WWII military commentator? Even a dog could be one.

52 Basic Tactical Hand Gestures for Special Operations

Today's news was so shocking that even Americans, who usually treat other people's wars as entertainment, were speechless with astonishment.

"Will Germany really win the war? That's one country attacking four!"

"My God, has the world gone mad?"

"Yes, there was never such a terrible record in the last war."

Most people still reminisce about the era of trench warfare.

When the old ways were shattered by the new, and new methods of warfare suddenly emerged, all nations suddenly realized, just like in the Gulf War later on, that war could be fought in this way.

"Sean is right, he's always been right."

Nothing speaks to the truth better than the facts.

"Yes, he predicted it accurately once again."

"The New York Times didn't have its usual humiliating commentary on Sean today, hahaha, they know they're stupid."

"That's a legendary curse."

"Yes, that's a curse that even God would fear."

"Haha, I am the king of the world."

A deafening roar from the Los Angeles Times editorial office echoed through the room.

"Sean is right, he's never wrong, I've won again, the Los Angeles Times will be number one in the country."

Bang! The apartment door was violently pushed open, and the wooden door panel, unable to withstand the enormous force, collided with the wall.

Hanni turned around angrily, looking towards the door. If it weren't for her old acquaintance Jason, she might have already pulled out her pistol.

"Sean, that's great! You're right, you've always been right. Now France should shut up. Those guys who questioned you are all silent. I'm so happy."

They must be feeling terrible right now.

Jason spoke excitedly, holding the newspaper.

I am right, and I cannot be wrong.

Sean just smiled faintly. Now these guys know who's ignorant.

Sitting at the dining table, head down, looking at the paper in his hand, drawing something with a pencil.

Seeing that Sean wasn't as excited as he'd imagined, Jason was a little disappointed. He'd originally wanted to have a chat with him and vent his anger.

Curious, the entrepreneur in a suit walked up and looked down at the drawing in Sean's hand.

"Is this a vest?" As the owner of a sock and clothing business, Jason recognized the strange vest at first glance.

Unlike ordinary vests, it is very large, with zippers on both sides and many pockets in the middle.

"What kind of vest is this?"

"Tactical vest."

"Then this must be a tactical belt?"

Sean looked up with amusement, put down his pencil, and said, "Yes."

"Your holster is strange. Why is it open? I've seen holsters before, and most of them are closed, made of leather and canvas."

"This is a thumb-press quick-draw holster. By pressing the slide with your thumb, you can quickly draw your gun. In an emergency, this design concept is a game-changer. Most holsters nowadays require three steps: unfastening the holster, opening the cover, and drawing the pistol."

I had already fired the shot the moment you touched the grip.

This is a carrying device I designed.

Jason became interested. He sat down next to Sean and pointed at the holster. "How will you secure it? If you use leather or canvas, how will you ensure it doesn't fall out while running? I suggest using hard leather."

"Multiple fixing structures can be designed inside."

Multiple fixation points? "How do we do that?" Jason looked up, his eyes yearning for an answer.

"have no idea."

Don't know? This answer was definitely not something Jason could have predicted.

Of course, if I had known, I wouldn't have been an ordinary person in my past life.

Sean's thinking was simple: I provide the ideas and concepts, and leave the professional work to the professionals.

"Okay, can I have the diagram? I'll take it back to the factory and study it; maybe I can find the method you mentioned."

"Thanks."

"No, no need to thank me. If you receive an order, could you please hand it over to my factory?"

Sean extended his hand, and Jason lightly tapped Sean's hand. The two had slowly gone from landlord and tenant to chat buddies, and now they were friends bound by mutual interests.

After lunch, Sean lay on the sofa. His life now was completely different from what it had been six months ago.

Who would have thought that just six months ago I was a laborer?

Looking at the book in her hand, Hannie poured Sean a cup of tea.

"Sir, I'm going to contact the bank. Are you planning to pay off your loan early?"

"Yes, please."

"It is my honor to serve you, and it has been my lifelong dream."

Quietly reading a book, enjoying the afternoon.

The phone in the living room rang.

"Feed".

"Sir, the bank needs you to come in person. I've already spoken to them about making an early repayment, but they're a little reluctant."

Of course I'm not happy about it, since the interest would be much lower.

Sean stepped out of the room, and the three rooms on the first and second floors opened.

Heidel was already standing downstairs.

The six people had already scattered the moment Sean came down the stairs.

Heidett stood at the front door. "Sir, do you need to go out?"

"Yes, I need to go to Citibank."

"We'll take you there."

Sean couldn't refuse, so he tugged at his clothes and nodded slightly.

The six people filed out.

Heidt was in the driver's seat, followed by a Ford Explorer.

As Sean sat down, Heidel turned on the radio.

