"Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 2 - Crabs Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

top of the tree. Winterbottom would always be a cog in any machine, never the
flywheel that drove it.

'It's going well,' Manning had to shout to make himself heard above the noise
of the music. 'Whatever the shortcomings of this crowd it'll give us the
publicity we need. Did you remember to tip those reporters off?'

'I did.' A smug smile. 'They say they'll have a photographer waiting on the
jetty around midnight when we beach.'

'Good. And don't let this party go on past 11.30. Tell the barmen to stop
serving at 11.15. We can't afford to . . . '
His words were cut off by a reverberating explosion followed by a flash that
lit up the night sky. He jerked round, showering cigar ash down the front of
his stiff white shirt.

'What the hell was that?'

'I ... don't know. It seemed to come from the shore about a couple of miles
down the coastline. It ...'

Beams of white light criss-crossed through the sky, swinging to and fro.
Another explosion, followed closely by a third, huge stabs of flame
illuminating a ragged coastline approximately where Winterbottom had placed
the first one. Crackling reports-sporadic bursts of machine-gun fire!

'That's Shell Island,' Manning hissed. 'The bastards are having some kind of
night exercise. They aren't satisfied with annoying you throughout the
daylight hours with low-flying aircraft, now they're trying to make sure that
nobody gets a good night's sleep. If you ask me, they're trying to drive the
holidaymakers away, keep this part of the coast all to themselves for their
silly little war games!'

More machine-gun fire came from the island, interspersed with the booms of
some heavier artillery. The dancers on the deck had come to a halt, couples
clinging to each other, looking around them in bewilderment. Panic might erupt
at any moment. The atmosphere was suddenly tense and vibrant.

Miles Manning acted instantaneously. Pushing his manager to one side, he left
the bridge in long strides, burst into the small cabin just below where a
startled disc jockey had just dropped a pile of 45 singles. Manning ignored
him, switched the record off and grabbed the microphone.

'This is Miles Manning speaking, folks,' a powerful voice that exuded
confidence, the slight tremor of anger lost in the crackling of the
electronics. 'Don't panic. That gunfire is purely a night exercise on Shell
Island. There's nothing whatever to worry about. We're not going to let it
disturb our party, are we? No, sir! Keep dancing, folks, and let the soldiers
get on with their little games.'