Vira

It was cold. The sky was gray and the wind whipped in and out of the earthen berms that surrounded the young trainee. The 15 foot artificial hills surrounded him and his 22 classmates on the firing line. Behind them stood at least a dozen stern faced instructors wearing red. Their red rubber pistols had been replaced with brand new HK P2000's straight from the factory. The 6 magazines mounted at various points on their oversized "River" belts were fully loaded with live rounds for the first time.

The young men had been introduced to their issued weapons two days before. Their meeting was tense and formal, and had the air of reluctance common to junior-high school dances and blind dates. The trainees had been instructed for several hours on the various quirks of these new weapons. Some elements of the weapons function were common and familiar to Agent Trainee Young and some were new and exotic. The weapon was removed at one point and altered to better fit his larger than average grip, and he found that he liked the change after handling it further. The instruction came to a close and the trainees reluctantly relinquished their new-found companions.

The two intervening days had passed painfully, but they found themselves finally on the line, waiting a few more excruciating seconds before the order would come to "prep for duty carry" and holster a loaded weapon for the first time.

But then...Anxiety. It had been more than six weeks since the young trainee had fired any weapon. He had been foolish enough to raise his hand when asked if he had prior small arms experience. The stone-faced instructors were watching him; particularly eager to humble him by pointing out the smallest of faults.

The order came, "Prep for duty carry!!"

His hands moved separately but in perfect concert, his left reaching down and across his waist to the waiting magazine in top pouch number one, and his right disengaging the retention strap on his holster and bringing the weapon to bear, outboarded and ready to receive it's first live load. The factory edges on the beveled mag-well accepted the charged magazine without incident. It slid home and clicked firmly into place. A quick tug confirmed that it wasn't going anywhere and the weapon was quickly inboarded to present the slide for a racking motion. With the confidence of an action that one has performed thousands of times, Agent Trainee Young sling-shotted the slide, chambering the first round and immediately presented to weapon down-range before slowly lowering it to the holster. It had to be done by feel. Not only because he would likely be blustered at interminably for having to look as he holstered, but because in the field he would always need to be focused on potential threats and not eye-balling his gear because he was unsure of himself. He removed, topped off, and replaced the magazine, thereby 'prepping' his weapon for duty carry.

The silence that followed the loading procedure was broken sharply by the report of a score of weapons on the other side of the left-most berm. Another, more advanced class had beaten them to the trigger that morning. The surprise at the sudden sound was quickly replaced by nostalgic calm as the smell of burnt powder reached his nostrils. This would be a good morning.

Adam didn't know his newfound friends name yet but she had her first round chambered and she was eager to please her new master. Finally the command came and the young trainee wrapped his freezing fingers around the machined polymer grip. His draw was flawless as he presented to the target; a man-shaped silhouette with concentric squares indicating center mass and the most potentially lethal shot area. He depressed the odd-feeling double-action trigger nearly to its break-point as he found his perfect sigh picture and focused as instructed on the front sight. Slowly he applied more pressure while holding the sights motionless on the center of the target.....Half pound by half pound...

Crack!!!!

It had surprised him, as it was supposed to. He did not want to jerk the weapon downward in anticipation of the recoil, and he had not. The recoil was manageable and he soon found his sights again. Beyond the sights he saw the object of this exercise... A .40 caliber hole dead in the center of the five point ring. As we all know, "the way to a man's heart...Is between the forth and fifth ribs." His bullet had found it's way to the target's heart, as the small polymer pistol had found it's way to his. They would get along just fine. The second round followed the first to within an inch. She would not embarrass him. He would have to return the favor.

One hundred and sixteen rounds later he knew all her quirks and sticking points. More importantly, he knew her name. She was his very favorite gun, and he would call her Vira. He barely heard the range-master's scanty praise of his impressive four inch group of one hundred and eighteen rounds all within the five point ring. The only thing occupying his mind was that they would soon be separated once again after such a wonderful first outing. He no longer felt the cold and would certainly catch himself daydreaming in class all day as the familiar smell of the GSR(gunshot residue) all over his hands wafted up to his nose as he sat at his desk.

They would be together again on Monday. He could wait that long, and so could she, to once again take up their deadly dance of cardboard destruction. "Until then, my Vira," he whispered in his mind, and he quickly stalked to the bus that would take him from the range.