Killer Instincts v5 (7 page)

I had never seen Jamie's cabin. It was tucked into a grove of large evergreens right on the edge of the water, a small natural cove with a short wooden dock leading out into deep water, an 18-foot Boston Whaler tied alongside. Jamie drove us back from the airport in his Jeep Cherokee, but there was a battered Ford Ranger pickup parked next to the cabin, probably used for hauling firewood or similarly rugged chores. The cabin was single-story with an enclosed porch facing the water, a carport for the Cherokee, and a large shed nearby.

Inside, the cabin was surprisingly light on all the stereotypical macho man woodsy bullshit I would have imagined; there were no trophy animal heads hanging from the walls, no paintings of wolves or snow-capped mountains, no bearskin rugs or chandeliers made of antlers. The inner walls were paneled, the floors hardwood, the ceiling low and open to the rafters, with a low sloping roof. There was a brick fireplace with a large pile of firewood taking up most of one living room wall.

There were a couple of small paintings hung here and there, but nothing garish or tacky. Instead, most of the wall decorations were photos set in small collections of two or four to a frame. Looking closer, I saw that they were all of young, lean men in fatigues with weapons, photos Jamie must have taken during the war. I found my uncle in a couple of photos, and his appearance was a little shocking, the way the war had made him so feral-looking. I’d seen photos of Jamie in high school, and you could have mistaken us for brothers. We had the same straight black hair, the bright blue eyes, fair skin, straight nose and boyish smile. Just a few years later, the same features were there, but the boy had been replaced by a two-legged predator in jungle fatigues.

There were other items framed and hung around the cabin, including a faded bit of unit insignia and a uniform patch, as well as a tattered military-style contour map. There were even a couple of what I assumed to be propaganda leaflets printed by the North Vietnamese, in broken and barely understandable English. The leaflets attempted to convince the American G.I.s that their government was throwing their lives away on a cause their families and loved ones would never approve. Guess the joke's on us, I figured, since those propaganda leaflets were just about spot-on.

I noticed that Jamie didn't have a television set, but he did have a very retro-70's high-fidelity stereo system with a turntable, 8-track deck and AM/FM tuner, big silver dials and all. In the corner next to the stereo there was a bookshelf filled top to bottom with dozens upon dozens of vinyl records.

"No television?" I asked.

"Television never tells me anything I want to hear anymore. 'Sides, the reception up here is shit, and I don't feel like paying for cable. I want news, I tune into the right station, or just pick up a paper on my way to the shop."

There were a few concessions to more modern living. I saw the bulbs in most of the lights were fluorescent, and although Jamie didn't have a microwave, his refrigerator and gas range were both very nice and very modern. A toaster oven and a little espresso machine occupied the polished granite counter top. I looked at Jamie with a raised eyebrow and gestured to the espresso maker.

"Vietnamese coffee gets brewed really strong, and I got used to it. Espresso machine makes it the way I like it,” he replied.

"I might join you, then. I loved the coffee in France. Americans can't brew a cup of beans to save their lives."

"The French introduced the Vietnamese to coffee."

"Cool."

Jamie didn't have a guest room, but one of his couches was long and comfy enough to suit me just fine. I didn't have much luggage to begin with. I just tucked my suitcase in a corner and threw my bookbag onto the couch.

I turned to Jamie. "It's weird. This is the only place left for me that I could technically call home anymore, and I've never seen it before today."

Jamie let out an indiscernible grunt. "Want a beer?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Jamie produced a pair of bottles from the fridge, a couple of Sam Adams lagers. I took one from him gratefully and flopped down onto the couch. Jamie collapsed into a chair nearby. We both sat for a moment, staring off into space. Jamie raised his beer into the air.

"To family."

I raised mine. "To family."

I took a long pull off the bottle, then another. There is something strangely comforting in the simple act of two guys sitting and having a beer together, no need for idle chitchat, no attitude or posturing, just enjoying a cold beer and some friendly quiet.

Finally I turned to Jamie. "How long ago did you build this place?"

"Right around the time you were born. I don't think it had been finished when Michael called to tell me you had been delivered."

