Starfist FR - 03 - Recoil (29 page)

Commanding General’s Office, Task Force Aguinaldo, Camp Swampy

As soon as the arrangements had been made for the pistol match, Colonel Raggel requested a few moments of General Aguinaldo’s time to inform him of the contest and to extend an invitation to him.

“Splendid!” Aguinaldo enthused. “It’s high time you army guys began to realize the importance of marksmanship! I’ll be there. Cumberland,” he said, turning to his deputy, “why is this the first I’ve heard about this match?”

“First I’ve heard of it myself, Andy.”

“Uh, well, I’m sure Lieutenant Colonel Myers was just about to—”

“Was he now?” General Cumberland said, exchanging glances with Aguinaldo, who just shook his head. “Myers is CO of the First Battalion of the Third Brigade in Major General Miles’s division. They’re off Hancock’s World.”

“Oh, shit,” General Aguinaldo sighed. “I remember now. Them.” He turned back to Raggel. “Rene, these competitions are very important to morale, and I wish more of my commanders would take the initiative you have and organize them.”

“Well, sir, it was Colonel Myers’s idea. He challenged the Seventh MPs, actually.”

“Was it now?” Aguinaldo leaned back. “That’s interesting.”

He exchanged another look with Pradesh. “Who’ll judge the contest?”

“We haven’t decided yet, sir.”

“Don’t give it another thought, Rene. Pradesh, you’re an old shooter; get together a team of judges, you head it up. Rene, I’m putting the word out. Everyone’s going to be there. As soon as you’ve worked out the rules, let General Cumberland know. Keep me informed. We have an old expression in the Marines, but it’s still a good one for any commander to live by:

‘Send me men who can shoot.’ ”

TWENTY-FIVE

Pistol Range, Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion, Fort Keystone, Arsenault Senior Sergeant Billy Oakley, S3 operations sergeant and firearms instructor for the Seventh Independent Military Police, put his hand lightly on Sergeant Queege’s right shoulder. Colonel Raggel had asked him to give Queege some individual marksmanship training, so they were alone on the range. Oakley had never much liked Puella although they’d never had much contact; her foul-mouthed, boozy reputation had not set well with him. Oakley, along with Command Sergeant Major Steiner, was one of the few men in the battalion who hadn’t been a professional drunk or ne’er-do-well. For his part, Oakley could not understand why Raggel had selected her to be his battalion clerk, but on the occasions when they had met and worked together preparing training schedules, the senior NCO

had been surprised to find Puella in person a lot different than he’d expected.

The firearms ranges the Seventh Independent MPs were using were fully automated but not the usual virtual ranges they were used to on Lannoy. These were genuine outdoor facilities with pop-up targets at marked intervals. When it rained or the sun beat down on them the shooters felt it. Shooters, depending on the instructor’s lesson plan, could blast away from stationary firing points or advance on their targets and shoot at them while moving. Different kinds of barriers and obstacles were available

for use in shoot/don’t shoot scenarios both out of doors and inside buildings constructed for that purpose. The facilities had been designed specifically for the training of military police and law enforcement personnel. The handgun range was only one of the ranges the Seventh Independent MPs were using. Others accommodated much heavier weapons and were designed to engage targets up to several kilometers distant. The first day of Queege’s instruction, Oakley would run her through a standard outdoor course; the shoot/don’t shoot training would come later. Colonel Raggel had told both of them that he wanted her to become an expert marksman with the M26 hand weapon. “When we deploy,” he’d said, “I’ll be constantly on the move, so will the sergeant major, but Sergeant Queege here will be with me. I want someone by my side who can shoot, Sergeant Oakley, and it’ll be your job to teach Queege how to do that.”

That first day on the range had started with classroom instruction in the functioning and field stripping of the M26, sight picture and trigger squeeze and so forth. “When we leave the range later today,” Sergeant Oakley had told Puella, “I’m going to give you a set of weights and some exercises to perform with them. It is important that you work on your upper body strength—hands, arms, shoulders—because the stronger you are the better you will be able to handle this weapon, any weapon.” Then they moved outdoors to the firing points.

