They were mugshots, but not of people. They were pictures of weapons: military small arms. I identified one picture and rapped at it with my fingernail.
'You sure?'
'Yep. Positive. I knew it looked familiar. It's the M-60.'
'Now look in this section.'
Kevin O'Hearn flipped through the pages. These were smaller automatic weapons, assault rifles and submachine guns. I stopped briefly at one called the Skorpion, a Czech machine pistol, then went on. It glanced for a few seconds at the Uzi, the fine Israeli machine pistol made under license in Holland. It is (so O'Hearn told me) the most widely used submachine gun today. The White House Guards tote them. Not it; the Uzi was too rounded. The gun I wanted looked as angular as a hunk of two-by-four. Then I saw it, complete with the big tubes.
'Here.'This one.'
'Sure?'
'As sure as I'm sitting here.'
O'Hearn gave a low whistle at Joe, than excused himself, saying he had to make a phone call.
I remember now I read where these are made: Powder Springs, Georgia. I could've saved you some time.?
'We wanted a positive visual identification. Kevin thought it might be the Ingram as soon as I told him about your escapade out west. The government's been looking for these things for two months now. You've made quite a discovery.'
'They're hot I assume?'
'You could fry eggs on 'em.'
'Can I go now? Mary and I are looking at dogs today.'
The first rule when you lose a dog, either to old age, accident, or murder, is to get another one quick. We had an appointment to look at the new German sporting breed, the drahthar, after lunch.
'In a little bit. Major Downey would like to interview you first. He's on his way now.'
'Does he work here or out in Amherst?'
'He's stationed at Fort Ord, California. He's a major in the United States Army, Ordnance.'
'0h.'
The phone on Joe's desk rang. He grunted into it and hung up.
'Major Downey and O'Hearn are down in the range. Come on down with me and you can see for yourself what man hath wrought.'
'What do you mean?'
'Downey has a real live Ingram with him. You can see what one of the things'll do.'
The range was located in a subbasement, presumably to deaden the noise of target practice. I heard the hum of ventilating fans and could smell the bitter odor of cordite. As a sometime hunter I liked the smell, though I could see why Vietnam veterans would hate it. Another smell I like is the aroma of Hoppe's powder solvent, used for cleaning shotguns. We approached a door and I could hear the solid blam of firearms. The sound was two-in-one because the shot was followed a millisecond later by the impact sound of the slug thumping against the inclined steel wall of the range eighty feet away. Joe opened the door and went in.
There were eight stalls to the range. Troopers and plainclothesmen occupied about half of them. They wore ear protectors as they fired their sidearms at the big suspended paper targets at the far end of the range. The targets were life-sized silhouettes of the human being. Parts of the body were outlined in white lines, with various scores. I noticed you got a lot of points for the head and chest, a bit fewer for the stomach and abdomen, and hardly any for legs, knees, and such. It was a rather ominous spectacle for the uninitiated. Most of the men were standing, but sometimes they dropped to a crouch and fired their weapons held in both hands. When they did this they emptied the cylinder, pumping off six shots very quickly. One pistol sounded particularly loud, and I remarked on it.
'Three-fifty-seven magnum. The slug can go through an engine block. But if you think that's loud, you oughta hear a forty-four magnum-'
'I have. One of the guys at the gun club has one. When he shows up at the range everybody else leaves.'
We met Major Downey. He looked all business: crewcut, suntan, leathery skin, no fat, and a crisp khaki uniform with razor sharp creases. He shook my hand firmly and we all talked briefly about what I had related to Joe. Then I was told that an army intelligence team had a surveillance on the Buzarski farm. With the team were state troopers. The major took me over to a bench, upon which sat an aluminum case that looked like a suitcase. In fact, it looked just like a Halbriton photographer's case. Downey flicked open the latches and opened the lid. Neatly cradled inside a nest of cut-foam plastic was one of the weird-looking square pistols. It was identical to those I had seen in the crate in Buzarski's barn. Alongside the gun was the long metal tube.
'That's it.'
'Doctor Adams, ten crates of these weapons disappeared two months ago from the armory in Schenectady, New York. They were purchased by the army for special assignments, and were being stored in the armory prior to being shipped to Fort Ord. The Em-sixties have been disappearing from a number of storage facilities. Perhaps you know that three years ago some were taken from the armory at Danvers.'
'I remember that. They later turned up in Northern Ireland, by way of Holland.'
As the major nodded, my thoughts returned to my strange assailant inthe barn, the one with the peat from County Donegal still on his boots. The Irish Connection. And yet he'd been hiding too… '
'If you gentlemen will follow me, I will show you why the government is so anxious for the return of these missing pieces,' said the major in an official tone as he plucked the pig-ugly little gun from its fancy case. He pushed in a small button above the back of the handgrip and drew out the metal stock, the end of which he braced against his shoulder. He shoved a clip up the handle, pulled back the knob on the gun's top surface, and requested that a fresh target be reeled out on the wire. By this time we were surrounded by the other policemen, who gazed at the contraption with curiosity and awe. When the target reached the far end of the range, having been cranked out there on a pulley like a clothesline, the major darted underneath the shooting bench, raised the machine pistol to his shoulder, and fired.
The range exploded in noise. I felt as if I were inside a boiler being riveted. The soldier had two of his left- hand fingers inside a small canvas strap that hung down from the barrel. He pulled down on this as he released the two bursts, but the small gun bucked up nevertheless, spewing. 45-caliber slugs so fast it made one solid wall of noise. He swung his torso back and forth quickly during the bursts. The shredded target fell apart. He had cut it in two.
'Sombitch!' said a trooper.
'Jesus Christ Almighty,' whistled another.
Downey released the clip; it clanked down on the floor at his feet.
'Empty,' he said. 'That's a major disadvantage of the Ingram. At eleven, hundred a minute, the cyclic rate is so high that a thirty-round clip empties in under one and a half seconds. But now I'm going to demonstrate the Ingram's great advantage? He took the metal tube from the case and twisted it onto the barrel that projected from the body by only about two inches, threaded. He shoved a second clip into the piece, ducked under t-he bench as before, and pulled the trigger.
What emerged this time was one of the strangest noises I've ever heard. It was like the faint sound of a buffalo stampede or like sheet metal being ripped behind a thick felt curtain. And behind this noise was another: a thin whistle of almost electronic purity. It made almost no noise whatsoever. But yet the slugs still poured forth. We saw the target's top half sliced to ribbons. Also, we heard the only loud noise there was: that of thirty lead slugs, each as thick as the tip of my little finger, thunking into the metal wall. That sound was loud-as loud as two jackhammers. But the tiny weird gun, for all its kicking and bucking, was almost totally silent.
'Well Gawdammn!'
Downey wore a self-satisfied smile, pleased at having so impressed his audience. It was almost a smirk. I decided I didn't much care for the major.
'I'm sure most of you are aware of silencers, and how they reduce muzzle velocity almost to the point of uselessness. But this'-and he rapped the metal tube with his hand-'is designed so that it actually increases the energy of the fired rounds. Don't ask me how 'cause I don't know. But it does. So there you have it: a silent
