'So the second sergeant was up, his name was Mahoney. He locked and loaded, fired the course. Did a respectable time, nothing to write home about, but enough to keep him in the top five, if he was lucky. Clean shooting, moderately fast and accurate.
'Meanwhile, Butler figured out what his problem was. He had inadvertently overloaded his magazines by one round each. This compressed the springs too much and they wouldn't feed the rounds. So Butler asks for a reshoot due to equipment failure. It was a slow day, and the RO — that's range officer — let him go again after everybody else was finished.
'And this time, Butler came out hot. He smoked everybody. Shot the fastest time, didn't miss anything, knocked ‘em down left, right, and center like he was a machine. Butler was thirty seconds faster than Mahoney through the course. Guys who had been laughing at him before suddenly looked at him with a new respect. No doubt about it, the man could shoot.
'So Butler grins at Mahoney, gives him a mock salute, and swaggers off.
'Mahoney is packing away his weapon and gear and one of the other shooters who knows about the rivalry comes over. ‘Too bad,' the guy says, ‘I know you really wanted to beat him.'
'And Mahoney smiles and says, ‘He won the contest, but if we'd been on opposite sides on a battlefield from each other, Butler would be history and I'd still be here. You don't get a second chance in a firefight hot zone if you're up against a guy who is any good at all. And there ain't no second-place winner in a gunfight neither.' '
Fernandez looked at the porky young instructor. 'A slow shot that hits the target is better than a fast shot that misses. Sir.'
The class laughed, and it was Horowitz's turn to flush. 'See me after class, Fernandez.'
'My pleasure.'
When the other students were gone, Fernandez stood six feet away from where Horowitz sat at his desk. The instructor said, 'Sergeant, your attitude needs some adjustment. I realize this is a non-credit class for you, so you aren't required to get a pass/fail, but if you were, I am certain you would be repeating this course next term.'
Fernandez stepped up to the desk, put his hands on it, and leaned toward the younger man. He was well within Horowitz's discomfort zone, invading the man's space. Horowitz leaned back as far as the chair would allow, and fear stained his face.
'Listen up, sonny. You got the social skills and wit of a water buffalo. You're so busy trying to score points and show everybody how clever you are that whatever teaching abilities you have — if any — can't get out of where you have your head shoved. I know this is like talking to three-year-olds for you, but you're supposed to be a teacher. That's your job, and you're dogging it.'
'You wait just a minute!'
'Shut up,' Fernandez said. He kept his voice flat and quiet.
Horowitz did just that.
'I'm an easygoing guy most of the time. That's why you aren't on your knees observing the remains of your most recent meal spattered all over your shoes and the floor. I'm done here, junior. I won't be back. Lucky for both of us.'
So much for his resolve to learn this shit. Oh, well. There were other ways. There had to be. He leaned back from the desk, smiled, and turned to walk away.
Behind him, Horowitz's voice was shrill, shading right up the scale and into soprano: 'What is your superior's name? I am going to report you for threatening me!'
Fernandez turned, still smiling. 'My CO's name is Colonel John Howard. Give him my regards when you call. And I didn't threaten you, sonny. If I had done that, you'd be needing a fresh pair of pants. Adios.'
As he left the classroom, Fernandez shook his head. His inner voice said,
Yeah, yeah. But it sure felt good, didn't it?
He was almost sure he heard his inner voice chuckle.
Chapter Six
Platt strolled along the sidewalk next to the Mall in a T-shirt and jeans, without a jacket, pretending to ignore the hard chill and dirty, slushy snow the plows had piled up along the curb. It wasn't really all that cold, right around freezing, but he sure as hell felt it. Least the wind wasn't blowin', and he had his steel-toed Kevlar boots on, so his feet weren't cold. Thing was, at six-four and 225, he didn't have any body fat to speak of — he couldn't pinch any on his ridged six-pack belly — so no insulation. He worked out five times a week in a weight room when he was where he could get to one, had a decent gym of his own at home if he didn't feel like goin' out, and used big elastic bands or a portable apparatus when he was on the road. The portable thing, which was basically just some screw- together pipes made out of titanium and spun carbon fiber, assembled into a frame that would let you do chins and dips. Cost a damned fortune, but it was worth it. It didn't weigh hardly anything, and when it was disassembled it would fit right into a regular suitcase. Between the bands and body weight, you could keep the tone on your upper body for a couple of weeks without the iron, if you needed to. Didn't do much for the lower body, but that was what one-legged squats and stairs were for.
He didn't like Washington, not the town, not the folks who lived and worked there, not the big old marble buildings, wasn't nothin'
Platt grinned. He remembered the first time he'd been in L.A., twelve or so years back when he'd been a green kid just off the farm outside Marietta. He was walking down Hollywood Boulevard, a hick tourist gaping at the gold stars in the sidewalk, when he passed an old lady standing in front of the Chinese Theater. She was stark naked, smiling and waving at everybody. That didn't seem right to him, that somebody's poor ole granny was bare- assed on the street like that, so Platt whipped out his phone and called the po-lice. Told them about this nekkid woman. And the bored cop on the phone said, 'Yeah. Uh-huh. Which naked woman are you calling about?'
Jesus. According to the po-lice, somebody got naked on the street four or five times a week in Hollywood. Damn. Them folks had smogged-up brains out in La-La-land.
He looked at his watch. Just after ten. He grinned again. About now, that spring-loaded time-release file would be hitting the web hard, and it was gonna be like a ton of fresh feces whapping into a big ole industrial-grade fan. If that bomb down in Louisiana didn't get their attention, this one would sure as hell wake ‘em up. Gonna pop a few strands when it landed, for damn sure.
Ahead of him, coming in his direction, were two black men. African-Americans, was that still what they called themselves? Sheeit, these brothahs in their wool suits and camel-hair overcoats had probably never been within five thousand miles of Af-ri-ka, probably born in Mississippi or Georgia, and come to the big city for white poontang and cheap dope. Way Platt figured it, you were born in this country, you were an
The two in suits stared at him, but they weren't right. They were too small, too civilized. Probably lawyers or political staff guys who hadn't been in a fistfight since they were pickaninnies.
Platt grinned, and he could almost hear the jigs thinkin':
A block or so later, he spotted the one he wanted. He was a big buck, wearing jeans and motorcycle boots, a leather jacket, and Gargoyle shades, thought he was so cool. Almost as big as Platt. And alone. Platt didn't mind a couple, but he wasn't stupid. A gang was not a good idea unless you were armed, ‘cause they sure as hell would
