[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.In one, which was highly realistic, we flew into Jersey in the middle of the night, our helicopter landing in a public park, to kidnap a businessman who – according to the scenario – had been in touch with the Soviets and might defect.Wearing civilian clothes, we booked into hotels and made contact with agents who already had the target under surveillance.Then, having hired a van, we snatched him as he came out of a restaurant late at night.After a quick transfer to a car, we drove to a pick-up point on the coast and the helicopter, which had been cruising out of sight off-shore, slipped in at wave-top height to land on the beach and collect us.That was the first time I’d been exposed to anything of the kind, and I thought, This is for me!Next I went on to the SP (Special Projects) or anti-terrorist team, and found it really exciting.Part of the team was on stand-by the whole time, for immediate response to a threat like the hijacking of an aircraft.We all trained to a very high level, each guy putting down at least a thousand rounds a week.I loved being in the SAS, and was fiercely loyal to it.But as I lay against the bank of the wadi, Hereford seemed a long way off.I knew I would have to rely on every second of my training if I was going to get out of the Iraqi desert alive.We’d become so confused during the night that it took us some time to work out which day this was.We decided it was Saturday morning.Time passed slowly, but we weren’t too uncomfortable.The sun was reviving us, we were chatting in low voices, and we thought the River Euphrates was only just over the next hill to the north, which was cheering.We said to ourselves, ‘We’ll hit the river, get some water, and walk out into Syria – no problem.’ We told ourselves we were safe for the time being, and that one more good night’s push would bring us to the Syrian border.We’d put so much ground between us and the scene of the contact that we didn’t think anyone would come looking for us.Of course, we were wondering about Vince.I hoped against hope that, like us, he’d found a warmer place; but in my heart of hearts I felt that he was dead.I imagined him lying down in a hole among the snow, falling asleep, and drifting away, without any pain or knowledge of what was happening.At the back of my mind I also kept hoping that we would see the rest of the patrol appear – that we’d hear one of them say something and they’d pop up out of the ground.I took off my boots – one at a time, in case we were surprised – to have a look at my feet.As I thought, they were badly blistered along the sides, especially round the ball, and on the heels.But I had nothing to treat them with, and could only put my boots back on again.We spent an hour cleaning our weapons, which were covered in mud and grit, doing them one at a time in case we got bounced.In my right-hand pouch I had a small but well-stocked kit – pull-through, four-by-two-inch cleaning patches, oil, rag, and a tool like a pocket knife fitted with a screwdriver, scraper and gouge.With this I gave my 203 a thorough going-over.I pulled a piece of four-by-two through the barrel, cleaned and oiled the working parts, and checked the loaded magazines to make sure no grit had got in among the rounds.By working carefully, I stripped the weapon and reassembled it making hardly a sound.If you release the working parts of a 203 normally, they snap forward with a sharp crack, but if you handle them gently, you don’t need to make a sound.Then, at about midday, we heard the noise we’d already learned to dread: the jingle of bells.Goats! Again!We went down flat with our weapons and looked along the little valley.There they were – a scatter of brown, black, grey and dirty white animals, coming slowly into the wadi from the north-east.Then their minder appeared and sat down on a rock in full view, only fifty metres away.He was a young man with thick, curly black hair and stubbled cheeks.There he sat, daydreaming, kicking his feet, chewing on stalks of dead grass.The goats began feeding our way.Stan and I lay still with our 203s ready.‘Right,’ I whispered.‘If he comes up on us, we’re going to have to take him out.’I didn’t want to kill a civilian.But I felt certain that if the man saw us, he’d go back to the nearest habitation and give us away.It flashed through my mind that we could tie him up.But if we did that, he might die of exposure.I thought, He’s either going to escape or die – so we might as well do him now.The goats kept feeding and moving towards us [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl trzylatki.xlx.pl
.In one, which was highly realistic, we flew into Jersey in the middle of the night, our helicopter landing in a public park, to kidnap a businessman who – according to the scenario – had been in touch with the Soviets and might defect.Wearing civilian clothes, we booked into hotels and made contact with agents who already had the target under surveillance.Then, having hired a van, we snatched him as he came out of a restaurant late at night.After a quick transfer to a car, we drove to a pick-up point on the coast and the helicopter, which had been cruising out of sight off-shore, slipped in at wave-top height to land on the beach and collect us.That was the first time I’d been exposed to anything of the kind, and I thought, This is for me!Next I went on to the SP (Special Projects) or anti-terrorist team, and found it really exciting.Part of the team was on stand-by the whole time, for immediate response to a threat like the hijacking of an aircraft.We all trained to a very high level, each guy putting down at least a thousand rounds a week.I loved being in the SAS, and was fiercely loyal to it.But as I lay against the bank of the wadi, Hereford seemed a long way off.I knew I would have to rely on every second of my training if I was going to get out of the Iraqi desert alive.We’d become so confused during the night that it took us some time to work out which day this was.We decided it was Saturday morning.Time passed slowly, but we weren’t too uncomfortable.The sun was reviving us, we were chatting in low voices, and we thought the River Euphrates was only just over the next hill to the north, which was cheering.We said to ourselves, ‘We’ll hit the river, get some water, and walk out into Syria – no problem.’ We told ourselves we were safe for the time being, and that one more good night’s push would bring us to the Syrian border.We’d put so much ground between us and the scene of the contact that we didn’t think anyone would come looking for us.Of course, we were wondering about Vince.I hoped against hope that, like us, he’d found a warmer place; but in my heart of hearts I felt that he was dead.I imagined him lying down in a hole among the snow, falling asleep, and drifting away, without any pain or knowledge of what was happening.At the back of my mind I also kept hoping that we would see the rest of the patrol appear – that we’d hear one of them say something and they’d pop up out of the ground.I took off my boots – one at a time, in case we were surprised – to have a look at my feet.As I thought, they were badly blistered along the sides, especially round the ball, and on the heels.But I had nothing to treat them with, and could only put my boots back on again.We spent an hour cleaning our weapons, which were covered in mud and grit, doing them one at a time in case we got bounced.In my right-hand pouch I had a small but well-stocked kit – pull-through, four-by-two-inch cleaning patches, oil, rag, and a tool like a pocket knife fitted with a screwdriver, scraper and gouge.With this I gave my 203 a thorough going-over.I pulled a piece of four-by-two through the barrel, cleaned and oiled the working parts, and checked the loaded magazines to make sure no grit had got in among the rounds.By working carefully, I stripped the weapon and reassembled it making hardly a sound.If you release the working parts of a 203 normally, they snap forward with a sharp crack, but if you handle them gently, you don’t need to make a sound.Then, at about midday, we heard the noise we’d already learned to dread: the jingle of bells.Goats! Again!We went down flat with our weapons and looked along the little valley.There they were – a scatter of brown, black, grey and dirty white animals, coming slowly into the wadi from the north-east.Then their minder appeared and sat down on a rock in full view, only fifty metres away.He was a young man with thick, curly black hair and stubbled cheeks.There he sat, daydreaming, kicking his feet, chewing on stalks of dead grass.The goats began feeding our way.Stan and I lay still with our 203s ready.‘Right,’ I whispered.‘If he comes up on us, we’re going to have to take him out.’I didn’t want to kill a civilian.But I felt certain that if the man saw us, he’d go back to the nearest habitation and give us away.It flashed through my mind that we could tie him up.But if we did that, he might die of exposure.I thought, He’s either going to escape or die – so we might as well do him now.The goats kept feeding and moving towards us [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]