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Embassy Siege. Shaun Clarke
Читать онлайн.Название Embassy Siege
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008155131
Автор произведения Shaun Clarke
Жанр Шпионские детективы
Издательство HarperCollins
Reaching their selected rooms, the four-man team divided into two pairs, each with its own room to clear. Leading Red Team, with Danny Boy as his back-up, Jock blasted the metal lock off with a burst from his Remington 870 pump-action shotgun, dropped to one knee as the lock blew apart, with pieces of wood and metal flying out in all directions, then cocked the Browning pistol in his free hand and bawled for Danny Boy to go in.
The lance-corporal burst in ahead of Thompson, hurling an instantaneous safety electric fuse before him as he went. The thunderous flash of the ISFE exploded around both men as they rushed in and made their choice between a number of targets – the terrorists standing, the hostages sitting in chairs. They took out the former without hitting the latter, delivering accurate double taps to the head in each case.
Each man had his own preselected arc of fire, which prevented him hitting one of his own men. In this instance, the two men could easily have done this when they burst from a ‘rescued’ room back into the corridor to come face to face with either another dummy or with the other team, Corporal ‘GG’ Gerrard and Trooper Robert Quayle. Likewise, when Blue Team burst out of their own ‘rescued’ room, they often did so just as a dummy popped out from behind a swinging door, or up from behind a window frame, very close to them. The chilling possibility of an ‘own goal’ was always present.
Even so, while the men had found this form of training exciting, or frightening, in the early days, by now it had become too familiar to present any novelty. To make their frustration more acute, once the figures had been ‘stitched’ with bullets, or the room ‘cleared’ of terrorists, the men then had to paste paper patches over the holes in the figures, using a paste-brush and brown paper, in order that the targets could be used again by those following them. Because they had to do this mundane task themselves – even though they were firing real weapons, exploding ISFE, and hurling stun grenades – they became increasingly bored as they made their way through the various rooms of the killing house.
Their irritation was made all the worse by the fact that a day of such training led not only to sweaty exhaustion, but to raging headaches from the acrid pall of smoke and lead fumes which filled the killing house. So, when finally they had completed their ‘rescue’ and could stumble out into the fresh air, they were immensely relieved.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Danny Boy said later, as they were showering in the ablutions of the spider. ‘If I don’t get killed accidentally by one of you bastards during those exercises, I’ll be killed by the fucking boredom of doing them over and over again.’
‘They don’t bore me,’ Bobs-boy said. ‘I just hate the CRW suits and body armour and helmet and mask. I feel buried alive in them.’
‘You feel buried alive because you’re like the walking dead,’ GG taunted him. ‘You’re as limp as your dick, kid.’
‘Nightmares!’ Danny Boy exclaimed.
‘Dreams,’ Bobs-boy corrected him.
‘All I know,’ GG said, ‘is that we haven’t done a real job since Northern Ireland and we’ve now had four years of bullshit. One more run through that bloody killing house and I’m all set for the knacker’s yard.’
‘Or Ward 11 of the British Army Psychiatric Unit,’ Danny Boy said, ‘like Sergeant “Ten Pints and a Knuckle Sandwich” Inman.’
‘Sergeant Inman was in a psychiatric ward?’ the relatively new Bobs-boy asked incredulously.
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