by JL Curtis
Jesse was doing the same thing on the other side of the truck, and making sure her Colt Python was covered and she reached back into the truck to grab her badge off the seat where it had fallen.
The deputy watched from a distance and saw the badge flashes as they walked to the back of the truck, shook his head and went back to watching the entrance.
“Got your creds?”
“Yes, Papa, I’ve got my creds. Do you have yours?” Jesse asked, sticking out her tongue. “And yes, I’m covered. And I need to pee, and I’m hungry. Does that answer the rest of your questions?” With that she turned and walked to the back of the truck checking the rear doors.
Shaking his head, the old man locked the truck, rolled his shoulders and walked after Jesse. Still wondering if he’d done the right thing, or if he really should have even tried this. At sixty-three, there was a chance in hell of him not embarrassing himself and her. But he figured this would be the last chance to do something like this, and yes she was a damn fine shot, a good spotter, and she needed to see a bigger part of the world than just the West Texas scrub oaks and mesquite. And the assholes that worked at the tire test track out off 103 with her. She didn’t need the job, but she liked having her ‘own’ money; and being a reserve deputy was just Jesse’s way of paying back to the community. I guess she takes after me with that.
Jesse looked around. “You know, Papa, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much green in one spot! Everything has been green the last two hundred miles, and these hills look like they’re worn down nubs of what they once were. I’d hate like hell to try to chase a cow through this, much less a bad guy!”
The old man chuckled and didn’t say anything as they walked up to the old white clubhouse; he was mentally cataloging the players. Seeing a number of police cars: Suburbans, Explorers, Excursions, and a couple of vans with military tags his hopes were realized, the good shooters were here. Opening the door for Jesse, she slid in and to the left, he did the same to the right. It was like a hundred other clubhouses: one big room, a kitchen to the left with a coffee pot going on the counter, a hint of wood smoke from the fireplace that centered the back wall, various animal heads hanging on the wall and down a hallway off to the left, the bathrooms.
As he scanned the room, it was readily apparent there were some serious competitors here, and every damn one of them was at least twenty years younger than he was.
Jesse interrupted his recriminations. “Pa, I’m going to the little girl’s room, I’m pretty sure I can find you when I come back,” she joked. She’d noticed they were the only two folks in the room not wearing tactical clothes.
Jesse walked off, drawing stares from most of the men in the room as she crossed to the rest rooms. The old man shook his head, knowing she was putting on a show, and walked up to the line at the registration table. The shooters in the room looked from Jesse to the old man, then looked again, as they realized there was something about this old man dressed all in grey work clothes and a beat-up old cowboy hat that said this was not an old man to fool with.
He finally got to the front of the line, and the harried gent behind the table looked up. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yep, here to check in for the competition, John Cronin, shooter; Jesse Cronin, spotter. Pecos County, Texas,” the old man said laying his credentials on the table so the registrar could see them.
Scanning down his list, the registrar checked off their names, reached behind him and grabbed a packet out of a box and slid it across the table. “Sighting in, doping and safety checks on range one for the next couple of hours. Maximum one hour on the line. Be back here at five pm for COF safety brief. There’s a night shoot tonight and starting at oh seven thirty tomorrow there’s a couple of presentations prior to the competition if you’re interested. Y’all are team twenty-three.”
“Thanks, what’s the altitude here?”
“Twelve hundred, but the density altitude will vary depending on the weather, figure around thirteen hundred for the match.”
The old man turned and scanned the room, looking for Jesse. Not seeing her, he walked over to the coffee pot, dropped fifty cents in the can, got a Styrofoam cup, poured himself a cup, and headed for the door. Jesse came out of the rest room area, and met him at the door.
“Are we in?” she asked, opening the door and holding it for the old man.
