Authors: Jack J. Lee
“The M24 is a modified Remington 700 bolt action hunting rifle used by the US Army as a sniper weapon. SWS stands for Sniper Weapons System. With custom hand loads, my rifle will shoot half MOA.”
Tim Hardy had a new love. He stared up at Drew with adoring eyes. Men don’t often look at each other that way. I watched Drew notice and then get creeped out. I had to fight to keep from laughing, and I wondered if Tim was fucking with Drew, too. Aidan also had a twinkle in his eye.
I had no idea who Tim really was. He presented as a clueless, effeminate lightweight, but I was beginning to think that a lot of that was an act. In general, people instinctively want other people to make sense—to fit an unconscious stereotype, like Ninja, nerd, comedian, hero, or coward. Tim didn’t fit into a neat slot, and he sure as hell wasn’t predictable. Whatever he was, he was funny.
Tim carried on, “How’d you get half inch groups at a hundred yards? I know the 50 caliber rifles have huge, heavy barrels, and that the .50 caliber sniper bullet has a flatter trajectory, and is less affected by wind than the typical military bullets. But how do you get that kind of accuracy with a 200 grain bullet? A match barrel and a custom trigger is a given; is the barrel free floated or glass bedded?”
I commented, “Tim, for a medieval armorer’s apprentice, you seem to know a lot about modern firearms.”
Tim gave an embarrassed smile, “I have every ‘Soldier of Fortune’ magazine since it first came out in 1975. I find the articles fascinating. I don’t have much personal experience with firearms but I’ve read a lot about them.”
Drew gave him a wary look and then answered Tim’s previous question, “Okay, my barrel floats but that doesn’t mean a pressure bedded barrel is going to be less accurate. Every rifle is different. They can be from the same factory and one serial number apart, but one will do better if the barrel is kept from touching anything and the other will do better with consistent pressure. You try different things until your rifle shoots better
“Accuracy is all about consistency. You can only get so far with just tweaking the rifle. I hand load all of my ammo. I sort the cartridge cases and bullets by weight; I square up the primer pockets and de-burr the flash holes. I buy propellant by the case so I get the same lot number, and I weigh each charge out individually with a powder trickler and digital scale. I use match-grade primers and competition dies. I try to make each loaded cartridge exactly like every other cartridge I load in a batch. Factory ammo, even the premium factory ammo, isn’t custom made for my rifle; my hand loads are.”
Tim looked Aidan. “Master, like Mr. MacDonald, I’m intrigued by the idea of a flaming bullet. Making a single flaming arrow takes almost two hours of spell casting time; a flaming bullet using the usual spells will probably take longer. We won’t have a wood shaft to use as fuel. It should take much less time and effort to make a sodium or potassium bullet. I think it’d be worthwhile to test Vic’s idea. There are a couple chemical suppliers in Salt Lake City. I’m sure one of them will have metallic sodium or potassium in stock. Should we go pick up what we need now? We can also stop by Sportsman’s Warehouse and get some reloading supplies and equipment.”
Aidan broke into a huge grin. “That’s a wonderful idea, Apprentice. This is wonderful opportunity for me to learn more about modern firearms and ammunition. Drew, you’ll be coming of course? Let’s go, my lads!”
“Wait!” The three of them turned to me. “When you’re at Sportsman’s Warehouse can you pick up some air soft guns for me? I want at least four pump shotguns and four pistols. I want shotguns with the standard buttstock—not the pistol grip. I’d also like the gas operated pistols with moving slides rather than the spring loaded pistols.”
Drew asked, “What, you want toy guns that shoot blue plastic BBs?”
“Yeah.”
He replied, “You owe me ten grand already. Adding a couple hundred dollars worth of toys isn’t that big of a deal. If they have what you want, I’ll pick them up. Hey, when are you planning on paying me?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
He gave me a wry smile. “I know you. I can totally see you doing something stupid and getting yourself killed before you can pay me.”
My laughter got cynical. Drew was being his usual Scrooge. “You got a point; I’m absolutely the kind of guy who’d get himself killed to weasel out of paying a few grand. When you get me the receipts, I’ll give you a check.”
