The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

subject, a target. The team was now acting under the Compromise Authority rule.
At least the S-A-C had done that right. It meant that if something went badly
wrong, the HRT was free to take whatever action its leader deemed appropriate.
Further, Paulson's special Sniper Rules of Engagement were explicit. If the
subject appeared to threaten any agent or civilian with deadly force, then his
right index finger would apply four pounds, three ounces of pressure to the
precision-set trigger of the rifle in his grasp.
'Let's everybody be real cool, for Christ's sake,' the sniper breathed. His
Unertl telescopic sight had cross hairs and stadia marks. Automatically Paulson
reestimated the range, then settled down while his brain tried to keep track of
the gusting wind. The sight reticle was locked on Russell's head, right on the
ear, which made a fine point of aim.
It was horridly comical to watch. The reporter smiling, moving the microphone
back and forth. The burly cameraman aiming his minicam with its powerful single
light running off the battery pack around the black man's waist. Russell was
speaking forcefully, but neither Leary nor Paulson could hear a word he was
saying against the wind. The look on his face was angry from the beginning, and
did not improve. Soon his left hand balled into a fist, and his fingers started
flexing around the grips of the revolver in his right. The wind buffeted the
silk blouse close around the reporter's braless chest. Leary remembered that
Russell had a reputation as a sexual athlete, supposedly on the brutal side. But
there was a strange vacancy to his face. His expression went from emotionless to
passionate in what had to be a chemically-induced whipsaw state that only added
to the stress of being trapped by FBI agents. He calmed suddenly, but it wasn't
a normal calm.
That asshole S-A-C, Leary swore at himself. We ought to just back off and wait
them out. The situation is stabilized. They're not going anywhere. We could
negotiate by phone and just wait them out . . . .
'Trouble!'
Russell's free hand grabbed the reporter's upper right arm. She tried to draw
back, but possessed only a fraction of the strength required to do so. The
cameraman moved. One hand came off the Sony. He was a big, strong man, and might
have pulled it off, but his move only provoked Russell. The subject's gun hand
moved.
'On target on target on target!' Paulson said urgently. Stop, you asshole, STOP
NOW! He couldn't let the gun come up very far. His brain was racing, evaluating
the situation. A large-frame Smith & Wesson, maybe a .44. It made big, bloody
wounds. Maybe the subject was just punctuating his words, but Paulson didn't
know or care what those words were. He was probably telling the black guy on the
camera to stop; the gun seemed to be pointing more that way than at the girl,
but the gun was still coming up and –
The crack of the rifle stopped time like a photograph. Paulson's finger had
moved, seemingly of its own accord, but training had simply taken over. The
rifle surged back in recoil, and the sniper's hand was already moving to work
the bolt and load another round. The wind had chosen a bad moment to gust,
throwing Paulson's aim off ever so slightly to the right. Instead of drilling
through the center of Russell's head, the bullet struck well forward of the ear.