As they walked back toward the truck, he said, “Yep, but I don’t think they know you’re my spotter yet.” He chuckled. “We can go sight in in thirty minutes, and this is about a thousand feet lower than where we are, so we’ve got maybe an inch of difference, but it’s quite a bit cooler up here. Let’s go get the guns and go check the zeros and see if we’ve got any problem.”
Back at the truck, the old man unlocked the rear doors, reached in and flipped the blanket aside, revealing two gun cases and two ammo cans. Popping the lid on his ammo can, he reached in and grabbed one of the plastic cases, opened it and took out five rounds. Dropping them in his pocket, he turned to Jesse, “How many rounds to you want?”
Cocking her head, Jesse thought for a minute. “I guess five, since I don’t think we’ve bounced them around and screwed up the scope alignments.” Reaching in she slid her gun case out of the truck, and took the rounds he handed to her.
After re-locking the truck, they trudged back up the parking lot to the side of the clubhouse and walked through the gate down to the line, finally seeing range one all the way at the right end of the ranges.
The Range Officer met them at the line, and confirming their event number said they could take any station they wanted. The old man wandered down to the very end of the range, and picked a station that didn’t have any tables, since he figured there wouldn’t be any nice benches to shoot off of the next couple of days.
Using the bench at the back of the station, he and Jesse uncased their rifles, and Jesse took the old Baush and Lomb 7 X 50 binoculars out of their case and wiped the lenses down with her shirt tail.
It all reminded the old man of when Jesse was about eleven or twelve and he’d let her shoot a 30-30 for the first time. They’d shot at one hundred yards, and he’d shown her how to use the binocs to check the hits. She’d been a little thing in pigtails, boots and blue jeans with her shirt-tail hanging out, and she’d done the same exact thing. She’d hung on his every word about shooting, and pretty much everything else back then, but now she was an adult with her own life. Shooting was about the only time they really connected like they’d done back then.
Shaking his head, the old man walked back down to the RO[3] and found out they would be going cold range in about five minutes, and he was free to grab any of the various types of targets stacked on the RO’s table to use for sighting in. He picked up a couple of the gridded orange sighter targets and with temps in the low sixties and 1300 feet of altitude; he mentally ran the numbers and figured that he would be within ½ inch or less of his point of aim at 100 yards.
When the RO called cold range, he grabbed a stapler off the back bench and walked down range to post the targets. He got a chance to look at the other ranges, and see if there were any wind or potential wind tunnels that he couldn’t see from the line. After putting the targets up, he stood for a minute looking back at the line and what the terrain was behind the range, noting the hills and the one valley they’d driven up to get here.
When he got back to the line, Jesse was talking with two military shooters and smiling so he just went on by and sat down at the back bench. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his earplugs and reached over and picked up his glasses from the gun case.
When the RO called the line hot, Jesse immediately excused herself put on her eye and ear protection and came back to him. “Are we both shooting or just you, Papa?”
“Let’s carry both rifles to the line, and if I didn’t beat the gun up, I should be good to go in a couple of rounds, then you can check your zero, too,” the old man said as he grabbed his rifle out of the rack and pa
tted his shirt pocket to make sure he had the five rounds in there.
Jesse looped the binoculars over her head, grabbed her rifle and followed the old man up to the line. He dropped to his knees, opened the bolt on the rifle and loaded three rounds into the magazine, and then got into the sling. Jesse laid her rifle down making sure the chamber flag was in it and the action was facing up. She laid down and propped herself up on her elbows and adjusted the binoculars to focus on the targets.
The old man dropped down into the prone position, snugged the rifle down and looked over at Jesse. “You ready?”
“Yes, Papa, right target, no wind, center sighter,” Jesse replied.
“Sure,” he said, throwing the bolt closed and shifting to put his natural point of aim on the target.
“Target.”
“Send it,” Jesse said.
The boom of the rifle seemed to relax the old man, now he was in his element. Working the bolt without ever coming out of the hold, he waited for Jesse’s call.
“Dead on windage, two and a half high Papa,” Jesse repeated.
