‘I would prefer a manual bolt,’ Pyotr said, ‘instead of a semi-auto.’
‘I know where you’re headed,’ the instructor replied, shaking his head. ‘But this bolt is rock solid. It gives an excellent, stable base to the chamber. It’s every damn bit as accurate as any Springfield ever fired.’
Pyotr just frowned. The other rounds in the magazine were just excess weight. Like the old adage about striking at the king, you had to kill with your first blow.
‘Get a feel for the weapon’s weight,’ the instructor said. Pyotr took the long rifle from his hands. ‘Weighs twenty-eight pounds with the scope.’ Pyotr took the magazine from him as well. ‘Thirty-two fully loaded.’ Pyotr slammed the magazine home and yanked the bolt back against the stiff spring. ‘No firing till I say, remember?’ Pyotr safed the weapon and nodded. ‘Let’s head back a ways. You don’t get any fifty-foot shots with this thing.’
As they walked, the instructor lectured on the principles of sniping. Elementary things like surveillance, concealment, light, wind. An introduction to long-range killing. They reached their destination — 250 meters from the target, according to the sign. The instructor climbed up to the firing position. Pyotr didn’t follow. ‘My range is 425 meters,’ Pyotr replied.
‘Well, I know, but this is the first day.’
Pyotr and the man eyed each other. ‘425 meters,’ Pyotr repeated.
The instructor picked up a small sandbag and they continued their walk. They also resumed the lecture. When the man informed Pyotr that the rifle wouldn’t break down, Pyotr stopped in surprise. ‘It’s too delicate a weapon to allow field stripping and reassembly. The sight’ll be zeroed in here — on the range. The elevation set for 425 meters. You just need to make sure you don’t bang it around too damn much.’
‘How the hell am I supposed to…?’ Pyotr shut himself up. Infiltration was an operational detail. This man wouldn’t know anything about it. The remainder of the way, Pyotr fumed over such a ridiculous choice for a weapon. Standing on the ground, it came up almost to his chest. And he was supposed to walk straight into Red Square carrying it.
There were range markers every twenty-five meters like on the driving range of a golf course. At 425, the instructor dropped the sandbag to the ground. Pyotr laid the rifle on its side with the barrel resting atop the bag. He began to stretch his muscles.
‘Good, good,’ the instructor said. ‘A lot of people overlook the importance of good muscular relaxation. Do you have any natural tics or muscle contractions?’ Pyotr shook his head. He leaned over to pull up a few sprigs of grass. ‘Marksmanship is also a lot about breathing.’ Pyotr let the grass fall from eye level. It drifted slightly to his left. ‘Deep, regular breaths.’ Pyotr lay on his stomach behind the weapon. The instructor lay down beside him, taking the lens covers off his oversized binoculars.
‘When you get ready for the pull, switch to shallow, rhythmic breathing.’ Pyotr pressed the huge butt plate of the rifle firmly against the hollow of his shoulder. He reached up and turned the windage knob one click to the plus side. ‘Then, when you’re settling in on the target, fill your lungs halfway and hold it.’
Pyotr peered through the sights with his eye nearly four inches behind the padded rear lens. At that distance, the scope’s field of view tunneled to near extreme. But that was preferable to the tell-tale bloody ring around the eyes of rookie shooters. Besides, the water-soaked concrete blocks filled the sight nicely. By feel alone Pyotr switched the selector from ‘Safe’ to ‘Fire.’
‘Hey, douche bag!’ the instructor snapped immediately.
‘May I fire?’ Pyotr asked.
‘Not till I say!’
Pyotr waited. ‘May I fire now?’ he asked after a few seconds.
‘All right, Mr Professional. Mr I-Know-What-The-Fuck-I’m…’
The shot rang out. Pyotr would’ve fired a second round almost instantly had his hand not risen out of habit to work the bolt. As it was, he got another round off in a heartbeat. Then another, and another, and another. Pyotr looked over at the instructor.
The man lowered the powerful binoculars from his eyes. ‘You ready to do some listening for a change?’ he asked testily.
‘I always listen,’ Pyotr replied.
‘Yeah, well, I know you’re on a fast track here, but there are some fundamentals that will help you hit your target next time. “One shot, one kill” — that’s our motto.’
‘But I hit the target,’ Pyotr objected politely.
The CIA man raised his binoculars. ‘That jug’s still sitting there. If one of those rounds had even nicked the thing it’d be…’ He froze. He presumably saw now the opposite end of the wall. He lowered the binoculars and got to his feet without looking at Pyotr. ‘Safe that weapon,’ he said as he headed for the target area. Pyotr followed.
There was a man-sized gap in the wall. The concrete blocks down which Pyotr had poured water were largely gone. Obliterated. Pieces no larger than a fist littered the ground all the way back to the embankment. The instructor — ex-military, judging from his short haircut — said, ‘You fucked up our wall.’ Pyotr apologized. The guy took a look at the western sky. ‘It’s gettin’ late. Let’s go get a beer.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The table was abuzz when Clark entered the room. The din quickly dropped to dead silence. The commanders of the various national forces were obviously far too pleased with the results only three days into the campaign. Clark resolved to set that right.
‘The ice is already breaking at Luobei,’ he announced. The intensity of the men’s stares rose a notch. ‘Recon overflights report black water visible across forty percent of the surface.’ He tossed photos of the Amur River onto the table. The generals all reached for them at once. In moments, they were scrutinizing the black-and-white high-altitude shots. The previously solid white highway of ice was spotted with black like the coat of a Dalmatian. ‘That ice could go any minute now, gentlemen,’ Clark warned ominously.
‘Thank God we’re ahead of schedule,’ the British commander said. He held his reading glasses at an angle to study a photo.
‘We’re not ahead of schedule, we’re behind,’ Clark retorted — drawing quizzical looks from the joint staff. ‘I’ve accelerated the timetable. I want first units across that river in three days.’
A commotion now filled the room. ‘That is impossible!’ the French commander objected. He drew vigorous nods of support. ‘That is demanding too great a price from the troops. And,’ he said in a lowered voice and a sweep of his gaze around the table, ‘it will leave us exposed to local attacks all along our flanks.’
Clark nodded to Colonel Reed, who began handing out the new timetable. ‘The objectives are all the same,’ Clark continued. ‘On the basis, however, of our initial success in breaching the Chinese lines — and after review of the state of the ice on the Amur — the time to take those objectives has been reduced by half.’
Again there was a stir. But this was decidedly less vocal. What Clark was proposing was a risk-laden change. ‘What about the danger to our flanks?’ the senior German general inquired.
Clark finally sat. His delay in responding was not simply theater. He too was concerned at advancing so rapidly. Not only were they leaving their flanks largely unguarded, there were foregone opportunities and unforeseeable risks. Field commanders would be ordered to disregard their better judgment. To let pass chances to consolidate their positions by seizing terrain. To bypass hopefully immobilized Chinese formations. To plunge ahead with inadequate reconnaissance.