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

tracer. I worked on the theory that when we were in the cuds, I could use my
tracer to identify targets for other people. I had another tracer halfway
down the magazine, so when that went off, I'd know I'd fired ten rounds. The
last two of the magazine were tracer again; when the fourth tracer fired
off, I'd know I'd fired my second-to-last round and the working parts had
come back and picked up the last round. I'd take the magazine off, put on
another one, and that would be my reloading drill done. Time and time again
I'd practiced all this, until I could almost do it blindfolded. Come the
day, it all went to ratshit. For one thing, I was far too close for the
tracer to ignite. And I certainly wasn't counting the rounds. I was just
firing like a man possessed.
Then: bang, bang, bang, click. The dead man's click.
The working parts still worked, but there wasn't a round in the chamber
to fire. I was flapping like fuck. I got on the floor, screaming my head
off: "Stoppage!
Stoppage!" to let everyone else know I wasn't hit but unable to fire. I
could hear the different noises of the weapons: The SLR mode a loud, bass
sound as it fired; .the Armalite was not as loud, and they were firing
bursts.
I tried to get hold of another magazine out of my pouches, and
everything seemed sort of slow and deliberate. It wasn't; it was all really
fast, but it was as if I were outside myself, watching myself going through
the drills.
I knew what to do, but the faster I was trying to do it, the faster I
was fucking up. I had that feeling I'd had when the kid fell through the
roof: I wanted to pull the covers over my head and wait for it all to go
away. I concentrated on my mags; I didn't want to look up and see what was
going on. If I didn't look, maybe I'd be all right.
What I should have been doing was getting into a position where I could
look at the enemy; I was supposed to be so good at changing mags that there
was no need to look at what I was doing. But I wasn't. I couldn't get the
pouch opened up, I was fumbling inside getting my magazine out. It was the
wrong way around.
I had to turn it around, put it in, cock my weapon. It was all done in
a matter of seconds, but it felt like forever. I could hear some firing, I
heard shouting, but loudest of all was the sound of me hollering and
shouting inside my head: "I don't like this! I know I've got to do it!"
I knew if I just lay there, twenty meters from him, the chances were
that I'd be killed; as long as I was firing, things would be okay.
My chest was heaving up and down. I knew I had to do it. I knew I
couldn't just lie there.
I rolled over and started firing again. The stoppage had taken me out
of action for no more than three to five seconds.
Twenty rounds later, bang, bang, bang, click.
The vehicle was moving, and by this time Scouse was firing into the cab
area of the wagon, hoping to drop the driver. But these cattle trucks were
armored. They were sandbagged up with steel plates welded in to give them
some form of protection.
I was still the only one that side of the fence. As the vehicle started
to move off, I got up and ran forward, past the shop.