by D R Sanford
“Cullen, meet Velasco Cordova. He'll give you a rundown on weapons and make sure you don't shoot your own foot off. You might hear us call him Val, but you'd be best off refraining from that until he extends the offer.”
Velasco took the hand Cullen offered and nearly crushed it in his grip. Cullen's tentative smile turned to a grimace as he tried to match strength, and it was only after looking into Velasco's stormy, grey eyes that the hand clasping his eased up. After further inspection, Cullen was released and greeted with a curt nod.
Nice to meet you too, he thought.
Ferdiad patted him on the shoulder as Cullen tried to wring some life back into his fingers.
“Don't take it the wrong way. It takes a while for him to loosen up. In fact, I'm not sure if I've ever witnessed Val with his guard down, but he knows his business.”
Larkin snorted and interrupted, “Killing is his business, and his has been booming.”
“Shut it, Larkin," Ferdiad shot back.
If looks could kill, Velasco's twin grey orbs would have packed Larkin six feet under.
Cullen gravitated back to the asylum theory. Clearly, he was out of his element. Back home he surrounded himself with academics. Since waking up this morning, he'd encountered nothing but whacked-out conspiracies and a grizzled battle veteran who remembered fighting everything from Vikings to Nazi's. Now he faced a knife twirling B-movie fan and the grim reaper.
The sound of Ferdiad's massive paws clapping in the thin air resounded in the canyon, calling everyone's attention to the big man.
“Let's get back to the task at hand, shall we? Cullen needs some hands-on instruction. The two of you will be civil, got it?”
Velasco nodded assent, and replied, “Yes sir.”
Larkin's smile vanished. “I await your commands.”
Feeling he had the protection of Ferdiad squared away, Cullen asked, “What's their story, more defectors?”
“These two? No, they're a couple monkeys dangling from my rather large family tree.”
“Run," Larkin shouted. "The apes are storming the gates!”
Ferdiad swung the back of his hand in Larkin's direction.
Cullen almost launched into his Physical Anthropology lecture on the difference between monkeys and apes but thought better of it.
Ferdiad sighed. “I called Val in after Laeg broke the news of your fugitive status. Larkin drifted our way long ago after taking on some rather questionable work under Megalith employ.”
Velasco spun on his heels and walked to the remains of an early 80's Cutlass Supreme, its once dark blue paint now faded and pitted by rust. A folded, patchwork blanket lay on the trunk, and Velasco unfurled it to reveal an array of weapons within.
“Come closer,” Velasco ordered with a wave of his hand.
That must mean him, because Ferdiad sank his weight into a wooden Adirondack chair, and Larkin retreated to the shadows, muttering to himself and spinning knives on twirling fingers.
Cullen moved to the car's rear bumper and perused the selection of weapons. A couple matched the weapons Laeg had lifted off the guards at The Grove, but the others were completely unfamiliar.
Velasco pointed to the two he recognized and instructed Cullen in a commanding baritone. “Laeg told me you ran into some mercs equipped with the HK 416 and Kimber Custom II. Based on that experience and some reliable intel, I packed these for training.”
He picked up the Kimber handgun by its double-diamond grips, discharged the loaded magazine, and racked the slide, locking it in place. Holding the gun up, Velasco peered through the chamber and grips, directly into Cullen's eye.
“It's empty, right?”
Cullen nodded.
“Here, take it.”
Cullen held out his hand to receive the gun. He hadn't held one since the night of the car crash, and the disturbing memory of firing into a man only a few feet away suddenly snapped back.
The rough grips fit firmly in his palm. At nearly nine inches in length and over two pounds, it was a formidable piece of craftsmanship, head and shoulders above the Ruger he'd kept at home.
“Hold the slide in your left hand," Velasco ordered. "Pull it back to release the lock, and let it walk forward. That's steel over aluminum so you don't want to let it slam forward unless you're loading a round. Aim it out there to get a feel for it.”
Sighting on a barrel nearly twenty yards out, Cullen felt the gun's balance. It felt a little heavy in the front without the added weight of a full magazine.
