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

we'd come in. Within less than a minute I was in the cold night air, my eyes
peeled for the gap in the fence. It was pointless worrying about getting
shot; I just ran in a stoop to make as small a target as possible, keeping
Sarah in front of me.
I caught a glimpse of Glen behind me, plus another bloke still farther
back. They followed as we sprinted toward the fence, rounds thudding into
the ground around us. The Syrians were firing far too many rounds in one
burst and couldn't control their aim.
Reg 1 pulled open one half of the upside-down V Sarah slid into the gap
like a baseball player going for base. I prepared to do the same. I caught
up with her as her slide stopped on the other side and kicked her out of the
way so I wasn't blocking the gap for the other two.
"Move! Move!" I expected them to do the same to me. Nothing happened.
Reg 1 had already seen the reason why: "Man down! Man down!"
Looking back through the gloom, I could see a shape on the ground about
twenty meters away. Whoever was with him already had his hand in his loop
and was trying to drag him toward the fence. Each of us was wearing a
harness, a large loop made of nylon strapping between our shoulder blades
with which a downed body could be dragged or hooked up to a heli winch for a
quick extraction.
"Stay here don't move!" I could see from Sarah's expression that for
once she was going to do as she was told.
I ran out to the dragger, and between us we pulled Glen toward the hole
in the fence line. He was moaning and groaning like a drunk.
"Shit, I'm down, I'm down."
Good. If he was talking, he was breathing.
I could see that the legs of his coveralls were shining with blood, but
we'd have to look at that later. The first priority was to get him, and us,
out of the immediate area.
I slid through the fence, turned on my knees, got hold of Glen's
harness and dragged him through the gap. Sarah said and did nothing. Her bit
was done; she was way out of her depth now. Reg 1 and 2 were waiting with
her; the other two patrol members were giving covering fire from the
olive-grove side of the fence as we moved toward them, letting off double
taps at anything that moved. They needed to conserve ammo; we didn't have
Hollywood mags.
Reg 1 was shouting commands.
"Move back to the FRV, move back."
He had a sat comm out, its miniature transmission dish pointing
skyward, telling the world that we were in the shit. I didn't know who he
was talking to, but it certainly made me feel better.
Every other man carried a poncho stretcher a big sheet of green nylon
with loop handles as part of his kit. Reg 2 laid his on the ground as I
removed Glen's belt kit and bergen and put it on my back. So much for
traveling light. As we rolled him onto the stretcher he was still conscious
but, if he hadn't already, he'd soon go into shock.
It was then that I heard an ominous slurping noise in time with his
breathing. He had a sucking wound to his chest: air was being sucked inside
his chest cavity instead of going through his mouth. It was going to need
sorting out quickly because otherwise the fucker was history. But there