weakest element in the system, attached to the rifle parallel to but not above the barrel, creating problems in parallax that had to be mastered. But his main focus of interest was that trigger group, a mesh of springs and levers that could be pulled whole from the receiver group. He broke it down to the tiniest component, then carefully polished each engagement surface to give the piece a crisper let-off.
At this point, the box of 'components' came from the Soviet intelligence service. They were the easiest mission requirements to acquire: a Soviet asset had merely gone to a Southern California gun store and purchased them, for cash, they had been shipped to the Soviet Union via diplomatic pouch and to North Vietnam by the daily TU16 flight. To look at them was to see nothing: these were actually reloading tools, which looked like steel chambers of mysterious purpose, and green boxes of bullets, cans of powder, DuPont IMR 4895, tools for re sizing the case, pressing in new primers, reinserting the bullet. He knew that no military round could deliver the accuracy he needed and that it would take great attention to detail and consistency.
He took the entire rig for a day's march to the north, and there, out of the eyes of Westerners and Vietnamese alike except for a security team of sappers and the ever-curious Huu Co, he set up a fourteen-hundred-meter range, shooting at two close targets, white silhouettes that were easy to see and would not be moving like they would on the day of his attempt.
The scope was small and had an ancient, obsolete reticle: a post, like a knife point, rising above a single horizontal line. Additionally, it did not have enough elevation to enable him to hit out to fourteen hundred meters, close to three times the rifle's known efficiency, though well within the cartridge's lethal capability. He hand-filed shims from pieces of metal and inserted them within the scope rings to elevate the scope higher, and tightened the assembly with aircraft glue so that it would hold to a thousand-yard zero over the course of his testing.
He worked with infinite patience. He seemed lost in a world no one could penetrate. He seemed distracted to an absurd degree, almost catatonic. His nickname, 'the Human Noodle,' took on added comic meaning as he entered a zone of total vagueness that was actually total concentration. He seemed to see nothing.
Gradually, increment by increment, he managed to -walk his shots into the target. Once he was on the target, he began hitting regularly, primarily through mastery of trigger control and breathing and finding the same solid position off a sandbag. The sandbag was the important feature: it had to be just so dense, packed so tight, and it had to support the rifle's forestock in just such a way.
Infinitely patient micro-experimentation was gradually revealing the precise harmony among rifle and load and position and his own concentration that would make his success at least possible.
Finally, he took to having the sappers present the targets from over a berm, so that he could see them for just the second they'd be visible. He'd teach himself to shoot fast. It went slowly and he burned out the sappers with his patience, his insistence on recleaning the rifle painstakingly every sixteen rounds, his demand that all his ejected cartridges be located and preserved in the order that they were fired. All the time he kept a notebook of almost unreadable pedantry as he assembled his attempts.
'For a sniper, he is a very dreary fellow,' the sergeant said to Huu Co.
'You want a romantic hero,' said Huu Co.
'He is a bureaucrat of the rifle, infinitely obsessed with micro-process. It's how his mind works.'
'Only the Russians could create such a man.'
'No, I believe the Americans could too.'
Finally, the day came when the Russian hit his two targets in the kill zone twice in the same five seconds.
Then he did it another day and then another, all at dawn, after lying the night through on his stomach.
'I am ready,' he announced.
CHAPTER twenty-four.
The sandbags were the hardest. He had grown almost superstitious about them. He would let no one touch them, for fear of somehow shifting the sand they concealed and altering irrevocably their inner dynamics.
'The Human Noodle has gone insane,' someone said.
'No, brother,' his comrade responded.
'He has always been insane. We are only noticing it now.'
The sandbags were packed with the care of rare, crucial medicines, and transported back to the tunnel complex in the treeline, with the Human Noodle watching them with the concentration of a hawk. He literally never let them out of his sight, the rifle and its scope, strapped inside a gun case and more or less suspended and shock- proofed by foam rubber pellets taken from American installations, bothered him much less than the sandbags.
That held true for his gradual setup as well. He began with the sandbags, examining them minutely for leaks, for some alteration of their density. Finding none, he convinced himself he was satisfied, and made the sappers delicately transport them to the treeline. There he had rigged a kind of harness, a flat piece of wood to be tied to his back when he was prone, upon which the sandbags themselves were to be tied.
'I hope he isn't crushed,' said Huu Co, genuinely alarmed.
'He could suffocate,' said his sergeant.
Ever so delicately, weighted down under the nearly one hundred pounds of sand--two forty-pound bags and a ten-pound bag--the Russian began his long crawl to the shooting position, which was a good two thousand yards from the tunnel complex far from the burned zone. It took six hours--six back-breaking, degrading hours of slow, steady crawl through the grass, suffering not merely from back pain but from the crushing fear of his utter helplessness. A man under a hundred pounds of sand, crawling into enemy territory. What could be more ridiculous, more pathetic, more poignant? Any idiot with a rifle could have killed him. He had no energy, his senses were dulled by the pain in his back and the breathless smash of the huge bags on his back. He crawled, he crawled, he crawled, seemingly forever.
He made it, somehow, and crawled back, just before the first light of dawn, looking more dead than alive. He slept all day, and all the next day, because his back still ached.
On the third day, again he crawled, this time with the rifle and a batch of his specially constructed cartridges. It was much easier. He made it to the small hill well before dawn and had plenty of time to set up.
He loaded the rifle, tried to find some sense of relaxation, tried to will himself into the sort of trance he knew