“You have two safety's, a squeeze safety on the rear of the grip and one by your thumb. Even if the external safety is toggled off, the Kimber won't fire until the grip safety is depressed. Here, slide in the magazine.”
Cullen accepted the loaded magazine in his left hand, and holding the gun's muzzle to the ground, he slid it inside the grip until he felt it lock in place.
“Good, now, keep your finger off the trigger and rack the slide to load a round.” He complied, noting that the hammer was set in the firing position. “Finger off the trigger, keep it pointed out there, press the pad of your thumb on the hammer, and then ease it forward after pulling the trigger.”
The hammer was back in its safety position, but Cullen still wasn't comfortable with the automatic. “Now what? Do you think I can fire it without accidentally killing any of us?”
Velasco missed the sarcasm or didn't appreciate it, pointing to the external safety on the left side of the frame. “This here is your safety. Right now it's on, but when you toggle it to fire it's ready to roll. This is a double-action weapon, so without the hammer pulled back, the first round has a longer trigger pull." He wagged his finger down the canyon and took a few steps back. “Go ahead and line up on one of the dummies.”
Cullen raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, spread his feet to shoulder width, and leveled the sights on a dummy that was propped up near a barrel.
Velasco spoke from behind him. “Start over. Finger off the trigger. Take that grip and press the heels of your hands into your sternum. Now, extend your arms until the strain makes your arms shake a little bit, then let up until the shake fades. That's where you want to be, right inside the edge of nerve overload where you're steady.”
Cullen did as he was told and saw a difference in the way the sights rested on the mannequin's plastic shirt rather than bobbing up and down as he expected.
“Now, finger on the trigger, just the pad of your forefinger. Squeeze it nice and slow so you can feel the distance it has to travel on the first round.”
He continued to pull back on the trigger, waiting for the blast of the large caliber bullet exiting the barrel. By the time it came he was already jerking the pistol up in anticipation of the recoil.
Cullen failed to wound the mannequin, but his pride and hearing certainly took a hit. Working his jaw in hopes of expelling the buzz in his head, Cullen turned to find bright orange earplugs puffing out of Velasco's ears.
“I think you forgot my earplugs,” Cullen yelled over the ringing.
“Nope. In the field you won't be wearing earplugs, and I need you to get used to the disorientation that comes with live fire.”
Velasco pointed out to the same dummy, ordering him to fire the rest of the magazine. Cullen resumed the firing stance, aimed at center mass, and squeezed off the other six rounds. Four bullets punched holes through the plastic. The others missed the mark.
“Not bad, but remember, he'll be firing back at you, and that black bag represents a bullet-proof vest. You just pissed him off and will be dead before you can reload.”
So far this lesson in modern combat failed to convince Cullen that his destiny was any greater than he'd already whittled out in academia. The others must have felt the same way. Cordova held out his hand to take the pistol with a scowl, Ferdiad gnawed away at a hangnail, and Larkin's chin bobbed on his chest, apparently asleep.
“Let's switch to another weapon,” Cordova said, taking the proffered .45 and replacing it on the trunk
of the car. He returned with a short rifle akin to the ones Laeg had fired at The Grove.
“That's the HK, isn't it? Laeg took a couple from the guards the other night.”
“Correct.” Velasco stripped the magazine and opened the action for Cullen to confirm that it was safe. “Take it. How does that feel in your hands?”
“Pretty good, I think. I've never held anything like it before.”
“I should hope not. With the barrel under ten and a half inches, the 416 is nowhere near street legal. The short length makes it a carbine, not a rifle, increasing your maneuverability in tight spaces."
Cullen's instructor stepped in close, extending the stock so he could hold the pistol grip in a more natural position.
“Now, take a look through the sight. That's an Aimpoint T1 optic. Keep both eyes open and let the dot in the center become your eye. Take a look around.”
Expecting a magnified scope, Cullen looked into the short cylinder atop the carbine and scanned the junk ahead. A small dot followed his movements from the back of a pickup bed, over a doll-filled baby stroller, and rested on the red paint Cordova had recently applied on a mannequin. It felt steady, certainly more than the cannon he just fired at arm's length.
