have believed otherwise in any case, but incidents like this further enhanced his belief in the image of the Corps. 'If the papers got things straight, you did right well. Lieutenant.'
'Not all that well. Sergeant Major—'
'Gunny,' Breckenridge corrected. 'Everybody calls me Gunny.'
'After it was all over,' Ryan went on, 'I shook like a baby's rattle.'
Breckenridge was amused by this. 'Hell, sir, we all do that. What counts is gettin' the job done. What comes after don't matter a damn. So, what can I do for you gentlemen? You want a few rounds of small-bore practice?'
Jackson explained what the FBI agent had said. The Sergeant Major's face darkened, the jaw set. After a moment he shook his head.
'You're sweatin' this, eh? Can't say that I blame you, Lieutenant. 'Terrorists! ' he snorted. 'A 'terrorist' is a punk with a machine gun. That's all, just a well-armed punk. It doesn't take much to shoot somebody in the back or hose down an airport waiting room. So. Lieutenant, you'll be thinkin' about carrying some protection, right? And maybe something at home.'
'I don't know… but I guess you're the man to see.' Ryan hadn't thought about it yet, but it was clear that Robby had.
'How'd you do at Quantico?'
'I qualified with the .45 automatic and the M-16. Nothing spectacular, but I qualified.'
'Do you do any shootin' now, sir?' Breckenridge asked with a frown. Just qualifying wasn't a very hopeful sign to a serious marksman.
'I usually get my quota of ducks and geese. I missed out this season, though,' Jack admitted.
'Uplands game?'
'I had two good afternoons after dove in September. I'm a pretty fair wing-shot, Gunny. I use a Remington 1100 automatic, 12-gauge.'
Breckenridge nodded. 'Good for a start. That's your at-home gun. Nothing beats a shotgun at close range— short of a flamethrower, that is.' The Sergeant Major smiled. 'You have a deer/slug barrel? No? Well, you're gonna get one of those. It's twenty inches or so, with a cylinder bore and rifle-type sights. You pull the magazine plug, and you got five-round capacity. Now most people'll tell you to use double-ought buck, but I like number four better. More pellets, and you're not giving any range away. You can still hit out to eighty, ninety yards, and that's all you'll ever need. The important thing is, anything you hit with buckshot's goin' down—period.' He paused. 'As a matter of fact, I might be able to get you some flechette rounds.'
'What's that?' Ryan asked.
'It's an experimental thing they foolin' with down at Quantico for military police use, and maybe at the embassies. Instead of lead pellets, you shoot sixty or so darts, about three-caliber diameter, like little arrows. You gotta see what those little buggers do to believe it. Nasty. So that'll take care of home. Now, you gonna want to carry a handgun with you?'
Ryan thought about that. It would mean getting a permit. He thought he could apply to the state police for one… or maybe to a certain federal agency. Already his mind was mulling over
'Maybe,' he said finally.
'Okay. Let's do a little experiment.' Breckenridge walked into his office. He returned a minute later with a cardboard box.
'Lieutenant, this here's a High-Standard target pistol, a.22 built on a.45 frame.' The Sergeant Major handed it over. Ryan took it, ejected the magazine, and pulled the slide back to make sure the pistol was unloaded. Breckenridge watched and nodded approvingly. Jack had been taught range safety by his father twenty years before. After that he fitted the weapon in his hand, then sighted down the range to get used to the feel. Every gun is a little different. This was a target pistol, with nice balance and pretty good sights.
'Feels okay,' Ryan said. 'Little lighter than a Colt, though.'
'This'll make it heavier.' Breckenridge handed over a loaded clip. 'That's five rounds. Insert the clip in the weapon, but do not chamber a round until I tell you, sir.' The Sergeant Major was accustomed to giving orders to officers, and knew how to do so politely. 'Step to lane four. Relax. It's a nice day in the park, okay?'
'Yeah. That's how this whole mess started,' Ryan observed wryly.
The Gunny walked over to the switch panel and extinguished most of the lights in the room.
'Okay, Lieutenant, let's keep the weapon pointed downrange and at the floor, if you please, sir. Chamber your first round, and relax.'
Jack pulled the slide back with his left hand, then let it snap forward. He didn't turn around. He told himself to relax and play the game. He heard a cigarette lighter snap shut. Maybe Robby was lighting up one of his cigars.
'I saw a picture of your little girl in the papers, Lieutenant. She's a pretty little thing.'
'Thank you, Gunny. I've seen one of yours on campus, too. Cute, but not very little. I heard she's engaged to a mid.'
'Yes, sir. That's my little baby,' Breckenridge said, like a father rather than a Marine. 'The last of my three. She'll be married—'
Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin as a string of firecrackers began exploding at his feet. He started to turn when Breckenridge screamed at him:
'
A light snapped on to illuminate a silhouette target fifty feet away. One small part of Ryan's mind knew this was a test—but most of him didn't care. The.22 came up and seemed to aim itself at the paper target. He loosed all five rounds in under three seconds. The noise was still echoing when his trembling hands set the automatic down on the table.
'Jesus Christ, Sar-major!' Ryan nearly screamed.
The rest of the lights came back on. The room stank of gunpowder, and paper fragments from the firecrackers littered the floor. Robby, Jack saw, was standing safely at the entrance to the Gunny's office, while Breckenridge was right behind him, ready to grab Ryan's gun hand if he did anything foolish.
'One of the other things I do is moonlight as an instructor for the Annapolis City Police. You know, it's a real pain in the ass trying to figure a way to simulate the stress of combat conditions. This here's what I came up with. Okay, let's get a look at the target.' Breckenridge punched a button, and a hidden electric motor turned the pulley for lane four.
'Damn!' Ryan growled, looking at the target.
'Not so bad,' Breckenridge judged. 'We got four rounds on the paper. Two snowbirds. Two in the black, both in the chest. Your target is on the ground. Lieutenant, and he's hurt pretty bad.'
'Two rounds out of five—must be the last two. I settled down on them and took some more time.'
'I noticed that.' Breckenridge nodded. 'Your first round was high and to the left, missed the card. Your next two came in here and here. The last two were on the money fairly well. That's not too bad, Lieutenant.'
'I did a hell of a lot better in London.' Ryan was not convinced. The two holes outside the black target silhouette mocked at him, and one round hadn't even found the target at all…
'In London, if the TV got it right, you had a second or two to figure out what you were gonna do,' the Gunny said.
'That's pretty much the way it was,' Ryan admitted.
'You see, Lieutenant, that's the real important part. That one or two seconds makes all the difference, because you have a little time to think things over. The reason so many cops get killed is because they don't have that little bit of time to think it out—but the crooks have done that already. That one second lets you figure what's happening, select your target, and decide what you're gonna do about it. Now, what I just made you do was go through all three steps, all at once. Your first round went wild. The second and third were better, and your last two were good enough to put the target on the ground. That's not bad, son. That's about as well as a trained cop does—but you gotta do better than that.'
'What do you mean?'
'A cop's job is to keep the peace. Your job is just staying alive, and that's a little easier. That's the good news. The bad news is, those bad guys ain't gonna give you two seconds to think unless you make them, or you're
