"Энди Макнаб. Последний свет (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

carried as if it was fine china. The slightest knock could upset the optic
sight and wreck the weapon's zero. Even a tiny misalignment could affect the
round by nearly an inch, and that would be bad news.
And it wasn't just the possibility of the optic being knocked, or the
suppressor affecting the round's trajectory. The weapon itself, issued to me
by the Yes Man, was 'take down'. So, once she had zeroed it for that one,
all-important shot, it had to be taken apart for concealment, before being
reassembled at the firing point.
Thankfully this bolt-action model only had to be split in two at the
barrel, and because they were brand new, they wouldn't have suffered that
much wear and tear on the bearing surfaces. But there only had to be a
slight difference in the assembly from when it was zeroed, a knock to the
optic sight in transit, for the weapon to be inches off where she was
aiming.
This isn't a problem when an ordinary rifleman is firing at a body mass
at close range, but these boys and girls were going for a catastrophic brain
shot, one single round into the brain stem or neural motor strips. The
target drops like liquid and there is no chance of survival. And that meant
they had to aim at either of two specific spots the tip of an earlobe, or
the skin between the nostrils.
She and the other two would need to be the most boring and religious
snipers on earth to do that with these weapons. The Yes Man hadn't listened.
It annoyed me severely that he knew jack shit about how things worked on the
ground, and yet had been the one who decided which kit to use.
I tried to calm down by making myself remember it wasn't entirely his
fault.
There had to be a trade-off between concealment and accuracy, because
you can't just wander the streets with a fishing-rod case or the world's
longest flowerbox. But fuck it, I'd despised him when he was running the
support cell, and now it was worse.
I looked through the window at the distant black and white figures
moving around the killing ground, and wondered if the Brit who'd first
played about with a telescopic sight on a musket in the seventeenth century
ever realized what drama he was bringing to the world.
I checked out the area with my binos, using just one eye so I didn't
miss One or Three signing in. The binos were tripodded because twelve-times
magnification at this distance was so strong that the slightest judder would
make it seem like I was watching The Blair Witch Project.
Things had moved on. The staff were still being hassled by the
grey-suited catering bully. As guests came through the grand arched door on
to the terrace, they'd now be greeted by trestle tables covered by brilliant
white tablecloths.
Silver trays of fluted glasses waited to be filled as corks were pulled
from bottles of champagne.
Things would be kicking off soon, and all I had was one sniper. Not
good; not good at all.
I refocused the binos on the arched doorway, then went back to watching
the lights, willing them to spark up. There was nothing else I could do.
I tried and failed to reassure myself that the co-ordination plan for
the shoot was so beautifully simple, it would work with only one sniper.