Velasco held out a loaded magazine. “That's a thirty round p-mag. Seat it in the lower receiver and give it a solid pop on the bottom.” Cullen fed the magazine and gingerly popped it in place, waiting for the next step. “I appreciate the respect you're giving the weapon, but you won't hurt it. The 416 might be pretty, but you can pull that out of sand or water and pump out seven hundred rounds per minute without any worries. Rap it.”
Cullen smacked the p-mag, and was rewarded with a satisfying click.
“Pull the charging handle back to load a round.”
Completely different from any rifle he'd handled in the past, Cullen looked on the right side of the receiver for a bolt until Velasco tapped a flat bar below the optic sight. Cullen forked the fingers of his left hand over the bar's flanged end, pulled it back, and let it snap back into place. It must take practice, he thought, because that was downright awkward.
“Now I shoot something, right?”
“Sure, finger off the trigger. Take a look at the safety by your thumb. Right now it's pointed down the barrel. Safe. Toggle it up for single fire and back to you for full auto. Try it on single.”
Once more, Cullen sighted on the mannequin he shot with the Kimber. This time, the dot settled in the red paint. He thumbed the safety up, rested his forefinger on the trigger and squeezed.
A hole the size of a dime appeared on the paint, exactly where he aimed. The recoil was minimal and the report almost soundless.
He toggled the carbine back to safety and faced Velasco. “Am I already deaf, or did you hand me a pellet gun?”
A brief smile parted Velasco's lips, showing two rows of straight, white teeth. Cullen had begun to wonder if the man even had teeth hiding behind the bristling array of whiskers.
“Neither. The 5.56 mm round isn't a big caliber, but it has a lot of velocity behind it. Back pressure is vented out of a port in the barrel and is further reduced by the Surefire Suppressor I attached to the barrel. That's what drowned out the report.”
“I thought you wanted me to get used to the 'disorientation of live fire'.”
Definitely not appreciating the sarcasm, Cordova snatched the weapon from his hand, shouldered it, and effortlessly fired the rest of the magazine into the mannequin, obliterating the plastic head in seconds.
Cullen sheepishly met Velasco's gaze and accepted his reprimand.
“When used indoors, the suppressor is a necessity," Velasco said. "Megalith mercs are going to use the HK first, pounding you with thirty rounds before you know it. I'd say hundreds of rounds traveling to your skull in mere seconds is bound to throw you off, don't you think?”
Thinking he'd just thrown up in his mouth a little bit, Cullen examined his shoe laces, unable to respond. What had he gotten himself into? Lugh and his motley crew had to be better off without his dead weight.
“Val, ease up on the boy," Ferdiad called. "Everybody takes the same steps when learning new weapons. It's your job to help him walk before he runs.”
Cullen hadn't noticed Ferdiad's approach and welcomed the big man's presence.
“We don't have time for that. At this rate, he'll be jogging sometime next year.”
“Look, Cúchulainn is just a legend to you, but so am I, and Lugh says Cullen here is the real thing. He just needs something to pull his trigger.”
Ferdiad lay a comforting paw on Cullen's shoulder. He looked up to confident eyes and back to Cordova's hawk-like stare.
“Let him run the course then.”
“For god's sake Val, you just handed him a weapon for the first time.”
Something about this wasn't right. Ferdiad scratched his beard, squinting at Cordova. The other stood his ground until Ferdiad gave in. “Fine, suit him up, but Erin's gonna have our heads.”
A predatory glimmer flickered in Cordova's eyes before he replaced the carbine on the blanketed trunk and leaned into the coupe's long window to retrieve a thick vest.
“Hold out your arms.”
“What's going on?” Cullen felt acid rising in his stomach again. “You don't have to shoot me. I'll keep my mouth shut.”
“Relax, it’s part of the training. This is the same armor the enemy will be wearing, level 3A. It can take multiple rounds without penetration but also inhibits movement. Arms up.”
Cullen grudgingly acquiesced, removing his flannel and standing still as Cordova fit the vest to his torso. The garbage bags and red paint made perfect sense suddenly.
