by Joe Gribble
series of offices along the wall.
Julie leads Bob into her office. She sits behind her desk and waves Bob toward a chair.
Bob sits and scans the office. A few pictures of Julie and a small girl, some framed awards, a diploma. The desk is clean, tidy. Bob is nosy; he searches for a picture of Julie with a man. He finds none.
“You said something on the phone about a friend?” Julie asks.
“Yeah.” Bob fidgets a little in his chair. “I'm not sure what the procedure is. I can’t give you his name. I don't want to get him in trouble. It’s complicated.”
“Can you tell me what the problem is, then?” she asks.
“He tells me he's had his naturalization paperwork in for over three years. He and his family. They're living on the edge now. Their green cards have expired, so I guess they’re illegal.”
“Probably.” Julie pauses, staring at Bob. Finally she leans toward him. “Listen, I’m also the ombudsman. That means I can do some checking in confidence, without filing any legal alerts. I can check their status, but I’ll need their names.”
“No one’ll get in trouble?”
“Absolutely not,” Julie says.
“That would be great.” Bob leans forward, glances around, and lowers his voice. “His name is Ramiro Sanchez.”
Julie turns to her computer, types quickly. “I've got three Ramiro Sanchezes. Two at the same address.”
“My friend’s a Junior,” Bob says.
“Okay.” Julie clicks on one of the names. “Their applications are dated three years ago, just like you said. It seems they're stuck at the State Department.“
“Why?” Bob asks.
Julie clicks on a link, opens up a document on the computer. “I think they meet all the requirements. Sometimes Homeland Security requires a background check. That can take a while.”
“Is there any way to hurry that along?” Bob asks. “Ramiro is pretty concerned.”
“I'll see what I can do.” Julie turns back from the computer and smiles at him. “May I ask why you’re so interested in this young man?”
Bob smiles back. “He's my catcher... and he can hit anything.”
“Baseball?” Julie asks.
“Yeah, I’m coaching a team. Just started, actually. Young adults. They all seem like good kids.”
“My dad used to take me to watch the Dragons,” Julie says. “I loved that.”
“Used to?”
“Dad’s gone now. I haven’t been to a baseball game in a couple of years now. It just wouldn’t be the same,” Julie says.
“Sorry,” Bob says. “I watched the Dragons play a couple of times before I deployed. Haven’t been out to their field since I got back.”
“Maybe I could come watch your team play sometime. I’d like to meet Mr. Sanchez,” Julie says.
Bob’s heart beats quickly at the thought of being able to see this beautiful young woman in a nonbusiness setting. Then he thinks about Ramiro. “Maybe some time. I think it’d be better to keep this whole thing kind of quiet for now,” Bob says.
Julie nods. “I understand. Let me dig around a little, and I’ll call you when and if I find out anything.”
Bob thought he sensed a bit of disappointment in Julie’s voice. Or was it just wishful thinking? “Thanks. I appreciate your help.” Bob stands up to leave.
Julie stands as well. This time she extends her left hand to shake.
Bob accepts it quickly.
“I’ll be in touch,” Julie says, smiling.
---
Small Arms Range Complex, Wright Patterson Air Force Base
Bob pulls up to a building set back away from the rest of the Air Force Base. He steps out of his truck and heads for the door. “This used to be easy,” he says to himself.
He steps inside a small room, separated from a shooting range by thick Plexiglas windows. An airman, sidearm strapped to his right thigh, sits behind a half-wall. Bob steps up to the wall and checks the Airman’s nametape. White.
Airman White stands. “Can I help you, Sergeant?”
”I need to check out an M-9 and a box of ammo, Airman White,” Bob says.
“Right away, Sergeant.” Airman White turns to a wall of small square lockers. He pulls a large set of keys out of his pocket and inserts one into a locker. He opens the door and pulls out a pistol. He puts the pistol on the counter. He pushes a clipboard with a form already loaded, government-issue black pen dangling from a silver chain, to Bob.
“Just need you to sign for the weapon, Sergeant,” White says.
Bob slowly writes his name with his left hand. “You want me to fill out the top?”
“I'll take care of it, Sergeant,” White says as he takes the clipboard from Bob. Airman White takes a box of shells from a small safe and puts them on the counter next to the clips and the pistol. “You want me to load the clips?”
