"Энди Макнаб. Удаленный контроль (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

have to quit the SAS the Special Air Service at the age of forty, and Kev
had just a year or two of his contract with the Regiment left.
The young at heart settled down at nearby tables and picked up the
menus. It was now decision time for them whether to have dessert or go for a
sandwich, because it was halfway between coffee break and lunchtime and they
didn't know which way to jump.
The waiter came out, and they started talking to him one syllable at a
time. He looked at them as if they were crazy.
On the net I heard, "Hello, all call signs, this is Alpha. Radio check,
over." Alpha, who was located in the ops room, was our controller. When we'd
flown in sixty hours ago, our team of eight SAS soldiers and support staff
had requisitioned rooms in the accommodation block at HMS Rooke, the British
naval base in the docks, and turned them into living space.
Kev responded quietly into his concealed microphone:
"Golf."
Pat: "Oscar."
I heard Euan: "November."
My turn came: "Delta."
The elderly Brits started taking pictures of themselves.
Then they were swapping cameras so they could appear in their own
photographs.
Slack Pat got up and said to one of them, "Here yare, love, want me to
take one of all of you?"
"Ooh, you're from England, are you? Isn't it nice and warm now?"
Slack was in his early thirties, blond-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking,
clever, articulate, funny; he was everything I hated. He was also six feet
two, and one of those people who naturally shit muscle. Even his hair was
well toned; I'd seen him climb into his sleeping bag with his hair looking
groomed and perfect and wake up with it in the same condition. Pat's only
saving grace, as far as I was concerned, was that when he stood up, there
was nothing where his ass should have been. We used to call him Slack
because he had lots of it.
He had just started doing a Richard Avedon when we got:
"Stand by, stand by!" on the net from one of the female triggers.
"That's a possible, a possible-Bravo One toward the town square."
Alpha came back, "Roger that. Delta, acknowledge."
I got to my feet, gave two clicks on the radio transmitter that was
wired into my jacket pocket, and started walking. It was pointless all three
of us moving at this stage.
Families on their Sunday paseo strolled across from my left. Tourists
were taking pictures of buildings, looking at maps, and scratching their
heads; locals were sitting down, enjoying the weather, walking their dogs,
playing with their grandchildren. There were two men with
comfortable-looking beer bellies, old and not giving a fuck, smoking
themselves to death. Pants with big suspenders, shirt and undershirt,
soaking up the March sun.
I wondered how many of them would survive if the bomb went off just
here.
I was just starting to get in my stride when a very fired up male
trigger shouted: "Stand by, stand by! That's also a possible Bravo Two and