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

old, 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
the DLB and got back into cover, I bet she'd won gold stars in all of those
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