NaNoWriMo 2022

Military Madness

American Kingdom: Day 16.1

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After lunch — sandwiches, fruit, and some very dire coffee — we repeated the instruction, firing and cleaning process with the M4 rifles.

The M4 is evolved from the Vietnam-era M16. Shorter, more reliable, more modular, able to be customised according to taste and mission. You could fit optical sights, laser designators, bipods, extendable stocks, sound suppressors, a hundred different things on the accessory rails. The perfect weapon for Special Forces. The only thing it lacked was good solid hitting power at long range. But hey, were we artillery gunners or close-in night fighters?

You could fire it on the move from the hip, standing from the shoulder, or lying down, legs spread, sling wrapped around the forearm, the weight of the weapon passed through the arms to the earth of the firing mound, which is what we did for qualification, taking our time, breathing calmly, squeezing the trigger slowly as we exhaled.

A Zen sort of firing trance, the calm, unhurried voice of the coach at my ear, both Nathan and I scored twenty hits out of a twenty-round magazine: Expert.

The other three scored lower but nobody less than the minimum of twelve.

A hot dixie of coffee was driven out by Sir Duane, along with fresh cookies.

“One more activity today,” announced Sergeant Payne. “Mark 14 Enhanced Battle Rifle. This is what you use to take out difficult targets at moderate range. Developed by the SEALs so they didn’t have to get their feet dry. This is probably the heaviest weapon most of you will need to get your hands on in our everyday work.”

She smiled at our expressions. “Nah, just kidding. We got 81-millimetre mortars for that but we ain’t going there today.”

The Mk 14 was even more of a living fossil than the M4. Developed from the post-WW2 M14 battle rifle, it fired a heavier round and while the basic mechanism remained the same, it too had been modularised with equipment rails, optical sights, an extendible stock, bipod and so on.

We stood in a semicircle while the two sergeants went through the characteristics, safety procedures, stripping and assembling and all the rest of it. Then we lay down on the short range, firing off a magazine each at anything we felt like. Trees, stones, the water in the creek.

Nathan and I went first and when we finished, Sergeant Hart sent us off in the Humvee down the long range.

“There’s two dozen tin cans out of the kitchen there — spam and beans, the gourmet delight — and I want them set up in a line at the 500 yard butts. There’s a level shelf there, square in the middle, can’t miss it. Line them up, a foot apart, get back sharpish.”

“I brought some wine bottles, Sarge,” Nathan said. “Take them as well?”

“Nope, I don’t want broken glass all over my range.”

Nathan took the wheel and I climbed in beside him. He gunned it down the access road before I got a chance to buckle in. Cowboy. And loving it.

We passed the hundred, two hundred, four hundred markers. The butts marked with a big red 5 had a trench with mounds of earth in front and behind for assistants to stay behind solid cover while using pointers for the firers at the top of the range, showing where each shot had landed on the target.

I rummaged around in the back and found a cardboard box with food cans, each opened, empty, and wrapper removed so it was just the shiny metal showing.

Nathan went ahead down the trench. “Wrong side, dummy!” I called out. “It’s in front.”

Sure enough, a twenty-foot platform was carved out of the trench parapet, facing toward the small figures five hundred yards away, still firing off their magazines along the shorter range. Nathan scrambled out of the trench; huh, show off, given half a chance he’d be taking off his shirt.

We lined up the cans, a foot between each one, as instructed. Nathan tossed the empty box into the trench. I jogged back to the vehicle, Nathan behind. We reached the mouth of the trench, and he pulled me in.

Before I knew it he had spun me into his arms, his face a breath away from mine, his eyes looking into mine.

He was looking for a twinkle and a sparkle and a sigh. Instead, I stamped down hard on his boot, brought my knee up quick, and smacked him on the side of his face when he collapsed.

If I had really been keen I would have given him a taste of my boot but I turned away, got into the Humvee and drove quickly back to the head of the range.

“What happened to Nathan?” asked Hazel, looking around.

“Oh, he decided he wanted to jog those cookies off.”

Sure enough, he was making good time up the access road. When he arrived he joined the rest of us, watching as Sergeant Hart arranged the EBR on a groundsheet, facing down the range.

“Glad you could join us,” he said, giving Nathan a hard look. He tapped his chest. “Me, you, you,” pointing at Nathan and I. “Anybody else?”

Sir Duane put his hand up. Everybody else was looking at the ground.

“Good.” Hart held up four magazines. “I’ve loaded each of these with seven rounds. Each shooter gets seven shots to knock over six cans. I strongly advise using the first round to get an idea of whether the rifle is firing low or high, a little left or right for you. I zeroed this rifle earlier for my eye but the four firers since then may have thrown that out a little. Whoever gets six cans down moves forward to the next round. And if you get six cans, stop right there because if you knock over seven, you are eating into the next shooter’s targets.”

