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

their sights. The wind can make an immense difference to where a round hits
because it simply blows it off course.
Flags are really useful, and there were more around here than at a UN
summit. On the water there were plenty of boats moored with pennants at the
stern. Higher up, on both ends of Westminster Bridge, there were the tourist
stalls, selling plastic Union Jacks and Man United streamers. The snipers
would use all of these, and they would know where to look because I'd keyed
them on to the maps supplied in the DLB. The wind condition at river level
was good, just a hint of a breeze.
My eyes caught movement in the killing ground. I felt my face flush and
my heart rate quicken. Shit, this shouldn't be kicking off yet.
I had a grandstand view of the terrace, and the times-twelve
magnification of the binos made me feel as if I was almost standing on it. I
checked it out with one eye on the binos, the other ready to pick up any
flashes from the torch bulbs.
A feeling of relief flooded through me. Catering staff. They were
streaming in and out of the covered pavilions to the left of the killing
ground, busy in their black and white uniforms, laying out ashtrays and
placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on square wooden tables. A
stressed-looking older guy in a grey, double-breasted suit stalked around
behind them, waving his arms like a conductor at the Last Night of the
Proms.
I followed the line of the terrace and spotted a photographer on one of
the wooden benches. He had two cameras by his side and smoked contentedly as
he watched the commotion, a big smile on his face.
I went back to the conductor. He looked up at Big Ben, checked his
watch, then clapped his hands. He was as worried about the deadline as I
was. At least the weather was on our side. Taking the shot through one of
the pavilion windows would have made things even more difficult than they
already were.
The three sniper positions were all on my side of the river; three
Portakabins in the grounds of St. Thomas's Hospital, directly opposite the
killing ground.
Three different positions gave three different angles of fire, and
therefore three different chances of getting a round into the target.
The distance between the first and third sniper was about ninety
metres, and they'd be shooting over a distance of between 330 and 380
metres, depending on their position in the line-up. Being one floor up, the
killing ground was below them, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. It
would be just good enough to see the target from the stomach up if it was
sitting down, and from about thigh up when standing, since a stone wall
about a metre high ran the length of the terrace to stop MPs and peers
falling into the Thames when they'd had a drink or two.
The riverbank in front of their positions was tree-lined, which
provided some cover, but also obstructed their line of sight into the
killing ground. These things are nearly always a matter of compromise; there
is rarely a perfect option.
This would be the first time the snipers had ever been to the fire
position, and it would also be the last. Soon after the shoot they'd be
heading for Paris, Lille or Brussels on Eurostar trains, which left from