"Halt! Who goes there?" These words have become ingrained in the perceived image of a military sentry. Take the scenario further: It is 0407h on a cloudy, moonless night and a light drizzle is falling. Picture a lonely soldier pacing his beat along a perimeter, rifle cradled in his arms, blowing into his hands to generate some heat, thinking of a hot brew and hot woman (but not, necessarily, in that order). He can, perhaps, be forgiven for not giving the job in hand his full attention. Away behind some cover, an intruder waits his chance and slips quietly towards the guarded installation to do his worst.
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