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

there's something wrong, so you're going to try to roll out of that and get
into a position where you can fire."
As the bloke rolled on his shoulder, he could see the problem behind:
two boys with pistols. Still in the roll, he pulled his weapon out and shot
two of them; the third one ran. The whole thing had taken no more than three
seconds. The combination of jap-slapping-going with the shove-and the pistol
drills, saved his life. He had a successful night.
"You've got to remember what these people are going to do to you," Mick
said. "If you look at the victims of the Shankill Butchers, you'll know that
these people don't mess about. They start playing with you with electric
drills and lumps of steel and rock."
We were told that a lot of people in Northern Ireland had guns and were
all macho with them, but it was the intention to use them that counted.
Sometimes blokes had walked straight up to people with guns and disarmed
them because they didn't know when to fire.
We knew that every time we drew a pistol we must have the intention to
use it; we were never to make a threat that we weren't going to carry out.
Mick said, "It isn't enough to know how; you have . to know when.
The intention to use the skills is as important as the skills
themselves. Otherwise, in a place like Northern Ireland, you'd be drawing
your pistol every five minutes, and that's just going to get you killed and
compromise your operation.
"Sometimes people will come up and say, 'Who the fuck are you?"
Or people will stare at you the whole length of a street. You've got to
have that Colgate air of confidence; it's your most important weapon."
Walking through any of the housing estates over the water, we'd get the
boys coming up. They might be coming out of their houses or just mincing
around having a fag by the car. They'd look at us with their eyes, saying,
"Who the fuck are you?" If we looked at the floor and thought, Oh, dear, I'd
better get out of here, that would alert them- they wouldn't know who we
were, or what we were, but they'd sense there was something wrong.
"You don't draw your pistol," Mick said, rounding off the lesson.
"You use your secret weapon: a good, loud Irish 'Fuck off!"-and nine
times out of ten they'll take you as one of their own."
Nosh said, "It's okay for you, you already have a bone accent."
The training went on for weeks. We did everything from CTR skills to
fast driving drills, shooting out of cars and shooting into cars, and I
loved every minute of it.
I was picked up at Belfast airport and driven to our location. The
smells and sounds inside the building took me straight back to Crossmaglen:
fried eggs and talcum powder, music and shouting. Four or five dogs mooched
around the place, looking as if they got fed to no end.
"Finished your leave, have you?" said a familiar voice behind me,
followed by a resounding fart. "About fucking time. They said they were
sending some wanker from the Green jackets."
"Hello, Nosh." I grinned.
He'd just come out of his room and was wearing a pair of jeans,
flip-flops, and an old clinging T-shirt. His hair was sticking up, and there
was a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. At least he had his teeth in.
Brew?"