Filed to story: American Sniper: The Last Round (Carl Oliver) Book PDF Free
It was funny how a rifle will sometimes go sour on you. Carl’s fine old pre-’64 Winchester Model 70 in .270 had been a minute-of-angle gun for five years, shooting within an inch at a hundred yards, or two at two hundred or three at three, holding ever true to that abstraction of rifle accuracy. But it had suddenly opened up. On today’s target, the bullet punctures formed a raggedy constellation over three times an inch.
Yet, baffled as he was, a certain part of Carl was tickled. It was so damned interesting. It was one more thing to find out about, another trip deep into the maze that kept him, or so he believed, sane.
Take this damn 70. He could spend a week on it. He’d take it apart, down to its finest screw and spring, and go over each tiny bit of it, looking for burrs in the metal, for pieces of grit in the works, for signs of wear or fatigue. He’d steam clean the trigger mechanism. With his fingers, he’d probe every square centimeter of the stock, feeling for knots, splinters, warps, anything that could lay just the softest finger of pressure against the barrel to nudge the rifle out of true.
And when that was done, if it didn’t shoot right, he’d just do it again.
His tiny shop was out back of the trailer, a shed of corrugated tin, dark and oily. Off to one side stood a reloading bench, with a single-stage Rock Chucker for his rifle loads and a Dillon for his .45’s, and stacked along the wall, neatly and fastidiously, were his many dies. The back wall had filing cabinets for his notebooks and his targets, and bins for used brass that he’d yet to reload. The smell of Shooter’s Choice bore solvent hung in the air like a vapor. A single light illuminated the darkness, and if he wasn’t shooting or sleeping he was reading Guns & Ammo or Shooting Times or The American Rifleman or Accuracy Shooting or The Shotgun News or Rifle.
But on this afternoon as he contemplated the delinquent Model 70, he heard his dog Mike barking. Mike, a furious old half-beagle with a mangy coat and yellow eyes, prowled the fence Carl had built around his trailer; in exchange for table scraps and a daily romp through the hills, he’d chase any human thing away, except for the two or three that Carl allowed to call on him. But this day, Mike just kept howling for the longest damn time, and Carl knew that whoever had come by wasn’t about to leave.
He slipped a cocked and locked Series ’70 Colt .45 out of a drawer and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans, then threw on a jacket and his Razorback baseball hat and stepped out. The sun was a thin wash. Around him, the blue Ouachitas rose bleakly, bled dry of color by the coming of cold weather, and Carl turned the corner to see two men lounging next to what had to be a rented car just beyond the gate, while Mike yowled at them as if he’d kill them if they came closer.
They wore raincoats over suits. But they were soldiers of a sort. Maybe not now, but they’d been soldiers, that was clear. They were carved from the same tough tree, one square and blocky, Carl’s own age, but a head and a half lower to the ground, with huge hands and a weight lifter’s body; he had a sheen of crewcut hair, and every square inch of him said NCO.
The other was the officer: taller, but husky too, well-proportioned, with a square face and short but not crewcut hair. He had the look of at least nine of Carl’s eleven battalion commanders down through the years, men Carl didn’t love but respected, because they put mission first and last and always accomplished it.
“Go on, shuddup,” Carl said to Mike, giving him a kick. The dog slunk off to the door. But Carl didn’t open his locked fence. He put his hand under his jacket and set it on the haft of the .45, because it’s always better to have your gun in your hand than in your pants if it comes to kick-ass time.
“Y’all want something?” he said, squinting up his face.
“You’re Mr. Carl Oliver?” said the officer.
“I am, sir.” Carl spit a glob of phlegm into the dust.
“You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Mr. Oliver. We’ve sent you five registered letters. You won’t even sign for them and open them. You don’t have a telephone.”
Carl recalled the damn letters. He’d thought they were from Susan, his ex-wife, wanting more money. Or from one of those nutty war groups that wanted to pay him just to come stand around at some motel and tell stories.
“This is private property,” he said. “You’re not welcome here. You go on back to where you came from and let me be.”
“Mr. Oliver,” said the officer, “we’re here with a business proposition that could mean a lot of money to you.”
“I don’t need any money,” Carl said. “I have plenty of money.”
“I was hoping you’d do me the favor of listening to me, that’s all. Take five minutes of your time, and then if you’re not interested in what I have to say, and what I’m proposing, I’m out of here.”
The smaller of the two men had not said anything. He was just eyeing Carl and he stunk of aggression. His big hands were in his pockets and Carl didn’t like the way there was a suggestion of bulk under the right arm of his raincoat.
Carl turned back to the officer.
“Why should I do you any sort of favor, sir? I don’t even know you.”
“Possibly this will establish my bona fides.”
With that the older man slipped a jewelry case out of his pocket, and flipped it over the fence. It landed at Carl’s feet in the mud.
“It’s authentic,” said the man. “I won it, all right. In 1966, near Dak To, just off Highway One. I was a major in the Twenty-fourth Mech Infantry. A very busy day.”
Carl picked the case up, and popped the lid to discover a Congressional Medal of Honor.
He swallowed just a bit. His own daddy had won one on the Iwo and at least a dozen officers had told him he’d earned one when he and Donny Fenn dusted that main forces battalion in the An Loc, but that it was a shame he’d never get it, as the politics of the moment were such that a sniper couldn’t get the big medal. It didn’t bother Carl. He’d never wanted a medal. He just didn’t like the idea that the killing he’d done was somehow wrong and couldn’t be recognized.
“All right,” said Carl, trying to put that shame out of his mind. “Out of respect for what you did for your country, I’ll hear your piece. Just keep it short.”
He unlocked the gate.
Inside the trailer, the two men took off their coats to reveal business suits. It now looked as if the smaller man had some sort of sawed-off pump gun under his arm; but he just sat back, a dullness coming over his face. Carl thought of him as some sort of attack hound; when Carl hadn’t been sure whether or not he’d let them in, he was all tense and full of fury, ready to strike. Now that they were inside, the little guy went limp.
The other man, however, did not. Leaning across the small table in the neat little living room of the trailer, he stared, his bright, dark eyes boring into Carl.
“Here, Mr. Oliver. This will help.”
He pushed a business card across at Carl, who read:
COLONEL WILLIAM A. BRUCE U.S.A. (RET.)
PRESIDENT-CHIEF OPERATING OFFICER
ACCUTECH INDUSTRIES, INC.
It gave an address somewhere in Maryland, and in smaller type it listed the firm’s specialties:
LAW ENFORCEMENT TECHNOLOGY
LAW ENFORCEMENT AMMUNITION
TRAINING SEMINARS AND FIREARMS