299 Days: The Preparation

Chapter 23 The Team

Grant was going to Capitol City Guns at lunch a few days a week. He loved hanging out with “normal” people instead of the bureaucrats who hated him at his State Auditor Office job. Capitol City was an oasis.

For some reason that Grant never fully understood, the guys at Capitol City really liked having him around. He was a lawyer and, now, a kind of high-ranking government official. Grant wasn’t the average gun store guy, although the regulars at Capitol City included other white-collar guys. He viewed Capitol City not as a gun store, but where some of his best friends were. He brought food in and remembered guys’ birthdays.

Grant shared stories with the gun store guys about all the government corruption. The guys couldn’t believe it was that bad. When he started mentioning things that would then appear in the newspaper a few days later, they realized he wasn’t making the stuff up.

Another reason they probably liked Grant at Capitol City was that he bought a fair amount of guns and ammo there. He traded in his Winchester 1300 shotgun that he never really liked for a tactical Remington 870. The 870 had a recoil-reducing Knoxx pistol grip and stock. One of the reasons Grant didn’t like the Winchester was the recoil. This tactical 870, though, was easy to shoot. He got pretty good at reloading it quickly and using it aggressively at short ranges.

One of the coolest things about Capitol City was that they assembled AR-15s there. They had a shop in the store and, with nothing but a bunch of spare parts, assumed a few ARs at a time. Grant started to learn how an AR fits together from the guys. He learned that AR-15s were like Legos, and that the pieces fit together and were customizable. Pretty soon, Capitol City gave Grant and a handful of other regular customers “shop privileges.” They could just walk into the store and go back to the shop and make ARs. Capitol City got free labor out of the deal and the guys got to learn how to make guns. It was very cool.

Grant’s AR was fine. It was a standard A2 like the kind issued in the Gulf War (but not fully automatic, of course). Grant wanted a really customized one. He started collecting pieces — a bolt here, hand guards, a trigger assembly — and began putting them together with help from Chip. He got exactly what he wanted; the Magpul UBR stock that he loved, the stainless steel bolt carrier group that cleaned so easily, the Yankee Hill hand guards. He got a special barrel that Chip was working on. Everything was just the way he wanted. He had never had a gun built for him, by him.

When he was done, Grant had a totally fabulous AR. Chip was getting him parts at wholesale. It cost much less than Grant thought it would. He was very proud of it because he helped build it.

He got very, very good with that AR, going to the range every other weekend and practicing. He would alternate between his cabin and range time on the weekends. He was getting very good at shooting, and his cabin was looking great. He could truly relax on the range or at the cabin. That’s where things were “normal” and he didn’t feel like a weirdo for thinking about how America was on the brink of a collapse.

One day, Grant was on a lunch break from work and had a suit and tie on. He was working on an AR in the shop. He had the gun in a vice and was using a metal punch and a hammer. Chip came up to him and said, “A lawyer and a gunsmith. Wow. You don’t see that every day.”

Then Chip came up to Grant and whispered, “What are you doing this Sunday?” Grant thought Chip was inviting him to some weird church or something.

“Not sure,” Grant said cautiously. “Why?”

Chip looked around. “Some of us do a little tactical shooting at a law enforcement range. Steel targets that pop down when you hit them. It’s very realistic training, and a total blast. I don’t want the others to get jealous by hearing me inviting you. We only let cool guys know about this.”

This sounded like fun. It would be like Joe’s range.

“Sure, I’m in,” Grant said.

“When and where?” Chip gave him the details.

Grant got up early on Sunday morning and got his gear together. He put on his 5.11 pants and his hillbilly slippers. He would look like a dork in jeans and tennis shoes and would lose his footing and not have any cargo pockets for magazines. Thank goodness he had his 5.11s and hillbilly slippers. At least he wouldn’t look like a lawyer out there.

Grant felt like he was trying out for a sports team. He hoped his gear was cool enough, although he never tried to buy the latest and greatest tactical gear. Besides, he was in his forties and was a lawyer. He wasn’t going to try to be a twenty-something tactical bad ass. He was an old white-collar guy who happened to shoot pretty well. He didn’t want to turn into a mall ninja. Or, worse yet, a middle-aged mall ninja.

Grant got a dozen doughnuts — it was a law enforcement range — and headed into the sticks outside Olympia to one of the two rifle ranges in the county. His usual range was the other one so he was unfamiliar with the one he was going to.

When he got there, he saw a sign that said “Restricted. Law Enforcement Only.” There was a white civilian Hummer parked there and an Asian guy standing next to it. He was tall, probably six feet, and looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was a tough looking guy, like from a martial arts movie, but one of the good guys; not a thug. He looked familiar. Grant thought he’d seen him at Capitol City but, for whatever reason, never met him.

The Asian guy saw the doughnuts and smiled. “You Grant?” “Yep,” Grant said.

“Chip couldn’t make it but said you’d be coming to join our little group today,” the Asian guy said.

