Read Online Last Man Standing by David Baldacci - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Baldacci
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the only time anybody gave a damn. When you hit your target you were just
doing your job, you didn’t get a key to the city. There was no detail too small when it concerned killing at long range. A
hint of a shadow across your objective lens could easily make the less-than-vigilant shooter wipe out a hostage rather than
the person holding him.
Web lightly squeezed the pebbled pistol grip. He pulled the stock to his shoulder, pressed his cheek to the stock, set the
proper eye relief and gripped the butt pad with his weak hand to steady the .308’s bipod. He sucked in a breath, eased it
out. No muscle could come between Web and his sniping. Muscle was erratic; he needed bone on bone because bone didn’t flinch.
Web had always used the ambush technique when sniping. This entailed the shooter waiting until the target entered a predetermined
kill zone. The sniper would plant his crosshairs just ahead of the target and then count the mil-dots in the reticle to calculate
distance to target, angle of incidence and speed. You also had to judge elevation, wind and humidity and then you waited to
kill, like the proverbial spider in the web. You always shot into the skull for a very simple reason. Targets shot in the
head never fired back.
Bone on bone. Pulse at sixty-four. Web let out one last breath; his finger slid to the trigger and he fired five shots with
the precise motion of a man who had done this very thing well over fifty thousand times. He repeated the process four more
times, three times at a hundred yards, and the last hand of poker was played out at two hundred yards, which was the outer
reaches of distance for sniper’s poker.
When he checked the targets Web had to smile. He had a royal flush in spades on two hands, aces with king high on two others
and a full house on the hand at two hundred yards; and not one mark on any other card. And not one round thrown either, which
in Bureau parlance meant not a shot missed. This allowed him to feel good about himself for about ten seconds and then the
depression came roaring back.
He returned the weapon to the equipment cage and continued his stroll. Over at the adjacent Marine Corps facility was the
Yellow Brick Road, which was a hellish seven-and-one-half-mile obstacle course with fifteen-foot rope drops, bear pits with
barbed wire just waiting for a slip and fall and also sheer rock cliffs. During his HRT qualification days, Web had run that
course so many times he had memorized every single disgusting inch of it. Team events had involved fifteen-mile runs, loaded
with upward of fifty pounds of gear and precious objects carried, such as bricks that must not touch the ground lest your
team lose. There were also swims through icy, filthy water, and fifty-foot long ladders pointed straight to God. That had
been followed by a trek up “heartbreak hotel,” a mere four-story jaunt, and the optional (yeah!) leap off the gunwale of an
old ship into the James River. Since Web’s joining HRT, heartbreak hotel had been tamed somewhat, with guide wires, railings
and nets. It was undoubtedly safer but, in his opinion, a lot less fun. Still, those with a fear of heights most definitely
need not apply. Rappelling from choppers into thick forest really separated the men from the boys, where if you missed your
brake point a hundred-foot oak got to know your insides far too well.
And along the way to graduation each recruit had to navigate the hothouse, which was a three-story concrete tower with steel
shutters over the windows, welded shut. The interior configuration, with its mesh floors, allowed a fire at the bottom to
shoot smoke all the way to the top in seconds. The luckless recruit got thrown into the third floor and had to use his sense
of touch, guts and instincts to find his way to the bottom and out to safety. Your reward for surviving that was a bucket
of water in the eyes to clear out the smoke there, and the
doing your job, you didn’t get a key to the city. There was no detail too small when it concerned killing at long range. A
hint of a shadow across your objective lens could easily make the less-than-vigilant shooter wipe out a hostage rather than
the person holding him.
Web lightly squeezed the pebbled pistol grip. He pulled the stock to his shoulder, pressed his cheek to the stock, set the
proper eye relief and gripped the butt pad with his weak hand to steady the .308’s bipod. He sucked in a breath, eased it
out. No muscle could come between Web and his sniping. Muscle was erratic; he needed bone on bone because bone didn’t flinch.
Web had always used the ambush technique when sniping. This entailed the shooter waiting until the target entered a predetermined
kill zone. The sniper would plant his crosshairs just ahead of the target and then count the mil-dots in the reticle to calculate
distance to target, angle of incidence and speed. You also had to judge elevation, wind and humidity and then you waited to
kill, like the proverbial spider in the web. You always shot into the skull for a very simple reason. Targets shot in the
head never fired back.
Bone on bone. Pulse at sixty-four. Web let out one last breath; his finger slid to the trigger and he fired five shots with
the precise motion of a man who had done this very thing well over fifty thousand times. He repeated the process four more
times, three times at a hundred yards, and the last hand of poker was played out at two hundred yards, which was the outer
reaches of distance for sniper’s poker.
When he checked the targets Web had to smile. He had a royal flush in spades on two hands, aces with king high on two others
and a full house on the hand at two hundred yards; and not one mark on any other card. And not one round thrown either, which
in Bureau parlance meant not a shot missed. This allowed him to feel good about himself for about ten seconds and then the
depression came roaring back.
He returned the weapon to the equipment cage and continued his stroll. Over at the adjacent Marine Corps facility was the
Yellow Brick Road, which was a hellish seven-and-one-half-mile obstacle course with fifteen-foot rope drops, bear pits with
barbed wire just waiting for a slip and fall and also sheer rock cliffs. During his HRT qualification days, Web had run that
course so many times he had memorized every single disgusting inch of it. Team events had involved fifteen-mile runs, loaded
with upward of fifty pounds of gear and precious objects carried, such as bricks that must not touch the ground lest your
team lose. There were also swims through icy, filthy water, and fifty-foot long ladders pointed straight to God. That had
been followed by a trek up “heartbreak hotel,” a mere four-story jaunt, and the optional (yeah!) leap off the gunwale of an
old ship into the James River. Since Web’s joining HRT, heartbreak hotel had been tamed somewhat, with guide wires, railings
and nets. It was undoubtedly safer but, in his opinion, a lot less fun. Still, those with a fear of heights most definitely
need not apply. Rappelling from choppers into thick forest really separated the men from the boys, where if you missed your
brake point a hundred-foot oak got to know your insides far too well.
And along the way to graduation each recruit had to navigate the hothouse, which was a three-story concrete tower with steel
shutters over the windows, welded shut. The interior configuration, with its mesh floors, allowed a fire at the bottom to
shoot smoke all the way to the top in seconds. The luckless recruit got thrown into the third floor and had to use his sense
of touch, guts and instincts to find his way to the bottom and out to safety. Your reward for surviving that was a bucket
of water in the eyes to clear out the smoke there, and the
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