Night Moves by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik Page A

case of a jam, the weapon held five rounds--his preference was for #4 buckshot--but it had the short-barreled configuration the Americans called a riot gun, and was close enough to what he wanted when he went looking. He could have bought a good hunting rifle and scope to increase his range. If, however, somebody wanted to assassinate him from five hundred meters out with their own high-powered rifle, he had better ways of dealing with that than a long-distance sniper duel. He had circled the trailer at ranges where a good shooter could see and hit him, and there were only a few places with a proper line of sight on his home. He had marked these and installed at these places certain defenses. Of course, they could take him while he was away from the trailer, but one could only cover so many contingencies. Last night, he had cleaned and oiled both guns, then loaded them with fresh ammunition. He had also loaded four spare magazines for the .22, and he had ten extra shells for the twelve-gauge in loops on a belt he could strap around his waist. If he had to use the shotgun to defend himself, the situation would be close-quarters, bad, and he probably wouldn't get a chance to reload; still, one could not be certain. At that point, it would likely be a matter of selling himself as dearly as possible. He might lose, but if he could help it, the winner would not leave untouched. He had done what he could. He could have tried to run, but it was probably too late for that. Whatever

was going to happen was going to happen, and he was as ready as he was going to get. Now it was a
matter of waiting.
He was good at that, waiting. Right now, he would get some sleep. He might not get the chance again for a time. Or ever.
He moved to his bed, set the shotgun and pistol on the floor nearby, and, next to them, a small radio transmitter.
He stretched out. He took several deep breaths, relaxed as much as he was able, and, in a few minutes, fell asleep.
He dreamed of Anna.
Sunday, April 3rdLas Vegas, Nevada "How far?" Howard said. "About twenty minutes," Fernandez said. "Turn the air conditioner down a couple of notches; it's not that hot." Fernandez said, "But you don't want to let the heat get ahead of you out here, John. Probably be ninety by noon, and you know how these trucks suck up the sun."
"If this goes as planned, we'll be on a plane for D.C. "Never hurts to be prepared," the sergeant offered. Howard shook his head. He and Fernandez were alone in the command car, a sand-colored Humvee Special.
"Automatic transmission, power steering, air-conditioning, and you're worried about staying ahead of the heat? You're getting soft in your old age, Julio." "Perhaps the general would prefer to ride in his horse-drawn carriage next time? I'm sure old Nelly would be more to the general's liking."
"Well, at least she wouldn't complain about the heat." "And you could limber up your buggy whip if she did. One of many in your front closet, I am sure." Howard smiled.
"Okay, let's hear it again."
Fernandez shot a quick glance heavenward. "Sir.
We've got three two-man teams--that is to say, two-person teams--hunkered down watching out there in Cow Skull Gulch. If Ivan sticks his head out the door and we so desire, we can pot him like Davy Crockett barking a squirrel. We've got the Big Squint footprint for eight a.m. start-op, and we've got a National Guard chopper on standby if we need it--which we won't-over at Nellis. We've got two

squads of bored, combat-ready troops in the transports fore and aft, and we got one broken-down
Spetsnaz guy in an Airstream trailer in the middle of nowhere who can't run and can't hide." Howard nodded.
"All right."
Fernandez caught the edge of his worry. "What, John?
You and I could go in and grab this sucker by ourselves--and you could stay in the car. It's just one guy, no matter how good he might be."
"Probably what the Germans thought about Sergeant York," Howard said. "Jesus. You worry way too much." Fernandez clicked