned over as they
fthould, which caused the club head to rotate around the vertical axis, so that
when the head hit the ball it was exactly perpendicular to the intended flight
path. The sound told the tale-a perfect tink (it was a metal-headed driver).
Thai, and the tactile impulse transmitted through the graphite shaft told the
golfer everything he needed to know. He didn't even have to look. The club
finished its follow-through path before the man's head turned to track the
night of the ball.
Unfortunately, Ryan wasn't the one holding the club.
Jack shook his head with a rueful grin as he bent to tee up his ball. "Nice
hit.Robby."
Rear Admiral (lower half) Robert Jefferson Jackson, USN, held his pose,
his aviator's eyes watching the ball start its descent, then bounce on the fair-
way about two hundred fifty yards away. The bounces carried it another
Ihirty or so. He didn't speak until it stopped, dead center.' 'I meant to draw it
a little."
"Life's a bitch, ain't it?" Ryan observed, as he went through his setup
ritual. Knees bent, back fairly straight, head down but not too much, the grip,
yes, that's about right. He did everything the club pro had told him the pre-
vious week, and the week before that, and the week . . . bringing the club
back .. . and down . . .
... and it wasn't too bad, just off the fairway to the right, a hundred eighty
yards, the best first-tee drive he'd hit in ... forever. And approximately the
same distance with his driver that Robby would have gotten with a firm
seven-iron. About the only good news was that it was only 7:45 A.M., and
there was nobody around to share his embarrassment.