There was a loudspeaker playing inside.

"Play some music, let's go to Venice Beach, do you know the address?"

"I've looked into it these past few days."

The car drove towards the bank.

Arriving at Venice Beach, this seaside resort, built independently by a tobacco tycoon, was once an independent city. After being incorporated into Los Angeles, it became one of the few bustling areas in 1940.

There is a separate pier and amusement park by the sea, and there are miniature trains that spew steam along the streets.

The street is lined with low, two-story buildings, some of which have GG signs with embedded light bulbs hanging on their roofs.

In the middle of the Venetian boulevard, there is an Italian pizzeria with a triangular roof, just like a little house in a fairy tale. The owner has a huge mustache and is holding a rolling pin, but he is not rolling dough; he is juggling.

Many children and passersby stopped to watch.

The sunshine couldn't dampen people's enthusiasm.

"Sir, there are quite a few people, you might be late."

Sean nodded, looking out the window. This area was mainly populated by Italian immigrants; there were hardly any Black or Asian people on the streets.

He saw a group of Italians wearing vests, trousers, and baseball caps, and the three of them were strolling down the street.

Sean knew that there was a family called the Masanos who controlled the docks and the unions, and ran brothels and taverns.

They control a quarter of California's bootlegging industry; these days, bootlegging is more profitable than drugs.

boom!

A gunshot rang out in the distance, and then many people turned to look in the direction of the bank.

Suddenly, a huge commotion erupted around them.

The flow of people was like a school of fish encountering a shark, constantly churning and scattering.

"Sir, it looks like the direction of the bank."

"past."

Heidegger pointed his hair and started the car.

A security guard was lying on the steps of Citibank's main entrance, groaning on the ground after being hit in the thigh.

A barrage of gunfire erupted from the direction of the bank lobby.

Four men in Thompson's trench coats held up their weapons.

"Quiet down, everyone, and hand over the cash."

The four men had taken simple counter-surveillance measures, wearing top hats and face masks, looking like a group of cowboy gunmen from the last century.

On the road in front of the bank, two blue and white police cars were parked, and four police officers wearing peaked caps and blue uniforms were holding Colt and hiding behind the cars.

These days, let alone assault rifles, they rarely even go out with shotguns.

The police's firepower is far inferior to that of gangsters and robbers.

The four men hid by the car and kept calling for backup.

Soon, police sirens blared throughout the streets.

Nails were placed on the road.

"Sir, please step back, it's dangerous here," a policeman said politely to Sean, who was standing by the car window.

He had barely finished speaking when a burst of gunfire erupted at the bank entrance. Streams of bullets struck the surrounding police cars, causing many officers to back away in fright.

"But my assistant is inside the bank."

"Oh my god, that's a shame. They have Thompson submachine guns, so it'll be hard for us to break in. You might have to wait a long time."

After the officer finished speaking, he ran away to one side.

Sean rolled down the car window, took out a pack of cigarettes, and quietly struck a match to light the cigarette.

"Sir, what should we do now?"

"wait."

Sean took a drag of his cigarette and looked in the direction of the bank. There's no such thing as SWAT these days.

Sean remembers the establishment of the Special Weapons and Tactics Unit was in the 1960s.

As violent crimes increase in major U.S. cities and the influence of the Mafia grows stronger, police are finding it increasingly difficult to handle special cases.

"Heidel, do you know how to solve this kind of problem?"

The veterans of the reconnaissance company watched quietly.

"The number of the enemy is unknown, and their weapons are submachine guns, which makes it difficult for us to deal with them. Moreover, the bank environment is complex, and we do not know the terrain. Unless we can overwhelm them with numbers, it will be very difficult to carry out a rescue operation. We may need to sneak in secretly."

However, communication problems exist; any sound will alert the other side, so a well-coordinated and efficient unit is needed over a long period.

Sean smiled faintly, "In a silent environment, you can use tactical hand gestures to communicate. A chokehold means a hostage has been taken hostage; touching the chin means a beard, which signifies a man; a pistol gesture means the other party is armed and threatening; and gesturing to the chest means a woman."

A clenched fist signifies stopping, while waving your palm forward signifies continuing the action.

The clash of fists signifies the placement of an explosive device.

Swinging your hand from side to side and then pressing it down indicates that you will be firing at multiple targets simultaneously shortly.

Covering the face with the palm represents rapid movement and cover fire.

First, clench your fist and then press your palm down; this represents a low-stance shooting posture.

Heidel turned around and looked at Sean in surprise.

Oh My God.

"Sir, what are you saying?"

"These are the basic tactical hand signals for silent infiltration in special operations."

"Sir, you're a fucking genius."

"What did you say?"

"Sorry, I got too excited, really, God, is there anything you can't do?"