hear the rookies’ whistles now—the sound of sirens too in the distance. The first glow of the red morning sun was creeping up on the tall glass skyscrapers. He’d have to run for it. He needed a weapon—a good one. Damn it. Why hadn’t he taken along that rookie’s pistol?
He ran down one street, then another—what’s that? A giant plastic revolver hanging up over a store. POLICE SUPPLIES , the sign read. Class 5 licenses required for purchases. Another sign stuck in the door said, Closed for the day. No, it wasn’t. He smashed the door open with the heel of his shoe—a dropkick that nearly tore it off its hinges. He was inside in an instant. He closed the door. The steel shutters over the window would hide him from view. With eager eyes, he perused the glass compartments filled with every conceivable twentieth-century weapon. It was dim, but Rockson had good night vision.
Surely there must be something here he could use! Rock was a firm believer in seizing the opportunity, making the best of things at hand. He missed his super-fast and accurate Liberator weapon. But the twentieth century, after all, was the home of some exquisitely deadly arms. He’d find something.
Although Rockson was interested in finding as modern a weapon as possible, his interest in guns made him stop and admire the antique gun display behind the counter. Amazing! All sorts of wild-west stuff—authentic. He found the keys to the case holding the old weapons and opened it. He took out a long-barreled revolver that Wyatt Earp would have been proud to own—a Colt Peacemaker. He knew this to be one of the first—if not the first—handgun to be chambered for the .45 caliber long Colt cartridge. A formidable weapon, date circa 1873. It loaded forty grains of FFg black powder with 255-grain lead bullets. The gleaming seven-and-a-half-inch barrel made it fairly accurate too, from what he remembered reading.
He spun the chamber, it moved smooth; well-oiled. He clicked the trigger. Sounded good, very good. With great reluctance he put the six-shooter down. He needed something like a three-hundred-shooter if he was going to get anywhere in this damned city.
He was hoping that there was something in the shop they kept away from all but the best customers—somewhere a hidden case of illegal firepower. Lots of these old gunshops had had a brisk trade in illegal automatic weapons.
Rock searched high and low, ignoring other fine weapons he came across, until he found a loose floorboard—and ripped it up. In a clear plastic case under the floorboards he found something heavy and black. He unzipped the case and pulled out an Uzi. And whistled. An Uzi was a completely automatic weapon manufactured in Israel and shipped to the U.S. in great numbers illegally just before World War III. It was the favorite weapon of terrorists. The Uzi made small men big, timid men brave. The Uzi was to machine guns what the Colt .45 was to revolvers. It was so dependable that the snub-snouted Uzi, even when fouled by dust and grit, functioned.
The Middle Eastern submachine gun had a fold-down stock, a “double elbow” arrangement ideal for concealment. The Uzi could be taken down to 24 inches in length. With the stock opened, it was barely 32 inches long. Yet it packed a cyclic rate of fire of three hundred rounds per minute. Rockson wished the clips held more than twenty-five rounds. Maybe he could make some modifications—find larger clips that would fit.
He snapped his fingers. This was a completely outfitted gun shop—maybe it had some manufacturing equipment in the back room, not just storage. He pushed the second door open and in the dimness saw a metal-turning lathe. Better than he could have hoped! But he’d have to have electricity. He tried the light switch, after shutting the interior door. A light came on. Luck. In a short while he had the lathe spinning, and placed the Uzi on its clamp holder. He had a lot of work ahead of him— hours. But he
He ran down one street, then another—what’s that? A giant plastic revolver hanging up over a store. POLICE SUPPLIES , the sign read. Class 5 licenses required for purchases. Another sign stuck in the door said, Closed for the day. No, it wasn’t. He smashed the door open with the heel of his shoe—a dropkick that nearly tore it off its hinges. He was inside in an instant. He closed the door. The steel shutters over the window would hide him from view. With eager eyes, he perused the glass compartments filled with every conceivable twentieth-century weapon. It was dim, but Rockson had good night vision.
Surely there must be something here he could use! Rock was a firm believer in seizing the opportunity, making the best of things at hand. He missed his super-fast and accurate Liberator weapon. But the twentieth century, after all, was the home of some exquisitely deadly arms. He’d find something.
Although Rockson was interested in finding as modern a weapon as possible, his interest in guns made him stop and admire the antique gun display behind the counter. Amazing! All sorts of wild-west stuff—authentic. He found the keys to the case holding the old weapons and opened it. He took out a long-barreled revolver that Wyatt Earp would have been proud to own—a Colt Peacemaker. He knew this to be one of the first—if not the first—handgun to be chambered for the .45 caliber long Colt cartridge. A formidable weapon, date circa 1873. It loaded forty grains of FFg black powder with 255-grain lead bullets. The gleaming seven-and-a-half-inch barrel made it fairly accurate too, from what he remembered reading.
He spun the chamber, it moved smooth; well-oiled. He clicked the trigger. Sounded good, very good. With great reluctance he put the six-shooter down. He needed something like a three-hundred-shooter if he was going to get anywhere in this damned city.
He was hoping that there was something in the shop they kept away from all but the best customers—somewhere a hidden case of illegal firepower. Lots of these old gunshops had had a brisk trade in illegal automatic weapons.
Rock searched high and low, ignoring other fine weapons he came across, until he found a loose floorboard—and ripped it up. In a clear plastic case under the floorboards he found something heavy and black. He unzipped the case and pulled out an Uzi. And whistled. An Uzi was a completely automatic weapon manufactured in Israel and shipped to the U.S. in great numbers illegally just before World War III. It was the favorite weapon of terrorists. The Uzi made small men big, timid men brave. The Uzi was to machine guns what the Colt .45 was to revolvers. It was so dependable that the snub-snouted Uzi, even when fouled by dust and grit, functioned.
The Middle Eastern submachine gun had a fold-down stock, a “double elbow” arrangement ideal for concealment. The Uzi could be taken down to 24 inches in length. With the stock opened, it was barely 32 inches long. Yet it packed a cyclic rate of fire of three hundred rounds per minute. Rockson wished the clips held more than twenty-five rounds. Maybe he could make some modifications—find larger clips that would fit.
He snapped his fingers. This was a completely outfitted gun shop—maybe it had some manufacturing equipment in the back room, not just storage. He pushed the second door open and in the dimness saw a metal-turning lathe. Better than he could have hoped! But he’d have to have electricity. He tried the light switch, after shutting the interior door. A light came on. Luck. In a short while he had the lathe spinning, and placed the Uzi on its clamp holder. He had a lot of work ahead of him— hours. But he
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