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

doing this technical stuff, Bob, one of the world's most confident men, the
sort who not only knows where he's going but also how he's going to get
there and what time he's going to arrive, was doing pin steps along the
footrail, whistling away as he counted them out.
Bob always spoke at Mach 2. "You don't need all this technical stuff,
all these fucking tape measures," he scoffed. "If you were doing it for
real, you'd just be pacing it out. Twenty feet, twenty-one feet . . ."
When he got to the far end of the bridge, he sat down and did a film
director's square on it, took a couple of snapshots, and relaxed in the sun.
The instructor came over and said, "You all sorted then, Bob?"
"Yeah, no problems. I'm happier doing it this way."
Bob sat there for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the sunshine and
having the occasional brew while everybody else was running around like an
idiot. I was then up until two o'clock in the morning getting my recce
report just right, but not Bob. He bounced into the classroom the next day
as fresh as a daisy and said, "Piece of piss."
The instructor assessed our efforts and passed comments. Most reports
were competent, but Bob's, he announced, was outstanding.
"Enjoy yourself yesterday, did you?" he asked Bob.
"Lovely sunny day, wasn't it? I'm surprised you didn't get sunburnt,
all the lying around you did."
"Did my report, though, didn't I?" Bob smiled. "And you reckon it's a
blinder.) "In every respect," the instructor said, "except one."
"What's that?"
"All your photographs show a bridge in the pissing rain!"
"That's extraordinary," Bob said. "Camera must be a bit damp."
Bob had spent the whole of the previous weekend doing all the
photography and technical measurements on the bridge so that on the day he
could piss us off by appearing to do nothing. It would have gone down as one
of the great stitches if only he'd remembered that it had poured with rain
the whole weekend.
The dems course taught us how to use the equipment, but it also taught
us how to translate that information for other people to use.
Part of that involved covert photography and infrared photography.
We might be a businessman with a view from his hotel room or a hiker.
The stills or video camera might be concealed about our person or in a
bag, or we'd be tucked a couple of kilometers back and using large mirror
lenses in a covert OP.
As well as all the technical bits and pieces for the demolitions, we'd
be looking at all the defenses. How many guards are at the gate?
Do they look alert? Are they slouched in a heap with fags in their
mouths? What is the best way in and the best way out? We could be planning
and preparing for another group, telling them what charges were required and
sorting out the RVs and exfil from the target. We might be required to stay
in the area afterward to confirm damage and reassess. It was all part of
demolitions; there was much more to it than Clint Eastwood on his horse,
lighting a stick of gelignite and lobbing it over a wall.
We had all been trained in trauma management, dealing with gunshot
wounds and fractures, stabilizing injuries, and intravenously administering
fluids; everybody had the skill to keep a person alive if he'd been hit by a