The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

'Roger that, Dennis.'
'How long you been on the gun, Paulson?' Black asked next. The book said that a
sniper could not stay fully alert on the gun for more than thirty minutes, at
which point the observer and sniper exchanged positions. Dennis Black figured
that someone had to play by the book.
'About fifteen minutes, Dennis. I'm okay . . . okay, I got the newsies.'
They were very close, a mere hundred fifteen yards from the front door of the
block building. The light was not good. The sun would set in another ninety
minutes. It had been a blustery day. A hot south-westerly wind was ripping
across the prairie. Dust stung the eyes. Worse, the wind was hitting over forty
knots and was directly across his line of sight. That sort of wind could screw
up his aim by as much as four inches.
'Team is standing by,' Black advised. 'We just got Compromise Authority.'
'Well, at least he isn't a total asshole,' Leary replied over the radio. He was
too angry to care if the S-A-C heard that or not. More likely, the dumbass had
just choked again.
Both sniper and observer wore ghillie suits. It had taken them two hours to get
into position, but they were effectively invisible, their shaggy camouflage
blending them in with the scrubby trees and prairie grass here. Leary watched
the newsies approach. The girl was pretty, he thought, though her hair and
makeup had to be suffering from the dry, harsh wind. The man on the camera
looked like he could have played guard for the Vikings, maybe tough and fast
enough to clear the way for that sensational new halfback, Tony Wills. Leary
shook it off.
'The cameraman has a vest on. Girl doesn't.' You stupid bitch, Leary thought. I
know Dennis told you what these bastards were all about.
'Dennis said he was smart.' Paulson trained the rifle on the building. 'Movement
at the door!'
'Let's everyone try to be smart,' Leary murmured.
'Subject One in sight,' Paulson announced. 'Russell's coming out. Sniper One is
on target.'
'Got him,' three voices replied at once.
John Russell was an enormous man. Six-five, over two-hundred-fifty pounds of
what had once been athletic but was now a frame running to fat and dissolution.
He wore jeans, but was bare-chested with a headband securing his long black hair
in place. His chest bore tattoos, some professionally done, but more of the
prison spit-and-pencil variety. He was the sort of man police preferred to meet
with gun in hand. He moved with the lazy arrogance that announced his
willingness to depart from the rules.
'Subject One is carrying a large, blue-steel revolver,' Leary told the rest of
the team. Looks like an N-Frame Smith . . . 'I, uh – Dennis, there's something
odd about him . . .'
'What is it?' Black asked immediately.
'Mike's right,' Paulson said next, examining the face through his scope. There
was a wildness to his eyes. 'He's on something, Dennis, he's doped up. Call
those newsies back!' But it was too late for that.
Paulson kept the sight on Russell's head. Russell wasn't a person now. He was a