Cordova nudged him toward the trunk and said, “Load up. Ferdiad will explain the course objectives.” He turned, walking away from them toward the bend in the course.
Cullen called after him, “Where are you going?”
“To provide incentive,” Cordova spat back.
“What does that mean?” No answer. He asked Ferdiad, “What does that mean?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Cullen. I suggest you load a fresh mag and cowboy up.”
About to ask what the hell that meant, Cullen bit his tongue and surveyed the weapons and accessories again. Identifying another HK p-mag, he popped it in place, making sure the safety was on, and loaded a live round.
Ferdiad stepped to a spot in the middle of the canyon floor and pointed to the ground next to him. Cullen aimed the carbine's muzzle to the ground and followed, rolling his shoulders in an effort to get the vest in a comfortable position.
Tugging at his own earlobes, Ferdiad said, “Put your listening ears on now, Cullen. Your objective is to put holes in the red for each of the twelve dummies out there. Use cover, there's plenty of it, and don't forget that each one has the potential to return fire in real situations. Don't give them a target to work with. Always keep moving, or you're dead.”
Tapping a watch on his left wrist, Ferdiad said, “You have three minutes to clear the course. Any longer than that and you could get cut off from behind.”
Cullen side-stepped to the right, behind the rear bumper of a burnt out station wagon, its original paint job unknown and the tires flat in the dust. He caught sight of the initial practice dummy and scanned the area for more. Three others were visible from his current position. He ducked below the rear door and waited for Ferdiad to give the signal.”
“Tick tock, time's wastin'.”
“I guess that's it,” he muttered to himself and swung the short barreled carbine around the wagon's left fender, raised the optic's dot to the mannequin's head, and put a hole in the paint with a muted thud. One down, eleven to go. He'd have to pick up the pace.
Crouching low along the rear quarter panel, he kept the weapon tight to his shoulder, looking to the left for a target he spotted behind an oil drum. There it was, barely visible from his lower position. He trained the dot between the blank eye sockets and touched his finger to the trigg
er.
Before he could pull off the shot, a rapid percussion of metal on metal drummed across the hood of the car by his head. Cullen reflexively hit the dirt and inched under the auto's frame, spitting dust from his lips.
“You're shooting at me!” he shouted.
“He's not shooting at you, Cullen. Val always hits what he aims for.” Ferdiad was seated in his chair again, tapping his watch for emphasis and rolling his right hand in the air. “Two minutes.”
Fighting the urge to drop the weapon and walk back to the ranch house, Cullen took in his surroundings again, shuffled out, and knelt with his left elbow propped on his left knee. Both eyes open, he centered his right one on the mannequin and fired a hole in its brow.
Quickly, he ran in a crouch to a cement road barrier in the middle of the canyon, pinpointing the next dummy along the way. The hood of a rusted pickup truck faced Cullen. A dummy's red head peeked at him through the window of an open passenger door. He crested the barrier's upper edge, then ducked again as a spray of stone chips erupted on the other side. Glowering at Ferdiad, slouched in the chair's low seat fifteen yards away, he received a single finger pointed skyward.
“One minute!”
What? That's only two down, he thought. He'd have to step it up and take some risks. It's not like they were trying to get him killed.
Up and over once more, he targeted the truck door, the window, and fired. Miss. Cullen inhaled a quick breath, held it, and shot the dummy. More bullets ricocheted from the barrier, and Cullen awkwardly rolled back to his left, bruising his elbows in the process.
Seconds mercilessly ticked away on Ferdiad's watch. Cullen sprang from cover, walking upright and scanning for another target. A bullet punched him in the chest, followed by another that knocked him on his back.
Struggling for breath, his heart racing, Cullen clawed at his chest and felt shadows crowd his vision. He felt like a fish out of water, unable to oxygenate his blood, until a rush of air filled his lungs.
Something stronger than adrenaline pumped in his veins, burning from his tingling scalp to Cullen's fingers and toes. Rage replaced shock and fear. A growl formed in his throat, rumbling through clenched teeth as Cullen gained his feet and took off in a low run.