"Andy McNab - Bravo-Two-Zero" - читать интересную книгу автора (McNab Andy)

We watched CNN news and talked about different scenarios.

We guessed the parameters of our operations would be loose, but that
wouldn't mean we could just go around blowing up power lines or whatever
else we saw. We're strategic troops, so what we do behind enemy lines
can have serious implications. If we saw a petroleum line, for example,
and blew it up just for the fucking badness of it, we might be bringing
Jordan into the war: it could be a pipeline from Baghdad to Jordan which
the Allies had agreed not to destroy so that Jordan still got its oil.
So if we saw an opportunity target like that, we'd have to get
permission to deal with it. That way we could cause the maximum amount
of damage to the Iraqi war machine, but not damage any political or
strategic considerations.

If we were caught, we wondered, would the Iraqis kill us? Too bad if
they did. As long as they did it swiftly--if not, we'd just have to try
and speed things up.

Would they fuck us? Arab men are very affectionate with each other,
holding hands and so on. It's just their culture, of course; it doesn't
necessarily mean they're shit stabbers, but the question had to be
asked. I wasn't that worried about the prospect, because if it happened
to me I wouldn't tell. The only scenario that did bring me out in a
sweat was the possibility of having my bollocks cut off. That would not
be a good day out. If the rag heads had me tied down naked and were
sharpening their knives, I'd do whatever I could to provoke them into
slotting me.

I'd never worried about dying. My attitude to the work I am expected to
do in the Regiment has always been that you take the money off them
every month and so you're a tool to be used--and you are. The Regiment
does lose people, so you cater for that eventuality. You fill in your
insurance policies, although at the time only Equity & Law had the
bottle to insure the SAS without loading the premium. You write your
letters to be handed to next of kin if you get slotted. I wrote four
and entrusted them to a mate called Eno. There was one for my parents
that said: "Thanks for looking after me; it can't have been easy for
you, but I had a rather nice childhood. Don't worry about me being
dead, it's one of those things." One was for Jilly, saying: "Don't mope
around--get the money and have a good time. PS 500 pounds is to go
behind the bar at the next squadron piss-up. PPSI love you." And there
was one for little Kate, to be given to her by Eno when she was older,
and it said: "I always loved you, and always will love you." The letter
to Eno himself, who was to be the executor of my will, said: "Fuck this
one up, wanker, and I'll come back and haunt you."

At about 1900 one evening, I and another team commander, Vince, were
called over to the squadron OC's table. He was having a brew with the
squadron sergeant major.