299 Days: The Preparation Part 11

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 a.s.s. 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 a.s.sumed 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 c.o.c.ky 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 c.r.a.p. 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 h.e.l.l 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- s.h.i.+rts 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 s.h.i.+t." "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. .h.i.tting 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.

Chapter 24.

Normalcy Bias That day, when he came back from the range with the Team, Grant was elated. He was good at something really cool. He couldn't wait to tell Lisa.

Oh, wait. He couldn't tell her.

She didn't know about the food, the guns, or any of the other "survival" stuff. This secret life he had been living was draining him. The most important thing in the world (other than his family) was something he couldn't talk about with his wife. His fears about the future and his plans for taking care of his family... he had to keep this huge part of his life secret. This secret that he couldn't talk about made him feel their marriage was incomplete. They were such a great couple on so many levels - all their friends always said they were the perfect couple - but that was only because Lisa didn't know Grant's big secret.

On the way home from the range, he seriously considered telling Lisa about everything. She would understand that he was doing this as a precaution against all the things that were going wrong in the world. She and the kids were the most important thing to him, and prepping was second. Prepping meant he could take care of his family in a crisis; what wife would be against that? He needed a full relations.h.i.+p with his wife so he would tell her. He spent the twenty- minute drive getting his courage up.

He got home and she was there. Here goes. The stock market had just fallen a few thousand points over the past few weeks. Surely this would be evidence that things were going poorly and having a little extra food, a comfortable place to go outside the city, and a few guns would be welcomed.

She was in the kitchen. "How was your shooting thing?" Lisa asked. She thought it was bull's-eye shooting with .22s at paper targets.

"Oh, great," Grant said. "I met some cool guys. We'll be shooting together again." He paused. He was going for it. He didn't want to waste twenty minutes of rehearsing and then chicken out.

"You know, the stock market took a huge beating the past couple of weeks," Grant said. "I haven't been saying anything because I didn't want to stress you out, but I see plenty more of this happening." He went on to describe how the federal debt was unsustainable and could never be paid off without crus.h.i.+ng taxes and economic collapse. He explained how the Federal Reserve creating trillions of dollars would lead to inflation. He described all the things the Administration did to control the economy, like taking over the auto industry and health care, and the new controls on the financial industry, not to mention a frightening call for a "civilian security force." Grant told Lisa what Venezuela was like and how they had a "civilian security force" just like what the American Administration seemed to be describing. He gave Lisa a very logical and somewhat understated description of what was going on in the country, all based on things he knew she had read in the newspaper. Then Grant said the "F" word.

"Honey," Grant said in summation, "there is a term for when the government and corporations work together for their mutual benefit and restrict liberties. That word is *fascism.'"

"Are you out of your mind?" she yelled. This was not going well.

"What's wrong with you?" She just stared at him.

He started to explain that "fascism" is not necessarily n.a.z.ism, but that n.a.z.ism was one form of it. He was about to describe Italian fascism under Mussolini before the mid-1930s when Italy entered into an alliance with the Germans, but it was obvious Lisa thought "fascism" meant men with little mustaches and genocide. It couldn't possibly mean America. We are the land of the free; didn't Grant, who was an American History major in college, know that? He must have gone insane.

Grant said, "I've been right about everything so far. About the Dow falling, about the price of gold going up, about the size of the debt...."

"Shut up!" Lisa screamed. She never said that. She was furious. "What?" Grant was stunned. Then he realized that he had just said "I've been right about everything so far." Big mistake.

Grant continued. "I'm not mad at you, honey. I just want to make sure nothing bad happens to our family. This isn't an *I'm right' thing. I'm a man and it's my job to take care of my family and I see some things happening, and more to come, that mean we need to take some steps to...."

"Shut up!" she screamed. "I said shut up." He hadn't seen her so mad in years.

"Stop talking," she said. She put her hands over her ears and said screamed, "I can't handle this. I don't want to hear it. Don't talk about this." She calmed down a little and looked at him half- apologetically and said much softer, "Please don't talk about these things. OK?"

Grant realized now that Lisa knew things were going badly in the economy, but she just couldn't handle thinking about it. She didn't know about all the food and other preparations Grant had, so an economic collapse seemed much scarier to her.

Well, now she knew things weren't rosy. Grant could at least work on her not wanting to hear about it.

Then it hit him. Grant had a new plan: build up an undeniable track record. Make predictions that end up coming true, so not even Lisa could deny that he's onto something.

One little problem, though. This meant he needed to tell her all the predictions. How would that work if she didn't want to hear about any of it?

Right then Manda walked downstairs. "Hey, Mom and Dad, whatcha talkin' about?"