"Энди Макнаб. Последний свет (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автораold, rusty farm machinery and oil drums.
It edged forward like a wet and cautious cat. I brought up the telephoto lens. Tapered blue jeans, brown cross-trainers, three-quarter-length beige waterproof jacket. The hood had a sewn-in peak, and I could see the label on the left breast pocket: LL Bean I'd never seen one of their shops outside the US. What I'd also never seen outside the US was a woman sniper. She was maybe early thirties, slim, average height, with brown hair poking out of the sides of the hood. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, just normal-looking, more like a young mother than a professional killer. She reached the oil drums, and carefully checked inside hers to make sure it wasn't booby-trapped. I couldn't help wondering why a woman would take up this line of work. What did her kids think she did for a living? Work at the cosmetics counter in Sears, and get dragged away a couple of times a year for week-long eyeliner seminars? She'd been happy with what she saw inside the drum. Her arms went inside very quickly and lifted out the bag. She turned in my direction, taking the weight of it in both hands, and threw it over her right shoulder. I hit the shutter release and the camera whirred. Within seconds she'd melted once more into the trees and tall ferns; like a cat, she'd probably find a place to hide now and check out the spoils. Sniping does not simply mean being a fantastic marksman. Just as important are the field craft skills stalking, judging distance, observation, camouflage and concealment and judging by the way she lifted disciplines. While in the Army I had spent two years as a sniper, in a Royal Green Jacket rifle company. I was as keen as anything: it had something to do with being left alone just to get on with it with your sniper partner. I learnt a lot and was a good shot, but I didn't have the passion required to make it a life's vocation. I was still staring at the three bulbs, waiting for One and Three to sign in. A helicopter clattered overhead, following the river-bank on the north side, and I had to look up to satisfy myself that it wasn't looking for me. My paranoia was working overtime. For a moment I thought that it had found the explosive device I'd placed on the roof of the Royal Horseguards Hotel in Whitehall the night before. The hotel was just out of sight, behind the MoD (Ministry of Defence) main building across the river to my half right. Seeing the three service flags fluttering on the roof of the massive light-coloured stone cube prompted me to check something else for the millionth time. Keeping the row of torch bulbs in my peripheral vision, I looked down at the river to check the wind indicators. In urban areas the wind can move in different directions, at different levels, and in different strengths, depending on the buildings it has to get around. Sometimes streets become wind tunnels, redirecting and momentarily strengthening the gusts. Indicators were therefore needed at different levels round the killing area, so the snipers could compensate by adjusting |
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