about war and about being a sniper. I shouldâve chosen Gothic romance.
The phone rang. I picked it up and got a recorded messageâsame female voiceâthat was repeated once: âTake the rifle and targets and ammunition
right now
and drive to the east end of the Coralville dump, where people go for shooting. When thereâs enough light, sight in the rifle. Collect all your brass and your targets and leave. You will be watched.â
It was just starting to get light in the east. I zapped a big mug of water and stirred in enough instant coffee and cocoa to wake up the dead, and took it out to the car, and came back for the weapon and targets and ammunition. It felt odd, carrying a rifle without a sling, just walking out to the car like any garden-variety nutcase out to shoot a president or a classroom full of innocents. I knew the bad guys were watching me, but who else? Was one of my nutty neighbors calling the cops, and would they listen?
He always acts funny and keeps to himself, says heâs some kinda writer. I always knew there was somethinâ wrong with him.
So if I zero in the rifle, am I complicit? Yes and no; I could still decide not to shoot or to miss the target.
No car was following me as I drove out to the Coralville dump. If they really would be watching me, as they said, they were already there. Or in orbit, for all I knew.
Tried to hatch a plan as I drove through the hazy dawn. There was one aspect I could control: I didnât have to sight the rifle accurately. I could misalign the finderscope and send the bullet anywhere.
Sighting in a rifle-and-scope combination is simple if the equipment is good. This was all solid and new, the same combination I used in the desert, a red-dot Insight MRD on the M2010 sniper rifle. To sight it in you put a âdotâ targetâa spot on a piece of paperâa measured distance away, and fire carefully from a stable platform. Once youâre comfortable with the rifle, you try to get three-shot groups within about a one-inch circleâsmaller circle for a real pro. Then you click the rifle sight for windage (left and right) and drop (up and down) until that group consistently appears where the scopeâs crosshairs intersect, on the printed spot.
Hunters often sight for seventy-five yards; in the desert we usually went out to four hundred. So I was to do half that.
There were no obvious witnesses at the Coralville dump. A lot of crows and a slightly pungent atmosphere. A hand-lettered sign saying SHOOTERS led me to the left.
The setup was simple. Two weathered picnic tables set up with sandbags, next to a plank platform for sighting in from a prone position. I would sit.
There were thick wooden supports about a yard square, spray-painted 100, 200, and 400. I went out to the 400-yard one and thumbtacked four targets there, and returned to the picnic tables.
I filled the magazine and slid it into place, seated the first round, and clicked off the safety. It was going to be loud. What would I say if a cop showed up? âDonât bother me; Iâm getting ready to shoot a bad person.â I put earplugs in deep, lined up the rifle, and peered through the scope.
It was so dim. Well, it was barely dawn. A long way from desert glare.
There was nobody around, but I said, âReady on the firing lineâ in a loud voice. What did civilians say?
The first shot was pretty loud, even with the earplugs. Missed the target completely. They obviously had the wrong guy for this job.
I took a couple of deep breaths and did the zen thing, floating up there watching myself calm down. I quietly touched the hair-trigger and willed the bullet downrange. It did hit the target, about 11:00.
It had occurred to me that someday I might wind up being the target of this rifle, rather than the shooter. One way to protect myself would be to zero it off-center.
Upper left-hand quadrant, about 10:30, halfway from the crosshairs to the edge. So
The phone rang. I picked it up and got a recorded messageâsame female voiceâthat was repeated once: âTake the rifle and targets and ammunition
right now
and drive to the east end of the Coralville dump, where people go for shooting. When thereâs enough light, sight in the rifle. Collect all your brass and your targets and leave. You will be watched.â
It was just starting to get light in the east. I zapped a big mug of water and stirred in enough instant coffee and cocoa to wake up the dead, and took it out to the car, and came back for the weapon and targets and ammunition. It felt odd, carrying a rifle without a sling, just walking out to the car like any garden-variety nutcase out to shoot a president or a classroom full of innocents. I knew the bad guys were watching me, but who else? Was one of my nutty neighbors calling the cops, and would they listen?
He always acts funny and keeps to himself, says heâs some kinda writer. I always knew there was somethinâ wrong with him.
So if I zero in the rifle, am I complicit? Yes and no; I could still decide not to shoot or to miss the target.
No car was following me as I drove out to the Coralville dump. If they really would be watching me, as they said, they were already there. Or in orbit, for all I knew.
Tried to hatch a plan as I drove through the hazy dawn. There was one aspect I could control: I didnât have to sight the rifle accurately. I could misalign the finderscope and send the bullet anywhere.
Sighting in a rifle-and-scope combination is simple if the equipment is good. This was all solid and new, the same combination I used in the desert, a red-dot Insight MRD on the M2010 sniper rifle. To sight it in you put a âdotâ targetâa spot on a piece of paperâa measured distance away, and fire carefully from a stable platform. Once youâre comfortable with the rifle, you try to get three-shot groups within about a one-inch circleâsmaller circle for a real pro. Then you click the rifle sight for windage (left and right) and drop (up and down) until that group consistently appears where the scopeâs crosshairs intersect, on the printed spot.
Hunters often sight for seventy-five yards; in the desert we usually went out to four hundred. So I was to do half that.
There were no obvious witnesses at the Coralville dump. A lot of crows and a slightly pungent atmosphere. A hand-lettered sign saying SHOOTERS led me to the left.
The setup was simple. Two weathered picnic tables set up with sandbags, next to a plank platform for sighting in from a prone position. I would sit.
There were thick wooden supports about a yard square, spray-painted 100, 200, and 400. I went out to the 400-yard one and thumbtacked four targets there, and returned to the picnic tables.
I filled the magazine and slid it into place, seated the first round, and clicked off the safety. It was going to be loud. What would I say if a cop showed up? âDonât bother me; Iâm getting ready to shoot a bad person.â I put earplugs in deep, lined up the rifle, and peered through the scope.
It was so dim. Well, it was barely dawn. A long way from desert glare.
There was nobody around, but I said, âReady on the firing lineâ in a loud voice. What did civilians say?
The first shot was pretty loud, even with the earplugs. Missed the target completely. They obviously had the wrong guy for this job.
I took a couple of deep breaths and did the zen thing, floating up there watching myself calm down. I quietly touched the hair-trigger and willed the bullet downrange. It did hit the target, about 11:00.
It had occurred to me that someday I might wind up being the target of this rifle, rather than the shooter. One way to protect myself would be to zero it off-center.
Upper left-hand quadrant, about 10:30, halfway from the crosshairs to the edge. So
Similar Books
