NaNoWriMo 2022
Rangering shots
American Kingdom: Day 15
Previous scene:
After breakfast — not a formal affair, more like a diner than a fine restaurant — Nathan and I were taken aside by Sergeant Hart.
“You two, come with me. We’re collecting the weapons and ammo for the shoot. Got your kit?”
There was a Humvee waiting outside. Missouri tags aside, it could have driven straight off any Army base. Nathan jumped in beside Hart in the driver’s seat, leaving me the back seat. A sense of nostalgia filled me as I surveyed the obviously ex-military interior. Weapon holders, stowage holes, stencilled markings; this vehicle was one I could have ridden around in during my military career.
Set into a hillside away from the main camp buildings, the armory was a pair of heavy metal doors in a concrete frame. Hart pulled up outside, facing away, unlocked and opened the doors and beckoned us inside.
“We need five each M11, M4, and one Mk 14, he said, pulling out a pad of stores sheets. Record the numbers here. I’ll get the ammo.” He tossed me a keyring and pointed to metal storage lockers.
“Handguns on the left, rifles on the right,” Nathan said, taking the keys from me and unlocking the cabinets.
Inside there was enough weaponry for a platoon. I collected five of the short little M11 SIG Sauer pistols, checking safety on each, my years-past training still part of muscle memory. Nathan was doing the same with the M4 rifles. We laid the weapons on a large bench.
“What’s in the third locker?” I asked.
“The good stuff.”
Nathan unlocked the third door. Instead of a rack there was another room beyond, deep shelves holding weapons boxes. I recognised a pair of mortar boxes alongside containers for anti-armour weapons, squad machine guns, and grenade launchers. He slid out a long flat box stamped Mk-14 EBR and carried it to the bench.
I picked up a pen and held it over the pad, ready to record the numbers. He read each serial out and I noted it down, one per line against the weapon type.
Sergeant Hart emerged from an interior recess with three boxes, scrawled a signature at the bottom of the sheet, and went out to the Humvee. Nathan shrugged, picked up a pistol and rifle and followed him. I did the same. Two more trips and we had everything. Nathan locked up and passed me the EBR.
“You’ve fired all these?”
“Of course! Not this one so much.” I patted the EBR.
“Well, today’s all about having fun. The firing range goes out to a thousand yards. We’ve got some wine bottles, have ourselves a little competition. You game?”
“Nathan, we’ve got deadly weapons aboard, boxes of ammunition, and some of us haven’t fired anything for years. How about we make today about safety and duty and learning instead of a yippee shoot?”
“You, I like,” said Hart, turning to look at me. “We’ll have a comp after the shoot, but we’ll do it my way, and I’ll whip your asses.”
The five of us recruits were all ex-military but only Nathan and I had what you might call weapons knowledge. A Navy nurse, an Army lawyer and an Air Force tech; had any of them ever fired more than a service handgun years ago?
We met up with the rest of the class at the range. Three ranges, it turned out, all meeting at an admin area where vehicles could park, there were latrines and shelters, and firing mounds where ten shooters could lie down, coach beside each one, and shoot their weapons off.
One long meadow out to a thousand yards or so, butts at various distances. A shorter range firing across a creek into sharply rising ground, and a “sneaker range” in tangled scrub and trenches and walls that looked interesting.
I looked around when our Hummvee pulled up beside a deuce-and-a-half in the vehicle park.
“Sarge?”
“Yes?”
“You ever have trouble with the Feds over this? If we’re firing full auto here, then people are going to notice. Fly a chopper over and the place looks like an army base.”
“Don’t worry about that. If you want details, ask Prince Jeff. For now, we’re running a firearms familiarization event on registered range facilities, all legal and proper. OK?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
We unloaded the weapons, then we five recruits stood in a line to run through basic characteristics, safety procedures, stripping and assembling, stoppage drills, and aiming and firing for the pistols. Finally we put on hearing protection and one at a time, and then as a group, emptied magazines into targets 25 yards away.
The two sergeants — all quiet, calm, and friendly now — stood by us to make sure that all of the safety instructions we’d just heard didn’t vanish with the first round.
Annie got flustered when her magazine emptied and turned to Sergeant Hart beside her for assistance. Hart firmly grasped her hand, keeping the barrel of the gun pointing down range, and ran her through the stoppage drill. Annie reloaded and sent more bullets in the direction of Springfield.
Surprisingly difficult to actually hit your target. The movies and TV shows all have people pulling a gun out of their pocket and then nailing a moving target fleeing down an alley. Yeah, nah.
One final run through to record proficiency scores.
“We will each load a magazine with ten rounds, fire at a target 25 yards away, count the number of rounds on target, and record proficiency ratings,” Sergeant Payne announced. “A score of five or less is a Fail, 6 or 7 is Marksman, 8 or 9 Sharpshooter, 10 Expert, and 11 or higher Fail.”
She got the expected laugh and continued. “Any breach of safety is an automatic fail, anyone pointing a weapon at another person is a fail, anyone pointing a weapon at an instructor is a black eye and a fail. Any questions?”
The two sergeants each tested the other to show the procedure. As expected, both got all rounds on target with tight groupings.
“See, piece of cake. Take your time, aim carefully, don’t get flustered.”
Sergeant Payne examined a clipboard. “We’ll go in order of rank and then alphabetically by first name.”
We looked at each other. We were all recruits, weren’t we?
“Uh, Annie, first, then Hazel, Molly, Nathan, and Oscar.”
Annie got seven rounds in the target, Hazel five. “Oh no!” she said, “What happens now?”
“It means you will watch everybody else carefully and you can have another try afterwards. If you fail again, the top scorer will conduct extra training with you and we’ll squeeze in a reshoot when we get a chance.”
“And if I fail that?”
“It means we probably won’t put you in a position where you are expected to go out and shoot people.”
Hmmm. Still, I intended to get a high score. I was ex-Ranger, after all.
Nathan went next. He counted his rounds as he loaded them, followed the instructions given and fired off his rounds deliberately with robotic precision. Perfect score of ten.
A mark to aim at.
I did the same, lining each shot up, watching my breathing, squeezing the trigger at the right moment. Score of nine.
“What?” I examined my target carefully. “Hey look, this hole had two rounds go through.”
“Maybe,” said Sergeant Payne, “but I’m only counting nine holes.”
Nathan was grinning at me. “Don’t worry, Molly. I can give you some extra practice squeezing off shots after hours.”
I glared at him.
Oscar scored a creditable eight. Not bad for a bald lawyer with a paunch.
Hazel had another go, took her time, got seven rounds in the target. I gave her a hug.
“Well done, you!”
“Just enough time to collect all the brass and clean the weapons before lunch,” announced Sergeant Payne.
Next scene:
The whole story:
Notes:
Gosh, I went too heavy on this. Not sure a day on the range deserves three thousand words but I got pulled in. There are some subtle and not so subtle personal dynamics going on and the characters were pulling me off the track. Besides, it’s been a while since I did any military shooting and I do love the feel and look and smell and sounds of the hardware. The gleam of the rounds, the firm clicks of magazines snapping into place, the heft of the weapons, the concentration fixed on the targets.
And the nervousness of recruits handling deadly weapons for the first time. Honestly, you need to keep a close eye on them because some of them can lose the plot despite all the careful instruction.
Molly