Travel Delays Ch. 02

Mick snorted. "They don't get more money because they don't put in the effort. Any contractor knows which of his guys are willing to do the work, and they're the ones who get the opportunities. The only problem is doing it in a way that satisfies the unions."

I smiled. "And that's why you make things like blueprint reading a requirement for the foreman position."

"Exactly."

It took about half an hour to get to the range, and Finn pulled the big SUV into a reserved spot.

"What, you've got your own parking space?"

Mick smiled as he got out. "Well, I am the club's maintenance director. I sometimes sell services to the club at cost, but I always declare the conflict of interest and don't vote on those decisions."

I looked around at the well-maintained grounds. On the outside, at least, it was definitely the nicest gun club I'd been to. We each grabbed a bag or case and followed Mick inside. Other than him and Finn, everyone had to sign in as a guest. It turned out that a handgun range was empty, so Mick brought us there first. Before stepping onto the range, we were issued safety glasses and earmuffs

"All right, who here, other than Finn, has any experience with firearms?" We all put up our hands. "Good. I'll still give everyone a quick run-through on safety first. We don't need the earmuffs quite yet, as we don't have the ammo out. Most important: always assume a gun is loaded until you confirm it's not." He unlocked an aluminum briefcase and withdrew a pistol. "This is a Colt 1911, .45 calibre. Now, you'll notice that it has a lock on the trigger. This is mostly to prevent an unauthorized person from using it. Any gun lock can be disabled with basic tools in minutes. I'll need to remove the magazine -- note that it is empty -- and remove the lock so I can pull the slide back in order to confirm it is safe. While I'm doing that, I need to keep in mind the second rule: always keep the firearm pointed in a safe direction. Another way to word it is never point it at something you're not willing to destroy. Okay, once the lock is removed, I need to keep in mind rule three -- my finger only goes on the trigger when I am ready to shoot. For a properly-maintained firearm, it will absolutely not fire if your finger stays off the trigger. Now I've locked the slide back, and I can see that the chamber is empty. I now know that it is safe. When I put it on the shooting bench, it is facing downrange -- toward the targets -- and with the slide locked back, so we can easily see that the chamber is empty. For revolvers, we leave the cylinder open."

He repeated the steps to unlock and check three more handguns, then went through the controls on each one. Next, he hung targets for each lane he'd placed a gun on, pressing a button to send the target toward the backstop, twenty yards away. He had us take turns, allowing one of us to shoot at a time while he monitored. We were there for about an hour, and I'd lost track of how many shots I had fired. Just before we left the handgun range, he set new targets for each lane, plus one on an empty lane. He then worked his way back, loading the magazines, but not inserting them in the empty pistols.

"All right, I'm going to see how well I do this one. I'll be moving from lane to lane, firing the gun until it's empty, then going to the next. Finn, want to time it?"

"Sure Dad. How did you want to begin?"

"I'll start with the Sig and work my way to the Dirty Harry special. Guns unloaded on the table."

Finn nodded and picked up a yellow instrument. He pressed a button to turn it on. "Eyes and ears. Firing line is hot. Standby."

The timer beeped, and Mick went into action. He picked up the Sig and its magazine, inserting it and dropping the slide forward as he brought the gun up in front of his chest. He was pulling the trigger just as he got into his shooting stance. After a dozen shots he dropped the empty mag to bounce on the table, glanced at the gun and put it down. He moved to the Colt next, firing its much louder eight rounds. Next was the Browning with thirteen rounds of 9mm, and finally the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. Instead of a magazine, this had a 6-round speed-loader. Mick loaded the rounds, tossing the loader to the side and swinging the cylinder closed. When this one went off, it echoed in the room. There was a lot more recoil, and it took longer to get on target after each shot. After he was done and the gun emptied, he looked at Finn.

"Under forty-five seconds."

"Shall we check the targets?"

We pulled the targets in and looked at the pattern. They were spread out a bit, but an open hand could still cover all the holes, which were well-centered over the scoring rings.

"So, can anyone tell me the moral here?"

"Accuracy goes down as you speed up?" I suggested.

"Yes, but that's not quite the point here."

"You're an expert shot," Nick said.

