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

He flicked the record back on, wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.
He was sweating, and there was a dryness in his mouth. He dropped the remains
of his cigar on to the floor, crushing it with his heel. 'Keep those records
going,' he barked tersely at the DJ, then went outside again, crossed to the
rail and stood staring out towards Shell Island.

The gunfire had not lessened any, if anything it was more intense, a blaze of
dazzling light from the sweeping searchlights creating meaningless distant
shadows. It was too far away to see what was happening, a mass of
indistinguishable moving objects that could have been a fleet of invading
tanks.

Manning gripped the rail, wished he knew what the hell was going on over
there. Episodes like this could scare people off, send them to the more
populated resorts. Tomorrow he would write a personal letter to the Ministry
of Defence, threaten to sue the buggers; a carbon copy to his MP. In the
meantime . . .

Thank Christ the couples on deck were dancing again. Well, most of 'em,
anyway. A few had congregated at the rail watching the distant gigantic
firework display. At least he had stopped them from panicking. The fingers
stroking his moustache trembled slightly.

'Start closing things down,' he told Winterbottom. 'Nice and gently. A steady
trundle back to shore and let's hope that fucking photographer hasn't
forgotten to turn up.'

The engines were started, a deep vibration that gave Miles Manning a feeling
of an extension of his own power. He had created his own kingdom amidst the
acres that were the Blue Ocean Holiday Camp. Now he felt that he had conquered
part of the sea. This was only the beginning of the Manning Empire.

The bar was closed and now everybody was up on deck, slow smoochy music that
had couples clinging to each other; the swell seemed stronger now so that you
could easily have lost your balance. The grand finale, a night to remember.
The DJ had put on 'The Last Waltz'.

Suddenly the yacht lurched, a crazy jerk accompanied by a scraping that you
felt from below, a shuddering as though the hull had been ripped out. Screams,
a group of teenagers collapsing in a heap, an elderly man thrown headlong on
the deck. The yacht seemed to be forcing a passage through some obstruction.

'What the fuck!' Manning saved himself by grabbing the bridge rail, cursed
again as Ricky Winter-bottom cannoned into him. 'We've hit something, scraped
the bottom on a sandbank.'

'There aren't any sandbanks between here and the jetty,' Winterbottom's eyes
were wide with fear. 'It's the one completely clear stretch on this part of
the coast.'