"I like it, it's simple and comfortable."

"That's all I want, and all I need."

"We pile a lot of unnecessary crap onto our plates these days, don't we?"

"Truer words, kid, were never spoken."

We sat for a few more minutes in quiet reverie, finishing our beers. Finally Jamie looked down at his empty bottle, over at mine, and stood up.

"You've never used a handgun before, have you?"

"I've never even held a gun, never mind used one."

"Wait here a minute."

Jamie set his bottle on the kitchen counter and walked off into another room. I heard him some distance away, moving things around. A quiet current began to hum through me, like the sound of a refrigerator running in the background that you noticed only when it turned on or off.

Jamie emerged a few minutes later with a cardboard shoebox in his hands. "Bring your beer bottle. Actually, throw yours and mine in the bottle bin next to the fridge, and bring 'em all with you."

I did as instructed and followed Jamie as he went out the front door. I saw him put the shoebox in the back of his Jeep. We drove for about five minutes, and then turned down a gravel road, heading away from the lake and off into the wilderness. I noticed there weren't any cabins or signs of habitation along the road, and after another two or three minutes of bumpy driving, we pulled into a horseshoe-shaped pit of earth and gravel.

"Although nothing would have come of us going into the backyard and shooting there, the sound would carry a little too well over the water. Easier to come back here so I don't annoy my neighbors."

We got out of the car. I went for the bin in the back seat, while Jamie picked up the shoebox. He dragged a bullet-riddled stump over and put it in the middle of the gravel pit. I could see this was a popular place for people to come and target shoot; there were spent casings all over the ground, in all shapes and sizes.

"Put three or four bottles on the stump," Jamie instructed.

When I walked back to the hood of the car, Jamie was taking a handgun out of the shoebox. It was a revolver of blued steel, not particularly large, with polished wooden grips.

"Watch what I do," he said.

Jamie pressed a button on the side and hinged out the cylinder. From inside the box he plucked six bullets, and one by one, slipped them into the cylinder, closing the revolver back up once it was loaded. He held the pistol up in front of me so I could see it clearly.

"Smith and Wesson Model Ten, thirty-eight special, four inch barrel, blued finish, walnut grips. Six shots, one hundred fifty-eight grain round-nosed lead bullets, muzzle velocity eight hundred feet per second, muzzle energy two hundred foot-pounds."

I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.

Jamie gave me a commanding stare. "There are three rules you will abide by. First, this is a loaded weapon, even when it is unloaded - you get me?"

I nodded. "Always treat it as if it is loaded, yes."

"Second, only point this weapon at something you're willing to see destroyed."

"Only point at something I'm willing to destroy, got it."

"Third, your finger doesn't make contact with the trigger until you are committed to firing your weapon."

"Don't touch the trigger until I'm ready to fire."

Jamie held the revolver out to me butt-first. "This weapon might not be all that impressive, but you can snuff out a life in a heartbeat with one trigger pull. Just remember that every time you pick it up, and act accordingly."

I took the gun from his hand. I was surprised at how heavy it was; it felt like it weighed a couple of pounds. I carefully kept my finger held away from the trigger, and made sure the barrel was always pointed at the ground.

"Didn't think it'd be that heavy," I said.

"It's all wood and steel. More modern pistols use high grade polymers and ultralight metals, but that revolver's almost as old as I am, and still going strong."

I found myself trying to get a good grip on the butt of the revolver. Someone had taken a small knife or file and made a number of tiny grooves or notches along the back edge of each wooden grip.

"Is this to help get a better grip?" I asked Jamie, pointing to the marks.

He grunted. "No, the previous owner, ah, wanted to add a personal touch, that's all."

"Okay, so how should I hold it?" I asked.

"Settle it in so the backstrap - that bit of blued steel between the grips - sits in the web of your hand so that it's aligned with your wrist. That way when the gun recoils, the force is translated right back into the bones of your forearm and it doesn't torque your hand left or right."

I did as he told me, and the gun seemed to settle into my hand.

"Now what?"