Mick smiled. "I am good, there's no doubt about it. But each of you can put all their shots inside this size pattern if you try ... and take your time. Anyone? Okay. Finn, reset the timer and I'll do one more target. Eyes and ears."

Mick stood in front of the remaining clean target, but there was no gun on the table. When the beep went off, he pulled a gun from the waistband of his trousers. I had not even seen he was carrying it. This was another Colt, but a bit shorter in length. The shots went so quickly that they seemed to blur together. Less than four seconds after the beep his empty pistol was on the bench. He brought the target in, and we saw that the pattern had spread out to cover more than half the target.

Mick took off his earmuffs and motioned for us to do the same. "So, to build on what Andrew said, accuracy is related to speed. The faster you shoot, the lower your accuracy. That is a truism that I've never seen anyone disprove. Now, each shooter will have different factors that limit their effective accuracy. Let's ignore the last target and look at the other four. What do you see interesting there?"

Richard moved from target to target. "Mister Cooley, these all have the same spread. It didn't matter which gun you were shooting, you maintained the same accuracy."

"Yes. And what does that tell you?"

"You modified your rate of fire based on the gun. The Sig and Browning you shot fastest, the .44 was the slowest."

"Exactly. I am not shooting as fast as I can get the bullets on paper ... that was the last target ... but only as fast as I can get acceptable accuracy. Now, if I was shooting for maximum points, I'd be taking a lot more time. But this was a demonstration of practical shooting. Or, defensive shooting, if you like. Why do you think I selected that size of group?"

I picked up a target and placed it in front of me. "Mick, if you're shooting with this level of accuracy, you're pretty much guaranteed to hit a man-sized target."

"Yes, that's it. But there's one more thing. Richard, what happens to your arm when the other team's attempting a sack?"

"It turns into rubber and I'm no more accurate than Bobby."

"Right. The experts estimate you lose up to half your fine motor skills with moderate levels of stress. That means that this pattern doubles in size. Andrew, if those holes were spread out twice as much, would it still hit your torso?"

I looked down. "Yes, though the ones near the edge would just be flesh wounds."

"Think about that. This applies to much more than just shooting, but on the range, we can see the results more easily. When I am under stress, I don't perform as well. That means I need to be able to perform critical tasks -- shooting, driving, kissing my wife," we all chuckled at that one, "twice as well as I consider to be just good enough. Nick, you need to be able to catch a ball that's three feet away in practice if you want to catch one at a foot and a half in a game. Rick, for you it's the other way around. You need to practice getting your throw inside eight inches to guarantee it's within sixteen in the game. Think about that -- you want to throw the ball no more than half its diameter off target when you are practicing. How far of a throw can you manage that?"

He answered without thinking. "Twenty yards."

"Not bad. But you need to make it forty. Then, sixty, if you want that scholarship. Bobby can bomb a throw about eighty yards, but he'll be lucky to keep it on the field at that distance. He can't reliably hit you in the chest if you're more than ten yards out. Nick, here, seems to be able to predict where the ball's going, so he's made Bobby look good for the past two years. And picked up the nickname Radar. But, now you have a variable on each end ... the thrower and the receiver. Both of them are suffering degraded performance from stress."

"So, what's the secret?" Rick asked.

"No secret," Mick said with a smile as he started to pack up the pistols. "Practice, practice, practice. Force yourself to keep doing it right and you'll eventually learn. It requires work. Anything that's worthwhile does. Even learning how to kiss your wife."

He led us to another range, this one outdoors. The shooting line was just that -- a line on the ground under an open-sided shelter. There were several mats placed just behind the line, and Mick walked over to one. He opened the longest of the cases we had carried in from the Suburban.

"Alright, boys. I've decided to give you a treat. This is one of a short custom run of rifles in fifty calibre. We're going to shoot at that gong five hundred yards out, but there are people in this club that can hit a man-sized target at fifteen hundred yards using this rifle. You'll each try it a couple times dry first so you can see how the gun moves when you operate the trigger. First, though, you can try the M14 sniper rifle. It's a thirty-calibre and was once the main battle rifle for the US Army. We have a target at two hundred yards that this will be perfect for. Now, this is where you learn how to control your breathing and make your body become still."

