If Tom Clancy had watched me on Friday

Adam stepped from his armored transport into the blinding morning sun. He had traveled more than 13 hours to reach the site of today’s raid. Sleep had been hard to come by of late. He shifted his sidearm as he stretched his legs after the long journey. After so many years, his pistol had become a natural extension of his hip. It no longer seemed heavy. In fact on the rare occasion that he went unarmed there seemed to be an uncomfortable void where his good friend normally rode in the Milt Sparks holster inside his waist band.

Adam agreed with the late General Patton that the primary purpose of a pistol should be to allow a soldier to fight his way back to his rifle. With this in mind, though it required no fighting whatsoever, Adam made his way to the rear of the vehicle, and standing next to Michael, opened the weaponry compartment of the armored vehicle to retrieve his heavy weapons. This would be a punitive expedition. They knew they would need their long guns to inflict the most damage on the rebels that infested this barren stretch of wilderness.

Michael was Adam's mentor. He was Adam's senior, but only slightly. The deference that Adam showed him stemmed not from age difference, but from Michaels more lengthy training in such expeditions. He had first shown Adam the evil of their quarry. He had taught him of their reckless and uncaring use of biological weapons that damaged the local populace's food supply. These rebels had to be stopped.

Together they chose their weapons. They both chose the superior firepower of the twelve-gauge shotgun in lieu of the smaller rifles that they had brought along. Adam used a pump-action, preferring the deliberate movement it required to chamber a new round and the stability that this action gave his follow-up shots. Michael was trying a newly restored semi-automatic model that his father had used for years.

“That old thing is gonna jam on you. What are you gonna do if they try to take us in a rush?” Adam jibed.

“You know they always run. And it won’t jam. It was good enough to protect the local populace years ago and it is good enough today,” he responded.

Adam grunted. They finished loading their weapons and rechecked the bags and belts containing their spare ammo. They had seen the signs of extensive rebel activity in the area as they approached. Now to find them.

It was a slow morning. The sun rose inexorably into the sky. They wore only T-shirts and were already beginning to sweat. This fact promised a long and hot day.

They caught sight of the day’s first rebel quickly entering one of the region’s many small canyons. He ran quickly. Obviously they had been unsuccessful in their pursuit of stealth. They had been seen, and their prey was escaping. They had to move fast. Stealth was of no moment. Adam being the younger and more eager of the two, ran quickly into the gully after the rebel, while Michael stayed high to provide cover fire. It was an assumption of roles that they had taken so many times, that it was an automatic reaction. As always their training kicked in and took over as adrenaline triggered muscle-memory and previously-mastered tactical forms. The outcome was inevitable. The first kill of the day was shared by the stalwart hunters. The converging cones of destruction emanating from the two weapons made determination of responsibility impossible. Thus the kill was shared on the day’s score card. They always kept score.

The rest of the morning passed much the same way. They would scare a young rebel from his place of concealment and have to work hard and fast to contain him. The score card did not remain even for long. The younger man quickly showed his mentor that his teachings had not been ill-received, and pulled ahead in their little competition. It was before noon when water and ammunition were running low, and the growing heat of the day began to take it’s toll on the warriors. They returned to the armored vehicle and began the journey home.

They had not traveled far, when Michael stopped the transport with a sharp intake of breath.

“What?!,” Adam exclaimed.

“There…in the bushes,” he gestured.

Adam’s young eyes did not see what his teacher had seen at first but with time began to make out the form of a rebel in the bushes, poised and ready to attack their vehicle. General Patton’s advice on the proper use of a pistol flashed through his mind, but he knew there was no time to seek his long gun. The rebel could launch his attack at any second.

Adam rolled from the door of the car and came up in a half-crouch with his pistol ready; his sights already acquiring the target. As soon as he found his mark his ever-ready trigger finger moved confidently to its favorite place. The precision ground grooves of his skeletonized aluminum match-grade trigger bit smartly into the pad of his finger. But it was a comfortable, welcome and familiar pain; soon to be accompanied by the sharp blow to his hand and wrists as he executed the perfect final shot of the day, saving himself and his mentor from certain destruction……

I hope you all enjoyed this. I had almost as much fun writing this story as I did hunting the rabbits that were its inspiration. Please replace the word rebel with the word rabbit and remove any references to any mortal peril to Mike and I. This will give you a clearer picture of what happened on Friday, the first day of my vacation. The final score was Adam:15, Mike:5, Rabbits:0

As a side note to anyone who is disturbed by this practice of hunting rabbits.

Jack Rabbits in the Utah desert carry bovine malaria and many other diseases. This makes them dangerous to ranchers’ livelihood and makes them unsafe to eat. This fact inspired my refferences to biological weapons. Hunting them, therefore, is a public service to local ranchers and helps one keep in practice for the regulated Cotton-Tailed rabbit hunt that occurs in the winter. I can attest to the fact that coyotes eliminate all carcasses that are left behind by these practice hunts within 24 hours.

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