“One more, target.”
“Send it.”
Another boom, and he was on the bolt even as the recoil ended.
“Still dead on windage, two and a half high touching the first one Papa, where are you holding?” Jesse asked.
“Dead center, both shots; one more and I’m done. Target,” the old man said.
“Send it,” Jessie replied.
Boom. “Last round.” As he opened the bolt, inserted the chamber flag and shrugged out of the sling.
Jesse passed over the binoculars and he quickly scanned his target, and smiled a little bit. The shots weren’t all through the same hole, but they were a nice little cloverleaf with all three rounds touching.
Settling in on the other target he asked, “What’s your zero, girl?”
“Uhf… Ah, 200, Papa, so if this is 100 I should print three inches high,” Jessie said as she pushed three rounds through the loading gate of the Winchester. Levering a round into the rifle, she wiggled into a position she liked and said, “Target.”
“Send it, Jesse.” The crack of the rifle and the hole in the target were almost simultaneous.
“Three and a quarter high quarter left, give me one more,” the old man rattled off.
“Target.”
“Send it.”
Crack. Jesse looked over as the old man concentrated on the binoculars, finally rolling off and looking at Jesse. “Give me one click right, and let’s see if that is it,” the old man suggested.
Jesse reached up, put in one click right windage and got back into position, “Target.”
“Send it,” the old man replied.
Crack. “Okay, that was dead on windage, elevation looks good. You want any more shots?”
“If that was on, why screw with success? Papa, let’s just leave it where it is,” Jesse retorted. Rolling over and levering the spent case out, she inserted the chamber flag and picked up her spent cases. The old man, doing the same, got up slowly and rolled his shoulders. He reached down and picked up both rifles, and the RO called cold range so Jesse went down range to pick up the targets. When he turned around, the same two gents were standing there watching them.
The older of the two waited until the rifles were back in the rack and stuck out his hand. “First Sergeant Matt Carter Sir and this is Sergeant Aaron Miller. We’re out of the school house at Quantico and former Two MEF[4].”
The old man shook hand with both and said, “John Cronin, and my granddaughter Jesse. We’re out of Texas.”
“Mr. Cronin, I’ve gotta ask, what are you shooting?” Matt asked.
The old man smiled and said, “Well it’s a mongrel, it started life as a Winchester model 70, and I added a Schneider-bull barrel, and did my own bedding job and it’s running an old US Optics SN-9 up top. And it’s a 30-06 too. The action is about sixty-years-old, the rest of the rifle dates to the late 80s early 90s. And Jesse is shooting my 94 Winchester 30-30, and it’s got a Redfield up top. Nothing fancy, just comfortable old guns.”
Just then Jesse walked back up with the targets. Handing the targets to the old man, she smiled at the two Marines. “Hi, guys, y’all bored or what?”
Sergeant Miller, looking at the targets whistled and asked. “Well, I was just wondering who your spotter was, but now I know. But I can’t figure out how she can spot for you since this is supposed to be a military and law enforcement only shoot?”
The old man just shook his head and said, “Jesse, show the man.”
Jesse grinned and pulled out her credentials, and flipped them open. “I’ve been spotting for Papa for about as long as I can remember, and yes, I really am a Deputy Sheriff, and yes, I do carry a gun, and yes, I am a girl, too.”
The young sergeant just goggled at the credentials, and Matt shook his head, smiling.
Once Jesse was back from the targets, the RO strolled over and said, “Okay, if y’all are done sighting in, you can restow your rifles. After the barbecue late this afternoon and COF[5] brief, we’re going to do a bonus shoot in low light if you’re interested. It’s not required, but folks seem to like the challenge.”
The old man nodded and finished stowing the rifle in the case. Jesse cased her rifle and they carried them back to the truck in a companionable silence.
Aaron looked at Matt as they walked back into the clubhouse, Matt just shook his head saying, “Don’t mention a word of what we saw out there, I think some folks are in for a bigger surprise than they think.”