Over the next hour, Mick taught us how shooting a rifle was different than a handgun. And, once he had done that, he told us that everything we learned shooting a rifle applies to a handgun. We each got five rounds for the M14, but only a single shot out of the fifty. Finn went first on the big rifle, hitting the gong squarely. I was watching on the spotter scope, and I could easily see the impact. Nick missed, but Rick caught the edge. I was up last, and Mick loaded the round once I was in position behind the big rifle.

"All right, Andrew. Remember to pull the stock firmly to your shoulder and get a good view of the target in your scope. Let the rifle sit on its bipod. You're not holding it up, you're controlling it. Before you even think of touching the trigger, go through the actions of shooting in your mind. Remember what I said about finding that perfect moment to pause your breathing. Feel your heartbeat. Prepare to shoot in that space between the beats, when your body stills for half a second. Once you're ready, then go through it again, but with the trigger."

I could see the steel plate through the scope, more than a quarter-mile distant. Mick had said we didn't want to shoot the fifty at anything much closer due to the hazards of ricochet. The stock was glued to my shoulder, my cheek firmly pressed to the comb. I slowed my breathing, and I could feel a point coming that I could just stop. There was no tension in my abdomen, no pressure in or out. My heartbeat was like a booming drum -- da-dum...da-dum...da-dum. I put a little tension on the trigger and waited for the next beat to pass. When my heart paused, I squeezed. The rifle kicked like a mule, pushing my shoulder back. It had a muzzle brake to reduce recoil, and that created a cloud of dust that obscured my view for several seconds. Once the rifle was stationary again, my hand automatically came off the stock to operate the bolt, ejecting the still-smoking cartridge.

"Finn?" Mick asked.

"Dead-centre. He can shoot, Dad."

"Good job, Andrew. Rick and Nicholas both tried this one before, without success. It took Finn a few tries to hit the gong. Not many can do it first time. Think you can do it twice?"

I glanced around at the others, who all gave me thumb's up. "Sure, I'm game."

Mick loaded a fresh round. "This time, it's all on you. No coaching from me. Let's see if you really can shoot."

I didn't respond, not even a nod. My head was already in position and I didn't want to change it. I took a couple deep breaths and went through it all in my head. As I placed my finger on the trigger, I could feel my blood pressure rising as my heart sped up. I took the finger off and breathed deeply. My heart rate didn't want to drop, no matter what I did. For some reason, I felt that I was under a huge amount of pressure to make this shot. I went through it again. Cheek weld, shoulder contact, sight picture. My breathing was a bit faster than the last time, and I knew that I would have a lot less time to make the shot. I paused my breathing just a little off from where I wanted, but I git a nice lull in the heartbeat. A cloud of dust in front of me exploded as the rifle kicked again. I could hear the 'ding' as the projectile hit the gong. My hand once more went for the bolt, ejecting the brass.

"A bit low," Finn said. "Not sure if it hit the ground or the gong first. Still, it was nicely centred for windage."

"All right, no more," Mick said. "I won't have you beating me on my own rifle."

"What?"

Everyone broke into laughter. Finn answered. "Dad's only managed two out of three shots at this distance. He doesn't want to see you get three in a row before he can."

"You set me up. I was getting all nervous because I thought if I missed on the second shot, the first would be a fluke."

"And you shot three inches low at half a kilometre. You know what fifty-cal is used for, Andrew? Taking out vehicles. Do you think three inches will make much difference when you're shooting through an engine block?"

"No, probably not."

"Hell, a sniper could miss by that much and still call it a successful shot. Hunters seldom shoot more than a hundred yards, and they often miss by a foot. No excuse for that, in my opinion. No, you did well. Come on, help me pack this shit up and we can go enjoy some frosty beverages."

I found out that he didn't mean beer. He stopped at an A&W and got us all root beer floats.

****

AL -- SHOPPING

As we headed out to the car, Roslyn called shotgun. Shelby just smiled and took my hand. She sat in the middle of the back seat, pressed a bit against me as we drove to the mall. She placed a hand on my leg, and I got the feeling she wanted to feel more than my thigh, but she left it where it was. It was a bit strange for me. I'd spent many afternoons fooling around with Christine, and currently had her butt plug in my ass -- that was still giving me some weird stimulation. But, Shelby and I had never done more than kiss. We had often held hands back when I was in Philly, but there had been no indication that she was interested in more. Christine and Roslyn were talking loudly about the shopping plans, and I turned to Shelby.