“No, I got it,” Bob says. “I'm going to have to figure out how to do this myself.”
White pulls the form off the clipboard. “You're good to go, then, Sergeant. Good luck.”
Bob puts the two clips into one front pants pocket, the box of shells into the other. He grabs the pistol and heads for the door.
“Don't forget your protective gear,” White says.
Bob lays the handgun on a table. He takes a pair of ear protectors and some safety glasses from a rack and puts them on, then picks up the M-9 and steps through the first door.
The first thing Bob notices when he steps through the air gap between the sets of doors is the muffled concussions from a rapid-fire pistol and the muffled bang....bang....bang in his ears. A short pause and the noise briefly echoes through the range.
Bob continues through the second set of doors, past two shooters, then past several empty stalls to the other end of the range. He turns into the last stall and places his M-9 on the shelf. He rips a bull’s-eye target from a pad and clips it on the motorized zip line, then hits a button on the side of the stall, and the target moves quickly away from him. He stops the target at the twenty-five-yard mark.
Next, Bob pulls the clips and ammo out of his pockets, setting them on the shelf next to the pistol. He takes the top off the ammo box and pulls out a round. He tries to insert the round into the clip one-handed. The bullet doesn’t go in, and the spring in the clip ejects it, sending it flying. The round bounces off the shelf and falls to the floor.
“Damn,” Bob says. He glances around to see whether anyone saw what happened. Fortunately, the only other people in the range are at the far end, busy with their own practicing. Airman White, visible through the thick bullet-proof Plexiglas, has his nose buried in some paperwork.
Bob takes the clip and box of bullets to the bench behind the stall. He sits down and puts the clip between his knees, holding it as tight as he can. Bob takes another round and, struggling, finally gets it loaded into the clip. “Okay,” he mumbles.
Bob continues to fight the clips. One by one, he manages to push rounds into them, finally getting both of the clips loaded. He goes back to the range head and pushes one of the clips toward the pistol in an attempt to insert it, but the pistol slides away. He finally gets the pistol jammed against the side of the stall and rams the clip home. Beads of sweat already cover Bob's forehead.
Finally ready, Bob takes his stance. He lifts the pistol in his awkward left hand and points downrange. He fires off three rounds in slow succession: bang...bang...bang.
Bob lowers the pistol. The target never moved. It’s clean. Not a single hit. “Damn it.” He lifts the pistol again. Tries to steady his aim. Three more rounds: bang...bang...bang.
He checks the target again. Nothing. Bob stretches his neck and adjusts his stance. He lifts the weapon again. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and lines up the sights. Bang...bang...bang.
Nothing.
“Damn.” He glances over at the other shooters. Thankfully, they aren't paying any attention to him. He resets his feet and raises the pistol.
Click. Empty.
Bob goes back over to the bench and sits. He ejects the clip into his lap, then turns the gun over, upside down. He holds it between his knees and shoves the other clip into the weapon.
Back to the range head, he pushes the button and brings the target in closer. Fifteen yards.
One of the other shooters glances over at him. Bob ignores the stares. He positions and aims. Three rounds. Bang...bang...bang.
On the last round, the target moves slightly.
Bob lowers the pistol and checks the target. He sees one small hole in the lower-left corner, well outside the outer circle. “At least I hit the paper.”
---
Half an hour later, three empty ammo boxes litter the bench. Bob has shed his uniform shirt and is standing at the firing line in a sweat-soaked T-shirt. He lifts the pistol again and aims. Bang...bang...click….
Bob lowers the pistol, checks the target again. He sees three small holes, only one inside the outer ring. He shakes his head and starts gathering his trash.
---
Bandits Baseball Field
Bob sits on the bench, watching the Bandits practice. Ramiro is at the plate, hitting fly balls and grounders. The infield and outfield chase them down, firing at first base to throw out imaginary runners.
Major Kepler walks up from behind Bob and plops down on the bench next to him. They watch quietly for a time before Kepler breaks the silence. “First game’s coming up.”
“Too soon,” Bob says. “Next week.”
“Any one of them a standout?” Kepler asks.
“Ramiro’s a helluva’ stick.” Bob points at his catcher, still hitting practice balls. “JJ’s a pretty good first baseman, when he’s not pitching. The others are