Grant thought this guy was a cop, maybe a Fed. Oh well, Grant didn’t have any illegal guns, so he wasn’t concerned.

“I’m Bill Kung,” the Asian guy said.

“My friends call me ‘Pow.’”

“Pow?” Grant asked.

“Yep,” he said. “As in ‘Kung Pow’ — you know, Kung Pow chicken, the Chinese food. Some stupid attempt to mock my Korean heritage,” he said with an even bigger smile. This guy was cool.

“Well, Pow, pleased to meet you,” Grant said shaking his hand.

“Time to gas up,” Pow said and started to load up magazines. He had about two dozen of them, AR and Glock mags. Pow had a Glock in a cool Kydex holster and a high-end AR with an Aimpoint red-dot sight. He loaded the magazines smoothly and quickly. He did a press check of his pistol and rifle, which is a check to see if there is a round in the chamber. He did it efficiently and without thinking, like he’d done it a thousand times. He probably had.

Some pickup trucks started to come down the road. There were three of them; a Ford, Chevy, and a Dodge. “The rest of the Team,” Pow said.

Team?

What had Grant got himself into? He didn’t know, but he liked it. Then he wondered if he was good enough for these guys. He was pretty good, but these guys were probably at a whole different level.

Each one of them got out of their truck. Grant had seen these guys before. They came to Capitol City pretty regularly, but he never really talked to them for some reason. Pow greeted them as warmly as he’d greeted Grant. Introductions were in order.

“Hey, guys, this is Grant,” Pow said. “Chip said he’s cool. Chip can’t come today.” The guys all nodded as if it say, “If Chip’s cool with this guy, we’re cool with him.”

Pow introduced each guy.

“Grant, this is Scott Dogget,” Pow said. “We call him ‘Scotty.’”

Grant shook his hand. Scotty was also in his mid-20s clean cut, and in great shape. Grant assumed he was probably military stationed out at Ft. Lewis.

“Over here is Wes Marlin,” Pow said. “We call him ‘Wes’,”

Pow said with a laugh. Wes was about the same age as Scotty and Pow, but looked even more military. He had a crew cut and was also in great shape. He looked Southern, for some reason.

“Pleased to meet you, Grant,” Wes said with a Southern accent. Grant smiled to himself.

“Last, but not least, is Bobby,” Pow said, “otherwise known as Bobby Nicholson,” Pow said, as the third guy walked up to Grant to shake his hand. Bobby was a little thicker and shorter than the others, but was full of muscle. He looked like he would do just fine in a fight. He had a confident walk, but not a cocky strut. He seemed very at ease with himself and the world. He was dark, maybe half Hispanic.

Wes pointed at Pow, a Korean, and Bobby, part Hispanic, and said in his Southern accent, “We believe in diversity.”

Grant nodded. “Diversity” was an odd thing to say. Who cared what race people were? And who counted people by quota?

“Yes, sir,” Wes said in that rich Southern accent, “A Ford, Chevy, and Dodge. That’s diversity.”

They laughed.

They were looking at Grant’s very yuppie Acura. Why didn’t he have a pickup like them?

“That’s my Tacura,” Grant said.

“That’s an Acura, right?” Bobby asked.

“Not when a gunfighter like me drives it,” Grant said with a wink. “Then it’s a Tacura. A tactical Acura.” That got a good laugh. From then on out, Grant’s car was known as the “Tacura.”

“The new guy brought doughnuts,” Pow said, the introductions being over.

They had some doughnuts and then unloaded their gear from their trucks. These guys were serious gun fighters. Holy crap. Gear and guns galore. Mostly ARs and Glocks, but some AKs and 1911s. Several Benelli semi-automatic shotguns. They must be military. Infantry definitely, but maybe Rangers. Maybe even Special Forces. Probably friends of Special Forces Ted’s since these guys were often at Capitol City Guns, like Ted was.

Scotty effortlessly slid a full case of 5.56, which probably weighed thirty pounds, across the bed of the truck, jumped down onto the ground, and then picked it up like a bag of potato chips.

These guys were good. What the hell was Grant doing with them?

Grant’s gear was not as cool as theirs. That was OK. It wasn’t a contest for the most expensive gear. Their gear was genuinely good; not flashy. They all had 5.11 pants and bland t- shirts in desert tan or black. There was nothing flashy about these guys; they looked like professionals.

Pow told them, “Grant here is a lawyer.”

They booed Grant and then smiled. Grant was used to it. Lawyers are rarely popular among normal people.

Grant asked, “What unit are you guys in?”

They laughed.

Bobby said, “I work for a defense contractor. White collar shit.” “I work at Hoffman Equipment Rental” said Wes.

Scotty said, “I’m a lab tech.”

It was Pow’s turn. “I sell insurance.”

What? A white-collar “tactical” team? Grant didn’t feel so out of place.