“Okay, Queege old Squeege, put your left foot a bit forward, that’s right. Now bend a bit forward at the waist, like a boxer. Fine. The reason I want you to take that position when shooting the M26 10mm hand weapon is because it’ll give you a steadier aiming platform. There’s no recoil with this caseless ammo, you know that, but if you hold steady your aim will be steady. Shot placement is the only thing that matters, and if you get that standing on your head, okay. But I’ll teach the standard marksmanship method now, so you wait until you get on your own before you develop any fancy techniques, all right?” He paused and regarded his student. “You’re the only soldier in this battalion who’s ever fired one of these in combat, did you know that? What range did you fire it at in that bank holdup?” Puella had not been with the Seventh Independent MPs when that incident happened, but in the battalion they all knew the story, more or less.

“Oh, I guess three meters, Sarge.”

“Well, most hand weapon fights take place at less than three meters. You were prone when you fired, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was lying under one of the writing benches.”

“The prone position is the safest and most accurate firing position. But today, with this weapon, I’m going to teach you how to fire offhand, standing up. We’ll start at seven to ten meters, then move to twenty, twenty-five, and finally fifty.”

“Fifty meters, Sarge? I can hardly see that far! You can hit something with this thing at that distance?”

“You sure can, with projectile ammunition. We’re going to fire two different types of ammo though, one magazine of fléchette ammo, one with solid projectile ammo. We’ll use the fléchettes on the closer targets, the projectiles on the farther ones. We use the fléchettes in the law-and-order mission, so you don’t get overpenetration if you have to fire when there are innocent people around, and projectile ammo in actual combat, when you don’t give a shit if the rounds overpenetrate or hit more than one target.

“Let me see your magazine pouch.” He moved to Puella’s left side and examined the four magazines she was carrying there, with the rounds pointing backward. That was so when the magazines were withdrawn they were ready, rounds now pointing forward, to be inserted into the weapon’s magazine well. He withdrew them one by one to make sure they were all loaded with fléchette rounds. He handed them back to Puella the wrong way, to be sure she checked them before putting them back. She did. He smiled broadly. A big problem with their magazines was that they could also carry projectile ammunition, so a shooter had to be doubly sure what he was carrying.

“Okay, Sergeant, lock and load one magazine of fléchette ammo and holster your weapon! Remember what I told you about sight picture and trigger squeeze. Remember, finger off the trigger until you’re ready to engage your target. When you do, I want to see Queege squeege in the proper manner—”

Puella looked up at Sergeant Oakley. “Uh, Sarge, would you mind? I don’t like that nickname anymore.” Her old nickname reminded her constantly of her days as a drunk, and that was an image Puella really wanted to shed. Sergeant Oakley was frankly surprised, and then he smiled.

“You know what they used to call me? ‘Annie,’ so I know how you feel.” He patted her on the back.

“Sarge, why’d they stop calling you that?” Puella asked.

“Well, one day before your time I busted the jaw of Second Company’s first sergeant.”

“Are you married?” Puella asked suddenly. The question came out so quickly it surprised and embarrassed her and later she wondered why she had even asked it.

“Not anymore. Old story. Some women aren’t cut out to be a soldier’s wife.” He shrugged. “She accused me of being married to the army. She was probably right.” It was obvious the question had bothered Sergeant Oakley. “Now, eyes front! As each target pops up I want you to double-tap it, two rounds, center of mass. When your weapon empties, do a combat reload and continue shooting. When you hear the buzzer, holster your piece. Are you set?”

“Yessir!”

The man-size targets began popping up at intervals out to ten meters and Puella engaged each one as it came into view. By the time the buzzer sounded only fifteen seconds later she had emptied two magazines, twenty rounds.

“Pretty damned good! All right, safety on, weapon holstered,”

Sergeant Oakley ordered. “Let’s go out and inspect the damage.” He popped the ten targets back up. Since the fléchette rounds did not disperse very far at only ten meters, he could see all the targets had been hit at least once. Oakley whistled,

“Not bad, not bad. But look here, see? Your rounds are hitting just a tad to the right of center as you look at the target. They’re certainly disabling hits, but they’re grouping a bit off to the left. Remember, even the slightest variation in trigger squeeze or position can have a tremendous effect on the placement of your rounds. Let’s try it again, only this time I want you to use only the tip of your right index finger on the trigger. You were crooking your knuckle over the trigger and that made you pull a bit to the right. Your form was excellent, though, and you were holding the weapon steady. So let’s see if we can chew out the center of those targets next time.” He put up fresh targets and they started again. At noon they broke for lunch, which they ate sitting on the firing line. In the few hours they’d been together that morning Sergeant Oakley had begun forming a new opinion of Puella. She had impressed him as truly interested in learning how to shoot. She paid attention and asked intelligent questions. And she neither looked nor acted like the stumblebum she had the reputation of being. “I think you are a natural with a hand weapon, Sergeant. The other guys, they come out here and bang away and manage to qualify, but that’s about all. You, on the other hand, you pay attention and you really try to do things right. Before we’re done I’m going to have you the best shot in this battalion. Say, we’re going to be spending some time together, so can I call you Puella? ‘Sergeant’ all the time sounds so damned awkward and formal and we’re both NCOs anyway. What you say?”

