"Энди Макнаб. Немедленная операция (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

States, with R.A.F instructors. It's no good having an expensive aircraft
sitting down doing nothing because the weather's shit; it's cheaper and
better to go to somewhere with a guarantee of sunny skies, so the job can
get done.
The way of, life in Brize Norton was even easier than it had been on
the basic parachuting course. The intake consisted of just me and four SBS
(Special Boat Service) blokes, and we had an excellent relationship with the
instructors. The majority of them were on the Falcons display team; they
knew that a lot of the stuff they were teaching us was outdated, but that
was what the manual said. I found it strange to be learning for the sake of
learning again; I thought I'd left "bullshit baffles brains" behind me at
the basic parachuting phase. It was only later that I found out that free
fall manuals were obsolete almost before they were printed. Sport
techniques, were changing at a weekly rate; the Regiment monitored them
constantly to see how it could adapt their equipment and methods to a
military context.
We had about two days of ground training, learning how to put on the
basic free fall kit. Our first lump would be with a PB6, round-canopy
parachute. We would then go on to a TAP, which was much like the sports rig,
a Para Commander. Even that was an antiquated bit of kit; all it could do
was turn left, turn right, and go with the wind.
On day three I sat there in the C130 (Hercules transport aircraft)
thinking, Whatever happens, I don't want to look like a dickhead. I was
going to jump, there were no problems with that, but I just didn't want to
cock it up. I was mentally going through my drills.
"Even professional jumpers who've been jumping for years and years do
the same," the instructors had told us. "As they go up in the aircraft,
they're mentally and physically dry drilling, simulating pulling their
emergency cutaway, then deploying their reserve." it didn't mean they were
scared; it meant they were thinking about their future.
I closed my eyes and went through the exit drill: One thousand, two
thousand, three thousand, check canopy.
No canopy? Cut away from the main chute; then pull the reserve.
Once we got above six thousand feet it turned quite cold. I started to
feel a bit light-headed as the oxygen got thinner. If we'd wanted to talk,
we'd have needed to shout; the noise of the aircraft was deafening, even
from inside our helmets.
There was one instructor per student, and we jumped together. When my
time came I was called up onto the tailgate. I stood on the edge, on the
balls of my feet, facing back down the aircraft. My instructor was looking
at me and holding me steady with one hand. Our eyes were locked together as
I waited for the signal. A gale was thrashing at my jumpsuit; twelve
thousand feet below us was Oxfordshire.
"Ready!"
This was it. On the next two commands he would pull me toward him
slightly in a rocking motion and then away-and down.
"Set!"
I rocked forward.
"Go!
I launched myself back.