Killer Instincts v5 (19 page)

But Richard had been right; those of us living in the 21st century never had a need to kill and eat our own food. How many Americans had seen a dead animal that wasn't a deceased family pet or some anonymous smear of roadkill? How many Americans had seen an animal die in front of their eyes, or done the deed themselves, and then gutted, skinned, butchered, prepared, and eaten that animal mere hours later? I knew hunting was still alive and well, but to the average white-collar urbanite such as myself, the activity bordered on the grotesque. Who needs to do such a thing? If I wanted to eat a wild animal, I could order wild game meat from my local butcher.

I remembered coming across a passage in one of my western civilization textbooks about why certain cultures came more easily to "real" violence, as opposed to the ritualized "show" violence that many primitive cultures practiced. An early theory had been because the diets of the more violent cultures was more heavily supplemented in meat and dairy, that this food and the "animal hormones" it contained made those people bigger and more aggressive.

But another theory refuted this claim, noting that it was not the diet that granted those cultures their advantages, but the actual practice of herding and butchering animals. Herders who worked together to move and control large masses of animals practiced communication, coordination, and tactical control of the land that aided them on the battlefield. Beyond this, a people who were used to the act of killing large mammals, of seeing and smelling large pools of blood, of butchering game and seeing raw meat laid open; these cultures were much more able to handle the visceral shocks to the senses that came from the horrors of close-quarters combat, something that set truly violent cultures apart from their posturing counterparts.

Boiled down to its most pragmatic terms, a warrior from a herding and butchering culture had the know-how and stomach to advance in a coordinated fashion against an enemy, rout them by forcing them into close combat, and cut them down like animals when they fled. A rival culture who had only progressed warfare to the point of hurling missiles and insults, with the occasional ritual duel thrown in for good measure, had no hope against an enemy who would come at you undaunted through a hail of slings and arrows in order to bury a sword in your guts, and not even blink when your blood hit him in the face.

It came to me then, that the last two weeks had been my electro-shock treatment, my swift immersion into that pragmatically bloody mindset. Richard knew I came from the modern equivalent of your typical segregated agrarian society; someone who looks at cute cuddly animals as pets to be loved, and whose meat is killed and prepared by someone else so I never had to see or perform the deed myself. I had to be forced into the role of the pastoral herder-slaughterer, to smell fresh blood and not be sick, to not faint at the sight of a raw wound. I needed to be able to think of the men I was going to kill in the same way a herdsman would separate out the sick animals from the pack and cull them so the rest could flourish.

Richard was doing his job remarkably well. He was worth every penny.

We got back to Richard's cabin around eight in the morning. We had only eaten some dried fruit, jerky, and nuts while breaking camp, so after Richard entered the cabin and disarmed any "surprises", we set about preparing a better breakfast. We ate powdered eggs, canned beans and tomatoes on crackers, along with a pot of tea and some reconstituted milk. Funny how a meal you'd turn your nose at back home tastes like a feast after you've been living out in the desert for a week.

After putting some food in our bellies, Richard and I took turns cleaning up. For the last two weeks I hadn't had a decent shower, but at least while staying at the cabin I would wash up every night with a small bowl of hot water and a washcloth. Out in the desert, I had lacked that small comfort, and I realized we were both utterly filthy, and pungent to boot. We hadn't shaved for a week, either, and we could pass for a pair of vagrants. A thorough wash-up, a shave, and a new change of clean clothes, and I could tell even an old campaigner like Richard was feeling remarkably more put-together.

Next, Richard led us through a set of stretches and light calisthenics, and we went for our customary run, although Richard kept it short. I could tell I was sore and out of practice; although we had finished every day out in the desert exhausted, we hadn't done a lot of running. Getting in even a short run was remarkably refreshing, and I noted with satisfaction that I had, if anything, more energy and stamina now than last week, despite the weariness I had felt at the end of every day.

Richard and I returned to the cabin around eleven in the morning.

