Rogue Commander, Leo Maloney [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗

the top of her snow suit open and pulled a Sig Sauer KILO rangefinder monocular from the relative warmth of her chest. She rolled back onto her stomach, pushed her snow goggles up on her white fur hat, and peered through the scope.

The Russian Zil’s windows were all frosted up. She couldn’t tell how many men were in the cab, but that didn’t matter. It was an old Soviet vehicle, which she knew was manned by rebel Ukrainians. In the back, under the canvas cover, was Satan’s pitchfork, a high-yield tactical nuke lifted from Ukrainian military inventory.

The Snowcat’s windows were heated and clear, and she could plainly see four figures inside. One of them was Colonel Shin Kwan Hyo of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Pyonyang had just tested its latest long-range ballistic missile, the Unha-3. It couldn’t carry a heavy payload, such as the bulky North Korean atomic warheads, but it had a range of ten thousand kilometers. Pop a compact tactical nuke in the nose cone, and the DPRK could take out Los Angeles. Alex thought the Hollywood whackos could use some pruning, but not this way.

In a couple of minutes those two vehicles were going to meet, and the world’s power balance would irrevocably change for the worse.

She figured Colonel Hyo would be easy to spot. He’d be the one carrying a briefcase, or satchel, of cold, hard cash. Plus, she had a very clear image of his face in her mind. Lily Randall had described exactly what he looked like—thick arching eyebrows, black eyes, a flat nose, and a white scar to the left of his thin lips. It was the face that had sneered down at Lily for hours while Hyo tortured the hell out of her in China. Lily was Alex’s friend—a very close friend. Alex only wished she could send Hyo a good-bye note along with her bullet.

The vehicles slowed to a stop, facing each other at twenty meters—engines idling, exhausts blowing steam in the air. Their occupants started to get out, forming a small cluster in the glow of the headlights. Alex pressed the range finder trigger—730 meters, or 2,395 feet, with a downward angle of five degrees. It would be a long shot, just at the end of her rifle’s effective range. Could she do it? Damn straight she could, but now she had to move fast.

She slithered to her left through the snow and got behind her Accuracy International Arctic Warfare. It was a beautiful weapon in lime green furniture, with a free-floating stainless steel barrel, and a Schmidt & Bender 6x24 PMII variable magnification scope. And hers was the special-ops version, with a folding stock and suppressor. She pulled the glove covers off her fingers, adjusted the bipod, popped up the scope covers, and nestled the beast to her cheek. It felt like being kissed by an ice cube.

Alex didn’t need a range card. She’d memorized every possible variable, which was sort of amusing since she’d been so lousy at math in college. Maybe it was a matter of motivation. She started running calculations in her head as she peered through the scope, worked the bolt quietly, and seated a round in the breech. Linc had told her the rifle would already be zeroed; he’d better be right. And she’d warned him to tell the armorers not to clean the barrel afterward—a pristine barrel could give you an off-the-mark, cold bore shot.

Okay, M118 Special Ball ammo, 7. 62×51mm, range at 730 meters...That’ll mean a bullet drop of minus seventy-nine inches. Zero wind, so no lateral adjustment. Got to compensate for the suppressor, which slightly increases muzzle velocity, so kick the bullet drop back up to seventy-eight inches.

She reached for the scope’s elevation knob and turned it, counting off minute-of-angle clicks, which tilted the front of the scope downward. This meant that when she set the crosshairs on Hyo’s face, her barrel would actually be tilted up, shooting at a spot six-and-a-half feet above his head. Gravity would pull the bullet down precisely that much and, hopefully, ruin his life.

She pulled the scarf up over her nose so her lung steam wouldn’t fog up the scope and pressed her eye socket to the rubber ring. Her heart rate picked up, thumping through her suit against the hard pack snow. The shapes of five men filled her reticle, huddled close and talking. The two on the left were Ukrainians, easy to spot by their leopard camouflage, fur hats, and AK-47s. On the right were two North Koreans in full-body, black, ski suits—also slinging weapons—but she couldn’t tell what kind. In the middle, facing her, was a broad-shouldered man wearing a long winter coat—collar turned up— and a fur hat with the ear flaps snapped skyward. Next to his right boot a dark briefcase sat in the snow. But was that Hyo?

Then he lifted a gloved hand to his lips, one of the Ukrainians extended a fist, and a cigarette lighter flamed up. His face glowed yellow as he dragged on the cigarette, blew out the smoke, and smiled. Nice white scar, right next to his snarling lips.

Wait! She suddenly remembered she’d have to compensate for the five-degree downward angle. Okay, Colonel John Plaster’s drop table...I’ll have to hold low...Five degrees means multiply seventy-eight drop inches by point zero zero four...uhh...hold low on the target by a third of an inch. Aim for the throat.

Her hands were trembling. By pure force of will, she sent what was left of her body heat into her fingers, balled them into tight fists, and slowly released. Better. She turned the scope’s magnification ring and filled the reticle with Hyo’s ugly face, sitting it right above the vertical crosshair post. She slipped her right thumb into the rifle’s thumb hole, curled her fingers around the icy grip, and barely touched the trigger—easing it past the first stage until she felt the secondary pressure.

Hyo was laughing at something, his black eyes open to the