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

"public enemy number one" by Clinton for nothing.
Our task was to lift Osama's right-hand man known to us only as the
"Source" for op sec (operational security) reasons from on site. His private
jet had been spotted at a nearby airfield. The U.S. needed to know what was
happening in Syria, and, more to the point, maybe learn how to lay their
hands on Osama. As the briefing guy had said, "Bin Laden represents a
completely new phenomenon: non-state-supported terrorism backed by an
extremely rich and religiously motivated leader with an intense hatred of
the West, mainly America, as well as Israel and the secular Arab world.
He must be stopped."
Once ready and checked by the loadies, it was just a question of
holding on to the airframe and waiting. There was nothing to do for the next
few minutes but daydream or get scared. Each of us was in his or her own
little world now. Before any operation some people are frightened, some are
excited. Now and again I could see reflections from the red flashlights in
people's eyes; they were staring at their boots or at some other fixed
point, maybe thinking about their wives, or girlfriends, or kids, or what
they were going to do after this, or maybe even wondering what the fuck they
were doing here in the first place.
Me, I didn't know what to think really. I'd never been able to get
sparked up about the thought of dying and not seeing anyone else again.
Not even my wife, when I was married. I always felt I was a gambler
with nothing to lose. Most people who gamble do so with the things that are
important to them; I gambled knowing that if I lost I wouldn't break the
bank.
I watched the glowing redheads pack our kit away into the large
aluminium Lacon boxes. Once we'd been thrown out and the door had closed
again, they'd stow all other evidence that we had been there in the boxes
and just sit it out until they were taken care of in London.
Two of the loadies started a sweep with their flashlights to make sure
there was nothing loose that could be sucked out as soon as the door opened.
Nothing must compromise this job.
We got the order to turn on our own oxygen, disconnect from the
aircraft supply and stand by. Sarah was standing in front of Reg 1, who was
to tandem jump with her. She had never failed to amaze me. She was an IG
(Intelligence Group), the very top of the intelligence-service food chain,
people who usually spend their lives in embassies, posing as diplomats.
Their lives should be one long round of receptions and recruiting
sources through the cocktail circuit, not running around, weapon strong.
Then again, Sarah had always made a point of finishing the jobs
herself.
She was masked and goggled up, looking for all the world as if she'd
done this a thousand times. She hadn't; her first jump ever had been three
weeks before, but she took her job so seriously that she'd probably read ten
books on free fall and knew more facts and figures than all of us lot put
together.
She turned and looked for me. We got eye-to-eye and I gave her an
everything-is-OK nod. After all, that was part of this job, to look after
her.
The lo adie motioned us toward the door. Our berg ens each containing