“Sure. What can I call you?”

“Bill. I hate ‘Billy.’ ”

“I sure ain’t gonna call you ‘Annie’!” Puella laughed.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You keep up the good work and everyone’s gonna be calling you ‘Deadshot’! Let me ask you something though: What’s it like to work for Colonel Raggel?”

“Well, it’s the best job I’ve ever had, Bill. He works me day and night, but he and Steiner treat me like I’m a valuable member of the battalion.”

“I’ve known Krampus Steiner for years, Puella. He’s rough but he’s fair. He never beat up anybody in this battalion who didn’t deserve it.”

“Steiner sez you virtually run the battalion S3 shop, Bill.”

“Aw,” Oakley said, shaking his head, “the lieutenant’s a good officer, just doesn’t know the ropes yet. The major who was the S3 before your Colonel Raggel sent him home; he not only didn’t know the ropes, he didn’t care to learn them. Anyway, I been in the army for over thirty years now and this is not the first S3 shop I’ve ever worked in. But tell you what, it’s turning into the best because your colonel takes a personal interest in everything we do. You know that; we worked together on the goddamned training schedule he wrote for the battalion and he did a better job than I could ever do.”

Puella was beginning to like Bill Oakley. He was calm and patient and tolerated her mistakes with good humor, all the attributes of an excellent teacher. In her drinking days she’d never seen much of him. In those days she thought of nondrinkers as pantywaists, not one of the boys, arrogant and judgmental outsiders. But now that she was looking at drunks from the other side of inebriation, she was beginning to realize what a boor she’d been. Oakley’s ears stuck out from the side of his head like jug handles, in contrast to Puella’s, but he had an infectious smile and his unruly blond hair made him look like a teenager. That he never mentioned a word about Puella’s missing ear impressed her. He was looking at her as a person worth his time as a trainer. He was not just hanging around until she got so drunk he could toss her on her back.

“Well, Deadshot,” Oakley said, finishing his coffee, “let’s get back to work. Projectile rounds this time! Fifty meters!

Hubba, hubba!”

By the end of the day Puella was putting most of her shots into the black on the man-size target at fifty meters and was really feeling comfortable with the M26. Mess Hall, Fort Keystone The Seventh Independent Military Police mess facility was a battalion mess complete with its own staff of cooks and bakers. Kitchen police was performed by the enlisted men of the battalion assigned to the duty by their first sergeants. Each company had the duty for a period of one week. In the Lannoy army, cooks and bakers were the most dissolute soldiers of all. That was because they lived essentially an independent existence, which was necessary if they were to keep the mess in operation. They served under the supervision of the first cook, a senior sergeant who should have been retired years ago, and the biggest drunk in the battalion. Colonel Raggel went through their ranks with a scythe, reducing them so drastically that the men left were too busy to think about anything but running the mess. The quality of the food served there improved overnight. It was also good because Raggel and every officer under him ate every meal there. When someone burned the stew, he knew about it. A small part of the mess hall had been set aside for officers and senior noncommissioned officers, but Colonel Raggel often ate with the men from the companies, and he encouraged the other officers to eat with their men also. Officers were allowed to go to the head of the line, but Raggel often stood with the men. “When we go into the field, officers will be the last men to eat in my battalion,” he often said. Sergeant Queege ate (nobody ever “dines” in a military mess hall) with Sergeant Major Steiner at a table set off to one side of the mess. In the early days, they had cut the line and eaten their meals hurriedly so they could get back to work. Nobody ever complained about Steiner, but Puella often got dirty glances when she went to the head of the line by herself. That bothered her because she was not used to cutting lines, but without the privilege she could never have gotten her work done. But, as Colonel Raggel’s program began to take effect, work had slackened off at the battalion HQ. That is one reason Puella was able to spend time on the range. But she still ate