But the proof was in the pudding, so after lunch they headed out to the range to give the weapons a workout.
Each SEAL Team was budgeted for 300,000 rounds of pistol ammunition per platoon, per year. So it took a little time to unload the ammo cans from the back of the platoon Hummvee and break it down.
And with five twelve-round magazines per weapon, the shooting benches were soon littered with piles of the empty cardboard boxes that had held the.45 hardball, full-metal-jacketed ammo.
“Israeli Military Industries?” Scotty Frazier wondered aloud, reading off one of the boxes. “What the fuck are we doing buying.45 ammo off the Israelis? They don’t even use anything in.45.”
“It’s one of those foreign military sales deals,” explained Miguel Fernandez, who had pulled some military training group time overseas. “They buy F-15 fighters with the aid money we dole out, and we buy.45 ammo and shit like that from them to even out the bookkeeping, make it look like we’re getting something back, not spending so much.”
Eric Nicholson tried to work that out, but it didn’t happen for him. “What the fuck?”
“Look,” said Razor Roselli. “The U.S. picks up everyone’s check, the manufacturers get paid for the weapons, and the taxpayer gets fucked. That’s all you gotta know.”
The platoon snickered. “International Relations 101 by Chief Roselli,” said Ed DeWitt.
“Well, am I wrong, sir?” the Razor demanded.
“No, you aren’t,” DeWitt admitted. “But we give Israel the aid because of the Camp David agreements, and the fact that they’re under the gun.”
“Yes, sir,” said Roselli. “But the Russians aren’t supplying the other side anymore, so who’s going to take the Israelis on? No one. But we’re still dishing out over three billion a year.”
Any regular Navy officer walking by would have been astounded to overhear the learned discussion of Middle Eastern politics this provoked among the enlisted swine, but SEALs liked to keep up on where their services might be required.
It only ended when an exasperated Ron Holt asked if anyone would like to shoot some fucking rounds.
They started off on a classic pistol range with paper bull’s-eye targets. Murdock soon had to admit that the weapon was fantastically accurate. The pistol had a special O-ring that locked the slide to the barrel when it came into battery. It made it more accurate than most SEALs could shoot, though Holt won all the beer that was bet that day with a cloverleaf group — all rounds in a single jagged silver-dollar-sized hole.
The platoon was used to the lighter-recoiling 9mm, so it took them a little while to get accustomed to the kick of the.45. Once everyone was shooting to his satisfaction, Holt let them add the suppressor to see what kind of difference it would make in the placement of their groups. The suppressor could be loosened and indexed to ten different positions, with the rounds grouping in a different spot at each position.
“When Holt thought they were good to go, he announced, “Okay, let’s go to the CQB range.”
That was to everyone’s liking, but first they had to replace the targets and police up all the trash, ammo cans, and expended shell casings.
“No, no, no,” Razor Roselli said kindly, holding up his palm to stop them. “I don’t want you studs straining yourselves in this hot sun. Jaybird and Doc already volunteered for the detail. The rest of you head over to the shade and get some water.”
The rest of the platoon snidely voiced their thanks to Sterling and Ellsworth, who were already bent down picking brass out of the sand and grumbling through only the beginning of Razor Roselli’s platoon punishment. When they were finished, the platoon went over to what had been the first CQB range at Chocolate Mountain. Old auto tires were stacked on top of each other and filled with sand to absorb bullets and prevent ricochets. The tires were laid out in the shape of rooms and hallways. It had been rendered obsolete by the new killing house with bullet-trap walls, but it suited Murdock’s purposes. With all the SEAL platoons running around Chocolate Mountain, it was a lot easier to reserve.
The British SAS had been the first in the CQB business, and taught everyone the ropes. The initial shooting technique was theirs, developed from the Grant-Taylor method of instinctive firing perfected by the gentleman of the same name while he was the number-two man on the police force of pre-World War II Shanghai. He saw plenty of action, and later taught his technique to British and American intelligence operatives and commandos during World War II.
Instinctive firing was done with the shooter facing the target with both legs spread, both arms extended in front and locked, and the pistol held in both hands. The shooter didn’t use the sights, but instead looked out over the top of the weapon, picked out a distinctive spot on the target, and fired. Once they had become more established, Delta and SEAL Team Six moved to the modified Weaver stance, where the shooter presents his body sideways so as to be less of a target. A two-handed grip is used, with the shooting arm straight and the support arm bent and locking the shooting arm across the chest.
The Americans also developed “rapid aim fire,” where the weapon was brought up with the barrel slightly elevated. The shooter picked up the target on the front sight, centered it on the rear sight, and fired in a split second. Much more accurate than instinctive firing, and just as fast.
This was how the SEALs of 3rd Platoon shot. They set up good-guy and bad-guy targets throughout the CQB range and moved through in fire teams. They fired while moving, from the prone, rolling, and squatting.
Murdock had just finished a first run with his team when his pager went off. He looked around. “Anyone else?” All the SEALs checked theirs and shook their heads. “Fuck!” Murdock exclaimed. If it had just been some petty bullshit, the Chocolate Mountain duty would have radioed him from the headquarters building. It was obviously too confidential to put out over the radio, so now he’d have to drive up there. And he’d been looking forward to more shooting. “Fuck me,” he repeated.
“We’ll save you some rounds, Skipper,” said Professor Higgins.
“We’ll try not to have too much fun,” added Ed DeWitt, enjoying one of the rare times it paid to be the j.g.
When Murdock stomped into the headquarters building, the warrant officer on duty forestalled any tirade by telling him, “You gotta get back to Coronado ASAP. There’s an HH-60 turning on the pad right now.”
When Murdock began to sputter, the warrant added, “It’s come-as-you-are. You don’t need any gear, and I’ll get your Hummvee back along with word to your platoon. Have a nice trip, and no, I don’t know any of the details.”
Later, Murdock was embarrassed that his first thought had been, “Shit, what did the boys do this time?”
6
Murdock was met at the helo pad by Command Master Chief George MacKenzie and immediately whisked into a white U.S. Navy van.