good with a weapon. The only way to find that out is by mixing it up. Some nights it’s live fire where we have to reload our magazines in pitch blackness, by feel. Just as we start to feel comfortable, they start throwing flash-bang grenades and shooting blanks above our heads. Other nights we simulate a fire-fight with paintball guns from moving cars. One night they send us solo out on the track to practice high-speed turns in the dark. As I’m driving a straightaway I see a guy on the side of the road frantically waving his arms for me to stop. As soon as I slow down and pull off to the shoulder, four instructors with paintball guns ambush me before I can even draw my weapon. Point taken: Don’t stop for anyone or anything.
They leave the hardest for the last—“the shoothouse.” A shoothouseis a one-story structure built of stacked old tires filled with sand, thick enough to stop a bullet. Plywood inner walls give the sense of a real house. There are even windows and doors, furniture and appliances.
Jeff stands at the front door. “We’re going through one by one. Take down the bad guy and don’t shoot any women or children unless they have a weapon.”
We put on our bulletproof vests and load our Glocks. Jeff follows the first guy through the door. The rest of us wait outside, trying to imagine what’s going on inside. After a couple of seconds there’s a muffled yell, followed by two gunshots. It’s silent for a couple of minutes, and then two more shots.
One of the guys in the class walks up to me. He’s a DEA agent on loan to the CIA, a nice guy who’s helped me with my shooting. He’s six-four, and standing next to him I feel like his little sister.
“Lookit, I’ve worked with petite girls like you before. The only way they can do this is if they go completely out of character.”
I’m not sure what he means.
“Scream as loud as you possibly can, use every swear word you know. Coming out of someone like you, it’ll throw them off guard. Trust me, it gives you an edge.”
When it’s my turn, I walk in trying to ignore the Glock shaking in my hands and Jeff right behind me. I crouch low at the first door, listening. When I don’t hear anything, I swivel into it, my Glock sweeping the room. No one’s there. At the kitchen door I do the same thing. There’s a paper mom in a blue ruffled apron standing at the sink and a little girl in a pink jumper behind the table. I whisper at them to get in the closet and stay there. I continue down a hall and wait at the door of the back bedroom. I listen. There’s no noise. I swivel into the room. I don’t see anything, but then a paper man with a gun in his hand swings out from behind a cupboard.
I don’t pause even a beat, and yell at the top of my lungs, “Dropthe
fucking
gun and get your
fucking
hands in the air, or I’ll blow your
fucking
head off!”
The silhouette doesn’t move and I put two rounds into its forehead, less than an inch apart.
When I come out of the shoothouse, everyone’s laughing—I could be heard swearing as clear as a bell. Several of them come up and pat me on the back. Later I learn that a few of the guys took out both the mom and the little girl.
As with the rest of the course, they constantly raise the shoothouse ante. They move furniture around to confuse us, leaving toys and junk in the darkened halls to make us trip. Sometimes we do it after running an obstacle course, our heart rates up over 140, sometimes to deafening music, sometimes in the dark with night-vision goggles. Cameras mounted on the wall record our every mistake. But at the end of three weeks I feel pretty good and move a lot faster than when I started. I can almost sense in which room they have a paper bad guy.
One day it’s a dry-fire exercise—pulling the trigger with no bullets in the weapon. I stand outside with a couple of the guys, laughing. I’ve almost managed to put it out of my mind that I haven’t qualified on the shotgun. At
They leave the hardest for the last—“the shoothouse.” A shoothouseis a one-story structure built of stacked old tires filled with sand, thick enough to stop a bullet. Plywood inner walls give the sense of a real house. There are even windows and doors, furniture and appliances.
Jeff stands at the front door. “We’re going through one by one. Take down the bad guy and don’t shoot any women or children unless they have a weapon.”
We put on our bulletproof vests and load our Glocks. Jeff follows the first guy through the door. The rest of us wait outside, trying to imagine what’s going on inside. After a couple of seconds there’s a muffled yell, followed by two gunshots. It’s silent for a couple of minutes, and then two more shots.
One of the guys in the class walks up to me. He’s a DEA agent on loan to the CIA, a nice guy who’s helped me with my shooting. He’s six-four, and standing next to him I feel like his little sister.
“Lookit, I’ve worked with petite girls like you before. The only way they can do this is if they go completely out of character.”
I’m not sure what he means.
“Scream as loud as you possibly can, use every swear word you know. Coming out of someone like you, it’ll throw them off guard. Trust me, it gives you an edge.”
When it’s my turn, I walk in trying to ignore the Glock shaking in my hands and Jeff right behind me. I crouch low at the first door, listening. When I don’t hear anything, I swivel into it, my Glock sweeping the room. No one’s there. At the kitchen door I do the same thing. There’s a paper mom in a blue ruffled apron standing at the sink and a little girl in a pink jumper behind the table. I whisper at them to get in the closet and stay there. I continue down a hall and wait at the door of the back bedroom. I listen. There’s no noise. I swivel into the room. I don’t see anything, but then a paper man with a gun in his hand swings out from behind a cupboard.
I don’t pause even a beat, and yell at the top of my lungs, “Dropthe
fucking
gun and get your
fucking
hands in the air, or I’ll blow your
fucking
head off!”
The silhouette doesn’t move and I put two rounds into its forehead, less than an inch apart.
When I come out of the shoothouse, everyone’s laughing—I could be heard swearing as clear as a bell. Several of them come up and pat me on the back. Later I learn that a few of the guys took out both the mom and the little girl.
As with the rest of the course, they constantly raise the shoothouse ante. They move furniture around to confuse us, leaving toys and junk in the darkened halls to make us trip. Sometimes we do it after running an obstacle course, our heart rates up over 140, sometimes to deafening music, sometimes in the dark with night-vision goggles. Cameras mounted on the wall record our every mistake. But at the end of three weeks I feel pretty good and move a lot faster than when I started. I can almost sense in which room they have a paper bad guy.
One day it’s a dry-fire exercise—pulling the trigger with no bullets in the weapon. I stand outside with a couple of the guys, laughing. I’ve almost managed to put it out of my mind that I haven’t qualified on the shotgun. At
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