“Yup. No complications.” Drake eyed the line. “What are you doing? Is there a stream around here?”
“Nope. I’m stringing a perimeter line so we know if anyone gets within a hundred yards of the house.”
“You really think that’s a danger here?” Drake asked skeptically.
“Rule number one: Never rely on luck. Prepare as though you only have a short amount of time before all hell breaks loose. If you’re wrong, no harm done. You just got some practice. If you’re right, you might have just saved your own life.”
“How does it work?” Allie asked.
“I’m just finishing up. I’ve taken ten-yard lengths of line and secured them to the trees. Crude but effective. If anyone tries to sneak up on us at night, they trip the line, make a racket, and we’re warned rather than sitting ducks. I’d prefer if I had a few dozen claymores, but you make do with what you have. Which is rule number two: There’s always something you can use to defend yourself. Always. You just have to be resourceful.”
“What about the drive?”
“That’s next. We won’t be leaving for a while, so anything that trips the line can be considered a threat.”
“And then what?” Drake asked.
Jack smiled at Allie and turned to Drake. “My response to threats is to shoot first and ask questions later. That brings me to the next of today’s chores. We have about five hours of light left. After you get settled, you’ll be getting your first intensive shooting course.”
Drake and Allie hauled their bags inside the lodge, which was primitive but serviceable, consisting of a large main area downstairs with a second story of open loft. They climbed the stairs and Drake stopped.
“There are only two beds up here.”
“It won’t matter. One of us will be downstairs on guard duty while the others are sleeping. That’s how this kind of thing works. Three shifts of three hours apiece once we all tuck in,” Allie explained.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had to listen to his war stories all my life. After a while it rubs off.”
Jack’s voice called from outside. “Drake? Come on out here. Might as well learn how to string a decent trip line.”
Allie nodded at him. “You heard the man. I’ll blow the worst of the dust off things in here. Go do manly-man stuff. This is your chance to bond with Pops.”
Drake joined Jack and watched as he carefully wound the monofilament around two tree trunks at knee height and tied crosspieces of line to either end. Satisfied with his work, he took empty soda cans and dropped some pebbles inside, shook them to confirm they would make suitable noise, and secured them to the crosspieces so they were resting on the ground, but the line was taut.
“A guy sneaking up on you in the dark, thinking he’s got the upper hand, he’s not going to be scouting for trip lines in the woods. Go ahead. Walk like you’re headed to the house.”
Drake did so, and when he connected with the invisible line, the two cans rattled.
“Nice. I get it.”
“You hear that noise, you don’t second-guess. You immediately get your ass in gear, because they’ll know what it was too, and that they’re blown. But it gives you an advantage, because instead of sleeping like a log, now you’re up, armed, and ready to shoot.”
“And you believe that there’s any chance at all someone could find us here? How?”
“Son, if I try to second-guess everything my adversary knows, and I get even one thing wrong, I’m making assumptions that can get me killed. Sure, it’s a slim chance, but it’s still a chance, and all I’ve lost stringing these rigs is an hour of my time. See the logic? No assumptions. Just preparation.”
Drake nodded. “It just seems like overkill.”
“With preparation, there’s no such thing. There’s simply prudent measures, and laziness — and laziness gets you dead. So does complacency. An enemy knows that. They’ll wait you out if they’re smart and they have time. Wait for you to let down your guard. For you to believe it’s all a big fat waste of energy. Next thing you know, you’re holding your guts in your hand. I’ve seen it. You don’t want to be that guy.”
They moved back to the house. Jack reached into the truck bed, lifted out one of the rifle bags and handed it to Drake, and then retrieved a large metal suitcase.
“All right. Let’s go for a walk. There’s an area about two hundred yards from here that should do.”
Jack led Drake to a clearing, where he arranged two sandbags on an old tree stump with paper targets taped to them. He set the suitcase on the ground, popped the lid, and glanced up at Drake.
“Go ahead and put the rifle down. We’ll start with handguns.”
Jack studied the four pistols in the foam-lined case, each with its own compartment, and lifted one out. He held it up and inspected it, ejected the magazine and verified that it had ammunition, and then slipped the magazine home and hefted it in his hand.
“This is a SIG Sauer P226 pistol. The magazine holds thirteen rounds of .40-caliber ammo. Now, a couple of things you need to know…”
The couple of things lasted half an hour, with Jack checking and rechecking Drake’s understanding of safety measures and the mechanics of the gun. Drake was an apt pupil, following Jack’s every word as if his life depended on it — since it did.
Satisfied that Drake respected the gun and could load and arm it, Jack next showed him the basic shooting stances, explaining the positives and negatives. Four magazines later, Drake had relaxed and was hitting the targets more often than not. When Jack remarked that he was beginning to find his primeval self, Drake eyed him skeptically.
Jack grunted. “You can doubt all you want, but I’ve been in shit enough times to know what I’m talking about. You’ve done karate; you told me so. Isn’t there a point in the match when you allow your training to take over, and you leave yourself out of it? That’s the secret to all the practice. You want this to become automatic, so when you’re in a pinch, you can simply do, rather than think. In sports, professional athletes call it being in the zone. This is no different. To perform at peak, you need to be in the zone.”
The afternoon went by quickly, and by the time Drake had been through his second box of ammunition, he was hitting the targets at twenty yards most of the time. Taking a break, Jack moved them back another twenty yards. Now the sandbags looked like dots.
“This is about as far away as you’ll ever be when firing, if you expect to hit anything. The weapon will be accurate to fifty yards, but the chances of you actually hitting your target are slim to none unless everything’s ideal. Remember — pistols are good for close-quarter shooting, but if the target’s more than twenty or thirty yards away, go for a rifle every time, assuming you have the choice.”
Rifles came next, and Jack showed him the basic operation of an AR-15 semiautomatic assault rifle. Drake’s accuracy with that weapon was much higher at longer range, and he was feeling pretty good about himself when Jack burst his bubble.
“Something to remember. Most shots fired in combat don’t hit their target. If we get into trouble, I’ll do the shooting that will take out the bad guys. You shouldn’t wait for the perfect shot. Just start blasting away when I tell you.”
“Why? This seems pretty accurate to me.”
“It is. Against a sandbag. But in an actual combat situation, everything happens fast, your nerves are tightly wound, you’re probably shaking, the enemy is moving, it could be dark, sweat in your eyes…there are a lot of variables. The best advice is to avoid situations where it’ll come down to shooting. If you do have to shoot, do so to get away, not to play hero. Because the chances of you doing any better than a combat soldier are pretty slim. And all due respect, you’re not a marksman.”