Drew’s voice got louder, “Why the hell do you want receipts—you planning on writing them off your taxes?”
I raised my voice to match his. “I know you, too. I can see you rounding up a few thousand dollars.”
We both said, “Fucking asshole!” at exactly the same time, just like we did when we were kids. Nostalgia; there are times when it doesn’t suck. After our duet, we both started laughing, Tim and Aidan joined in. I could feel their relief; they’d thought Drew and I were going to throw punches. First they thought we were actually mad at each other and then they thought we were totally joking. They were wrong both times. Drew’s always questioned my judgment; he’s been predicting I’d die stupidly since we were kids. And I really wasn’t going to pay him back until I got some receipts. I trust Drew with my life—not my money.
I was a little disappointed that none of them had bothered to ask me why I wanted the toy guns. They were too excited by the idea of playing with stuff that burned, exploded, and went boom.
I had a little time, so I downloaded a document app onto my phone and used voice recognition software to record a journal entry. I felt like Captain Kirk doing the ‘captains log’ thing, so I started doing his voice too. “This is Paladin Victor Paladin making a journal entry on Earth date July 14 at 8:16 AM. This morning, I discussed the idea of making thermite bullets with Armorer Cahill.” I was trying to get the Shatner cadence of my speech exactly right, and wracking my brain to figure out a way to make “To go where no man has gone before.” fit in my journal entry when Mina, Ben, and Andi walked into the kitchen. They stared at me like I was crazy.
Andi asked, “What are you doing?”
I grinned up at her. “Paladins have to keep a journal—kind of like the captain’s log in Star Trek.” Andi still looked blank. “You have seen Star Trek, right?”
Ben spoke, “Hey, I’ve seen the Star Trek movie that came out recently. It was a prequel to the original Star Trek, but it didn’t have a captain’s log.”
Mina chimed in. “Andi and I went to see it, too. I don’t remember anything about a captain’s log, do you Andi?”
Andi shook her head.
“So, none of you ever saw an original series Star Trek episode?” They all shook their heads. “Not even Next Generation?” It was still a no. Damn, I felt old.
I took them to an outdoor range at the southeast corner of Salt Lake City. After a few warm up shots at paper targets, I started throwing clay pigeons in the air and had them take turns learning to lead a moving target with the Mossbergs.
They did great. All three of them kept the butts of the shotguns tight against their shoulder and they kept focused on the target. It didn’t take long for them to learn to swing through, and soon most of the clays were being blown out of the air.
We then pulled out the pistols. I’ve seen shooters who can point-shoot without using the sights, but it takes years of practice to point-shoot well. Without that kind of experience, to shoot a pistol accurately you have to use the sights.
You’re always more accurate with a buttstock—it’s simple math; four points of contact with the weapon as opposed to just two for a handgun. The pressure of the butt on your shoulder helps keep the barrel from being pulled off target when you squeeze the trigger. Without the buttstock, it’s much easier to pull the barrel offline as you pull the trigger. When you shoot a shotgun you follow your instincts—with pistols, you do the exact opposite.
I had them shoot a hundred rounds at silhouette targets. It helped to have athletic, extremely motivated students. Ben was doing particularly well; at seven yards, he could put five rounds in a three inch group.
We ate lunch at the range club house and headed back in the late afternoon.
Ben was living proof of the saying, ‘Women may be crazy, but men are stupid.’ Mina and Andi were almost as good as he was but they didn’t get cocky after just two days of training.
On the drive back home, I started a conversation. “Guys, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but none of you have been out of my sight for the past couple days. You’ve gotten good enough with the shotguns that I’m feeling better about you going out by yourselves,” I paused and stressed this next part, “as long as you’re armed, and you go out as a group, and only while the sun is out. When the sun’s down, nobody leaves the house.”
Mina nodded her agreement then asked, “You didn’t mention our pistols. Was that on purpose?”
I smiled; she was getting pretty good at reading me. “Yeah, it was. You guys are good enough that I’d trust you at my back with a shotgun. I feel comfortable that when the feces hits the turbine, all of you will be able to get solid hits with your shotguns. Hand guns are a different story. You’re doing great with the paper targets, but you’re not even close to ready for real live Jotunn, especially when your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweating and the adrenaline’s pumping. Police studies show that under stress most cops, even experienced ones, miss everything past nine feet.”
