Filed to story: American Sniper: The Last Round (Carl Oliver) Book PDF Free
CONSULTATION
“Okay,” said Carl, “so, Colonel, what’s on your mind?”
“Mr. Oliver, after I retired in 1975, I spent the next sixteen years as the supervisor of the Arizona State Police. I retired from that post last year, and now I’ve started this little business, which means to bring progressive equipment and philosophy to American law enforcement.”
“Is that why your boy is wearing a pump gun under his arm?”
The expression on the smaller one’s face didn’t change; but at the word boy his face seemed to lose just a shred of color, as if the man inside were baking in an oven.
“My associate is also my bodyguard, Mr. Oliver. Like anybody who’s spent a career in law enforcement, I have some enemies. Mr. Payne is duly licensed by the state of Maryland to carry concealed and he’s been authorized by the state of Arkansas to the same courtesy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“At any rate, this is why I’m here-the newest addition to my product line.”
He pushed a yellow box the size of two cigarette packs across the table at Carl.
ACCUTECH SNIPER GRADE, it said in bright red letters.
Under that it said, Law Enforcement Use Only.
Carl saw that it was .308, 150-grain hollowtip. He cracked the box, slid the ammo out to discover it displayed headstamp up in a Styrofoam tray. Twenty perfect double circles peeped up at him, rim-edge and primer, looking like eggs or eyes. He plucked a cartridge from the tray, heavy brass, gleaming brightly, the copper-sheathed cone climaxing in the precise circle of the crater at the tip. It looked like any other .308 except for the bright band of glossier brass at the neck of the cartridge.
“None of the big American ammo companies can touch this stuff,” said the colonel. “Not even the expensive grade lines, the Winchester Supreme, the Federal Premium, the Remington Extended Range. I guarantee Minute of Angle in a proper rifle.”
“Neck turned,” Carl said, his finger touching the bright band. “How can you mass-produce a neck-turned round? That’s a handloader’s job. I don’t see how it can be done.”
“Lasers.”
“Hmm,” said Carl. “Okay, I know some outfits these days use lasers as sighting devices. But y’all use them in the loading?”
“That’s right,” said the colonel, leaning forward. “Industrial lasers are the coming thing in precision manufacturing. Now, they’re used in the manufacture of electronic components, missile guidance systems, hightech materials. My brainstorm was to try them on ammunition. They can be coded into a computerized program so that you get extraordinary repeatability. You know what the secret of a quality round is. Precision. So all the things that a handloader can do on a very small scale, we can do on a larger scale with brilliant perfection: we buy our brass from Remington in hundred-thousand case quantities; our lasers score the neck of the case both inside and out so that it has the exact diameter all the way around and each case has the exact diameter of every other case. Exactly. Precisely. Then, we can deburr the flash hole, and seat each primer the identical depth. We can manage it with laser-guided machining. In other words, we can code the machines to follow laser tracks as specified by a computer program. We can get the kind of careful quality thousands of rounds by thousands of rounds that you can get round by round on your Lee or RCBS or Wilson or whatever dies it is you use.”
Carl looked down at the round in his hand.
“I’ve gotten some pretty damned fine .308 groups over the years.”
“But you’ve had to work to get them, is that right?” said the colonel.
“Yes sir, that’s right.”
“That’s it, in a box. It’s a natural for the police market, which is considerable. Later, maybe we’ll expand to the civilian if we can establish a law enforcement reputation.”
“So what is it you want from me?”
“Mr. Oliver, I’m looking for a professional shooter to fly around the country and put on shooting demonstrations for police departments that are upgrading their SWAT capabilities. But I need a man with a reputation. A man who’s been in hard places, kept his head, and come back alive.”
“Why don’t you get Caleb Hitchcock? He’s famous. They wrote a damn book about him and made up a poster. He’s number one.”
“Caleb is making too much money on the personal appearance circuit. They pay him two thousand dollars just to appear at a gun show for one day, did you know that?”
“Caleb always was a lucky boy.”
“We have a facility in Garrett County, Maryland, where we’re doing our testing. What we’d like to do is fly you up there for a weekend at our expense, of course. You bring your favorite rifle, your favorite handloads. Okay? Then you can go out on the range with some of our shooters and engineers, fire our rounds and your rounds side by side. We think if you do that, you’ll see how our rounds group consistently with your own. That’s all we ask. Your forbearance. Give us a chance to let you believe. If you believe, all else will follow.”
Carl had no real need or urge to leave his mountain. The fact was, except for getting his hair cut, picking up magazines and his government check at the post office once a month and a chat or two with old Sam Vincent and now and then having a routine checkup on his health or his teeth, he hadn’t been down in five years.
“It would be a great job,” said the colonel. “I’d fly you around the country and you’d be with men who’d respect you. You know, the world has changed since Vietnam. They say the Vietnam syndrome is dead. We had a war that we won, big time, and now everybody who was in the military can be a hero again. You’d get exactly what you didn’t get the first time. You’d get respect and love and appreciation.”
Carl made a sour look. He’d believe it when he saw it. But he knew he couldn’t stay up here forever. He looked at the rifle cartridge. He was curious. Goddamned thing looked like it would shoot the tits off a mother flea, but there was only proof in the shooting, not in the looking. But he heard it singing to him in a strange way. Poked. He was poked in the head. Hadn’t been poked in the head since he’d given up the drinking.
“When?”
“When’s convenient?”
“Can’t leave now. Got a rifle gone barn sour on me. Say, next weekend?”
“Well, all right. Whatever. You have a credit card?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You go ahead and charge your tickets. Keep all the receipts and we’ll expense it out. Or, you could sign a contract now and we could write you an advance check and-“
“No thanks on the contract.”
“I didn’t think so. And do you want to be picked up at the Baltimore airport or rent your own car?”
“I’d take the car, thank you.”
