"William W. Johnstone - Ashes 01 - Out of the Ashes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Johnstone William W)

тАЬForyou all? Not including yourself in that, Colonel?тАЭ

The Bull had smiled.

тАЬSir? Why are you telling me all this ... now?тАЭ

The Bull shook his head. тАЬI haven't told you as much as you might believe. But in the years ahead of
youтАФtwo decades, more than likelyтАФyou'll understand.тАЭ

Ben stirred uncomfortably on the porch. It had been two decades, almost. The strange visitor of several
years back suddenly popped into his mind. He shook away those memories.

And just before that leap into the rushing night, so many years ago, as the Bull stood in the door of the
plane, he screamed at Ben: тАЬBold Strike, son. Remember it. Bold Strike. Say it to no one.тАЭ

A few weeks later, Col. William тАЬBullтАЭ Dean was supposedly killed, his mutilated and unrecognizable
body found days later by a team of LRRPsтАФLong Range Recon Patrols. Then Adams was reported
missing. He was MIA'ed; then, finally, listed as KIA.

A month later, Ben had been wounded and sent home.

After he recovered from his wounds, he found he could not tolerate the attitudes in America toward her
Vietnam vets. He was restless, and missed the action he had left behind. He had been sent home to a
land of hairy, profane young men who sewed the American flag on the seats of their dirty jeans and
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marched up and down the street, shouting ugly words, all in the name of freedomтАФtheir concept of
freedom.

Ben left the country and made his way to Africa, signing on as a mercenary with anyone who wanted
and appreciated fighting men. For two years he fought in dozens of little no-name wars, just drifting,
becoming hardened to death and blood and suffering.

One day he told a visiting American writerтАФwhom he had met in a barтАФhe thought he might write a
book. The writer questioned Ben closely, then told him to do just that, and when he was through with it,
to send it to his agent. He'd tell the agent it was coming.

The more Ben thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He went home, back to Illinois, to his
parentsтАЩ home, and wrote his book.

He'd been writing ever since and had lived in Louisiana for almost fifteen years.

He stirred from his misty memories and realized the phone was ringing in the den. He walked from the
coolness of the front porch and picked up the phone. Two words were spoken, and they caused his
heart to pound and a dizziness to spring into his head.