"Now that we're back into the routine a little, let's strip down and clean everything. Guns, gear, even the Suburban's cargo bed."

We spent another three hours going through our gear and making sure that not only was everything accounted for - including the spent brass - but that our packs were clean, the carbine and the AR-15 were stripped, cleaned and oiled, and both pistols given the same treatment. After two weeks, gun maintenance had become second nature to me.

By the time all our equipment was attended to, and the Suburban was cleaned, it was early afternoon. I prepped a quick lunch of canned beef stew with added vegetables. Sitting at the table together, eating our lunch, Richard looked at me thoughtfully over his bowl.

"Hmmm?" I asked.

"You ever play checkers?"

"The board game, checkers?"

"That's right, checkers."

"Back when I was a kid, yes. Played against my kid sister a lot. Probably haven't played a game in ten years."

Richard chewed another mouthful.

"Reckon you'd be up for a game?"

I laughed. "After the last week, anything that involves sitting in the shade and not crawling over rocks and dust sounds fantastic to me."

Richard chuckled for a moment, then got up and walked into his room. A few moments later he brought in an old, battered cardboard checkers box. Laying out the board, he deftly populated the squares with the red and black playing pieces, save one of each. Holding them behind his back, Richard asked me, "Right or left?"

"Left."

He held out his hand. A black disk.

"Smoke before fire, kid. Your move."

I had always been an indifferent checkers player, and over the course of the first game, I realized I had forgotten most of the rules. Richard coached me through the game, reminding me where necessary what moves I could and could not make. It was mostly a confusing muddle, and although I lost the game, I felt I finally had a grasp of what to do, so I asked Richard for a rematch.

Ten minutes later, the game was over. Richard had won again.

I asked for another game. Richard beat me after twelve minutes.

We played for a couple of hours, and game after game, Richard came out on top. Some of the matches I just got frustrated and made stupid mistakes that were quickly exploited, while other times I felt I was being clever and sneaky, only to have it all fall apart a few moves into my "master plan". Either way, Richard played with an infuriating calm, taking his move the moment I finished mine, without any need to think about what he was doing.

Finally, after what must have been a dozen games, Richard looked up at me from across the board.

"Why do I always win?" he asked me.

"Because apparently, you are a master of the checkerboard."

"No, seriously. I haven't played a game of checkers in years. I probably haven't played it since the last time you played. But why do I always win?"

"I dunno, you've probably still played more games. You've got several decades of experience over me."

"What else? What am I doing that you aren't doing?"

I stared at the board for a long moment. "You make your move as soon as I make mine. It's like you don't need any time to think about what you're going to do."

"But that's ridiculous, right? Of course I'm thinking about my moves."

"But you don't take any time," I countered.

"Says who?"

"Then you...you're thinking about your move while I'm thinking about mine. But how do you know what to do when I haven't done it yet?"

Richard smiled. "Mhmmm?"

I stared at him, annoyed. "'Mhmmm' what?"

Richard began to put pieces onto the board at random, setting up what looked like a mid-game distribution.

"What are your options?" he asked, pointing to the board.

I looked the board over for a minute, then told Richard the half-dozen possible moves I could see. Richard nodded along with each of them, and when I finished he looked at me.

"Every time we play, every time it's your turn, I can practically hear you thinking out your moves, just like that. Your eyes, your body language, sometimes even your lips move. I know the move you're going to make before you even reach for the piece."

I just looked at him.

Richard continued. "Furthermore, because you take so long and make your move so obvious, I've got plenty of time to plan my move, so that when I make it, you now have to react to it instead of planning your own strategy. Do you see what I mean?"

"Uh..."

Richard leaned in over the board. "Let me ask you again, why do I win?"

"Because you can plan faster. Because when I'm figuring out what to do you're already figuring out how to counter my move."

"And what does that mean?"

"You've always got me on my back heel. I'm not playing to win, I'm playing to try and not lose."