Grant realized that these guys were, like him, civilians who liked to shoot and had gotten pretty good at it. But unlike Grant, these guys weren’t married and didn’t have kids, which explained how they had the time and money to do fun things like unlimited guns, gear, and shooting. Grant realized he could learn a lot from them. And, finally, he had guys to hang out with who were gun guys.

The law enforcement range was great. It was a lot like Joe’s. It had a 100-yard range with human-shaped steel targets. They made a “ping” sound when they were hit so the shooter knew he was hitting them. They were about one-half the size of a person, about three feet high. They had a spring in them so when they were shot, they fell down. There were numerous fifty-yard bays off to the side, all with steel targets. Shooting reactive targets, ones that let you know you’ve hit them, is a thousand times better than shooting at paper targets.

There was something psychological about shooting a target shaped like a human being. Grant thought it would be easier to shoot a person after practicing on a human-shaped target.

They warmed up with a few magazines. These guys were smooth and reinserted fresh magazines lightning fast. They were very accurate, too. They looked exactly like SWAT guys or military contractors.

Grant was very good with the AR, but he didn’t have a pistol. He had a .38 revolver, but it was not a tactical gun, so he didn’t bring it. He had been meaning to get a good pistol but hadn’t done it. Besides, he was building up his AR and AK ammo supplies.

“What? No pistol?”Pow asked. “Oh, man, I’m gonna hook you up with one.” He went back to his car and got a spare Glock and holster. “It’s a .40 and we normally shoot 9mm. Wanna try it?”

Grant was reluctant because he didn’t know how to shoot a Glock and he didn’t want to show his lack of skill to these guys. “OK, I’ll give it a try,” he tried to say confidently.

Pow proceeded to teach Grant how to operate a Glock. It took about ten seconds because, with no safety to forget to click off, the Glock was the easiest pistol on the planet to learn. Grant instantly loved the Glock. And, Grant noted, all these guys carried Glocks. That must mean something.

Pow loved teaching people how to shoot. It was obvious. Halfway into the training session, he said, “I consider myself a shooting instructor who doesn’t get paid.” He was really good at it.

Soon Grant was shooting the Glock well and hitting accurately on the paper targets. Pow taught him quick magazine changes and drawing from the holster.

Grant liked the .40; it didn’t kick too much, although some people had said it would. The other guys were 9mm fans because it had less recoil and held more rounds in a magazine than the bigger .40, but Grant could handle the .40 recoil just fine and liked the fact that its round was slightly harder hitting than the 9mm. Grant also knew that .40 ammo was always available for purchase. That sealed it for him; he would be a .40 guy. He based that primarily on ammo availability.

It was time to use the Glock on the steel targets at twenty-five yards. Grant was nervous because the other guys were watching, and his lifetime experience with a Glock consisted of the last fifteen minutes. Oh well. He’d let the guys know earlier in the morning that he didn’t think he was an expert. He was here to learn and have fun.

He got ready. Pow handed him a magazine. There were five steel targets. Pow yelled out “Threat!” which was the signal to start shooting. Grant put two rounds into four of the steel targets, missing only once. Then “Click!” He was out of ammo. Pow had purposefully loaded nine rounds in the magazine so Grant would have to show if he’d learned how to change the magazine.

Grant quickly grabbed a spare magazine, ejected the old mag, jammed the new one into the gun, racked the slide, and then dove onto one knee and put two quick shots in the last steel target. He had just reacted.

The guys were cheering. Why?

“Dude,” Bobby said, “did you see that mag reload and dropping to the knee? That was awesome.”

Grant didn’t know that he’d done that.

Pow was very happy with his new student. “I gave you a mag with only nine rounds in it so you’d have to do a reload. Why did you go to the knee to do it?” he asked Grant.

Grant thought, “Well, if I’m reloading there’s a better chance the other guys will get off a shot. I figured I needed to be a smaller target so I got down. It was just a reaction.”

Then Grant realized that this instinct of his was exactly what it would take to be good at this. He was very proud of himself.

The Team was glad to have a good new recruit. And the recruit was a lawyer who instinctively drops to his knee for a mag reload.

They spent the rest of the day shooting and taking turns teaching Grant things like how to transition from his rifle to his pistol quickly.

Grant was glad he was in the best shape of his life. This runnin’ and gunnin’ stuff worked up a sweat. The weight training allowed him to have the arm strength to point a rifle all day long. He was twenty or so years older than these guys, so he didn’t want to be the tired old guy. He was fine, though, and kept pace with them. Grant realized that if he had to do this all day, every day, that being in shape would be an absolute must.

Grant had a blast. It was so much more fun than standing in place and shooting at paper targets. He realized that if people were shooting back, knowing how to stand in one place and shoot at paper targets would not be much help. In fact, just standing there out of habit could get a person killed.

That day, Grant found a new love: tactical shooting. He was good at it. He was thrilled to be on the Team, and could tell this was what he was supposed to be doing.