He laid the four magazines down on the groundsheet. “I’ve written a number in chalk on each magazine. Everyone select a mag and that will be the order of firing.”

We all bent to pick one up. Hart held back — of course, he would know the numbers so he’d naturally take the last one remaining — and I crossed my fingers and hoped I didn’t get the first because it had been ten years and more since I'd fired one of these things.

4 for me. Good. Extra good.

Nathan got number 2, Duane 1, and — of course — Hart picked up 3.

“You’re first, Sir!”

Duane lay down and followed the commands of Sergeant Payne acting as coach, loading, cocking, and taking off the safety. “In your own time, fire,” she said.

He wriggled his slim hips into a comfortable position and pulled the rifle firmly into his shoulder, taking a few deep breaths and then slowly exhaling as he squeezed the trigger.

There was a puff of dust a few inches high and to the left of the first can. Not a good tactic, I thought. I would have aimed at one of the middle cans, so a miss might still take out one of those on either side.

He adjusted his aim, went through his breathing routine again. A can jumped into the air and a second or so later we heard the clink of the strike. “One,” said Payne.

He methodically plinked four more and we held our breaths for the sixth. It visibly wobbled, but didn’t fall and there was no sound of a hit. “Five total, Sir.”

Nathan went next. One, Two, his first shots scored. Third was a miss and he hissed softly, adjusting his aim and taking out the next three like a robot. One round left to reach six. He missed. “Five total, recruit.”

Hart was third and I watched him closely. He aimed at cans with a neighbour on each side, methodically taking out six one after the other. “Six total, Sergeant,” Payne said. “Expend ammunition down range.”

Hart sent his seventh round into the butts.

“You got this, girl,” Sergeant Payne whispered as I pulled the rifle into my shoulder. There was the tang of powder in the air, a haze of warm oil rising from the barrel, the solid weight of the stock on my left arm.

I lined up my first shot on one of the remaining cans. Slightly high and left had been Duane’s first shot, so I moved my aim down and right, went through my breathing and was rewarded with a hit. “One,” Payne said in my ear.

I got the second and missed the third. It wobbled, so I had been close. “Your round was a hair to the right,” Payne whispered. I adjusted a fraction and nailed it on the second go. “Three,” she said. “Three rounds remaining.”

I plinked Four and Five. “You’re on fire, Molly”, Payne said. “Just keep on doing it.”

And I would have if I hadn’t sneezed. Payne let out the breath she’d been holding. “Dang. Five total, Recruit. Rounds complete.”

“Bad luck there,” Sergeant Hart said. “I’ll spot you another round, see if you can match me?”

“Thanks, but no,” I said. “You beat me fair and square.”

“Right. Shoot’s over. Clear the weapon. Hazel and Annie, you two strip the weapon and clean it. Sergeant Payne will show you what to do. Oscar, you’re collecting the brass. I want twenty-eight shells hot in your hand. Probably best to use your hat because the last few will be hot. Molly and Nathan, go and collect the cans. And whatever there is between you, fix it.”

I was glad he hadn’t said, kiss and make up. I beat Nathan to the wheel and hit the gas before he could get his seatbelt on.

Next chapter:

The whole story (NaNoWriMo novel in progress)

Notes

This range day went on for a bit longer than I meant to but hell, I was feeling the tension. There’s an interesting bit of theological philosophy coming up and maybe I should have shortened the range and gotten into it. Never mind, it will wait and I’ll enjoy it when I get to it.

Oh boy. I’m nailing my targets. I’m actually a few words ahead of the curve right now. 2,426 words, my best day’s total yet. This despite my cold leaving me drained during the day.

One thing I’m enjoying is the feeling that all around me on Medium other NaNoWriters are fighting their own battles. Some are ahead, some are behind, some are finding their plots fighting back. It’s a community of fast and furious novelists and it’s exhilarating.

Not that I’m anywhere confident that I’ll make it. My plot is only very lightly sketched in; I’m counting on the characters to supply the tension, the conflict, the help and the surprises.

And I need to be aware of the bigger picture. I may be able to fill in a half dozen books in this series. It’s a fascinating situation, especially given the knife edge of tension America is facing right now.

Christian Nationalists, private militias. sovereign citizens, Republicans and Democrats, all sorts of divisions and weird things happening.

Hey, stick around. Keep reading, let me know if you think it’s crap or there are a few flakes of gold in the dross. Please!

Molly