“I won’t, but she is a real cutie!”
“Down, sergeant, we’re here to shoot not chase skirts; besides, she’d probably kick your ass.”
“Maybe, but in her case, I think I’d like it!”
Laughing they headed back to the clubhouse, as Aaron glanced back over his shoulder one more time at Jesse.
6 Night Shoot
At five, all the competitors gathered in the clubhouse to hear the course of fire layout for the competition the next day. Since most of the teams had shot together either at this match or others, there was the usual babble of noise, backslapping and insults flying back and forth. The old man hit the coffee pot again and he and Jesse slipped into the back row of chairs and sat quietly, just watching the interplay.
An older man walked to the front of the room and banged on the table for attention. “All right gentlemen, shaddap, siddown and let’s get this show on the road. I’m Kyle Edwards and I’m the RO for this little get together and I want to get all this info out now and make sure y’all don’t have any questions. Everyone here is either military or law enforcement, so if you’re carrying that is not a problem. The entire COF will be considered a hot range the entire time. However, if you exhibit unsafe behavior, you will be DQ[6]’ed immediately and without recourse. All RSOs[7] will be open carrying, will be in red shirts, and will be positioned at each station.”
Walking to the front row, he handed a stack of papers to the first man on the row. “Take one and pass ‘em down; here’s the layout of the course, it’s a seven klick course, fifteen stages, starting and ending here at the range.”
Walking back to the table, he clicked the computer and the COF popped up on the back wall. “First and last stages are on the range here. Total target count is forty seven, with shot opportunities for both shooter and spotter depending on how you want to run your teams,” Kyle said as he paced back and forth. “In addition to the RSOs, there will be two scoring persons at each position. They will be in white event shirts and will not , lemme say that again, will not reveal your scores on any stage. That’s what your spotter is for.”
“When you come to the line tomorrow, you must have everything you will need to complete the entire COF, including weapons, the round count you need or want to carry, water, batteries or anything else. The first stage here will be a cold bore shot at 100 yards for each member of the team. You will then proceed onto the course out the left exit from the firing line
. You will be responsible for navigation to each stage, and once there you will get specific engagement parameters from the RSO at that point. There will probably be a few spectators at some of the stages. Now I’ll tell ya, this first stage is the only stage that is an exact range, so it’s shooter beware, and ya better know your equipment. Lasers are approved, since everybody and their brothers have one now, and the scoring is as follows.”
Picking up a paper off the table and clicking the computer to the next slide, Kyle read, “Anything less than three hundred yards will have a one half MOA[8] ten slash X ring, and four more one half MOA rings outside those. Maximum score is ten points, going down by two points per ring. Over three hundred yards, will have a one MOA ten slash X ring, and four more one MOA rings outside of those. If the spotter is shooting, those sizes are doubled. If you get movers or swingers, they will have a one MOA X ring and a two MOA ten ring, and those will also be doubled if the spotter takes those shots. The final standings will be based on a combination of time to complete the course and scoring for the shots.”
The old man and Jesse looked over the COF paper that had finally made it to the back row. It was set up with compass courses and distances from stage to stage, overlayed on a topo map of the area, but no specific information on each stage. Tracing the route with his finger the old man chuckled. “Well, we’re not gonna win this one honey, it’s up down and around, with some pretty steep climbs just prior to the stages, so we’re gonna get beat on the time. But maybe we can outshoot a few of these young bucks.”
Smiling, Kyle looked out over the room. “Now we did bring y’all’s favorite stage back from last year.”
And was interrupted by groans, and grumbling including one, “Fucking dots, , gahdam,” from the shooters.
Kyle laughed. “Yes, sir, it’s the dots again, stage seven, on top of the ridge, and you’ll draw for colors. Now those are all one MOA targets, but you gotta get ten of them out of each target.”