Richard smiled at me. "Give the kid a cigar."

"So is that it?" I asked.

Richard barked out a laugh and threw his arms up over his head. "Is that it? Is that it? Son, you are talking about the single most fundamental point in the art of war; making the enemy react to you instead of you to him. Action-reaction. Offense and defense. The man who never manages to throw a punch never wins a fist-fight."

"But you have to be able to protect yourself against the other guy's moves," I protested.

"What moves? If every move your opponent makes is to defend against one of your own, you already know what he's going to do. You utterly dominate the battle because you control everything your enemy does. You guide his movements because he is constantly moving to defend against you. You control his attacks because he can only attack from where you left him. You offer him only what you want him to attack and force his strategy to conform to yours. In this situation, he is left so busy reacting that he never has a chance to act himself."

I shook my head. "Okay, that's great, but how do you do that?"

Richard folded his arms across his chest. "When you were playing baseball in little league or summer camp or wherever, what was the most important thing you needed to do in order to make contact swinging your bat?"

"Keep your eye on the ball," I said.

Richard nodded. "What does that mean, exactly?"

I frowned. "Uh, it means watch the ball so you know where to swing."

Richard shook his head. "It means much more than that. It means you need to pay attention to what you want to achieve. The goal of swinging the bat isn't to swing the bat well, it's to make contact with the baseball. Do you see the difference?"

"I think so, maybe. No."

"Think about checkers. What is the goal of the game?"

"To eliminate all the opponent's pieces."

"So, it's not moving your pieces around on the board?"

I sighed. "Get to the point, please."

Richard waggled his finger at me. "This is the point. In any combat situation, the end goal is to defeat your enemy. It is not to avoid getting hurt yourself, although that factors into it. It is not to shoot the bad guy; that is just a means to an end. If the most fundamental point in the art of war is to make the enemy react to you, then the path to performing this feat is keeping your end objective foremost in your mind and always be moving towards that objective. If you are playing checkers, always ask yourself, 'will this move contribute to winning the game, or am I just moving a piece because it's my turn?'. If your answer is the latter, then you are failing to keep the end goal in sight, and you are going to lose every time."

After his lecture to me, Richard decided it was time to introduce me to a greater portfolio of weapons. We unpacked ammunition for his scoped AR-15, as well as the Remington shotgun Richard had shown me on my first day, but never took out to the firing range. We also stripped and cleaned all the weapons we scavenged from the meth lab. Richard had ammunition for everything, and in large quantities.

One by one, I took the guns out to our makeshift firing range. Richard walked me through loading and unloading each weapon, any special features they had, and any tips on how to handle each weapon. By now, I was getting to the point where I could figure most of it out on my own; a safety lever is a safety lever, a bolt is a bolt, a magazine is a magazine. For a few hours, we blasted paper targets and Richard's much-battered five-gallon buckets filled with sand.

"I've told you this before, but it's worth repeating; you want to be able to pick up a bad guy's gun and use it just as well as your own firearm. Guns jam, break down, get shot up, run out of ammo, fall down elevator shafts...anything that can go wrong, will go wrong."

That night, Richard started me on a regimen of reading a steady stream of excerpts from "books about war", for lack of a better term. Sun Tzu, Clausewitz, Miyamoto Musashi, Julius Caesar, Wang Jingze, and a plethora of more modern sources, from US military field manuals to excerpts from military biographies and after action reports. Richard had boiled the readings down to a manageable degree, but there was still a couple hours of reading every night.

During my last two weeks, we made several trips into town, mostly to purchase building materials; two-by-fours, sheets of plywood, nails and hinges and the like. Richard and I spent our evenings constructing target stands, doors and doorways, partial walls of various shapes and sizes, even windows and railings. Richard wanted me to be comfortable moving through a doorway with a gun, being able to engage targets not only while moving, but moving into a space, over a railing, leaning around a wall or through a window.