"Энди Макнаб. Кризис четвертого (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Sarah's morale.
She looked at him blankly and said, "Let's get on with it, shall we?"
There was a pause as he let the tone of her reply sink in. He didn't
like it.
"OK, let's go." He pointed at her.
"You, behind me. Nick, behind her, OK?"
On the track between the olive groves I could see shadowy figures
shaking out into single file. My only job was to protect her; we hadn't let
Glen in on this, but if there was a drama, the two of us were going to fuck
off sharpish. We'd just let them get on with it and die. As we joined the
snake I wondered about the times I'd done jobs while in the Regiment, not
realizing that no one really cared.
We moved off into the shadows, weapon butt in the shoulder, index
finger across the trigger guard, thumb on the safety catch. Sarah was
carrying only a Beretta for self-defense. We were there to do everything
else for her.
For about forty minutes we moved through wide groves. When we finally
stopped I could hear only the crickets and the wind in the trees.
Ahead of us now was the target, a row of six or seven low-level, brick
faced light industrial units with flat aluminium roofs and windows. The
entire complex was surrounded by a three-meter-high chain-link fence, with
just one entrance, which was gated off for the night. The road was lit by
yellow street lamps every thirty meters, and there were floods on the fronts
of the buildings, facing down the walls and lighting up the shutters.
There were also lights on in some of the units, but no sign of
movement.
Apart from the fence there seemed to be no security, which would be
about right for units that supposedly housed nothing more serious than JCB
spares.
The buildings gave off enough light for us to see what we were doing,
but we were still in the shadows of the grove. Glen came alongside me and
said quietly, "This is the FRV (Final Rendezvous). The target ... if you
look at the nearest building on the left..."
We were looking at the long sides of three rectangles. He indicated the
closest one.
"You see the lights on?" I nodded.
"All right, count three windows from the left. That's where we reckon
he is or was last night." The "reckon" would have been a bit of a judgment
call: the latest pictures we had of the Source were three years old. I
didn't even know his name. Only Sarah did, and only she could positively
identify him.
I could make out two small mobile satellite dishes and a wire half-wave
dipole antenna on the roof, looking like the world's longest washing line.
You didn't need that lot for road building.
I sat against a stubby tree while the patrol prepared itself, bringing
out kit from their berg ens very slowly to eliminate noise. There was no
light from the town to the north, which was lost completely in the dead
ground.
Reg 1 and 2 checked in with Glen, then moved off. Glen pulled an
antenna out of a green twelve-by-eight-inch metal box and began to press