Ben had an edge in his voice when he interrupted, “So, what are you going to do if I decide to leave the house?”
I sensed Andi rolling her eyes as I laughed, “I think I phrased my words wrong. I kind of sounded like I was in charge of you—like I was your boss. I didn’t mean it that way. I’ve made an agreement with the Jotunn they’d give us four weeks before coming within a hundred miles of Salt Lake City. I’ve got no way to make sure they’ll stick to the agreement. The Jotunn are much more powerful at night than they are during the day. I think it’s dangerous as hell to go out after dark until they’re killed.”
My answer must have mollified him because the edge was gone when he asked his next question, “If you don’t think pistols are useful, why’d you buy them for us?”
“Shotguns are hard to hide. You’ll be able to keep them in your cars when you go out, but if you take them out of the car and walk around in the open, you’ll be lucky if you just get arrested. A pistol’s much easier to hide and it’s better than a sharp stick or yelling, STOP! Or I’ll shout STOP again!”
That made the Swensons laugh out loud. Ben said, “I don’t know about any old cop, but I’m sure if a Jotunn’s within twenty-five feet of me, shotgun or pistol, I’ll be able to nail it in the head.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
Jesus, he was predictable. It was a sad commentary on the human race that when I was his age, I was just as stupid. “Ben, I’ll bet you twenty bucks that either of your sisters would be able to take you nine out of ten times if they were armed with a shotgun and you were armed with a pistol.”
Andi broke in, “I’ll take that bet!”
With a laugh, Mina said, “I’m in, too. Can I double it?”
For the rest of the ride home, I listened to the Swensons trash talk each other. When I pulled up into the driveway, Mina murmured, “What the hell?” jumped out of the car, and stormed up to Aidan, Tim, and Drew who were in a shed that was butted up to the detached garage, a shed that hadn’t been there in the morning when we left.
Mina demanded through the open shed door, “What is this shed doing here?”
Aidan looked befuddled by the question. “Mina, my dear, it isn’t a good idea to store hazardous material in living quarters and we didn’t have room in the house anyway—that’s why we bought the shed. We laid it on top of concrete pavers so it’ll be easy to remove in the future.”
“You should have called and asked permission before you put a new structure on my property!”
“I’m sorry lass, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough Uncle Aidan.” She turned, smacking the door of the new shed with an open palm and screamed, “Damn it, you guys!” and then stomped into the house.
We stood there in a shocked, uncomfortable silence until Andi murmured, “I’m going to talk to Mina” and left.
Ben waited until Andi went inside and said, “Sorry Uncle Aidan, I don’t know why Mina’s gone postal. It’s not like she would have said no, if you’d asked.”
The leprechaun shook his head. “It was my fault. I should have talked to Mina about the house a long time ago.”
It dawned on me that last night I’d promised Mina that I wouldn’t keep any secrets from her. It sounded like Aidan hadn’t told her yet that her house wasn’t actually hers. “Aidan, did you talk to the Swensons about their house or trust fund?”
Ben asked, “Trust fund? What trust fund?”
Aidan shook his head. Shit! I said, “Listen Ben, you and your sisters have a trust fund that your parents set up for you. You were supposed to find out about it when the new paladin arrived—that’s me. Also your parents didn’t actually own this house.”
Ben looked stunned. “What the hell, Vic?”
Aidan put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “This house is owned by the Oath Brotherhood. It’s always the current Salt Lake City Paladin’s home. I’ve been meaning to tell you and your sisters about this for a while, but I never felt that the time was right. I’m not sure exactly how much money is in your trust fund, but I’ve been told it is enough to pay for your education and housing until you graduate from college. If you decide to go to graduate school, you’ll continue to get your expenses paid. If you don’t, you’ll get a stipend for six months after you graduate and then the money will stop. I can give you the name of the lawyer who’s managing your trust fund. He can tell you more.” The leprechaun took a deep breath like he was preparing for battle. His Irish lilt was strong as he said, “I’d better be going then and be telling our poor lass what she should know.”