3
869 Words
3Saturday morning, I landed at Norfolk at 11:36 and found Hertz had run out of midsize rentals.
The rental agent apologized. He couldn’t honor my reservation. But he could give me a bargain rate on a subcompact designed in Japan and assembled in Tennessee.
It’s the cheapest subcompact sold in the US. Infamous for its stingy design.
At least the red four-door sedan he gave me was the higher-end model.
I didn’t have to deal with a manual transmission, roll-down windows, and a door lock that opened only with a key.
I was stuck with the wimpy engine and slow acceleration.
Still riding the endorphin high from my luscious breakfast, I focused on the upside. The car smelled good and was fuel-efficient.
I inhaled the new-car perfume and calculated my gas savings as I motored west across the Virginia coastal plain.
I passed through a quaint town famous for selling tasty Virginia ham. The highway skirted grass-and-mud pastures enclosed by stock fencing sized for hogs.
Only a faint whiff of pig s**t slipped into my vehicle.
I reached our forty-five hundred-acre facility just after noon. Sunshine glinted off the corrugated metal roof on the shed by the entrance.
The shed cast a meager shadow on the freshly resurfaced blacktop drive. The scrawny redhead manning the gate was bathed in sunshine.
Like me, he wore a midnight blue polo shirt with Caprock embroidered in red over his heart.
In imitation of the casual uniform worn by our instructors, he’d paired his polo with beige cargo shorts.
I hadn’t bothered to dig my shorts out of the gunmetal-gray twenty-six-inch hardside spinner I’d checked through to Norfolk. Yesterday’s loose white slacks would get me by.
I recognized the gate guard. Buzzing down the window, I hollered, “Hey, Zack, howya doin’?”
I breathed in blacktop fumes. Listened to my engine’s feeble idle while I waited for his reply.
Last night’s phone chat with Latoya had spooked me.
What if my name was no longer on the admit list?
Zack glanced up and grinned.
When I smiled back, a puff of air came out of my mouth. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.
“I’m fine,” Zack said. “How ‘bout you?”
“I’m doin’ great,” I retorted.
He waved me onto the property.
Most likely, the CEO’s crankiness had nothing to do with me.
I’d relax and spend the rest of the long weekend catching up with Jeff and the facility staff.
I headed for a two-story building fronted with log-cabin-look vinyl siding. The fake river rock pillars were formed from medium density polyethylene.
The nearby lodge, inn, and dining hall sported the same weather-resistant, insect-proof exteriors.
Totally phony, but they were easy to repair if nonfrangible ammo went astray.
The facility has forty tactical ranges, six shoot houses, and a city mock-up.
My security details protect American civilians. I don’t insist my bodyguards learn how to infiltrate houses or master urban combat.
Other US government agencies want contract personnel with those skills.
We also offer firearms training to nonfederal organizations and private customers.
We teach lots of different people to shoot. Some of our non-employee trainees arrive packing personal weapons and bullets that don’t crumble on impact.
We’re prepared for damage when a trigger gets pulled where it shouldn’t.
As I rolled into a parking slot, I spotted my boss walking in my direction from the dining hall.
Tall and lean, former naval officer Jeffrey Truman is three years my senior. He has neatly-trimmed hair the same silvery shade as mine.
Like Zack-at-the-gate, Jeff wore the facility’s blue-and-beige uniform.
On weekends, many of our customers are daytripping civilians. We Caprock employees don’t want to be mistaken for handgun beginners.
When I opened my door, I heard the popcorn sounds of eager new shooters trying to hit their targets.
I was standing beside the red subcompact when Jeff reached me.
I let him turn our hello-handshake into a hug. My nose mashed against the three-button placket on his polo shirt.
He smelled of garlicky tomato sauce with a hint of WD-40.
I imagined Jeff out on the range this morning. Getting in some target practice.
Done shooting, he’d soak a rag in the stuff. Wipe down the stainless steel rifle barrel.
WD-40 has major juju. The scent lingers even if a man washes up before he eats the dining hall lasagna lunch special.
The familiar, comforting odors made me tighten the hug.
Jeff broke the clinch. Tapped his wristwatch. “Right on time. Guess you didn’t run into any travel problems this morning.”
“Not a one.” I shouldered the berry-colored bag and followed Jeff into the pseudo-rustic building.
We ended up in the facility administrator’s office. He worked only on weekdays.
We had the space to ourselves.
It was located on the northwest corner of the second floor. Sunbeams hadn’t yet reached the windows in either wall.
Both sets of mini blinds were up. Through the broad expanse of glass, I saw more shiny black roads curving through gently rolling terrain.
The vivid green of neatly mowed long-distance shooting ranges alternated with the gray of graveled lots at the shorter tactical ranges.
Clusters of pine trees hid the low-rise imitation urban housing. I picked out the multi-level tower shared by two distant ranges.
My gaze slid across the window corner to find the climbing tower marking the opposite edge of the property.
When Jeff hired me seven years ago, we had half as many ranges and no structures that rose above ground floor.
Now, we can train the entire police force of a small city in a single week.
- Writer