"Shooting a handgun is all about two things; sight picture and trigger control. If you have a proper sight picture and maintain trigger control, you'll hit your target every time."

"Okay..."

Jamie put his hand under mine, on the butt of the gun. He raised it up so it was pointing at the bottle in the middle of the stump.

"Focus on the front sight. You want it to appear clear and sharp in your vision. Once you focus on the front sight, feel yourself naturally aligning the rear sight so that it cradles the front sight, just like you're fitting a tab into a slot."

I held the pistol out and focused on the tiny blued steel blade at the end of the barrel. As I held my arm out straight and looked down the gun, the natural alignment of arm, wrist, and revolver placed the front sight almost perfectly within the V-shaped notch of the rear sight. A few adjustments and I had mated the sights together as best I could, but found that the gun kept wobbling.

"It's hard to keep it steady."

"Don't worry too much about that, you've got to train your muscles to hold a gun steady over time. Now, once you've got your sight picture, keep the front sight in focus, let it stay nestled in the rear sight, and bring the gun to bear on the target. Once you have those three points aligned - rear sight, front sight, and target - you draw the trigger back in one smooth, controlled motion. Don't pull or jerk the trigger, just draw back smooth and slow."

I lined up my sight picture as Jamie instructed, and in spite of the slight waver in my gun hand, I put my finger on the trigger, took a couple of calm breaths, and applied pressure to the trigger until suddenly it shifted back half an inch, and the revolver bucked in my hand. I felt the overpressure of the gunshot slap at my face and ears, and a tiny puff of gunsmoke appeared. The bottle I was aiming at didn't break, but I saw an eruption of rock dust behind the stump, perhaps thirty feet away.

"Not bad, " Jamie said. "Your pull was a little wobbly though, and you drifted to the right at the last moment. Go ahead and touch off the rest. Just focus on maintaining your sight picture and keep your trigger pull steady."

"I can't seem to find a comfortable position on the trigger."

Jamie reached over and adjusted my grip a bit. "You want your finger to sit so that the trigger is between the pad of your finger and the first joint. Too close to the fingertip and you don't have leverage. Too close to the joint and you lose trigger control."

With Jamie's help, I fired the remaining five shots, breaking two of the four bottles. I was pretty happy with myself, and even when I missed, I could tell that the shots came relatively close to the target. After Jamie showed me how to eject the spent casings and reload the cylinder, I replaced the broken bottles and asked Jamie to demonstrate for me how it's done.

Jamie shrugged. "Just remember, I've been doing this for over thirty years. I've got some practice under my belt."

I nodded and smiled. "Okay, so you're old and gray. I'll take that into account when you miss."

Jamie gave me a comical glare, then turned and fired the revolver six times as fast as he could pull the trigger. I actually missed seeing the first two shots hit; I only caught a glimpse of half a broken bottle disintegrating in mid-air before the next four bullets shattered the three remaining bottles. The second to last shot kicked the top half of a broken bottle into the air before the final bullet knocked it apart, just like the first bottle.

I looked from the stump, covered in broken glass, to the smoking revolver, to Jamie, who stood there gun in hand, calm and cool as a cucumber.

"Holy shit, that was amazing."

Jamie turned and reloaded the pistol.

"I can't believe you just did that."

Jamie smiled. "A lot of long hours and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into that. You don't serve on a SOG recon team without knowing how to shoot straight and shoot fast."

I just shook my head. "That wasn't straight and fast, that was a whole other world of awesome. I wouldn't have believed someone could do that if I didn't see it."

Jamie just shrugged. "You could get that good some day, if you really worked at it. I've seen men with a real gift for pistol-craft who could have done that in half the time, and at twice the range. What you just saw, that was nine tenths practice."

"Can I try again?"

Jamie held the pistol out. "Hold on a second while I set up some more bottles."

It took us half an hour to exhaust Jamie's recycling bin. I fired several more cylinders' worth of cartridges with extensive coaching, but later on Jamie allowed me to cut loose and try firing as fast as I could. My batting average wasn't exactly major league, but by the end, Jamie reassured me that I had good reflexes and a sharp eye, and with practice and training I could some day get as good as he was.