"So, how long have you loved me?"

She blushed and gave a small shrug. "Grade nine, I guess. After Link ... changed the rules, I lost all interest in boys. And I got interested in you."

"Just me? No one else has caught your eye?"

She gave her head a brief shake. "It's not the looks, Allie. It's you. I mean, obviously you're gorgeous, but I just love who you are. I'll never be able to be with someone unless I know them. And I'll never be with anyone who's ugly inside. I've seen enough of that."

I stroked her chin with my hand, gently pulling her into a kiss. "Just for the record, I definitely like boys, way too much to give them up."

"I know. That's part of why I never said anything."

I traced the edge of her ear. "You really should have, Shel. I like girls too. But, only girls that I really like. Girls like you."

It looked for a moment like she was going to start crying, but she just wrapped her arms around me. "I love you so much, Al."

"I love you too, Shel"

And I realized that I did. Not the way I loved Andrew, and it was much different that the casually erotic relationship I had with Christine. Andrew was my powerful, protective ultimate man. Christine was a playmate. But I loved Shelby as an equal. I could actually see myself growing old with her next to me. And, I had no idea where that thought had come from.

I glanced up to see Christine's huge eyes looking at us in the mirror. I smiled and gave her a wink, and she winked back, a grin spreading across her face. I guess Shelby's secret was out.

Christine never said anything about our cuddling in the back seat, but she seemed to notice every time Shelby and I held hands or hugged as we shopped. Which was a lot, I realized. After running around the mall for over an hour, Christine dragged us to the food court.

"You guys hold the table. I need to get some food before I faint."

Shelby gave my hand a squeeze before letting go. "Hey, I'll come with, Chrissy. Allie and I could use something to drink."

"What, kissing her has whetted your appetite?" I heard Christine say as they slipped into the crowd.

"Alison?" Roslyn asked cautiously. "Mind if I ask something personal?"

I smiled, knowing exactly what was coming. "Go ahead."

"Darling, what the hell's going on with you and Shelby? You're acting like a pair of lovebirds. You were never like that before. And, I know you like boys. Unless something real major has changed in your life."

I laughed. "No, I definitely haven't lost my interest in boys. But, I just realized that I really care for Shel. She needed me today, and we just clicked. Although, I think I had clicked for her years ago."

"Huh. I guess that's why she's never dated. She always said she was too busy with her practices. So, now what?"

I sobered quickly as I considered where Shelby and I would go from here. "I don't know, Ros. I think I'm in love with her, and I know she is with me. But I don't know what happens next. She's got her scholarship, and I'll be going to school up north. Plus, I still really like boys." I shrugged. "We'll just have to see, I guess."

"Darling, please don't hurt her. I know that she's had a rough time, and her brother's a total douche. The first time I've seen her smile in two years was when she saw you today."

"Oh, fuck," I whispered. "I didn't know it was that bad."

"It's not like you had a choice. Your family went home." She glanced over my shoulder. "Anyway, make the most of right now, but try not to hurt her."

I could feel Shelby a moment before her arms went around me, placing two cups on the table. Her lips pressed against my neck and she gave me a hug before sliding into the seat next to me. Her hand found mine, holding it under the table as we picked up our sodas. I looked at her and she smiled. Her icy eyes were gorgeous when she was happy, I realized. I leaned in to kiss her cheek and she gave a soft moan.

"I wish you could just keep doing that."

"Tonight," I whispered. "Promise."

She squeezed my hand and we joined in with Roslyn and Christine's conversation.

"All right, so we've got a hot, eligible bachelor at the house tonight. Who's interested in having a taste of Allie's brother?"

"Pass," Shelby said. "I'll be happy to watch, but I'm not interested in more."

Christine smiled. "More time for me, then. Ros?"

"Uh, I don't know, Chrissie. This really isn't like me, you know. I don't date guys I don't know, and I don't have one-night stands."

"Well, you already know Andy, and he's here until Tuesday. That's three nights. You're not currently dating anyone, are you?"

"You know I'm not," she growled.