The new recruits seemed horrified, although some tried not to show it. These were regular facts of life in many countries and war zones, but not here in America. At least not since the Civil War.
John reached into a cardboard box behind him and produced a red dress. Below that was a pair of scissors. The recruits and even Peter looked at him quizzically. He began cutting the dress in long thin strips, knowing all the while that when Diane found out what he had done to her favorite piece of clothing she’d let him have an earful.
Once John finished with the long strips, he cut those into shorter pieces measuring around two feet each. After that he handed them out to each of the recruits and instructed them to tie them around their heads.
“I feel like Rambo,” one of the teenage boys said through a nervous giggle.
“Telling friend from foe may be tricky if we come under attack,” John told them. “You must prepare yourselves for seeing friends and neighbors you knew coming at you with a gun, intending to take what you have. Reinforcing key points during a battle will be easier if we can see at a glance which of our deputies are already there. There’s also something more intimidating about paramilitary forces wearing red headbands that you just don’t get with an armband.”
The group broke into laughter, John along with them this time, and the release was a welcome one.
Once the cadets were wearing their red headbands, John took them through some basic weapon-handling protocol. It was important that they didn’t end up shooting each other by mistake the minute a real gun was in their hands. John picked up one of the hockey sticks and buried the blade into his shoulder with his right foot back and his left foot forward.
“This is how most of you will instinctively hold a rifle for the first time. You’ve seen Chuck Norris do it. You’ve seen Arnold and Stallone do it, so it must be right. But in the real world, the bladed-off stance creates two major problems. The first is that you’ll experience more recoil when firing. The second is it limits your range of motion when tracking a target.” John swiveled back and forth to demonstrate.
“Whether you’re shooting a semi-automatic rifle or a pistol, this is the stance you want to assume.” John stood with his shoulders squared, feet shoulder-length apart, his right or strong foot staggered six inches behind his left.
“The squared stance will reduce recoil and give you a wider range of motion. Your finger never touches the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot.” He raised the hockey stick to show them the index finger on his right hand was running along the edge of the blade. “When you do fire, make sure you to squeeze the trigger gently and evenly. You aren’t gangbangers from East L.A.”
More laughter. The recruits were starting to relax and that was good. John continued with weapon safety tips and shooting drills for the next few hours. He could tell they were getting tired and thirsty working in the hot afternoon sun. He could also see many of them were itching to get their hands on real weapons. John called one of the boys over.
“You’re Morton Summers’ kid.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said. “My name’s Alex.” Scruffy blond hair and deep blue eyes. This was how Gregory might look in five or six years.
“Alex, go find Susan Wheeler and let her know we need a few two-gallon jugs of water, would you?”
“Yes sir.”
Then John went over to Peter. “Do you feel you’ve been absorbing enough of this?” he asked.
Peter nodded. “Sure, I’ve done some shooting here and there.”
“If I step away for a moment, think you can bring the recruits back through a few more drills?”
“Not a problem,” Peter said, smiling. So far, choosing him as second-in-command was the best decision John had made.
A few minutes later, John found Curtis Watkins and Al addressing a small group of older folks. This would be the future diplomatic corps and news branch of Willow Creek. The thought was almost comical. Not by the looks of the team they’d assembled, but because it had become important to do so in the first place.
“Where can I find Frank Dawson?” John asked the two men.
Curtis scratched his chin. “Good question. I remember seeing him over by Patty’s place before. He didn’t seem in a good mood though.”
“That’s not a surprise,” John replied with a wry grin.
“Good luck,” Al offered.
It was another few minutes before John finally found Frank. Turned out he wasn’t in Patty’s water treatment group at all. He was with Arnold Payne in food management.
“I need to have a word with Frank for a moment if that’s all right,” John said to Arnold.
“Of course,” Arnold said, a clipboard and pen in his hands. “Take the time you need.”
Frank didn’t look like he had any interest in talking to John. He wore beige cargo pants, the pockets bulging with God knew what. On his right thigh was a tactical holster with what looked like a Beretta 9mm. He rose reluctantly and followed John a few feet away so they could talk.
“I know what this is about,” Frank said. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed except for a wave at the back that seemed to be defying orders.
“You haven’t locked yourself away in your home, away from all the preparations underway,” John said. “That means you care about what’s happening, the threat we’re facing.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Appleby was a friend of mine and I’m not gonna let them do it to me or my wife.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And for exactly that reason, I’ve already allowed the community usage of some of the weapons I own. Most of them were sitting in the basement, locked in a safe not doing anyone a whole lot of good. Can’t say I see the logic in letting them rot.”
“Yeah, well, Peter already came around trying to convince me to hand them over and I told him where he could stick it.”
John laughed. “I’m sure you did. Well, first of all, I think you’re in the wrong group. You obviously know your way around firearms. I could use a man like you in security. Unless you prefer taking inventory lists of people’s pantries, that is.”
A flash of dissatisfaction showed on Frank’s face. “Can’t say I’m particularly fond of the idea.”
“Did you serve?” John asked pointedly.
“Nah. Wanted to, but got a curvature of my spine that always kept me out of the services. Tried three times, even spent six months seeing one of those chiropractors, but in the end they didn’t want me.”
“I think they made a mistake.”
“Reckon you’re right about that.”
“Why don’t you come with me and see what we’re up to over in security. Maybe join us in a few drills. No strings attached. If you don’t like it better, you can come back to counting cans.”
The corner of Frank’s mouth curled into a smile. “Why not. Never did like snooping through other people’s things anyway.”
Chapter 19
Day four came and there was still no sign of Brandon or his family, nor had there been any word from would-be kidnappers. Some sort of ransom note would have arrived by now if foul play had been involved. But in spite of that John was starting to feel a touch of optimism.
He and Peter had managed to procure a half-dozen pistols in addition to the ones John had already donated—a .22 Ruger Mk1, three 9mms and a Heckler & Koch HK45 from John’s personal collection. In addition, they also managed to scrounge up a wider variety of rifles. Most of them were deer rifles: Remington 798, Browning T-Bolt, Weatherby Vanguard to name but a few. In the mix were the two Mini-14s and the Bushmaster AR-15 John had given up. He kept his own Colt AR-15 mounted with a Trijicon ACOG Scope on him at all times now, attached to a two-point sling. On his chest he wore an MCR1 Condor Tactical Vest. Housing his S&W M&P40 Pro was a Blackhawk Serpa drop-leg holster. He liked the latter since he would select the angle of his secondary, allowing him to pull it in one quick motion.